By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

  Not wine? Her heart leapt.

  Chapter 54

  Fingers brushed through Leigh’s hair, smoothing in and down to the tips in lengthy, languid strokes. The solid warmth next to him was Ambriel.

  And they’d had a night to remember.

  “You’re awake.” There was a smile in Ambriel’s normally grave voice, in the lilt of his words.

  “Shh,” Leigh replied. “No, I’m not. Because if I’m still sleeping, we don’t have to move.”

  A soft chuckle. “We are in the queen’s bed, but there are perks to being her brother.”

  Leigh cracked open an eyelid. “Commandeering her sleeping quarters?”

  “Getting away with commandeering her sleeping quarters.”

  Grinning, Leigh rolled onto his back, eyeing Ambriel propped up an elbow next to him. A layer of the stern-faced soldier had faded away to reveal more of the smiling lover beneath.

  Well, of course he was smiling.

  Ambriel lowered his head and kissed him, his warmth melting away any morning lethargy. “Good morning, dreshan.”

  Dreshan. Adored one… yes, he could get used to that.

  Distant screams came from below, followed by a massive commotion.

  Ambriel sprang from the bed and to the overlook. A moment’s glance, then he was hastily donning his clothes.

  “What is it?” Leigh sat up.

  “An attack.” He tossed Leigh’s clothes to him. “Hurry.”

  Ambriel was already down the stairs, half-dressed, when Leigh threw on his trousers, boots, and belt, and darted after him, putting on his shirt and overcoat.

  Where there had been feasting the evening before, there was now bustling activity. Quartermasters distributing armor and weapons from carts, officers barking orders—

  Ambriel caught a chainmail shirt and a halberd—human armor and weapon—and hurried on. “Get me archers!” he shouted to the other officers. “Now!”

  “They hit the armories first, sir!” one called back.

  Divine’s tits. Leigh chased after Ambriel, down another flight of stairs to the vast expanse of Vervewood below.

  The dark-elves’ earlier attacks had been reconnaissance.

  A battle raged in the glen. The light-elves and paladins ringed the invading dark-elves, whose numbers kept increasing. Up high, in the ironwoods surrounding Vervewood, hooks and ropes continually supplied invaders.

  “The trees!” Ambriel bellowed. What few bows there were targeted high.

  Leigh cast a repulsion shield in a massive dome over the light-elves, as many as he could cover. Nothing and no one would get through.

  For a moment, a lull descended over the battling forces. Arrows bounced off the repulsion shield, and dark-elves snarled as they fought for entry. What few dark-elves trapped inside were quickly slaughtered.

  Holding the repulsion shield in one hand, he anchored threads of his magic into the invaders in the ironwoods with the other.

  Then pulled.

  All those rooted flew toward the repulsion shield, drawn by unseen ropes. He gestured the anchor spell into an attraction ring outside the repulsion shield, yanking in all those outside of it.

  Dark-elves littered the edge. Trapped against attraction and repulsion, their bodies were slowly pulled apart.

  Screams rent free. Blood burst into the air, bounced off the repulsion shield to spatter the ground in a dark circle. Gasps from within the repulsion shield rippled through the light-elves as every last intruder outside of it was eviscerated by magic.

  He dropped the attraction ring.

  Up in the trees, a tall, slender figure stood on an ironwood bough, holding her rope. Her hood was down, a white-hot scar across her nose. Varvara.

  “Don’t be a fool, Varvara!” He shouted to her in Old Emaurrian. “It doesn’t have to be this way.” If she’d only challenge her queen to single combat, all this could be avoided. Lives saved. Entire settlements.

  Her eyes were wide, wild, staring at the circle of corpses. That stunned gaze slowly wandered to him, then with her rope firmly in hand, she leaped from view.

  Quiet permeated the glen, and not a single soul dared ascend to the ironwoods.

  He dropped the repulsion shield.

  The crowd around him recoiled, giving him a wide berth, whispering to one another.

  The whispers had always followed him. A force mage. A wild mage. Brutal. Violent.

