by Grace Draven
Louvaen believed him. Cinnia had told her earlier of his rage when he learned what Jimenin had done to her, how he’d almost ridden across the drawbridge on Magnus before Gavin and Ambrose literally netted him off the horse. They had to use brute force and magic to subdue him. Hours of cursing, death threats and abuse on his cell door passed before he was calm enough to listen to reason.
“If it’s any comfort, my father exacted revenge when he planted the queen’s knife you gave me between his shoulders. Papa saved Cinnia’s life and mine.”
He quirked an eyebrow at her revelation and grunted his approval of Mercer’s actions. “And here I thought your battle spirit came from one of your mothers.”
Louvaen smiled at the memory of Abigail Hallis. Her stepmother would have stabbed Jimenin and shot Ballard without a second thought if it meant protecting her children.
Ballard patted the mattress on the side opposite his injured leg. “Come lie next to me.”
She balked. “You can’t tell me your leg doesn’t hurt.”
“Only as much as having a hot coal sewn to my thigh would hurt.” He chuckled at her scowl. “You beside me will make me think of other things.” She still hesitated and he stared at her, unsmiling. “Did you fall in love with the forest king and now want nothing to do with the man?”
She pretended to study him. “I very much liked the bittersweet blooms, and the horns were an interesting touch.” Her finger outlined the edge of his jaw, pausing to rub the coarse hairs of his beard. “You’re almost too pretty now.”
He laughed weakly and lifted the blankets, exposing a bare hip and long leg. Louvaen toed off her borrowed shoes and slid in beside him fully dressed. Ballard gathered her close, and she rested her head on shoulder, luxuriating in the familiar ecstasy of his body pressed along the length of hers. She’d have to abandon him soon to fetch Gavin, Magda and Ambrose. They’d use her guts for bowstring if she waited too long in telling them he was awake.
They lay quietly together until Ballard raised his hand to the candlelight, turning it one way and then another. “It’s been many years since my hands looked like this.” He ran his thumb across his fingertips and the blunt distal edges. “The flux hit so fast this last time, we weren’t prepared. I held on long enough to help Ambrose lock Gavin in his chamber—not that it did much good in the end. I didn’t reach my cell before I changed. Ambrose had to trap me in the buttery. I don’t remember anything else after that except you holding a pistol and fire in my leg. What happened?”
Louvaen wasn’t thrilled at the idea of revisiting those nightmarish events in the bailey, but he had a right to know and if she didn’t tell him, someone else would. He listened without interruption when she recounted her trip with Jimenin to Ketach Tor, Ambrose’s clever illusion of Cinnia that even fooled Mercer and the mayhem that exploded thereafter. She didn’t dwell on the screams of the man torn asunder by Isabeau’s roses or the savagery with which he and Gavin had dispatched the remainder of Jimenin’s troop. He must have heard the horror in her voice, because he grew rigid against her.
“I won’t lie, Louvaen,” he said flatly. “As a man I would have slaughtered those men with the same violence I did as a beast. The only difference is I’d have used sword and axe instead of teeth and claws. Such is the way of battle and protecting your own.”
She raised herself on an elbow to peer into his face. His eyes flashed a challenge and an unspoken message. This is part of who I am. She smoothed one of his eyebrows. “I’m not judging you, Ballard. I nearly blew your leg off, and I love you.”
His features softened and his gaze caught fire. “Do you? Even now, after what you’ve seen the curse do to a man?”
Louvaen kissed the tip of his nose, moved down and captured his lips for another lingering kiss. He moaned against her mouth. She offered another quick peck before drawing away. “Oh that’s nothing,” she said. “I put up with your wizard insulting and trying to poison me all winter just to be near you. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.” She grinned as he broke into a hearty laugh.
He pulled her back down to him. The curse had recognized her sincerity the first time she’d uttered the sentiment to a sleeping Ballard. True Love’s Kiss didn’t break the bane; true love and the courage to admit it did. Well, that and the odd twist of her being nonborn. Good thing she, not Cinnia, had fallen in love with Ballard.
“You don’t ask if I love you.” Ballard’s voice vibrated under her cheek.
