Chapter Seven
An hour later, Aemyra had learned enough to arrive at dinner well informed. Roisín was not a natural gossip, but she was fiercely proud of her clan. Aemyra had used the servant’s eagerness to her advantage.
The fragrant oil lifting from her now-shining curls steadied Aemyra’s nerves as she was escorted through the dim halls.
With the caisteal being built into the side of the cave, there were perilously few exits, the open windows lining only one side. It made her uneasy, and her bare arms prickled with more than just the cold.
Eventually, Aemyra found herself underneath an imposing stone archway, beyond which sat a dining hall.
Multiple fires burned in braziers and gaping hearths, keeping the damp at bay.
Three carved tables dominated the room in a horseshoe shape, the empty space in the center occupied by an uninspiring court jester.
A hulking figure was squeezed into an embellished chair in the middle of the center table, the largest fireplace roaring at his back. From Roisín’s description, this could only be Laird Lonan.
Draevan lounged beside him, scrutinizing every person in the room.
The tables were already groaning under platters of food. The strong smell of fish met Aemyra’s nostrils and she had to work to keep the smile on her face.
“Her Majesty, Queen Aemyra Daercathian!” the guard announced to the room.
The jester broke a string on his lute as heads swiveled toward the archway.
Aemyra had arrived intentionally late to dinner, ensuring Lonan could not snub her further by leaving her waiting.
To her surprise, this dining hall was just as meagerly furnished as the rest of the caisteal. For the second time, she wondered what Laird Lonan did with his riches.
Stepping into the brightly lit dining hall, Aemyra was granted the satisfaction of seeing eyes widen.
Even those of her father.
Her gold dress was tightly corseted, plated with imitation dragon scales, and the low neckline left the large scar on her chest exposed.
Aemyra had painstakingly shaped each golden scale by hand without magic, and the dress rose to peaks on her shoulders. Bolts of shimmering gold gossamer fell down her back and over her arms, making it appear as though Aemyra could take flight at any moment.
It gave her immense satisfaction to display the corded muscles of her arms, honed from years of forging steel and training with the sword.
Silence descended over the room as Aemyra walked through the archway, looking every inch a queen. Her bare legs darted out from between layered skirts, a style inspired by the fluttering breeches Riya Iolairean was so fond of.
There must have been thirty warriors in the room, but the contented chatter had died as though they were birds sighting a mountain cat.
Chimeras never backed down from a challenge, which was exactly why she needed them, and she met each of their gazes unflinchingly as she passed.
Then her eyes snagged on the man seated on Laird Lonan’s left.
Thear Leòmhann, the laird’s only son. Her intended.
Her eyebrows raised of their own accord.
If the chimeras valued strength, then this man was the embodiment of the word. His shoulders were twice as broad as Aemyra’s own, which was saying something, the hard muscle of his torso barely concealed by the white shirt he wore under a midnight blue fèileadh.
Blessed fucking Brigid.
The man looked like he had been carved from bronze by the hands of the Great Mother Cailleach herself.
“Your Grace, welcome to àird Caolas,” Thear said, rising to his feet with fluid grace despite his bulk.
His voice was deeply accented, with a pleasant rumbling brogue.
She made no answer, nor did she attempt to hide her obvious judgment of his appearance.
He was handsome, and he shone. Thear was all tanned skin and burnished bronze hair.
Well, he could still have a hairy back…
“Your queen thanks you for your hospitality,” Aemyra replied diplomatically.
His amber eyes seemed to like the challenge he found reflected in her own, and he bent at the waist.
With a screech of chair legs against stone, everyone save Laird Lonan followed Thear’s lead and bowed to her.
Although, given the laird’s sizable bulk, it might have been because his knees could no longer support his weight.
Draevan was eyeing his daughter over the rim of his goblet with the closest thing to approval she had seen in months.
“Please, be seated and enjoy the feast,” Laird Lonan said gruffly.
The golden scales clinked gently, but the gossamer skirts were quiet as a whisper against the floor as a chair was pulled out beside the man she was now expected to marry.
Her cheeks heated under Thear’s consideration, and she rubbed her palm against her thigh under the table.
After a few moments of tense silence, the court jester resumed his warbling and the hall grew rowdy with conversation as if to drown him out. Wine was flowing freely.
Thear’s younger sister and heir to the lairdship, Ceana, was openly staring at Aemyra from behind a curtain of golden hair.