  But they were alive. Alive to say whatever ignorant things they were saying.

  He sighed through his nose and turned back to the stairs, the crowd falling aside in waves as he waded through it.

  “Where are you going?” Ambriel called after him.

  “The alliance has been triggered,” he called back without turning around. “It’s time to send word to Trèstellan.”

  Chapter 55

  Rielle followed the commotion and moved to the window once more. After days of gifts, there couldn’t be any more. Innumerable flowers, extravagant gowns and shoes, priceless jewelry, wine, cakes, fine silver, perfumes, all the latest books, exotic potted plants—if there remained any other gifts under the sun to give, she couldn’t imagine them. And Jon was finally arriving tonight, all part of the ruse to make the Veris ball irresistible to Shadow.

  The twilight cast the district’s white-stucco villas and walls in a soft golden glow.

  The crowd hadn’t dissipated, had appeared every day to witness the spectacle. As a merchant’s carriage disappeared, a beautifully adorned coach-and-six surrounded by mounted guards came to a halt before Couronne, the carriage a gorgeous carved masterwork of gilded wood and elaborately painted panels, harnessed to six immaculate white steeds.

  Fit for a king.

  Her chest tight, she couldn’t tear herself away. Two coachmen opened the carriage doors, while a third rolled out a red carpet over the street to Couronne’s drive.

  Jon emerged, cloaked in ermine-trimmed black velvet, riding boots shining to a high gloss, a massive blade strapped to his belt. Faithkeeper.

  Chin held high, shoulders back, and standing tall, he looked every bit the royal. Regal. Two paladins guards and a small squad escorted him up the drive.

  He glanced up at the window, catching her eye just before he disappeared from view toward the door.

  She stumbled from the window but caught herself. Divine, he was here. Here.

  Outside, the crowd had grown larger; he could have instructed his coachman to bring the carriage up the drive, but he hadn’t. He’d wanted to be seen—seen arriving at his alleged lover’s home for the evening. For the night.

  A frisson rattled her bones. He would be spending the night here.

  All an act. All part of the plan. Nothing more.

  Davina stood at the door. “My lady—”

  Of course. She couldn’t fall to pieces now; she swallowed and nodded, taking deep, slow breaths to regain her composure. Jon was here for their plan, to spend the night and give cause for rumor about an affair, all of it to culminate on the night of the Veris ball.

  Indeed, the entire day had brimmed with bliss—gifts, preparations, a dramatic arrival. The appearance of bliss.

  If Shadow desired her despair, then she would be unable to resist the lure at the ball.

  Rielle followed Davina downstairs and past the two paladin guards, their visors up—the same men from…

  From that night.

  One looked away, and the other lowered his gaze.

  They remembered her, then.

  Her legs weakened, but she drew herself up. The mission. Think of the mission. She was here to eliminate the threat to Jon’s life. What happened that night didn’t matter right now. The heavy look in their eyes didn’t matter right now.

  Head held high, she entered the great hall.

  A valet removed Jon’s cloak and took away his black leather gloves. Jon’s gaze swept the great hall—its ten-foot windows, six crystal chandeliers; the grand arched mahogany hammerbeam roof, celadon-paneled walls and wood trim eng
raved in honeysuckle vines; a table that sat four dozen; the high-backed chairs upholstered in white shadow-striped silk; and the ornate marble floor, with massive tiles a former marquis had ordered inlaid with a design of the blooming red roses his lady had loved so well.

  When Jon finally faced the door, where she stood, his eyebrows rose. He inclined his head. “Rielle.”

  A pleasant shiver stroked her back. Her name. She’d always loved her name on his lips. Even now, it seemed, against her will.

  “Jon.” She inclined her head, then neared him, fully aware of the attentive servants meandering the hall, the guards posted everywhere, even Davina. When word spread of this night, it needed to be of a warm, affectionate reception—a loving welcome that crowned a day of loving gestures. Convincing.

  She held out her hand.

  For a moment, a spark lit in his eyes, a brief pause before he accepted her hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles in a whisper of contact.

  Her skin tingled, a soft touch that feathered over her body.