“I don’t need too. You said so, and I believe you. Besides, I know you love me.” He’d shown her in countless ways, proclaimed it in many different words.
“You’re right, I do. I must; I spent all winter preventing my wizard from turning you into a toad.”
Louvaen heard the laughter in his voice and would have cuffed him lightly on the arm if she hadn’t caught a glimpse of his eyes. They were cloudy with pain and perspiration sheened his forehead. She ignored his protests and slid out of the bed. “You’re hurting, Ballard; I can see it. There’s willow bark tea, but I think you need something stronger. I’m off to get Ambrose.” She captured his hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll be back soon.”
She had her hand on the latch when he called out to her. “Louvaen, send Gavin to me.”
Reluctant to leave him but unable to give him the relief he could find in one of Ambrose’s concoctions, she headed to Magda’s rooms. She met the sorcerer in the corridor. Louvaen tossed aside polite greetings, familiar enough with Ambrose now to recognize his appreciation for brevity. “He’s awake, in pain, and asking for Gavin.”
Ambrose gave her quick nod and strode past. “Gavin’s in the kitchens with your father and Cinnia,” he tossed over his shoulder before disappearing into his chambers.
The three hailed her appearance with offers to sit and inquiries about Ballard. She uttered only half of Ballard’s request before Gavin bolted out of the kitchen.
“He’s been worried and frightened for his father.” Cinnia patted the space next to her on the bench. “I don’t think he quite yet believes they’re no longer curse-bound.”
Louvaen dropped down beside her. “I hardly believe it myself.”
Mercer slid a pitcher of almond milk to her and Cinnia brought her a cup. “He’s mending?”
She emptied her cup and poured another dram. “Yes, though I sent Ambrose to him. That leg will be an agony while he heals, but at least he’s healing.”
Her father glanced at Cinnia before settling a steely gaze on her. “That’s good to know, because we need to talk.”
Louvaen paused with the cup halfway to her mouth. Mercer and Cinnia watched her like hawks on the hunt. Her skin prickled and she set the cup down with a thump. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” Cinnia’s candied smile boded ill. “Papa just doesn’t want you living with him anymore.”
Mercer scowled at his younger daughter while Louvaen’s jaw dropped. “You’ve obviously been spending far too much time in your sister’s company,” he said in a voice guaranteed to wither flowers.
Cinnia blushed. “Sorry.”
He patted Louvaen’s hand and gave her a sheepish look. “What Cinnia is trying to say—in a surprisingly Louvaenish way—is when I return home, you don’t need to accompany me.” He coughed as her eyes widened even more. “You’re a capable woman, Louvaen. More than capable.”
“Overbearing.” Cinnia shrugged at the twin glares she received.
“You’ve taken care of your sister and me for a long time, and while Cinnia has rebelled against it, I came to expect the coddling—relied on it even.” Mercer’s gaze fell away, and he stared hard at the scarred tabletop. “I’m a weak man made stronger by the women I keep close, but that weakness has robbed you of a life these past years. Except for the short time you were married to Thomas, you devote your days to caring for me and playing mother to your sister.”
Stung by her father’s rejection, Louvaen took a steadying breath. “I tried to be a good dau
ghter,” she said in a thick voice.
He flashed her a startled look, and his face softened at her distress. “My beautiful, ferocious child,” he said softly. “You are the best of daughters and always will be. But it’s long past time for me let you go. I’ll be fine on my own in Monteblanco.”
“With the Widow Cooper next door,” Cinnia added.
Mercer lowered his head into his hands. The heavy weight in Louvaen’s chest evaporated in an instant, replaced by a slow burn. Her eyes narrowed on her father. “Wait a moment. Are you throwing me over for Niamh Cooper?” She stood to loom over him, outraged. “Well?” She whirled away from the table. “You’re tossing me out of the house—my house, mind you—so you can diddle Niamh Cooper in the parlor?”
“Don’t take that tone with me, Louvaen.” Mercer rose from his chair as well and exchanged glare for glare with his indignant daughter. “I’m still your father. Show some respect.” He gestured to the seat she vacated. “Now sit down, be quiet and let me finish.” He pointed a finger at Cinnia who leaned away. “You do the same.”