Remembering the way Lachlann would pretend to be shy when important people came to the forge to commission Pàdraig, Aemyra smiled into her wine before taking a sip.
Salted fish was placed on the table and she wrinkled her nose. Draevan was attempting to draw Lonan into discussion.
“Tower services are now mandatory in the capital an—”
“Can we dine in peace? Politics give me indigestion.”
Evidently Lonan felt secure enough surrounded by his warriors to speak to Draevan so glibly. Her father now had a face like thunder; he never took well to being undermined.
As she pushed the fish around her plate, Aemyra weathered the dull ache in her chest at the thought of what was happening throughout her territory. Wishing her corset was a little less rigid, she shifted in her chair.
“Suffer from indigestion too, do you?” Thear asked, leaning closer.
“What?”
Being jerked out of her thoughts made her reply snappier than she had intended.
Unruffled, Thear simply raised a brow. “Somehow I doubt it. You haven’t even touched your food. Don’t reject our hospitality, my father would never live it down.”
Aemyra glanced around Thear to see Lonan brushing away Draevan’s hushed words like the buzzing of flies.
“Do you find àird Caolas to your liking?” Thear asked, undeterred by her silence.
Aemyra kept her eyes on her plate. “From what I have seen so far, the city is as cold and unwelcoming as its people.”
“Yes, you seem like a veritable ray of sunshine yourself,” Thear muttered.
There was a small smile curving his full lips, bronze waves of hair falling onto his forehead. His was rather an obvious beauty, and he seemed to know it.
“At least I greet visitors upon their arrival. We were snubbed at your borders this morning,” Aemyra replied.
Thear gestured to the archway with his fork. “You were late to dinner.”
“A queen is never late,” Aemyra replied haughtily.
She held his gaze, unwilling to be the one to break first. His eyes were the deep amber of òmar, almost gold against the tan of his skin.
After a long pause, his eyes dipped to the large scar on her chest.
“Either you are so unskilled with a weapon that you are often wounded, or you have bested men more capable than I,” Thear commented, his tone tempered with curiosity.
Aemyra lifted her chin. “Say the word and I will duel you where that inept jester stands.”
Thear looked to the middle of the room with a pitying expression.
“It wouldn’t be hard to put on a better show than poor Archibald there. He’s past his best, bless him, but my father enjoys him.”
“Oh the stronghold, oh my home, onward to Caledonia I shall never be alone!” Archibald sang, decidedly off-key.
Aemyra winced at the clash of notes. “Should we duel just to save him the embarrassment?”
Thear laughed gently, revealing perfectly straight, white teeth.
Goddess, he must take after his late mother because there is no resemblance to Laird Lonan.
If she must shackle herself to another man to secure her throne, at least he was handsome.
Draevan was watching them both carefully. She knew the real reason her father had agreed to accompany her all this way was because he didn’t trust Lonan or Thear to make the oath.
Draevan might be an expert in politics, but he had tutored Aemyra to use her wits when all else failed her. Her recent imprisonment in àird Lasair had forced her to learn how to play infernal court games.
By the end of this visit, she would have both Thear and Lonan on their knees.
Without her father’s help.
“If it would not be considered an impertinence, I must compliment your beauty, Your Grace,” Thear said, dipping his head so no one would overhear. “I had heard rumors to the contrary, but I must say I am glad they were wrong.”
Aemyra reached for her goblet. “Directness will work far better than flattery. The crown is what your father wants, does it matter if the head wearing it is pleasing?”
Thear narrowed his eyes, as if trying to understand her. “My father seeks only what is best for his children, and his people.”
Ceana cleared her throat on Aemyra’s other side, enough to let her know the girl was eavesdropping, and that she agreed with her brother.
“So it does not matter that I am not a delicate flower? You didn’t want a poised and pretty, gently bred princess who would wear the crown in title only?” Aemyra asked, issuing her first challenge.
Thear leaned toward her, voice a low rumble. “I don’t think a fragile woman would survive a union with me.”
Aemyra’s blood heated. Evidently she wasn’t the only one who was capable of surprises.
Thear reached across her and Aemyra caught the scent of something earthy, and decidedly masculine. Like Thear had rolled around in the heather-strewn cliffs far above. He plucked a thick slice of dark bread out of the basket and slathered it with lard.
“If you don’t like fish, eat something else. My father won’t like to see a guest go hungry.”