Chapter 19 Alarik
Alarik
Alarik was seriously considering stabbing his falconer.
Just a light stabbing. More of a warning than a fatal wound.
He had been thinking about it ever since his wrangler stepped into the ballroom and stole all the air in his lungs.
She had arrived hideously late, looking like some wild-born princess, sprung from the snow-capped forests of Gevra, with her hair crowned in flowers and that magnificent midnight-blue dress hugging every inch of her curves.
A bolt of longing had gone through him at the sight of her, and he had scowled at his own weakness.
While Alarik’s attentions had hopelessly splintered, Elva hadn’t so much as faltered in his arms, so poised and practised was the princess on the dance floor.
She was a worthy waltz partner for the king, but he couldn’t keep his mind from wandering.
It was all he could do to spin her, again and again, away from the sight of his wrangler and the terrible things she was doing to his heartrate.
But his gaze betrayed him, returning to find Iversen at the end of every perfectly executed twirl.
He couldn’t look away from her in that dress – in that crown of flowers – and yet every glimpse of her laughing with that damned falconer was torture.
‘Why do you look like you’re about to go to war?’ said Captain Vine, joining the king at the edge of the dance floor. She gestured at his hand resting threateningly on the pommel of his sword.
‘Remind me,’ said Alarik, in a low, menacing voice. ‘How important to the war effort is our falconer?’
Vine frowned, following the king’s gaze. ‘Tell me your current murder face is not about our wrangler.’
‘It’s not about our wrangler,’ he lied.
‘Then why are you staring at her?’
‘I want to dance with her.’
Captain Vine sighed. ‘That is a very poor idea.’
‘What are you, my mother?’ Alarik snorted. ‘What do you care who I dance with?’
‘I don’t especially care about your dance partner.
What I do care about is all those poisonous elk King Nilas has promised us, not to mention the extra battalion he’s dedicating to our cause.
So, if you’re itching to dance with someone, then please, for the love of Grinstad, dance with your bride-to-be. ’
Alarik rubbed the spot between his brows.
His captain was making perfect sense, of course.
Elva was his betrothed, not to mention the very reason for this ball.
But he had danced five waltzes with her already.
What harm would it do to dance with one of his own for a change?
The Halgard delegation were fascinated by his beasts, and Iversen was their leader, the very person who would lead them into war.
If Alarik invited her to join him for one dance – just enough to take her in his arms and let those skirts spin around them – then it would only be to satisfy his guests’ curiosity.
‘You’re over-reacting, Vine. She’s my wrangler. My guests will want to see her.’
‘Tor was your wrangler for years. Did you ever dance with him at a ball?’
‘Don’t be pedantic. Tor is a terrible dancer.’
‘And you’ve sure as hell never danced with me.’
Alarik turned to his war captain. ‘Would it make you feel better if I asked you to dance?’
Vine recoiled. ‘Don’t you dare. You know I get motion sickness.’
His attention wandered back to his wrangler at the precise moment that infuriating, mooning falconer decided to toss a berry into her mouth. She caught it with zeal, laughing in triumph.
And then Alarik was walking – no, marching – right through the next waltz, parting the dance floor in rivers of skirts and frock coats.
Iversen met his gaze as he bore down on her, that dainty chin raised like she was steeling herself for a blizzard.
Everything else fell away, the lilt of music and the roughened guffaw of soldiers, the chattering guests and the heady smell of wine, until there was only the storm of her eyes and the cautious tilt of her head.
She stepped towards him, like she was approaching a wild beast.
Is that what he looked like to her? Some kind of rabid creature in need of taming? Or was that spark in her eyes borne of something beyond caution? Was it the thrill of a challenge?
If he was in his right mind, Alarik would have walked right past her, reached for a morsel of fresh air instead of this beautiful woman draped in the colours of Gevra – a woman who was not his bride-to-be – but it was too late for second thoughts, and anyway, Alarik never had been adept at impulse control. Gevran, to the bone.
It was only a dance. A fleeting moment of having her in his arms and then he would let her go. Of course, he would let her go.
She didn’t belong to him.
And he was engaged.
She was his wrangler.
His best friend’s sister.
And – he was suddenly before her.
‘Your Majesty,’ she said, evenly, uncowed. ‘Why are you scowling? Are you angry?’
He blinked. ‘No.’ Just mildly tortured. ‘I’m … hungry.’
He fought his flinch. Why had he said that? What was wrong with him?
She frowned. ‘Hungry?’
