He still was.
Mia leaned back from her drawing and caught sight of him. She grinned, pushing the drawing desk aside. “Grayson!” She leapt from the bed and flung her arms around his neck.
His arms instinctively came around her and he ducked his head, his cheek pressed against her temple, her soft hair brushing his nose.
He used to shy away from her embraces. The constricting hold had made his stomach roll. All he could feel was the bruising grip of his brothers, pinning him down so they could hurt him. His lungs would freeze and alarm would flash through him, but physical contact seemed necessary for Mia. She didn’t seem aware that her small hands could coil his larger body with tension. When she’d held his hand the first time, it had been quite against his will. But she hadn’t been deterred by his rigidness.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said against his shoulder.
“Me, too.” He tugged her closer and filled his lungs with her light scent, a mix of lavender and jasmine. He could only label the smell because she’d claimed the soap he’d brought her was lavender and jasmine. For him, the names didn’t matter—it was just Mia. It was what peace smelled like.
Mia pulled back but gripped his gloved hand, tugging him toward the bed. “I need your help. I can’t get it right.” She settled next to the small drawing desk that fit in her lap, and once he sat beside her, she gestured at the page with her free hand. “What’s wrong with it? It’s too steep, isn’t it?”
Grayson tried not to notice how the glow from the stove highlighted her rounded cheeks and delicate nose. It was hard to ignore her beauty when she was the only thing he wanted to see, but he forced himself to eye the drawing. “The northern mountains are about that steep.”
She frowned. “Then what’s wrong with them? They don’t look right.”
“If you want to make them the northern mountains, you’ll need to cover them with pines.”
“Pines?”
If Mia’s brown skin and lilting accent hadn’t painted her as a foreigner, comments like those certainly did. Pines covered most of Ryden; how could she not know them? But then, he already knew she wasn’t from Ryden. As children, they’d had to communicate almost solely through the common tongue, until she learned to speak his language. Perhaps if he’d traveled beyond Ryden, he might be able to place her accent. All he really knew was she didn’t speak in the tight and clipped manner he did. A part of him wondered if her accent was unique to her.
In the beginning, he hadn’t been curious about Mia’s origins. But as he’d grown older, curiosity needled. He was twelve when he finally asked about her past.
Mia had stiffened. “I can’t talk about that.”
He frowned at the tightness in her voice. “Why not?”
She avoided his gaze. “When I first came here, I thought about home all the time. I used to ask for my mother. My real mother.” She cringed. Of course she was holding his hand, so he felt her shudder.
He gripped her fingers, a pang firing in his chest because he knew what she was about to say would be bad.
It was worse than he imagined.
“When I cried for my mother, Papa would hit me with his belt.”
Grayson’s vision hazed red.
Mia’s lower lip trembled, her voice growing softer with each word. “If I talked about my life before, he’d hurt me.”
“Does he still hurt you?” Grayson asked darkly, his jaw locked.
“No.” Her whisper wavered, and the vulnerability gutted him. “Not unless I upset him.”
It took everything in him to keep his voice level. “If he ever hurts you, tell me.” Papa might be a grown man, but Grayson was a Kaelin—he’d make the man bleed.
“It’s all right,” Mia said, though it wasn’t. “But I can’t talk about before. I don’t even think about it.” Her breathing turned thready. “Please don’t ask.”
Her anxiety was palpable, and he’d do anything to ease her fear. So he’d given his word and he’d kept his promise. He’d also started training Mia in self-defense and he’d had a conversation with Papa—and his own father—to ensure Papa never hurt Mia again.
But despite his promise not to pry, curiosity about her past still stabbed him sometimes.
A pencil poked his nose and he jerked.
Mia lowered the pencil with a soft chuckle, her breath caressing his cheek. Her nearness clenched his gut. “You didn’t hear me, did you?”
He leaned back. “What?”
“I asked if you could sketch a pine tree for me.” She held out the pencil and Grayson took it, unable to deny her anything.
Mia leaned in while he drew a small pine onto the mountain she’d been laboring over. When he finished, he realized she was watching him, not what he was drawing.
