“These are the Zandalee,” Tiern explained. “They’ve joined the hunt.”
The Lochlan woman’s mouth dropped open. A crowd began to form around them.
“You mean . . . ? The real Zandalee?”
Tiern nodded. Whispers about the foreign huntresses spread all around them, faces lighting up with excitement, people shuffling and standing on their tiptoes to see. The Zandalee took it all in stride, looking around at the pale faces, but not smiling. One brave Lochlan woman stepped forward and took the hand of Zandora, who stood in front. She patted her hand, beaming.
“Thank you!”
Zandora stared down at her, and Tiern laughed nervously, stepping up. “They are women of few words.”
A toddler scrambled down from his mother’s arms and went to Zandora’s legs, touching the strange material.
“Grayson, no!” The mother rushed forward, stopping when she saw Zandora give the child a smile, her earlier irritation seeming to vanish. His mother relaxed, but remained close.
When Zandora patted his head, the town’s few children rushed at the Zandalee, wanting to touch their clothes. The presence of the children seemed to cheer the huntresses, who were glad to squat down and let the little ones touch them. After a few minutes Harrison called out to the people.
“Thank you for your kindness, but we must be getting back.”
The Zandalee were in far better moods after that. They all were, until they reached the commons. A set of military men was leaving, their faces grim. The Ascomannians and Zorfinans stood in separate groups, talking, but they came together when they saw the Lochlans and Zandalee approach.
Lief spoke. “The beast attacked the Kalorians. They were all found dead.”
“Curses.” Samuel rubbed his face.
Paxton’s jaw flexed as he ground his teeth in anger. Having fought the beast alongside those men, it made him furious to know they hadn’t had backup. He wanted to keep his composure, but his jaw was so tense he could only speak through gritted teeth. “This was avoidable. We should have hunted closer together.”
Volgan’s lip rose in a sneer. Paxton turned on his heels for the tents, afraid of what he’d do and say if he remained a moment longer.
He collapsed onto his cot in the small tent, pressing his fingers to his temples. Tiern came in behind him, but knew not to bother him when he got like this.
After a few minutes, Tiern mumbled, “Bloody seas,” and fell asleep.
A steady rain began. As the day went on, the rain progressed into a thundering storm, which settled into more rain. The land turned to mud. Accounts of flooding waterways came to them from castle messengers in high boots. Even the path outside the commons area had been covered over by a stream of mud. With regret, they decided to call off the hunt for that night.
Since water had seeped under the tents, High Hall was turned into the hunters’ quarters. The men sat around playing cards and drinking tankards of ale. The Zandalee had been allowed guest quarters of their own. They had looked exhausted when Paxton saw them trudge away.
Paxton knew he should take the opportunity to relax, but he was too frustrated about the prior night’s losses and tonight’s hunt being called off for weather. He turned his back to the others and lay on his cot in silence, wondering how close Aerity’s chambers were to the hall. Wondering what she was thinking and doing within those same walls that very moment.
Chapter
22
Lady Wyneth was so lost in her drawing that she didn’t register people in the library until they stood before her. She looked up into the grinning face of Lord Lief Alvi, and quickly closed her sketchbook. He was with two guards and two other Ascomannian men, who brought with them scents of damp fur.
“Hello, my lady,” Lord Alvi said.
“Er, hello.” Wyneth’s head was murky with creativity, lines still moving about in her mind, begging to be drawn. She pulled her feet out from under herself, smoothing down her gray skirts. Sounds came back to her now, muffled rain against the tall windows.
“We’re giving a tour of the castle, Lady Wyneth,” a guard said. “Sorry to disturb you.”
She shook her head and forced a polite smile, feeling Lord Alvi’s warm gaze on her all the while. “No problem at all.”
“So, this is the royal library.” The guard motioned his hand around at shelves stretching to the high ceilings, and cozy nooks with leather chairs and woven rugs. The other Ascomannians grunted, making a quick scan, looking bored.
