35. Enthusiastically in Love
Enthusiastically in Love
In the earliest hours of the morning, before sunrise, a carriage waited in the circular roadway in front of the Inn. The wood was stained dark cherry, with black upholstery and wine-red trim. The wrought-iron coach lights would burn a little longer until the sun rose.
Mist drifted between the horse’s legs and curled around the wheels. The chill in the air settled into Cypress’ bones, making her feel as if the carriage belonged to some haunted spirit of ages past.
“Will Ellisar take our horses back to A’aravos Paravale?” she asked and ducked into the carriage. On the far wall, between the seats, lay a large trunk.
Presumably, with their disguises inside.
“Yes, everything is taken care of, Lass,” Torren replied after he joined Cypress in the carriage.
“And I presume these will be our garments?” Cypress didn’t know why she sounded so… formal.
She’d barely slept a wink at all last night. Through the twilight hours, Cypress had lain there with hope that Torren would say something, do something to acknowledge the ache between them.
The most he’d done was insist on his half of the mattress, as it was big enough for both of them.
Torrens's hands had never roamed, never traced the length of her back as she’d wished in the middle of the night.
No, Torren Lefay had been a perfect gentleman.
And Cypress was unreasonably annoyed by it.
The carriage jolted forward just before Torren said, “See for yourself, Lass.”
She rolled her eyes at him, but lifted the lid without comment. Wrought iron was delicately formed around the edges of the lid and was cast into hinges and latches. If Cypress wasn’t mistaken, the impressions looked decidedly identical to the Winged Hounds of the Hunt.
Inside the trunk lay a pair of bundled items, their masks, a handful of jewels, and the forged invitation on thick, embossed cardstock.
Cypress selected the bundle that was slightly more voluminous on the assumption that it would be her gown.
The bundle was held together by a thin rope, not unlike the one she wore around her armored corset, but in a more vibrant green than the black she favored.
Cypress pulled the rope holding the bundle together, revealing the dress's skirt. The fabric glittered with the same unusual iridescence as the other dresses she’d worn, each crafted by Fair Folk hands.
This gown was a deep purple shade. The sleeves of the garment were just as iridescent, the lengths of fabric nearly as long as the skirts themselves. The dress dipped low to the middle of her chest, and Cypress couldn’t help but feel as if she would be too…vulnerable in a dress like this.
Cypress knew better than to wear her armored corset over the dress, but without it, she felt naked—vulnerable in more ways than one.
Torren must have noticed her discomfort because he softly said, “If you look, I’m sure there will be a matching corset in the trunk, Lass.”
Cypress shot him a look out of the corner of her eye. “How do you know that?”
“Because I asked for one,” He said simply, then grabbed his bundle from the trunk and unwound the cord.
Cypress watched him look through the clothes for a moment before she said, “Thank you.”
She looked away before the comment registered, going back to her investigation of the contents of the trunk.
Sure enough, under the handful of jewelry stashed in small black velvet pouches was a corset in a matching color. Cypress could tell it was armored– likely more so than the one currently around her waist– by the weight of it.
Her current corset was made of brown leather with some tooled patterns, but this new one was crafted of black leather.
Exceptionally detailed leaf-and-vine decorations ran along its borders.
Copper grommets adorned the garment, though she knew the metal was too soft to support it alone.
Through the grommets, ribbons matching her dress fabric wove in and out.
Cypress couldn’t begin to articulate how talented the hands must be to craft such a corset. Every inch outshone her current one, and Cypress itched to slip it over her body.
“You’re welcome, Lass. We’ll stop in Lostgate just before the Keep for you to change into it.”
Cypress shook her head. “No need. We can stop on the road somewhere, and I’ll put it in the carriage. We don’t need more of a trail of unusual activity for Caelith to get a whiff of.”
She could feel the weight of Torren’s eyes on her, but she didn’t meet his gaze for several moments. When she did finally meet his stare, there was a sly smile on his lips.
“As you wish,” he rumbled.
Cypress felt it all the way down to her toes.
Instead of asking if that applied to anything, Cypress plucked the invitation out of the trunk to look it over. She’d seen many of these in her time at Cade’s side.
From the description Cypress gave to Rhene before they left A’aravos Paravale, the artisans had done a remarkably good job at forging a duplicate. The stationery was the same, fine script announcing Cade’s twenty-seventh summer and celebration ball.