Grayson pulled back, swallowing hard as his cheeks warmed. “There.” He cleared his throat and held out the pencil. “You try.”
A smile played on Mia’s lips as she accepted the pencil, pulling back to return to the drawing.
Grayson tried to watch her careful strokes as they coaxed more life onto the page, but he ended up watching her instead. His attention kept getting caught on her lower lip, which she bit in concentration. In quiet moments like these, all Grayson wanted to do was pull her close and set his mouth to hers. Every part of him thrilled at the thought, but he’d never do it. There were a thousand reasons to keep things exactly as they were.
So he remained where he was, seated beside her. In this moment, he wasn’t the Black Hand. He wasn’t even a Kaelin.
He was only Grayson.
Chapter 7
Clare
“Has she stirred at all?” a deep voice asked.
“A little,” a woman answered. Both voices were vaguely familiar, but locked as she was in semi-awareness, Clare couldn’t place them.
“We need her ready,” the man’s voice clipped. “The king will be angry enough over what happened. He’ll be furious if he can’t present her tonight.”
“She’ll wake soon, I’m sure.”
The man growled. “I want to speak with Bennick. Get him, Grannard.”
Grannard. The name meant something.
Venn, she realized a heartbeat later. The angry man was talking to Venn.
The voices faded as she was pulled back into darkness, but she surfaced a little when she heard Venn’s unmistakable voice. She could almost feel the rumble of it vibrate through her, like it had when she’d been pressed against him in the tavern. “We were betrayed. Did you tell anyone else?”
“No.” It was the same deep voice from earlier, but Clare knew it now—the commander. His presence, along with the musty smell of the room, convinced her she was back in the sad room she’d slept in last night. “The only other person who saw her last night was Millie and she was told nothing.”
There was a period of silence. Clare tried to crack her eyes open but the flickering light made her wince.
The commander cleared his throat. “Your first explanation makes the most sense. The rebels simply took advantage of a passing opportunity. It wasn’t an attack against the girl specifically. That’s what I’ll tell the king.”
A pause, then Venn asked more quietly than before, “How is she?”
“She’ll be fine. Millie says she was stirring a few minutes ago.” A slight hesitation. “You protected her well.”
“She reacted well.” Venn’s voice drifted. He was leaving the room.
Clare’s fingers twitched under the quilt covering her, but she couldn’t summon the energy to call out. The door closed and she knew from the stillness in the room that she was alone. She fell back into a restless sleep.
A hand shook her. “Miss Ellington. Clare.”
Clare’s head ached, but when she peeled back her eyelids this time, they remained open.
Lamps glowed, lighting the dusty room that had once belonged to a little boy. Millie, the commander’s maid, was perched on the edge of the bed. “Hurry, we don’t have much time.”
Clare fingered the back of her throbbing head. She flinched when she found a raised knot. She didn’t fully understand how she was back at the castle. Images of Venn carrying her unconscious body sprang to mind and she felt color bleed into her cheeks. He must think her the most incompetent woman alive, and she didn’t know why she cared.
Millie’s mouth tugged down. “Due to circumstances, I’ve been told about your new position. Others are here to help prepare you for dinner with the royal family.”
Clare sat up slowly, a wave of dizziness assaulting her. Her braided crown was a tangled mess and her dress was still damp from the rain. Another maid stood in the doorway watching her with a frown. She had vivid red hair and was probably in her thirties.
Millie handled the introductions. “Clare Ellington, meet Bridget Firth. She’s the princess’s head maid.”
“The resemblance is there,” Bridget said, brows drawn severely together. “Still, it will take a considerable amount of work to make her look like Serene. I need several hours at least, not one.” She sighed sharply. “Vera, Ivonne, come inside. We haven’t a moment to waste.”
Two maids dressed in white and gray dresses stepped in, carrying a medium-sized trunk between them. They were around Clare’s age and both had light blonde hair. They looked so similar, Clare guessed they were sisters.