  A charming smile swept across his face. Well met, Favrielle, he’d once said, in a memory close enough to be this very moment.

  She gasped softly, her heart racing as memories of their introduction in the Tower rushed in. His charisma had been sizable then and suspicious, but over the course of the two months thereafter, he’d shown his genuine sincerity, offered it with the charm she’d so doubted at first, and now she knew it for what it was. His true self.

  His grasp loosened on her hand, but she curled her fingers around his, urged him closer. Convincing. She had to be convincing.

  His lips parted, but he pulled her in, took the invitation in stride; her palm came to rest over his heart as his hand found her waist. The rise and fall of his chest staggered, irregular. Nervous.

  Her heart raced. Just days ago, she’d told him never to touch her again. Now a part of her wanted him never to stop.

  She met his eyes, their searching and their banked fire, their uncertainty and their passion. Restraint. Without some greater sign from her, he would do no more. At her wish, he would do no more. It was what she’d demanded.

  But her eyes watered. She leaned in and closed them, raised her chin.

  Body stiffening, she waited—stupid, stupid, stupid—and began to open her eyes when his hold on her tightened, his palm gliding to the small of her back; the light above her faded into dusky relief as he eclipsed it, and his soft breaths warmed her mouth before his lips met hers in gentle embrace.

  All the tension in her body relaxed in his hold, the intimacy of his kiss a heat that melted all objection.

  Wetness glided down her cheeks, but she didn’t care. She drew away only to return, tasting his mouth, eliciting a sultry exhalation that took her back to days and nights spent abed, intent on learning the limits of loving fascination. To no end. Even now.

  The moans echoed in her heart, in the dark hall outside his quarters, where she had heard the last breaths of a love that had surrendered in her absence.

  Eyes open. She looked at him, forced herself to look.

  That love still lingered in his eyes, shrouded in mist. Haunted. But his love wasn’t enough now, not if he could do what he’d done in her absence. She needed something more, something he could never give… A happy life together, the two of them wed and loyal to each other.

  He raised a slow hand and brushed a tear from her cheek.

  “I’ve missed you,” she said.

  A ghost of a smile disappeared as quickly as it came. He lowered his gaze and swallowed. “So have I. Every day, every moment.” His breathing turned heavy, belabored.

  Her heart softened. If he, full of love, had believed her dead—if he’d shattered—

  The moans. The breaths.

  No, no, no.

  Divine, would that night always taint what they’d had? Would she always see him through their haze? Always be haunted?

  “Would you join me upstairs?” She intended to motion toward the door, but—

  His hand still gripped hers. He’d never let go.

  His gaze dropped to their joined hands, and he released her. He gave her a slight nod and followed her from the great hall, escorted by his guards.

  Upon sight of a smiling Davina, she paused. “Please have His Majesty’s luggage brought to my chamber.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Davina acknowledged with a bow, and quickly departed.

  Her fingers running along the honeysuckle vines carved into the banister, she led Jon up to her chamber, where his guards did a sweep and then took up posts in the hall as she and Jon entered.

  He closed the door behind them, and the tension in his face and shoulders slowly dissipated. He nodded toward the balcony overlooking the courtyard, and she agreed. They headed outside.

  Night had already fallen. The musky scent of earth lingered on the cool air, sweetened by the freshness of new greenery.

  Jon leaned against the stone balustrade and looked out toward the flickering lights of the night. “I’m sorry you had to endure that.” He paused. “All of it.”

  “It’s not your fault.” She joined him, closing her eyes as a breeze blew past.

  Quiet, he slowly straightened and gazed up toward the waxing gibbous moon. “We imagined it all so differently, didn’t we?”

  In Melain, full of love and hope, they’d planned on Faolan Auvray Marcel becoming king, or a complete stranger. They’d bet their lives on her not marrying Brennan, on Jon securing a knighthood, on the future king granting them permission to wed someday.

  And now, Jon was king, had the power to break her betrothal contract with Brennan, and yet hadn’t the power to marry an Emaurrian noblewoman.

