8. Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Emmaline was crouched low behind the massive marble statue, carefully angling herself out of sight when—
“Just what do you think you're wearing?”
Lady Isolde’s voice, sharp as a tailor’s needle, shattered the quiet.
Startled, Emmaline jerked upright only to slam, face-first, into the cold, unyielding marble of Llews Moonson’s most notable feature. A shock of pain shot through her skull, and she staggered back, hand flying to her cheek as heat flared across her skin.
A dignified tsk followed. “I thought I gave you very clear instructions.”
Emmaline cleared her vision against the swirling stars just in time to see Lady Isolde coming to a stop in the hallway, looking over the scene with practiced disapproval.
Meanwhile, the statue of Llews Moonson, hero of the Imp War, loomed in silent judgment—his sword raised, his expression noble, and his lower half... aggressively sculpted.
Lady Isolde’s gaze flicked from Emmaline’s reddening cheek to the statue’s offending protrusion. A pause. Then, with the kind of slow, deliberate blink only the aristocracy could wield as a weapon, she tilted her head.
“I daresay that’s not the first time you've found yourself on the receiving end of such an… unfortunate positioning.”
A muscle in Emmaline’s jaw pulsed, and Lady Isolde smiled. It was going to be one of those conversations.
“My Lady, it’s not what you think.” Heat burned up Emmaline’s neck, her mortification twofold.
Isolde looked down the hall, then back. “It certainly seems like you were lying in wait for some poor soul to traverse this corridor, rather than, say, inventorying the floral arrangements that arrived for the ball… on the other side of the castle.”
Emmaline clasped her hands behind her back to hide the tremor in her fingers. “I was just waiting for…” Her brain scrambled, grasping for anything remotely plausible. “For the…”
Lady Isolde lifted a single, expectant brow.
“For me.”
The voice drifted from the far end of the hall, impossible to ignore.
Deyric strode in from the entrance to the family stables, boots striking purposefully against the hard floor.
His deep emerald eyes landed on Emmaline, and the, no doubt, growing bruise forming on her cheek.
His pace didn’t slow, but his lips quirked, the prelude to a remark she was sure to dislike.
Lady Isolde turned toward him with a slight incline of her head, but her disapproval didn’t waver. Instead, she looked between the two of them. “And what business do you have with… with…” She gestured toward Emmaline, hesitation palpable.
A beat. Then, with an almost pitying squint, “This one.”
Deyric wiped his hands on a small towel tucked into his waistband before folding his arms across his chest. “Miss Emmaline asked me to ensure all the horses would be freshly groomed and dressed in the latest fashion by next Friday. I was coming to confirm that the new tack had arrived and that the extra groom has been reserved to help get the ladies fresh and shiny for the solstice.”
Isolde’s expression barely shifted, but the slight downturn of her mouth spoke volumes. She seemed to know exactly why Emmaline had been lurking outside the stables—waiting for Caelith to return from his morning ride just in time for lunch.
The wretched woman let the silence stretch just long enough for discomfort to settle before giving another unimpressed tsk. “It's about time.” She looked at Emmaline. “You do enjoy dancing on the very edge of preparedness, don't you?”
“Yes, my Lady.” Emmaline bowed her head enough to appear dutiful while darting a glance toward Deyric.
He was smirking. Of course he was. Heat crept back up her neck. Frustrating man. What exactly did he think he was doing, inserting himself into her business like this?
Lady Isolde, either oblivious or—more likely—entirely aware, let her stare settle on Deyric.
Emmaline watched as the woman’s eyes took in his broad shoulders, the way his shirt clung just so, the roughness of his hands as he wiped them clean.
Isolde’s lips parted slightly, just enough to suggest appreciation, before she exhaled through her nose in a quiet, considering sound.
“Luckily, Deyric was able to accommodate your poor planning.”
Emmaline bit down on her tongue so hard she nearly tasted blood.
“Of course, my Lady.” Deyric, naturally, looked unaffected, his easy nod bordering on polite disinterest.
Her fingers tensed at her sides. The feeling, whatever it was, spiked when Isolde’s regard drifted back to the man, taking her time as if she were considering whether Deyric’s talents extended beyond the stables.