Louvaen sat, still affronted but also shocked into obedience by her father’s uncharacteristic dominance. She wasn’t the only one. Cinnia gaped at him, slack-jawed.
Mercer took a breath, struggling to regain his customary mild manner. “I’m too old to be diddling anyone anywhere other than a comfortable bed. Your parlor’s sanctity will remain intact.” Louvaen couldn’t help herself. She sputtered with laughter, and Mercer smiled in return. Their amusement dispelled the tension between them, and he continued in an easy voice. “It is your house—a comfortable one I’ve grown to like. With Cinnia and Gavin’s help, I’ll be more than glad to purchase it from you. If you don’t want to sell, I’ll search for another house.”
Cinnia nodded. “With Jimenin dead, Papa doesn’t need to leave Monteblanco. Gavin and I decided to stay in Monteblanco for a while. I’ll be close enough to make sure Papa doesn’t beggar himself with another bad trading scheme.” A sly grin curved her mouth. “Plus, he’ll be close enough to help Niamh if she needs without getting in her way. The neighborly thing to do of course.”
Louvaen cut her a look. “Of course.” She turned her attention back to Mercer. “I’ll give you the house, Papa, but there’s a question of some importance here—at least to me. Where will I live now that you and Cinnia have evicted me?” She was still reeling from his announcement that he didn’t need her anymore.
He sat silent, considering her question. “There is a man upstairs for whom I wholeheartedly believe you’d fight to the death. Cinnia told me of de Sauveterre and your relationship with him.” Cinnia raised her chin in challenge at her sister’s accusing scowl. “Don’t admonish her,” he continued. “She didn’t volunteer the information until I asked.” His lined face drew down into deeper ruts, and sorrow bowed his mouth. “Louvaen, I lost two wives I loved very much. As you know from your own widowhood such a grief never dies. I suffered the heartache because for a short time Gull and Abigail were mine. Not everyone is as fortunate as I was—as Cinnia is and as you are. The only things for you in Monteblanco are a house and memories of the dead man who once lived there. Are you willing to walk away from de Sauveterre just to play nursemaid to me?”
She sat nailed to the bench, made speechless by her father’s words and the bleak picture he painted of her days if she returned to Monteblanco. She licked dry lips. “De Sauveterre hasn’t offered for me.”
Beside her Cinnia shrugged. “So? That didn’t stop me. I offered for Gavin, and anyone with a pair of eyes can see his lordship is sprung on you. I’d wonder if you actually shot him in the head instead of the leg if you offered and he said no.”
Mercer choked into his cup. “You never cease to surprise me, Cinnia,” he said once he caught his breath.
Not nearly as surprised by Cinnia’s remarks as Mercer, Louvaen stared into space. For one brief, glorious moment—in the warmth of the stables—Ballard had leaned his forehead against hers and asked her to stay. They both knew she’d refuse, but he would have married her that night if she’d said yes. There was no reason to believe his feelings for her had lessened. Hers for him were just as strong. Only the expectations of tradition made her pause, and those were poor reasons at best.
“If there’s to be a wedding, will you stay long enough to witness it?”
Mercer coaxed her up from her seat and drew her into an embrace. He felt fragile in her arms. “I missed Cinnia’s. I won’t miss this one.”
They embraced a second time before Louvaen strode toward the great hall. Cinnia called to her. “Are you doing the deed now?”
She paused and shrugged. “Why not? He’s probably stewed to the eyebrows from one of Ambrose’s vials of swill. No time like the present.” She left the kitchen, the sound of her family’s laughter following her.
Ambrose’s bedchamber had become a crowded meeting hall. Gavin commandeered the stool by the bed as Ambrose argued with Magda over who should brew the next tincture. Joan and Clarimond stood sentry on either side of the bed, one fluffing the bolster and pillows while the other smoothed the bedcovers over Ballard. The master of this domain reclined against the pillows, glassy eyes and a vacant smile sure signs that he was indeed stewed to his eyebrows.
They all turned to stare at Louvaen. Her bravado in the kitchen faded. She had once rejected Ballard’s request to stay with him at Ketach Tor because of her father. What if he rejected her? Did she gather the tatters of her dignity around her and walk away? She frowned. He better not reject her or she’d smother him with one of his pillows! “May we have a moment?”
