By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

  But… for all her smugness, her bragging rang hollow. With all her things strewn about the room in various stages of packing, and her still in her nightgown, fortune wasn’t exactly beaming at her. He sighed. “What a mess you’ve made.”

  She hmphed. “It wasn’t a mess until you brought back your bitch of a fiancée.”

  “That’s ironic,” he grunted. “You calling someone else a bitch.” Besides, she could hardly commit treason and lay the blame anywhere but at her own feet.

  She made a cavalier wave of her hand. “I’m not a bitch. I’m the bitch. And she better not forget it… I owe her a reckoning.”

  “A reckoning? You play at court intrigues. She immolates people.” He crossed his arms. “If you throw down the gauntlet and she pummels you with it, I won’t step in to stop her. You need to learn a lesson.”

  “In what?” she spat, turning away to pour more wine.

  “Poking sleeping wolves.” He turned back to the overflowing trunk. He was supposed to make a sweep of the king’s quarters before tonight. Would the king win her back for good?

  Brennan had saved her life, brought her back to the shores of Emaurria, only to see her into another man’s arms.

  A reckoning…

  The king had taken other women to bed, Nora included. That misstep had pushed Rielle away—almost entirely. One more misstep, and she’d never want anything more to do with him ever again.

  One more misstep.

  Nora’s black silk negligee lay on top of the heaps of clothes. The king had already dug his grave, all six feet of it. What was one more little push?

  He stuffed the black silk underwear into his overcoat. If the king somehow manipulated Rielle into bed tonight, she wouldn’t fall for it so easily. She’d find this, and she’d remember he wasn’t as perfect as he pretended to be. Then she’d make the right choice for herself.

  “In any case, I’m probably going to visit Mother before heading back to my backwater,” Nora crooned.

  He turned to her and grinned. “Give her a hug and a kiss from me.”

  “I will.” She combed her fingers through her voluminous hair. “What about you? There’ll be plenty of ladies at the ball… Are you going to make your next mistake tonight?”

  He laughed under his breath. “Something like that.” He crossed the room, embraced her with one arm, and kissed her cheek. “Travel safe, and send me a letter when you arrive.”

  “I will.”

  With that, he left and made for the king’s quarters. If the king took this ruse to bed, there’d be a reckoning—and she’d never trust him again.

  And as for the ball, well—he grinned—he had something special in mind for her there.

  Jon walked the gardens of Trèstellan with Rielle on his arm, strolling in the sunlight among the other courtiers staying in the palace, while Raoul and Florian followed at a distance. After spending the night with her and waking up with her, this could have been a perfect day if not for this rift between them.

  Taking a turn around the gardens on a sunny day with the woman he loved… His last days would be just so, if he was lucky.

  Except for the blood.

  And the magic.

  Every so often, she squeezed his arm, and he leaned in to cover her while she poured a drop of blood from a vial—her blood—onto the manicured lawn.

  Pouring. Her. Blood. On. The. Lawn.

  Under her breath, she muttered an incantation every time. “Ward of blood, thread of my soul, / Make this place mine, grant me control.”

  “Must it be your blood?” he whispered in her ear, nuzzling her hair. She’d cut herself this morning, collected the blood, and healed before they’d taken the coach to the palace. All without fanfare. Was this what mages did in their Towers?

  “It didn’t have to be,” she whispered back, kissing his cheek—a pretense—as she corked the vial once more. “Sangremancy is widely known as ‘blood magic,’ but it’s not just blood. It’s the essence of a person. That means skin, hair, fingernails.” They continued along. “But blood is strongest. And somehow, I don’t think marking the perimeters with my fingernails would have made this any less unusual to you.”

  Unusual. He raised his eyebrows. That was the understatement of the century. “Are you sure this is going to work?”

  She nodded and leaned in close. “And don’t worry. We’re on the third and tightest perimeter. We’re almost done.”

  Good. If anyone were to catch them drizzling the gardens with blood and casting forbidden magic, there’d be inquisitors from both the Order and the Divinity arriving within the month. Just what a fledgling monarchy needed.

  “Good morning, Your Majesty,” a deep voice lulled from the left. “Marquise Laurentine.”

  Jon looked over his shoulder; Marquis Desmond Auvray Marcel and his wife, Elena. Duke Faolan’s younger brother and Brennan’s uncle. He carried himself with that quintessential Marcel arrogance that only Tor seemed to have dodged. He wore a dark-red brocade doublet and black trousers with riding boots, and it suited his six-foot long-and-lean frame.

  Marquise Elena curtsied, a flourish of light-blue skirts and dark curls. “Your Majesty. Your Ladyship.”

  He and Rielle offered greetings in return.

  “You gave us quite a scare, Favrielle,” Desmond drawled with a lazy smile. “There had been rumors of your”—his gaze flickered to Jon, then back—“disappearance.”

  Rielle smiled, a coy twist of her mouth reminiscent of her portrait. “Everyone loves a good rumor. If only my note hadn’t been lost in all the fuss after the siege. All that talk could have been avoided.”

  Note. Her story was that she’d left a note before departing for Sonbahar for her health.

  “You look in good health,” Elena offered with a warm smile and a nod. “You have some color to you.”

  “Thank you.” A forced laugh, but Rielle’s cheeks reddened as she lowered her gaze.

  “Wintering in Sonbahar… Your lifestyle is beginning to look more and more like a Marcel’s.” Desmond speared Jon with those hazel eyes, far too reminiscent of Brennan’s.

