Chapter 34
Chapter
Thirty-Four
“Are we sure the goblet was intended for you?” Aowen asks the following afternoon as we’re strolling the quays of the Nubiium.
The city is grey and drizzly, mirroring my mood. Not very conducive for walking. But Vesper threw a tantrum earlier when we attempted to help her pack up my wardrobe; she banished us from the suite.
Lachlan’s out assisting Sir Quinn, questioning courtiers and gathering evidence. He’s been gone all day.
Well, since this morning, at least. I summoned him to my bedchamber in the ghostly hours before dawn.
I didn’t sleep at all last night, haunted by the terrible desperation on Lisande’s face as she choked on her own blood and the horrific, hateful look the duke sent her to the Afterlands with.
I needed Lachlan’s mouth and hands on my body to remember I was still alive, still in this.
He was the perfect distraction, of course.
Thrumming with power and vibrant life, moving atop me, inside me, my wrists bound above my head in one strong hand as he clung to me with the other.
He spent so much time warming me up with his tongue and fingers that as soon as he pushed into me, I had a tiny, fluttering orgasm.
“Come on, Charlotte,” he puffed against my lips, his auburn hair falling around my face. “I know you can do better than that.”
And I did do better. Three times better, in fact. The most intense of which when he clamped his teeth on my nipple as he grunted out his own pleasure, squeezing me so close I feared my ribs might snap.
Perhaps he’d been frightened last night, too. Perhaps he needed the reassurance of my body just as much as I needed his.
He slipped out of me, then out of my room before the sun rose.
Sometimes, I wish—
“Did you hear me?” Aowen asks, pulling me from thoughts of the man who occupies far too many of them.
“Are you sure that goblet was intended for you?” Aowen angles the parasol, ensuring we’re both covered as the patter intensifies. “How would the poisoner have known which goblet Duke áine intended to hand to you? Perhaps the duke himself was the intended target.”
“It’s possible.” I shrug. “Hard to know since he tossed his cup aside as soon as he saw what was happening to Lisande. Perhaps both were poisoned.”
“He’s certainly got plenty of enemies outside the castle,” Aowen whispers, and my first thought is of the anti-monarchists.
But really, it could have been anyone from Campan’s Vale as well.
My heart clenches for poor Mr. Stafford; Aowen had his widow and children quietly relocated to a small town in Tír na Strelle, somewhere they would be safe and well cared for.
“Or ….” She trails off, eying me with concern.
“Speak your mind. I’ve survived three assassination attempts, found two-thirds of the Bannrhorn, gained the favour of a notoriously difficult court, and won the betrothal of the most self-centered man in the Otherworld. I can handle whatever terrifying theory you’re about to launch.”
She nudges my shoulder, murmuring, “Sounding a lot like a queen lately, Your Majesty,” then pulls me closer, cocooning us beneath the parasol. “What I was going to say is, what if the duke himself poisoned that cup?”
“Why would he do such a thing? He needs me to become king. Not to mention if he wanted me dead, there were plenty of other opportunities to do so. He himself stopped his báshounds from devouring me, remember?”
Aowen sighs. “You’re probably right. Still, I’m very glad we’ll be returning to Tír na Strelle tomorrow.
I’m looking forward to sleeping in my own bed.
And visiting a few friends.” She taps her lips with two fingers, staring off into the middle distance.
Her definition of “friends” must be very similar to mine and Lachlan’s.
I am glad to be leaving Tír na Lune, too. But I cannot help but worry about the mechanics of this ring. How long will it allow me to remain alive if Duke Cernunnos does not come around?
As soon as we enter the dining hall that evening, I learn I had nothing to worry about.
Desmond is seated in the place of honor next to Torvil.
I halt so swiftly that Lachlan slams into my back.
Careful, little queen. He steadies me while eying his master. Shock pops down the diamrhán. He had no idea Desmond would be joining us either.
Neither did Aowen, based on her furrowed brow and suspicious eyes.
“Charlotte, my darling!” Desmond calls as he rises, reaching me in a few long strides. He tears me away from Lachlan, whose touch lingers on my bare shoulders.
“Come, I’ve saved you a seat next to me,” Desmond burbles, delighted. It’s a strange reunion after months apart. Especially since I barely had any time to get to know him. But he’s acting as if we’ve been acquainted for years.
Torvil looks completely put out by our familiarity.
Naturally, I’m delighted to play along.
Desmond pulls out my chair and before I sit, I press a kiss to his cheek. “How have you been, Des? I missed you terribly.”
My effusiveness doesn’t throw him in the slightest. He flattens my hand against his face as he sits. “I missed you, too, of course.” He kisses the center of my palm, and though he is by far the less objectionable of my two potential husbands, I cannot help a small shiver of revulsion.
This is … not ideal.
My gaze strays to Lachlan, who’s on the opposite side of the table next to Aowen and a brunette knight whose name I can never remember. The knight leans over Aowen, sharing a joke with Lachlan, who tips his head back, laughing loudly. It’s a forced bray. Very unlike him.
Perhaps I am not the only one faking.
I turn back to Desmond. “Why have you come? We would have seen each other tomorrow in Tír na Strelle.”