Magda exchanged a telling look with Ambrose before shooing Gavin and the girls out of the room. The sorcerer followed last. He paused beside her, eyeing her grave countenance. “Whatever grim news you’re about to drop on his head, can’t it wait?”
“No.”
“Louvaen...”
“Ambrose,” she said in a harsh whisper. “If you must know, I’m plighting my troth.” Her cheeks went hot at his rounding eyes and climbing eyebrows. “Now go away.”
The wizard’s lips thinned to a tight line—one made from smothered laughter instead of anger. His shoulders started to shake and his eyes glinted. He finally resorted to covering his mouth with his hand to muffle his laughter. He was still chuckling when she bodily shoved him out of the bedchamber and slammed the door behind him. She snapped her skirts straight, turned and glared at Ballard.
He simply smiled at her. “You came back, my beauty.” He turned the blankets back. “I’ve saved a place for you.”
Louvaen skirted a basket of bandages and a tray of ointment to stand at the foot of the bed. “I wish to say something.”
He lost his easy smile, and the dreamy-eyed look vanished, replaced by a stare sharp as a bird of prey. His shoulders tensed and his gaunt features thinned a little more. “What is it?”
She clasped her hands behind her back to hide their trembling. Her words tumbled out of her mouth in a breathless rush. “I’ve no wish to leave Ketach Tor again, Ballard. I want to be your wife and bear your children. Will you wed me?”
The ensuing silence threatened to suffocate her. Louvaen clenched her teeth so hard her ears throbbed.
Ballard stared at her for an additional century until a wide grin stretched across his face. “Queen uncrowned,” he said. “I thought you’d never ask.”
She shrieked when he tried to rise and leapt across the bed, tackling him into the pillows. He fell back with an “umpf!”
“Are you mad? You can’t just jump out of bed like that.”
He trapped her against his chest with a heavy arm across her hips. “In case you didn’t notice, my lovely shrew, I’m not the one leaping about.” He eased her to his side. “I knew I could lure you back one way or another.”
He tilted her chin and kissed her. Louvaen sighed into his mouth, tasting warmth and softness and a cloying sweetness. A conversation teased the edge of her memory, and she broke the kiss with
a frown. “Ambrose said only his poisons tasted sweet.”
Ballard winced. “He lied.”
She reared up. “I’ll kill him.” The memory of that foul tasting brew he gave her after she almost drowned still made her tongue curl back into her throat.
“No you won’t.” He dragged her back down. “You’ll stay here with me. If I have to be trapped in this bed, so do you.”
She tugged on the ends of his hair. “Not until you answer my question.” He’d stripped away any doubt that plagued her with his reaction to her proposal, but she still wanted to hear a definitive “yes.”
He tapped his lip with his finger as if pondering the most profound of questions. “Surely there are men in Monteblanco far more suited to you than a scarred lord of diminished lands and no recognition. What about the butcher?”
“Married, with thirteen children.”
He whistled. “Impressive. The baker?”
“Widowed. Four times in six years.”
Frown lines furrowed his brow. “That’s either suspicious or unlucky.”
“Very.” Delighted by the game but impatient for it to end, she took up where he left off. “The candlestick maker is a woman who, wisely I might add, has chosen not to marry or bear children but to only take the occasional lover. I don’t wish to be an occasional lover.”
Ballard chuckled. “You realize any children I might sire won’t look like Gavin?”
“You realize any children I bear won’t look like Cinnia?”
“If I cared about such a thing I would have married Cinnia.” He kissed her right eyelid and then the bruised left, a butterfly’s touch along her lashes. “You’re a bold one, Louvaen Duenda.”
“I’d challenge gods and queens to make you mine, Ballard. Conquer a kingdom or two if necessary.”
He didn’t smile at her declaration. His fingers followed her scalp line, passed through the locks that had come loose from her haphazard braid. “You’d find me outside the kingdom gates, my belongings at my feet and a note pinned to my cloak for you that read ‘Better you than us.’ They’d be wrong. Far better for me. The answer is yes. You didn’t even need to ask.”