Something hot and volatile coiled low in Emmaline’s gut, her pulse hammering in response to…
what? The insult? The implication? Her body had an answer before her mind caught up—an irrational, unbidden itch in her muscles as if she needed to do something, to stop something.
Forcing herself to exhale, she smoothed a hand down her waist, grounding herself in the press of fabric beneath her palms. Best not to lift her head just yet. There was no telling what might be written across her face.
“And take off that ridiculous belt. It has no place on a servant’s dress.” Lady Isolde barely spared her a glance before turning back down the hallway.
“What?” Emmaline whispered, fingers brushing over the intricate loops of Margot’s carefully crafted piece.
The belt had felt like armor this morning, proof that she belonged, that she could shape herself into something more.
But under Lady Isolde’s scrutiny, it suddenly felt garish.
Foolish. Like a child clinging to their mother’s jewelry, playing pretend.
Focus. She had more important things to worry about.
Lady Isolde had only taken a few steps before she paused, turning to look at them.
“Oh, and Deyric.”
“Yes, my Lady.”
Something sly tugged at the edges of her lips. “I know you have the afternoon off, but if you’re looking for my son, he’ll be out hunting in the Northern forest today. I don’t expect him back until long after dark.”
“As you say, my Lady.” His brows pulled together as he watched her go, something thoughtful settling behind his gaze, but Emmaline barely noticed.
Her breath hitched, and her pulse kicked up a notch.
The belt and the insult were already forgotten.
That stupid woman had just told her exactly where Caelith would be.
The edges of a plan were already taking shape as Lady Isolde disappeared around the corner, leaving nothing behind but the sound of her fading footsteps.
“It’s a little fancy for a Tuesday, but I quite like the belt.”
Deyric’s voice barely registered as Emmaline’s mind spun, mapping out the route she’d need to take on horseback.
She could slip into the stables after the green-haired brute left and borrow one of the more docile mares.
The Northern forests were still Greymane property, but too far to reach on foot.
And there were things in those woods, creatures that might grow bold if she wandered in alone, unmounted, and unarmed.
“I especially like how it sits… right there… on your hips.”
The words came slower this time, measured. Closer.
She barely had a moment to react before she felt the heat radiating from his body, the scent of horse and leather wrapping around her, threaded with something unmistakably male. It wasn’t cologne or perfume or anything so intentional, just sweat and sun-warmed skin.
Her breath wavered, and a prickle of dizziness threatened her focus.
For a brief, disorienting second, she forgot the plan entirely.
Then she scowled, coughing as if that would clear the sudden fog in her head.
Shoving at his chest, a little too forcefully, she nearly flung herself backward into Llew’s pride and joy all over again.
“Dammit, Deyric.” She exhaled. “I don’t know what you think is going on here, but… I’m in no mood for it. Leave me alone.”
She didn’t wait for a response. Ducking under the statue, she made a beeline for the nearest exit. The plan was back on, and she wouldn’t let some infuriating, entirely too smug stablemaster throw her off course.
“Thank you for the save, Deyric.” His voice drifted after her, a mockingly perfect imitation of her own.
“Anytime, Emmaline. Your gratitude is most appreciated.” He followed it up in his own voice, richer, amused.
She glanced over her shoulder, ready to lob a sharp remark of her own, but he was already gone. Vanished.
Typical.
Scowling, she turned toward the window, watching as the sun crested past the midday mark. Good. He’d be heading home soon, and with him out of the way, she could go back to the stables and begin her search for Caelith.
Her fingers drifted to the belt at her waist, absently tracing the fine, interwoven loops as Deyric’s words echoed unbidden in her mind.
“I especially like how it sits… right there… on your hips.”
Her hand stilled, and the thought came swiftly, traitorously—what would it feel like to have his hands there instead. Large, rough with callouses, pressing firm against her waist. Holding her steady. Holding her still.
A startled gasp parted her lips, and with surprising self-control, she tore her hands away, forcing them to her sides.
Absolutely not.
She had plans. She had a destiny, and it most certainly did not involve entertaining any further thoughts about Deyric or his hands.