The Queen and the Half-blood (The Unforgiven #1)

1 PROMISES

West of Doure, The Uplands

The Realm of Albia

A PROMISE MEANT nothing, if you didn’t keep it.

Lara had made herself two, and she intended to honor them.

Wincing, she pushed wet hair off her face and shifted uncomfortably in the saddle.

Her arse was sore, and her leathers chafed.

Rain had drifted down in a soft, thick veil all day, soaking through her layers of clothing.

Cold, tired, and grumpy, she longed to sink up to her neck in a hot bath with a cup of sweet plum wine in hand.

Unfortunately, such luxuries wouldn’t be forthcoming.

Ahead, a horn’s mournful wail shuddered through the damp gloaming, announcing that the day’s long march had ended.

Lara heaved a sigh, drew up her horse, and glanced around.

They’d stopped in a shallow glen bordered by woodland.

The sky pressed close. Mist wreathed like smoke between the nearby press of pines.

It had been wet and grey ever since they’d departed from Duncrag days earlier.

She, like everyone else who traveled with her, was sick of the weather.

But she wouldn’t let it douse the fire in her belly.

No, she’d make the Shee taste iron.

That was the first of the promises she’d made herself.

Swinging down from the saddle, she gritted her teeth as her booted feet hit the ground too hard. On the first day out, one of her Guard had tried to help her off her horse, but she’d brushed his assistance aside. She wasn’t an invalid. Even so, she hadn’t yet mastered an elegant dismount.

“How far are we from Doure, Captain?” she called out, trying to ignore her stinging feet.

Ahead, a big man with shaggy red hair turned in the saddle. Cool blue eyes settled on her. “We shall reach it before noon tomorrow, My Queen.”

Acknowledging Roth’s answer with a nod, she then glanced over at where Bree was also dismounting, although with a lot more grace than her queen. Lara’s warder was now surveying their surroundings, hazel eyes slightly narrowed.

“All is well?” Lara asked.

Bree nodded. “As far as I can see … although this close to Doure, Shee scouts will be watching us. They’ll have spied our approach a day or two ago.”

Her stomach tensed. “I’m sure they did.”

The moment she’d been building up to for so long had finally arrived. Doure had fallen to the Shee eight turns of the moon earlier. But the enemy would go no farther. The reckoning her people cried out for was beginning.

Her pulse quickened then. So much depended on this campaign’s success.

When her father had lost the North, and his life, he’d left his daughter with a massive task.

Lara’s reign hadn’t been easy so far, for there were many who believed a young, untested woman shouldn’t wear the crown.

This campaign wasn’t just about victory—it was about proving herself.

She couldn’t return to Duncrag defeated.

“Bree!”

A tall, broad-shouldered figure clad in black strode toward them: Cailean mac Brochan.

A striking man with close-cropped black hair and startling woad-blue eyes, his brawny arms covered with druidic tattoos, Lara’s chief-enforcer could be intimidating.

A massive dog with a shaggy dark-green coat and glowing amber eyes padded behind him. Skaal.

Once—years ago now—Lara had been infatuated with Cailean. He’d never returned her interest, and just as well too, for her father would have forbidden a union between his chief-enforcer and his daughter. Those days of girlish infatuation were far behind her though.

It felt like someone else’s life.

“What is it?” Bree stepped forward to meet him. In her Shee form, she’d been tall, towering above most Marav women, yet these days, she had to crane her neck to meet her husband’s eye. It was foolish to underestimate her though, for even in a ‘weaker’ body, Bree Fellshadow was a force of nature.

“I’m going out to patrol the approach to Doure,” he rumbled. “I need you with me.”

His announcement didn’t surprise Lara. This close to the enemy, Bree would provide valuable insight. She’d likely notice things others would miss.

However, Bree frowned. “I shouldn’t leave the High Queen’s side.”

“Aye, you can,” Lara cut in before Cailean could respond. She motioned then to where Roth had also dismounted. “Captain mac Tav will accompany me while I see to my horse, and escort me back to my pavilion afterward.”

Bree looked unconvinced. “Are you sure?”

“I am.” Lara glanced back at Cailean. “Report back to me later.”

The chief-enforcer nodded.

With a sigh, Bree handed her reins to one of the High Queen’s escort. “We won’t be long.”

Lara waved her away. “Go.”

They went—the warrior druid and the warder walking side by side—with Skaal silently following in their wake.

Watching them, Lara smiled. Cailean and Bree were a formidable team. She liked knowing they were at her side, that she could depend on them.

Turning, Lara caught Roth’s eye. “Come, Captain … let’s see to our mounts.”

“One of your warriors can take care of that, My Queen,” he replied.

“I think not.” She liked to unsaddle and rub down her own horse. Bracken was a sturdy bay mare who’d carried her well these past few days. Tending to the horse at the end of each day relaxed Lara and gave her a little time with her own thoughts.

The captain huffed a sigh. He knew better than to argue.

Turning, they led their horses toward the enclosure that was being erected on the southern edge of the camp.

A dark wall of pines reared up just a few yards distant, shadowy and brooding in the grey dusk.

The rain had finally ceased, yet the air was thick and heavy with the fragrance of conifers.

Tying Bracken up to the railing, Lara then set about unsaddling the mare.

Roth did the same with his heavy-set bay stallion. Working back-to-back, they had to be careful not to knock elbows or stand on each other’s feet. Meanwhile, two lads appeared bearing nets stuffed full of hay—carted with the baggage train at the back of the army.

Bracken started to snatch mouthfuls of hay, and Lara smiled. “You’ve been waiting all day for this, haven’t you?”

Behind her, the captain snorted. “It’s the nosebag of oats she’ll be after.”

“Aye … and she’s earned it.”

