The Unseelie Court. #4
His smoldering eyes flicked briefly to my mouth. He let out a small, frustrated huff, before returning to meet my hungry stare.
I smoothed my palms across the back of his neck, noting how his skin was as soft as overripe plums, and warmer than mulled mead—prompting Fitzroy to tighten his grip around my waist, drawing me closer.
For a fleeting moment, I thought he might actually kiss me—his face edging toward mine.
Was I about to be rewarded for enduring his sharp tongue? The fruits of my labor: a taste of his mouth?
But the song ended before we collided.
As the courtiers applauded, I remembered we had an audience.
My cheeks reddened like heather in bloom as I pushed Fitzroy away, hastily returning to my seat—chastising myself for desiring things of the flesh.
“I’ve grown tired of this impish music,” Regina announced as she turned to me. “Would you play something for us? Perhaps a folk song from the Wetlands?”
“It would be an honor, but I cannot sing or play any instrument,” I admitted, feeling embarrassed at my lack of entertaining talents.
“Nephew,” Regina called, “would you grace us with a song?”
Fitzroy eagerly nodded, not hesitating to approach a goblin clutching a harp.
“May I?” he asked.
The goblin stepped aside, allowing Fitzroy to claim the instrument and take a seat.
Using both hands, he plucked a melancholic melody on the harp strings. His musical talent stilled me, as though I were spellbound by the sorrowful tune.
Fitzroy’s movements were dreamy—tender, slow, and soulful.
That handsome face of his portrayed his passion for music—eyes closed, brow pinched, as if he were sacrificing a part of himself for every note.
His fingers were like brushstrokes, painting a breathtaking mural of emotion—one that brought a tear to my eye.
When Fitzroy finished, the courtiers clapped politely. But I rose to my feet and applauded—giving him the praise he truly deserved.
A hint of pink flushed Fitzroy’s neck, revealing a vulnerable side I’d never seen before.
“What’s the name of the composer?” Regina inquired, tilting her head.
“I wrote it myself,” Fitzroy replied, weaving another thread into his tapestry of talents.
Regina offered him a heartfelt smile. “You’re as gifted artistically as your mother was,” she said, with a tenderness in her gaze and tone.
Fitzroy bowed graciously, humbled by the comparison.
* * *
The hour was late, and the courtiers wearily retreated to their bedchambers. Exhaustion weighed me down, and I longed to collapse into the grandest bedstead I’d ever laid eyes upon.
I asked Bronwyn to help me remove my gown and undergarments.
With practiced efficiency, she quickly unraveled the lace, unfastened the pins, and disentangled me from mounds of silk, linen, and wool.
Even if Regina was right in claiming goblinettes were dumb but dutiful, it didn’t change the fact that Bronwyn excelled in her role.
“Good night, just Niamh,” Bronwyn whispered as she departed.
As she left, I caught the faint sound of chatter from behind the closing door. Curiosity drew me near, and I pressed my ear to the margin to eavesdrop.
“You weren’t interested in marrying the daughter of a lord?” Regina’s voice carried through the crack.
Then I overheard a self-indulgent sigh—a grating noise I’d been subjected to many times before.
“No, that’s why I hid in Albion,” Fitzroy replied—after our earlier moment, his voice made my heart patter. “May I speak candidly?”
“Go on,” Regina murmured.
“Why would I entertain a woman who only desires me because her father insists it’s in her best interest?” he asked.
Regina laughed beneath her breath. “You really are your mother’s son,” she said, an air of sentiment in her tone. “Once the war is won, you may court as many noblewomen as you wish and choose the one with whom you feel the strongest connection to marry.”
In Cambas, I’d not once thought about Fitzroy entertaining other women—but now I was. I should’ve felt nothing, unfazed by the idea of his future escapades. But I didn’t. The thought made me sick to the pit of my stomach.
Fitzroy scoffed. “I’ve never met a noblewoman who wasn’t blander than unseasoned porridge.”
Thank the gods, I thought.
“I think your affection lies elsewhere,” Regina countered, something knowing in her voice.
Fitzroy snorted. “You’re mistaken.”
“Am I wrong to believe you have a soft spot for the blacksmith?”
My heartbeat quickened—pounding faster and faster for every second of silence.
“She’s different from any woman I’ve ever met,” Fitzroy replied.
“Is that why you’re so fond of her?” Regina pressed, trying to squeeze every drop of detail out of him.
Until tonight, I’d not once thought Fitzroy had eyes for me—if anything, I’d assumed he regarded me as argumentative and unappealing.
But after our dance, when we exchanged longing stares, I was conflicted.
Despite nothing being said, in those wordless glances a confession was made—one of shared desires.
Fitzroy sighed again, as if this topic irritated him.
“The woman has no airs or graces,” he said in a snappy cadence. “She doesn’t curtsy correctly or excuse herself when leaving the table. She calls me her liege as an insult, and speaks to me as if I’m no better than a commoner.”
His words stung slightly, and I struggled to find any sentiment in them.
“And you take pleasure in her not respecting your title?” Regina asked, and I waited.
Another sigh.
Another long pause.
I pressed my ear more firmly into the door, not wanting to miss a word.
“It’s refreshing for someone to see me not only for that,” he finally said.
A warmth seeped into my chest, like I’d eaten a heaping spoonful of wild honey.
I made Fitzroy feel seen.
Regina let out a soft laugh. “I can understand that. But remember, she’s a peasant after all—she has everything to gain from you.”
Fitzroy chuckled—dry and hollow—nothing joyous in its tone.
“You find that amusing?” Regina asked.
“It’s comical. I could give her everything but the one thing she desires.”
My mind raced through the things I wanted—and in that moment, all I could think of was him.
“And what is that?” Regina asked, and I was thankful that she did.
A moment of silence followed, painfully long, as I waited for Fitzroy to answer.
Then I heard a deep grunt. “A carpenter,” Fitzroy said.
I faltered.
He was right. I did desire Bash—but part of me, the part I always ignored, was desperate for Fitzroy. And the more time I spent with the prince, the harder it became to conceal my growing feelings.
Fitzroy’s laughter echoed as heavy footsteps clipped along the tiled floors.
“Good night, Nephew.”
With haste, I scrambled into my four-poster bedstead and pulled the silky sheet over my head.
My heart pounded, drumming faster than raindrops in a thunderstorm. Could Fitzroy truly be fond of me? It seemed unlikely—I must’ve misheard—but I hoped I hadn’t.
Bash flashed into my mind like a shooting star—a blur of emotions hurtling before my eyes. I rolled over, burying myself deeper in the bedding, wishing I could forget him.
My betrayal meant he wanted no more to do with me, and that hurt. But I couldn’t be angry with him—it was no less than what I deserved.
After the conversation I’d overheard, I didn’t linger on the past. My thoughts drifted back to Fitzroy.
A feverish heat swept through me, a mingling of guilt and longing as I recalled his cherry-red lips and my urge to kiss them.
Consumed with confusion, I closed my eyes and waited for slumber, hoping that in the light of day, my muddled thoughts would become clear.