Bridget urged Clare to stand and then proceeded to size her with a length of measuring rope, issuing orders as she worked. “Vera, pull out the red gown. Ivonne, organize the hair supplies. It would be best if we could keep a portion of her hair up, to add a bit of height—she’s a little shorter than the princess. Luckily their torsos are nearly the same length, that will make fitting dresses easier. Millie, get to work on her hair.”
The ache in Clare’s head spiked as Millie untangled her braid. Her skin felt too tight having so many people around her.
Bridget seemed wholly unaware of Clare’s unease as she stepped back, looping the measuring rope around the back of her neck. “I wish we had time for a bath, but we’ll have to make do. And we’ll need to darken your skin a bit. We’ll have to rely on powders for now, but we’ll find a decent stain.” Her eyes darted to the left. “Vera, grab a clean shift. We need to get this filthy dress off her.”
Clare’s skin crawled at the thought of these women seeing her without her dress. “Please, can’t I change behind the screen?” It stood in the corner, only steps away.
Bridget’s eyebrows drew together. “You’ll need assistance with the stays.”
“At least let me change into a shift. Please?”
Bridget rolled her eyes and flicked an impatient hand.
Clare ducked around the screen, sighing in relief at being shielded from their critical eyes, even for a moment. She began to undress, freezing when her hands landed on the empty belt around her waist until she remembered Venn had grabbed Eliot’s dagger in the tavern. She hadn’t lost it.
The maid Vera passed her a clean shift and when Clare took it she couldn’t help but caress the fabric. So soft, it felt unreal beneath her calloused fingers. Nothing like the threadbare shift she currently wore.
She gathered up the discarded blue dress, her fingers snagging on the pocket. Her breath caught. The tin soldier. She’d nearly forgotten him. She searched the pocket, her heart thumping when she found nothing.
“Are you done yet?” Bridget snapped.
Clare ignored her, dropping to her knees so hard they cracked against the stone. The pang in her chest hollowed her stomach.
Mark’s gift was gone. She’d probably lost it in the tavern brawl, or when she’d been carried to the castle. Her fingers curved against the floor and her shoulders hunched. Everything inside her felt poised to shatter. It felt like losing Mark all over again.
Vera came around the screen and knelt beside her, the two of them shielded from the rest of the room. “Have you lost something?” she asked gently.
Clare’s eyes burned. “Everything. I’ve lost everything.”
Vera’s lips pressed together, compassion firing in her light green eyes. “I’m sorry, but we need to get you dressed. We don’t have long before dinner.”
Heart thudding dully, Clare let Vera pull her to her feet and they rejoined the other maids.
Bridget’s critiques were constant, but Clare’s numbness protected her from any sting and, an hour later, Clare studied the stranger in the mirror. Her dark brown hair no longer fell to her waist but ended below her shoulder blades. The top half of her hair had been twisted up into an elaborate bun. She wore a red velvet dress with a gold chain belted low around her waist. Perfume had been rubbed onto the skin of her wrists so she smelled faintly of lilacs. Cosmetics that itched her skin covered her hands and face, darkening her brown skin a few degrees. Powders of red and gold brushed over her eyelids and a gold pendant with a red gem ringed the base of her neck, choking her.
Her own face was foreign to her. She’d been so embellished, she hardly recognized her reflection.
A knock hit the door and the commander stepped inside, tugging at the cuffs of his sleeves. “Is she ready yet? We’re late.” His head lifted and he froze.
Bridget grinned at his stare. “I work miracles, don’t I?”
“You do.” Shock and awe colored the commander’s tone, and his study of Clare was intense. His surprise made her grit her teeth; after all, he’d been the one to choose her for this. Should he really be so shocked by the result?
The walk to dinner was a hurried blur. The commander led her through empty corridors and dimly-lit servants’ passages until finally they stepped into the private royal dining room.
Clare’s palms were slick with sweat as her eyes skirted the large space, noting several guards standing against the walls between hung torches. Dinner had already been set out—steaming meats, roasted potatoes, buttered green beans and fresh white bread. Large candelabras were evenly spaced along the length of the table, candles flickering. Twelve red cushioned chairs sat around the table, though only two were occupied.