“Where is the indoor archery range?” the hairiest man asked.
“Down this hall, past the stairs.” The men set to leave, looking back at Lord Alvi.
“Go ahead without me. I wish to see the ancient texts.”
The larger, hairier man from the coldlands lifted an eyebrow high and then shrugged before leaving. Wyneth’s insides bounced and spun as Lord Alvi’s presence surrounded her. She moved her eyes slowly up to him as he turned toward her sketchbook.
“What were you working on?”
Lady Wyneth placed her palms on the cover. “Honestly, nothing of interest. I make drawings for my siblings and cousins, to entertain them.”
He grinned and sat in the chair beside her, pulling it closer. Great seas, he was large. And he didn’t smell musty like the other men. He smelled almost . . . salty.
“I would love to see.”
Wyneth felt her face warming. “No, really, Lord Alvi—”
“Please. Call me Lief. And let me see your sketches.”
Oh, fine. What did it matter what he thought? She handed the book over, her heart beating too fast. He opened it, giving his full attention to the drawings.
“‘Crocket’s Race,’” he murmured. “And Crocket is a crocodile?”
“Mm-hm. You see, Prince Donubhan is a bit . . . competitive,” Wyneth explained. “He likes to cheat, and pouts if he doesn’t win. So Princess Aerity and I came up with a story about a crocodile that cheated so much in his river races that the other crocs no longer wanted to play with him.”
Lord Alvi flipped through all the pages and chuckled at the end. “Remarkable.”
Wyneth went hot, resisting the urge to fan herself as she watched his strong hands skimming across her drawings. Then he plucked her pencil from the binding pouch, and did something that shocked her—he began to sketch, the pencil scratching with ease in his oversized hand.
Wyneth giggled as the form of a bird began to take shape on Crocket’s shoulder.
Lord Alvi spoke low. “Each time the little croc tries to cheat, the bird gives him a peck. Like his conscience.”
“That’s quite good.” Wyneth had never seen a man draw so well.
“Let’s keep this our secret, aye?” He set down the pencil and gave her a bashful grin, softening her all over.
“My lady.” He reached for her hand, but she swiftly pulled it to her lap. She could not allow a repeat of their last encounter, even though she thought of it often enough. Too often.
“My lord,” she said. “We cannot.”
Their eyes met, filling her with pain and longing that she couldn’t comprehend.
“Lord Alvi,” called a deep voice from the doorway, echoing. Wyneth jumped and Lord Alvi wrenched his head around. “Care to visit the indoor range with us?”
The Ascomannian lord gave him a nod. “Aye.”
Before he could say another word, Wyneth reached over and took the sketchbook from his hand, standing.
“Good evening to you all.” She nodded at the men, avoiding Lord Alvi’s eyes, rushing from the library.
Emotions welled inside her. She wanted to get to her chambers before she exploded. As she turned the corner she ran smack into somebody.
“Lady Wyneth!” Harrison gave her a friendly grin. “How nice to see you.”
Her throat constricted and her eyes burned.
Harrison’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”
Seas, he reminded her so much of Breckon: polished, handsome, polite. Even their
bodies were of similar stature, the lean muscles and tapered waists.
“I don’t feel well.” Laughter from the Ascomannians sounded from down the hall as the men headed toward the archery room. Harrison narrowed his eyes at the sound.
“Did Lief do something to you?” Harrison took her by the shoulders. “Did he touch you?” When she didn’t answer fast enough, he said, “Tell me!”
“No, Harrison,” she said in a rush.
He stared deep into her eyes until he seemed assured she was telling the truth. Then he took a deep breath and removed his hands. “I’m sorry. I don’t like the way he pursues you. It’s disrespectful to you and Aerity. To Breckon. Keep your distance from him, Wyn. I saw—”
“What?” Her eyes snapped up.
“I shouldn’t have spied, but I had a feeling his motives were not honorable when he asked you to walk with him. I saw him kiss you in the trees. You were right to run from him.”