  “Things were different then.” She straightened, too.

  “I was different then.”

  Yes, he was right; he had changed. Although he’d always borne burdens, the weight he bore now crushed.

  But his kindness had remained. His generosity. His passion. He’d changed, yes, but she still recognized the man behind the king.

  “I received your gifts,” she said, fighting a smile. “I’m not sure the entire city saw.”

  He huffed a half-laugh. “Then I fell short of the mark.”

  “Madame Marlène’s? Laurent’s? Whatever the mark was, you obliterated it.”

  He chuckled. “There are perks to being king.”

  King. The word encompassed the entirety of the wall between them. “How is it? Being king?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s like… being the air in a room too full of people.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. Donning a soft smile, he turned to her. “What do you wish of me tonight?”

  “I thought we might have dinner up here and then retire. As long as we’re found in bed together looking scandalous when the chambermaids come in, I think our work will be done.”

  Shadow hated her so much that the outward signs of happiness would be as a flame to the moth.

  “Very well.” He nodded, blinking lifeless eyes.

  She wanted to take him in her arms, whisper that everything would be all right, that she’d be his strength whenever he needed it. She wanted to do all that and more, but held herself in place.

  If only Jon didn’t still care. Didn’t look at her that way. He brought all kinds of emotions rushing back in, flooding her, and if she surrendered herself to the tide right now, she would drown; with the love, passion, and wonder would come grief, resentment, anguish—and everything else she’d felt the night she’d returned to Courdeval.

  No, if she gave in now, they’d never have a chance of truly rebuilding and healing their love. Before anything else, he needed to know the truth. All of it.

  But not tonight. Not until he was safe.

  “Shall we?” She nodded toward the chamber, and wordlessly, he headed inside.

  Rielle followed Jon into the bedchamber and gave a yank on the tasseled bell pull by her bed. She just had to get through this night wit
hout letting her love for him quiet her objections.

  An awkward silence passed until Davina arrived.

  “We’ll have dinner now, here.”

  Davina bowed. “As you wish, my lady”—and she glanced at Jon—“Your Majesty.” And then she was gone.

  “Your chamberlain… Is she trustworthy?” Jon approached her desk, where a small vase of immortelle sat. He plucked a cluster of blooms, twirling the stem.

  “Davina? She’s been the chamberlain at Couronne since before my parents—” Since before Mama and Papa had died.

  Jon took a step toward her but stopped. Instead, he took a sudden interest in the mundane things on her dresser, his gaze lingering on her paddle hairbrush. He was making an effort, then, to respect her wishes.

  “I’ll make it clear to her that I encourage the household to spread news of… us.”

  “Us,” he said, slowly brushing the boar bristles of her hairbrush with his fingers in a lingering whisper that teased up her spine. When he brushed the last bristle, she shivered. “Right.”

  Warmth flowed through her, warmth that heated to fire. Swallowing, she turned away and fidgeted. What to do? Was there anything—besides standing there and looking at his hands, his face, his eyes—

  They’d eat, they’d drink, and they’d go to bed, sleep, and in the morning, it would all be over with. She glanced at the bed.

  Divine, anything but the bed.

  A nightgown. That would keep her from looking at him, at least for a few minutes until dinner was served. She straightened, then strode to the armoire.

  Inside, soft garments hung on white silk-wrapped hangers. One by one, she breezed through them—a long white cotton gown, one of her favorites; a flowing white silk negligee, another favorite; and a few others various lovers had gifted her over the years.

  When the chambermaids entered in the morning, she couldn’t be seen in a comfortable old favorite, covered from neck to toe like a crone. Her choice would have to brim with romance. Something she’d wear for the man she loved.

  Her hands flowed through fine sapphire-blue silk—a low-cut nightgown embroidered with azaleas, a tiny white ribbon bow at the center of the décolletage, affixed with a tiny white pearl. The fine silk skirt flowed from an empire waist to the ankle, cut generously with slits past the hip. A matching sapphire-blue diaphanous robe hung over it, roomy but transparent, its closure a delicate white ribbon.