“We wouldn’t, actually.” His smile is enigmatic as he taps a knife against his glass. The chatter fades to a whispering hush. Desmond addresses Torvil before proceeding. “May I have the floor, Your Grace?”
Torvil demurs with an upturned palm. “What’s mine is yours, old friend.” His eyes flick to me.
I want to scream. Leap from this table and declare that I belong to no one but myself. That I’ve changed my mind. That if this is what it means to be a queen, then I want none of it in any world.
I don’t, of course. I swallow my anger, bury it in my chest with the embers of those other repressed emotions threatening to set me ablaze.
Desmond’s chair creaks as he rises. The courtiers wear mixed expressions of wariness and respect. Desmond is, after all, a duke of the celestial kingdom. Who knows who their master will be in half a year’s time?
Desmond clears his throat, lifting his glass. “I have wonderful news. For all of us. Duke Cernunnos has agreed to host Miss Fitzoy!”
Excited gasps ripple down the table.
Torvil stands, clapping, “How in the name of Danu did you manage it?” he asks through a broad, tight grin. Furious that this feather landed in Desmond’s cap instead of his.
Desmond’s gaze glances off his sister. “Everyone has a price, Torvil. Surely you know that better than anyone.”
Aowen pales, but Desmond does not elaborate. A knot cinches my gut.
It doesn’t loosen for the rest of dinner, and I am only half-listening as Desmond and Torvil chat through reports from their territories.
Desmond is far better informed of the goings-on in Tír na Strelle than Torvil is about Tír na Lune.
Several times, I catch Torvil referencing “recent” incidents that happened months ago.
And I am quite certain a few of his contributions are word-for-word recitations from editorials in the Sky Gazette.
Both men are ignoring me. They haven’t asked my opinion on a single topic, and when I do try to contribute, one or the other talks over me.
Those embers burn hotter with each course.
After an interminable amount of time, dessert is served. I devour my chocolate ganache, licking the spoon clean while silently hexing arrogant men.
When Torvil places his own spoon down, signaling that the table may take their leave, Aowen launches out of her seat and through the door.
Lachlan’s head whips around to follow her progress.
What happened? I ask.
Truthfully, I have no idea.
Go check on her. Please.
But you’re—
I’m fine. Bored to tears and more than ready to flee both my suitors, but I doubt I’m in any real danger while Desmond is here.
Lachlan’s torso is angled toward the door despite his white-knuckled grip on the back of his chair.
We still do not know who attempted to poison you last night. I am not comfortable leaving you.
Please, Lachlan.
He sighs. Two pleases in the span of ten seconds? My defenses are sufficiently crumbled. His tone sharpens. Stay with Desmond.
He doesn’t wait for me to confirm before striding through the door. He knows I’ll obey when he uses that voice.
I address Desmond, loud enough for Torvil to overhear, “Well, since we are destined to be parted, yet again, perhaps you’ll accompany me to my quarters? I’d like to turn in early before the journey to Tír na Dubh tomorrow.”
“Yes, of course, darling,” Desmond purrs, taking my hand as I rise from my chair.
“A word before you leave?” Torvil takes my other hand.
For long seconds, neither lets go. Months ago, this might have been my dream scenario: a rakish, dark-haired duke and a sleek, silver-haired duke fighting over me.
But the reality is much different than I imagined.
I am not their choice. I am a prize. And I do not want to be won by either.
Desmond releases me, but lingers by the door.
Torvil slides a hand around my waist and cups my cheek. “It will be difficult to let you leave, Charlotte.” His voice is full of longing. Is it for Desmond’s benefit? The only thing I truly believe he’ll miss is me painting pictures of him.
Still, I know my role. “It will be difficult for me to leave, Your Grace.”
“I’ve had something made for you. Something to remember me by.” He snaps and a valet trots over with an oblong velvet box. “For the moon in my sky.”
He opens the box, and I give a watery little gasp. Dewy tears dot my lashes. I am getting quite good at this.
The bracelet is beautiful, an alternating pattern of round and crescent diamonds strung together on a thin gold chain.
Torvil removes it from the box, then clasps it onto my wrist. “Promise you’ll wear it every day until we are reunited.
During the Hunt, too. And think of me each time you look upon it. ”
I hold up my wrist, admiring the way the shardlights bounce off the facets. The clarity is stunning, though there’s one gem that’s a little cloudier than the rest.
“It’s beautiful, Your Grace,” I whisper. “I will cherish it.”
He leans down, lids sliding closed and lips parting, and shit, I am not that good of an actress. I turn my face at the last moment, and his cool kiss lands against my chin, against which he huffs an awkward laugh.
“Shall we try again?” He leans down a second time, but I press my fingertips against his lips.
“I find the anticipation is more than half the fun, don’t you?” I say in my sultriest imitation of Lachlan before rising on my toes and whispering in Torvil’s pointed ear, “Kiss me when you claim me, my king.”
When I pull back, his violet gaze has deepened to a stormy indigo. “Give my regards to Cernunnos. I’ll see you again soon, Charlotte.”
There’s both a promise and a threat in his farewell.
I return to Desmond, who cups my elbow and walks me back to my quarters.