Wyneth swallowed, her stomach churning with shame. “I have to go.”
She rushed past him, covering her mouth, trying to keep it all inside long enough to burst through her chamber doors and shut them tight behind her.
Wyneth paced a minute, and then sat in a cushioned chair, breathing hard. She opened her sketchbook and ran a slender fingertip across the animated bird on the crocodile’s shoulder. A dry sob choked her as she slammed the book shut and closed her eyes. Tears burned inside her eyelids, and an irrational bout of resentment bubbled up from deep inside her.
“Why, Breckon?” she whispered. “Why did you have to be so bloody brave?”
The sketchbook slid to the floor with a clatter as Wyneth bent, her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands. Her shame was like a living, growing thing inside her.
If only Breckon had dived into the water with her. They might’ve escaped together. What had he been trying to prove by fighting that monster? Why did he have to go and get himself killed? If he were here, none of this would be happening with Lord Alvi, she knew that for a fact. If Breckon were here, her heart would have never wandered to one of Aerity’s suitors.
“Breckon, you stupid, stupid man. Why?” Wyneth railed in absolute anger, an emotion she hadn’t allowed herself to release until that moment. She let herself be overcome with rage at the unfairness of it all. She screamed, and when her maid opened the door, peeking in with worry, Wyneth threw a pillow at the door and shouted, “Leave me alone!” She then began to throw everything in sight, breaking a canvas against the wall. Looking down at the drab, gray gown, she grasped the neckline and yanked until it tore at the seams. She screamed at the top of her lungs, kicking her bedpost until her feet throbbed, punching her mattress until her hands stung.
“How much longer, Breck?” Wyneth sobbed, her face against the bed. “How much longer will it hurt like this?” She clenched the sheets.
Wyneth wept until her strength was gone, and then she feebly crawled into the abused bed and slept like the dead.
Chapter
23
Aerity couldn’t sleep. The wind seemed to grab hold of her windows and shake them with fury. Lightning flashed eerily through her chamber, followed closely by the rumbling boom of thunder. She didn’t mind storms, actually found them soothing. It wasn’t the gale that kept her awake with anxious excitement but the knowledge that the hunters were inside the castle at that very moment.
She slipped from bed and wrapped a dressing robe over her nightgown, sliding her feet into soft shoes. A peek out her door found quiet, empty halls, flames flickering from massive wall sconces. The princess walked the halls in silence, her arms crossed over her chest. It was a testament to her father’s trust of the hunters that the halls weren’t crawling with guards. She did see one when she rounded the corner to High Hall—a lad not much older than she was. He was leaning against a tapestry and straightened when he saw her.
“Princess,” he said with a nod. “Everything all right?”
She nodded in return. “I can’t sleep.”
“Aye, the storm,” he said. His eyes flicked up and down the wide hallway to be sure Aerity was safe before he seemed to relax.
“I think I’ll visit the library.” She walked on before he could respond. One of the doors to High Hall was ajar. As she neared the darkened room, she glanced back at the guard, who watched dutifully. Aerity walked slowly, and just as she came close to the doorway a flash of lightning lit up the vast room within. Men were laid out on cots and floor bundles, snores resounding upward in mock harmony. But one man was sitting against the wall, his arms draped over bent knees, face shrouded in waves of brown hair. Their eyes met just as the lightning flashed, and their gazes remained connected afterward in the dim streak of sconce flame. Aerity sucked in a breath as the thunder hit, shaking the castle. She could still feel Paxton’s eyes as she continued forward, out of his sight. By the tides, how could a simple look make her tremble so?
She glanced back at the guard, who was still watching, forcing her not to linger.
Beyond the entrance to the Great Hall were steps down to the lower wing—the library to the right and a training facility with Aerity’s silks and an indoor archery range to the left. She was still shaking a bit as she stepped lightly down and rounded the corner to the library. Then she heard the murmur of male voices behind her at High Hall and retreated back to the corner to listen.