Twisting a large handful of hay into a knot, Lara used it to rub Bracken down in long, firm strokes. The mare gave a gentle huff. She enjoyed this ritual as much as her rider did. One of the lads returned with hog bristle brushes then. Taking one, she started to groom her horse.

She worked silently, while around her the rise and fall of gruff voices drifted through the camp, punctuated by the thud of iron tent pegs being driven into damp soil.

The swiftness with which the warriors put up the tents, built enclosures for the horses, and lit cookfires always took her by surprise.

They’d only recently stopped for the day, and already, a small village surrounded her.

The scent of woodsmoke permeated the air.

But as Lara groomed Bracken, nervousness twisted under her ribcage.

After days of travel, she was about to conduct her first siege.

So much depended on her success. Albia’s future hung in the balance.

If she didn’t push the Shee back, the Raven Queen would one day rule both Sheehallion and Albia.

Lara and those who protected her would be put to the sword.

“Are your warriors ready for tomorrow, Captain?” she asked finally as she knelt to brush the feathers on Bracken’s heavy feet.

“Aye, My Queen.”

“How is morale?”

“Good. They are eager to fight for you … as am I.”

Something in his voice made her stiffen.

Straightening up, she glanced over her shoulder.

To her surprise, Roth had turned—and was right behind her.

The captain stood well over six feet. She turned too and had to step back to meet his eye properly.

When she did, she marked the intensity of his gaze.

Warmth rolled over her. He shouldn’t stare at her like that. It occurred to her then that they were alone here, hemmed in by their horses. It was the only time she and Roth had ever been on their own together.

Embarrassed, she cleared her throat. “Captain—”

“I would ride through the stones into Sheehallion, if you asked it,” he said, his voice low and intimate now.

“Then you would die,” she replied crisply, irritation flaring. What was this nonsense?

“Maybe,” he said, the edges of his lips lifting in his usual arrogance. “But for you, I’d do it.” His gaze roamed over her face. “I know you refuse to take a husband, Lara … but a lover isn’t forbidden to you.”

Her breathing caught. Lara? Bree was the only one she permitted to speak to her so informally. Shades, she should have seen this coming, for she’d noted the way Captain mac Tav looked at her sometimes. She could take him to her furs—the man was certainly attractive enough—but she wouldn’t.

Seemingly oblivious to the indignance that rose within her, Roth moved closer, bridging the gap between them once more.

Lara stood her ground, even as heat ignited in the pit of her stomach.

He’d crossed a line.

“I would be your lover,” he murmured. “I would give you long … hot … nights to remember.”

The fire in her belly started to pulse. “Is that so?”

“Aye.” He reached out then, a hand brushing a damp strand of hair off her cheek. “It would be such a shame to allow your loveliness to go to waste.”

A heartbeat passed. “I won’t be taking a lover,” she said coldly.

His gaze shadowed, and he pulled his hand back. “Why?”

“That’s my business, not yours.”

Jaw clenching, she shoved the brush she’d been using at him before ducking around his broad body and heading toward the edge of the enclosure. She’d had enough of this conversation.

“Wait, My Queen.” Alarm edged his voice now, his arrogance faltering. “You can’t go off on your own. I must escort you.”

Lara halted and swiveled, pinning him with a glare. “I don’t require your company, Captain.” She bit the words out. “Finish seeing to our horses. I can find my own way back to my tent.”

And she could. It was safe enough now that they’d almost finished making camp. The enforcers would have dropped most of the ward-stones, and the faint strains of singing, as the bards wove a protection sain, reached her now.

Meanwhile, stubbornness hardened Roth’s features. His lips then parted. He was about to argue with her. “Enough, Captain,” she cut him off. “I will give you grace this time … but don’t speak to me like that ever again.”

Roth’s mouth closed, his strong jaw flexing. He understood his mistake now.

Turning on her heel, she stalked out of the enclosure. Wisely, he didn’t follow.

And as she walked, Lara seethed.

How dare he?

When she’d taken the throne, she’d made it clear she was ‘handfasted’ to Albia. She wouldn’t marry again. She’d meant it too. And no, she didn’t need to deny herself lovers, but she would.

That was the second thing she’d promised herself.

No man would ever dominate her again. She was High Queen now. She made the rules.

Her captain wasn’t the first man to show interest in her since she’d taken the throne—the overking of Braewall had proposed marriage and been swiftly rejected—but he was the first bold enough to offer to service her.

Heat rose to her cheeks, embarrassment prickling over her. Things would be strained between them after this. It was the last thing she needed on the eve of battle.

As she strode, mist swirled in, drifting sinuously through the camp.

Lara was about to turn right then and make her way into the press of conical hide tents when something to her left caught her attention.

A beguiling flame flickered within the pines.

Her step faltered, and she drew to a halt. Suddenly, her anger at Roth, and her humiliation, faded.

The flame transfixed her.

She loved fire—the way it chased away cold and darkness, and how red and gold danced in its depths. It had always been her friend. She’d secretly played with fire over the years—on the rare occasions when she was alone—yet a warning whispered to her now. This was no friendly lantern flame.

Never follow the lights .

She’d been cautioned countless times as a child.

Her mother had repeated it to her regularly, as had her nursemaid.

Corpse candles were lethal. You couldn’t let one ensnare you, or you’d be lured into a treacherous bog or a marsh and meet a watery end.

If you were out in the wilderness and happened to spy a flickering light in the darkness, you should immediately avert your gaze.

But she didn’t. She couldn’t .

Her surroundings disappeared. Suddenly, there was just her and the beckoning light.

Look away!

It was too late. The warning died to a whisper then as the desire to get closer to the light overwhelmed her.

Drawing up the hood of her cloak, she moved—not right, toward the heart of the camp, where her pavilion waited—but left, toward the woods.