The king sat at the head, facing Clare. His eyebrows rose, betraying his surprise at her altered appearance. The chair to the king’s right held a young man Clare knew at once, though she’d never seen him before. Crown Prince Grandeur Demoi was seventeen years old and, like his older sister, he had dark hair, brown skin, and blue eyes. He wore a bright blue tunic and a wineglass dangled from his fingers. He rolled his eyes at her. “Finally. I was waylaid by Emissary Havim and still managed to be on time. What’s your excuse?”
Clare froze where she stood, her dress feeling far too tight around her chest. She looked to the king, unsure of how to answer.
Newlan merely stared at her, a smile ghosting across his lips.
Grandeur took a sip of wine but frowned when she didn’t move. “Fates, Serene, do you intend to stand there all night?”
The main doors pushed inward, and a young woman with beautiful deep brown skin swept inside, wearing a soft pink dress and a pinched frown on her angular face. “This evening has been horrendous,” she growled. “Half my maids vanished and I . . .” Her words faltered when she spotted Clare.
In a room so large, there should have been plenty of air to breathe, yet Clare’s lungs were empty. Her fingers twitched against her skirt as the princess’s sharp blue eyes—nearly a mirror of Clare’s own—dragged their way over every part of her. The princess’s frown turned into a silent snarl.
The crown prince rose from his chair, gaze darting between Clare and Serene. “What . . .?”
Clare’s heart thudded, every beat exacerbating the pain in her aching head. The silence was terrible. Almost as excruciating as having every eye fastened on her.
A soldier stepped up beside the princess and Venn’s familiar face sent an unexpected wave of comfort through Clare. Despite the tension of the moment, she offered a small smile.
Venn eyed her, his expression shuttered. A trickle of ice slid down Clare’s spine. The kind soldier was gone, replaced in an instant by the
cold soldier—the one who knew she’d been manipulated and didn’t care.
Princess Serene rounded on her father. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Take a seat, Serene,” the king said. “As you might imagine, we have much to discuss.” He looked beyond his daughter, to Venn. Only, that’s not the name he used. “Bennick, get the doors.”
Clare watched as Venn responded to the command without hesitation, and confusion spiraled through her. It wasn’t until the doors thudded closed that realization hit.
His name wasn’t Venn.
He returned to the princess’s side, his hands clasped behind his back, shoulders pulled back. He stood at perfect attention, and this time when his eyes brushed Clare’s, she was the first to look away, her back stiff. Her pulse snapped high and fast.
Princess Serene shoved a finger at Clare. “Who is this imposter? Explain!”
King Newlan exhaled. “I will, once you sit down.” He shot a look at Clare. “Sit.”
The commander gripped Clare’s elbow and pulled her forward. It was probably good he did, or else she might have remained grounded forever. The velvet skirt was heavy against her legs and the hem skimmed the floor as she moved toward the table. And though she kept her eyes trained forward, she could feel a pair of crystal-blue eyes watching her, and she tensed.
Why give her a false name? It was a small lie, compared to the many enveloping her, but that almost made it worse. Why lie about something so simple? It hurt more than it should have. After all, the commander had struck her and the king had threatened her with death unless she agreed to his terms. Those were worse crimes, but Venn—no, Bennick—was a part of all that, and he’d manipulated her further with his charming smiles and easy lies. She shouldn’t have let her guard down and allowed herself to be fooled. He was not her friend. He was her captor, just as much as the commander was.
She never should have trusted him, not even when her life had depended on it.
Perhaps especially then.
The commander guided her to the foot of the table and Clare sat stiffly on the extreme edge of her chair. He took the place on her left while the king repeated his order for his children to sit. Grandeur sank obediently into his seat and Serene finally came to the table, though she glared alternately at her father and Clare as she moved. There was no sign of recognition; if Serene realized Clare was the same kitchen maid who had saved her life last night, she didn’t show it.
Royal Decoy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 1) Page 6