“Aye, it’s a nasty one.” The young guard’s voice reverberated down the stone hallway. “The archery range is down the steps to the left if you’re looking to pass time until the storm ends.”
“Very well, but my bow is in my tent.” It was Paxton’s voice.
Aerity’s heart skipped with glee—had he followed her? The men were discussing the availability of practice bows when she peeked around the corner. Neither were looking her way. In a moment of spontaneity, Aerity slipped behind the tapestry against the open wall and rushed past, running quietly the rest of the way to the training room.
Please follow me, she thought, and then nearly laughed. He wasn’t the type to follow a lass like a lovesick pup. He was a mystery, that one. A mystery she planned to solve. But time alone with him was hard to obtain.
Her nerves were alight, causing beads of sweat to break out across her skin when she heard his footsteps moving down the hall.
He’s coming! she thought excitedly. Then her limbs prickled again with nervous anticipation and she realized how foolish she appeared just standing there. She hurried to her silks and grabbed hold with slick palms, twisting her ankle sloppily and hoisting herself up with a bit too much force. She swung wild and high, jerking her head toward the doorway at the sound of a throat clearing. Her face flamed.
Paxton’s hair was disheveled. His dark eyes took in the sight of her swaying on the silks and he turned to glance down the hall behind him before staring at her again.
“I was told that you would be at the library and was ordered to keep my distance.”
“I, um . . .” Aerity unwound one foot and reached her toe down to the floor to stop her movement. She felt utterly stupid, realizing how she must look in her night robes, swinging away like a child, her hair loose and probably a tangled mess. “I changed my mind.” He didn’t move from the doorway. The two of them locked eyes and forged a sort of silent battle.
“Like I said,” he told her in a low voice, “I was told to keep my distance.”
“Do you always follow rules so well?” It came out like a challenge. She held the silks tightly to steady herself, one foot still wound in the fabric and the other on the floor.
“Actually, no.” Without looking away from her, Paxton’s foot kicked the wooden doorstop, and he walked forward, letting the door creak closed behind him. “I saw the tapestry move . . .”
He knew she’d be here. He had followed her! Aerity had never felt more nervous in her life as he made his slow approach. She wasn’t accustomed to feeling this way, her body out of sorts, her thoughts scattered. She was glad to have the silks to cling to.
Paxton took his time. Aerity thought she should say something, perhaps a witty quip, but she was afraid she’d sound breathless. She didn’t want him to know how he affected her. He walked a circle around her, moving nearer, his eyes scrutinizing every element in that curious way of his. Aerity kept very still. No lad other than Harrison had dared to get this close. He stopped in front of her and looked skyward. His eyes trailed the silks to the ceiling, and he reached up, his fingers and palm wrapping around the smooth fabric, feeling his way down. When he got to her hand he let go, never touching her.
“I wonder,” he said quietly. His eyes roamed over her hair and face, her robe cinched at the waist. If he thought she looked silly he didn’t show it.
“You wonder what?” She was horrified to hear that she indeed sounded as breathless as she was. Curses.
Paxton’s hand drifted over the hair at her shoulder, his fingers gathering a mass of light red strands and winding them gently about his palm until her long tresses were a loose knot around his strong hand. She could feel the slight tug at her scalp as his fist slightly tightened. Her chest fluttered at the sight of his thumb running back and forth over the taut hair there. She suddenly wished she could feel that caress.
“I wonder what sort of queen you’ll be.”
The seriousness in his eyes and meaning of his words ratcheted up Aerity’s spine, bringing her back to her senses in a heady rush. She let go of the silks and stood before him on her own two feet. Taking her cue that the mood had shifted, he let her hair slide from his hand.
Why would he ask such a thing? Exactly what aspect of her personality made him question the type of ruler she’d be? Did he think her immature and incapable? Could she blame him after she’d acted so transparently foolish just now? Aerity lifted her chin.
“I hope to be fair and just.”
His face bent a fraction closer, as if hungry for anything she might say.
“To whom?” he asked.
To whom? What sort of question is that?