Cypress flipped the card over to read the invitation, which had been personalized for their fake names and the dress code's color scheme, and was met with what surely had to be a joke.
Mr. and Mrs. Theodas Preceran.
“Torren,” she started, then cleared her throat. It had to be a joke. There was no way they were going to keep up this farce of a relationship for the guise of her protection at the ball.
No way.
“Duchess,” he drawled, and crossed his leg over the other to rest his ankle across his knee.
“Why does this say Mr. and Mrs. Theodas Preceran? I thought the plan was brother and sister?”
His eyebrows raised a fraction. “Does it? Hmm. Odd.”
“Don’t pretend to be clueless,” Cypress said and flopped back on the bench.
“I didn’t have anything to do with it,” Torren claimed, with his hand raised in supplication.
She narrowed her eyes at him. Cypress didn’t believe the act even for a second. “Sure you didn’t.”
“I can’t lie to ye, remember?”
Cypress pushed the tip of her tongue to the sharp point of one of her teeth.
Torren grinned.
Cypress sighed, then said, “Fine.”
“Fine.”
“That’s what I said. Fine. We’re Mr. and Mrs. Theodas Preceran, textile merchants from Brionneque.”
“So it would seem.”
“How long have we been together?”
That hungry smile was back on Torren’s face when he said, “Married under a year. We’re still…” he drifted off for a moment, eyes drifting over her body on the bench across from him. “Enthusiastically in love.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“What, I didn’t say anything.”
“Is this all once again under the guise of protecting me?”
“I told you, I had nothing to do with the names, Lass.”
“No, but you sure are happy about tormenting me.”
Torren abruptly leaned forward.
Cypress thought the space was too small for the both of them as his grey eyes bounced from her eyes to her lips and back again. “I torment you, Lass?”
Come on, do something, Cypress begged, though would never voice the desire.
She just wished he would either stop with the act or just grab her and kiss her as he did in the library for just a moment.
Hungrily, passionately. Oh, Cypress ached for that kind of devotion.
Instead of admitting it, though, Cypress merely rolled her eyes and made herself comfortable on the bench, or at least tried to.
No matter which way she oriented her body, she just couldn’t get comfortable for longer than a few moments.
“Would you sit still?” Torren grumbled after Cypress rearranged herself for the tenth time in as many minutes.
“I’m sorry it’s been a minute since I’ve ridden in a bloody carriage, your highness. How the hell do you get comfortable in these?”
Torren chuckled, and his smile lit up his face.
“Come over here, so then we can both stretch our legs,” he said, and patted the seat next to him.
Cypress opened her mouth to decline the offer, but Torren pressed his finger to her lips.
“Stop arguing, Lass. Just listen, for once?”
Cypress was tempted to bite Torren’s finger, but settled for just a glare as she switched seats, then propped her legs on the bench she’d just vacated.
Torren joined her, his long legs still slightly bent even with his toes hitting the other wall.
Cypress recognized the problem right away and scooted to the side a bit to let him stretch his legs out diagonally.
Torren halted her movements with a hand around her waist and tugged their hips back together. Then, he hooked her legs over his, so that they were both spread out in the carriage.
“This is ridiculous,” Cypress muttered as she tried to situate herself. She felt as if he was pressed against her entire body.
“Oh, don’t be like that, Lass. We have a ways to go, the day is still young. I, for one, am in it for a nap before heading into the Griffin den.”
Cypress conceded with a huff and fluffed the small pillows on her side.
Again, Torren grabbed her by the waist and tugged her down so that she was lying, practically curled into his side.
“Torren!” she shrieked, and tried to pull away.
“Lass,” Torren drawled with one hand propped behind his head, the other still curled around her waist.
“What is your problem?” Cypress demanded, hand pushed into his chest to keep herself propped above him, instead of curled into his side.
“If we aren’t comfortable like this, there’s no way people will believe we’re happily married,” Torren said. His grey eyes twinkled with mischief, and something else. Something darker, hungrier.
“You cannot be serious.”
“Oh, I am. Deadly.”
Cypress sighed, but only said, “I’m going to kill you when this is all over,” as she settled into the space he’d given her.
Torren laughed so hard his chest bounced. It shook Cypress to her core.