‘For sugared cranberries,’ he added. ‘I noticed you were tossing some about just now.’
‘Oh.’ Her cheeks erupted. ‘You are angry,’ she said, covering her face with her hands.
He hated how she did that – hid herself from him whenever she was overwhelmed.
It was then that he liked to look upon her the most. ‘And after I scolded you about that silly lemon in your war room! Now here I am, tossing fruit about in your ballroom as part of some merry little game. It’s so careless. ’
Alarik swallowed his groan. In a bid to recover his own embarrassment, he had said the wrong thing entirely.
‘I should know better, I know, but I was just so nervous when I arrived and it seemed like a bit of fun,’ she went on, in a rush. ‘A helpful distraction from all this intimidating grandeur, not to mention all the beautiful people, and I suppose I wasn’t thinking—’
‘Iversen.’ Alarik took her hands and nudged them away from her face. ‘Stop spiralling and dance with me.’
She stared at her hands in his. ‘W-what?’
‘Do you know how to waltz?’
‘Well, yes … I …’ Her breath hitched as he stroked her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. Once, and then again because he couldn’t help it. ‘Well … I’ve only ever danced with my sisters.’
‘I will endeavour to match their grace,’ he said, leading her on to the dance floor and ignoring all the curious sets of eyes that turned on them.
‘There was nothing graceful about Hela’s technique,’ she said, smiling a little. ‘She accidentally broke my toe. Twice.’
‘So, the bar is low.’ He swept her into his arms. ‘I promise I will be gentle.’
She looked up at him, her eyes softened by curiosity, as if she was wondering whether that was even possible for a brute like him.
Yes, he wanted to tell her. Let me show you.
As the music stirred into another soaring waltz, he placed his hand on her waist, suddenly conscious of how his fingers brushed against the delicate boning of her corset.
He exhaled through his nose, trying to ignore the flare of heat that rippled up his spine.
She raised her arm, her left hand coming to his shoulder, so feather-light, he could hardly feel it.
‘I won’t break, Iversen,’ he said, quietly.
‘Nor will I,’ she said.
He pulled her flush against him, his right hand finding hers and dwarfing it.
He squeezed a little and she squeezed back, a smile breaking across her face that was more lovely than a snow-kissed dawn.
The music arced and he led their waltz, pleased to find that she was not only competent, but good.
Graceful and nimble and smiling all the while, like there was nowhere else in the world she would rather be.
She closed her eyes, her chest swelling as she breathed in the music.
‘Well, wrangler,’ he said, dipping his head to whisper in her ear. ‘Tell me honestly, am I better than my wolves?’
She rewarded him with a tinkling laugh. ‘You certainly look better in a frock coat,’ she teased, as he spun her. ‘Unfortunately, they tend to bunch around a wolf’s tail.’
‘And you must admit, my footwork is far superior.’
‘Perhaps. But you’re unnervingly quiet. You haven’t howled once.’
‘That would really give the Halgard nobles something to talk about.’ A laugh sprung from Alarik at the very thought.
She broke into a grin. ‘Much better,’ she said, approvingly.
‘Are you saying I laugh like a wolf?’
‘I’m not saying anything, Your Majesty.’ Her eyes twinkled as she spun away from him. ‘Only dancing.’
‘Now, I’m wracked with insecurity. I’ll never laugh again.’
‘You should count yourself lucky,’ she said, returning to his arms. ‘My sister’s betrothed laughs like a woodpecker.’
Alarik laughed again, and this time she joined in, the music of it following them across the dance floor.
The waltz was far from over and he already wanted more.
He wanted this waltz and the next one, and three more after that, but he was conscious of his mother’s disapproving face at the edge of the ballroom, not to mention the whispers that followed them across the dance floor.
He would have to release his wrangler once the music changed, and no doubt watch her return to that giddy-faced falconer and his bowl of sugared cranberries.
He shook off his annoyance, resolving to make the most of this last minute together. But when he looked down at his wrangler, she was fixated on something above his head. She quailed, her face slackening with horror.
Alarik stilled. ‘What is it?’
‘Some kind of winged beast,’ she said, stepping out of his embrace. ‘I’ve never— Oh.’
Alarik saw it then, not inside the ballroom, but through the windows. A pair of huge crimson wings soaring over the mountains. And behind it, another, and another. There appeared to be a flock of them, but as they drew closer, Alarik saw they were not birds at all, but gliders. Soldiers.
Soldiers from—