  Jon’s shoulders hardened. “Looks can be deceiving.”

  Rielle glared at him. What, angry that he’d spoken for her? He scowled back. Now was not the time, not when Faolan’s brother was testing him. Had they seen the blood? The vial?

  Elena chuckled. “We all have our secrets.”

  That was putting it mildly.

  Desmond patted his wife’s hand on his arm. “All the more for the unraveling.”

  There was still something Rielle wasn’t telling him. Some wound that hid behind her sad eyes. But he had yet to tell her his own. She hadn’t made up her mind about him, and he didn’t want to sway her decision. The last thing he wanted was for her to stay with him out of guilt.

  Elena pursed her lips at her husband and narrowed a dark eye. “Come, let’s leave His Majesty and Her Ladyship to their afternoon.”

  Desmond straightened but arched his brow at Jon. “She asks, and I do. See you tonight, Your Majesty. Favrielle.”

  The two bowed, said their goodbyes, and walked on.

  Rielle scowled at him. She leaned in and narrowed her storming eyes. “Did you have to be so rude?”

  He scoffed. “Rude? What, because I didn’t agree you belong to Brennan?”

  She uncorked the vial and spilled her blood once more, murmuring the incantation. Maddingly.

  She raised her chin. “I don’t belong to Brennan. And I don’t belong to you either.”

  “I didn’t say you did.” He encircled her waist with an arm.

  Frowning, she pressed her lips together, staring at his arm, then looking up to his face. The sunshine danced a golden sheen on her intricately arranged hair, Davina’s work.

  She recorked the vial. “Then what does it matter that he said—” she hissed.

  He held her tighter. “It matters.”

  “Because?”

  “Because I still love you.” He didn
’t loosen his hold as her eyes widened, and he searched them for any objection. There was none. Even full of righteous indignation, she loved him, too. She knew it. He knew it. “I won’t pretend I don’t. And I won’t stand by while some man calls you Brennan’s woman.”

  Especially not when she’d refused to break the betrothal. He wasn’t about to give up on her.

  Her mouth dropped. Couples walked by and whispered. Let them whisper. He lifted her chin, and she closed her mouth, passed her tongue over her lower lip, then pinned it with her teeth.

  He wouldn’t kiss her. Couldn’t. Not until they mended the rift between them.

  Watching—an exercise in control—when those lips were there for the taking…

  She heaved ragged breaths in a too-tight bodice that begged for unlacing. “Let’s go to your quarters.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  She inhaled sharply. “To… I finished the ward here.”

  To lay the ward in his quarters. Right. He held her gaze but let his hand fall from her waist, and took hers. He settled her hand on his arm and walked her toward Trèstellan.

  They’d set the trap here, but doing so hadn’t been purely practical. Pretense blurred with reality. When their cover demanded he touch her, hold her, embrace her, he did it with a loving heart, without the falsity pretense required.

  And she—if he read her correctly—reciprocated. Despite her righteous indignation, despite Brennan, despite all she’d suffered in Sonbahar—which had him in fresh agony—she still responded. To him.

  He wouldn’t cross her boundaries, but Terra have mercy, he would do all in his power to compel her to.

  Inside the palace, the whispers and looks followed them and his guards. Good. If everyone at court knew of his love for her, then perhaps in time they’d more readily accept her as their future queen if she chose to welcome him back into her heart. If she did, if she wanted him for her husband, Parliament would accept her even if he had to bend every lord to a yea with his own bare hands.

  At last they were just down the hall from his quarters. He returned the greetings of passing courtiers, and then the door opened.

  Brennan emerged, turned his head toward them, then swept a dramatic bow and leaned against the doorjamb between the guards, glancing down the hall lazily. He had to have completed the sweep he’d promised.

  “Greetings, Your Majesty.” He grinned smugly. “What brings the two of you here on this fine day?” His gaze slinked to Rielle and back.

  “What lovers are wont to do.” Rielle raised her chin, her lips twitching. Still maintaining the pretense, even here.

  “And what would that be, Marquise Laurentine?” Brennan narrowed his eyes playfully. “A game of pawns? Some light lunch? Staring at a wall? Watching dust settle?”

  “Oh, your poor lovers,” she remarked loftily. “How disappointed they must be.” She smirked.

  “My lovers?” he crooned. “I suppose they are disappointed eventually, when their turn is over.”

  She scoffed.

  Terra have mercy, could they go on like this all day? Bantering? And yet… he uncurled his clenched fist. Not mere banter. Flirtation. He straightened.

  “I trust all was in order?” Jon asked, before Rielle could retort.

  “If she has been here, Your Majesty, it hasn’t been in the last month,” Brennan answered, “although it was difficult to tell, given the several—”

  “Thank you.” He couldn’t look at Rielle; she’d stiffened next to him. Brennan no doubt aimed to injure him, but did he realize he was causing her anguish, too? “If you’ll excuse us,” he said firmly.

  Brennan raised his eyebrows mockingly and made a show of moving aside. “Enjoy your afternoon, Your Majesty.”

  While it lasts, he means.

  Brennan glanced at Rielle, and a corner of his mouth turned up. “And I’ll see you tonight, tripping over your own feet.”

  She stuck out her tongue at Brennan, who exhaled a half-laugh before Jon walked her into his quarters and shut the door.

  Smiling, she let go of his arm and strolled into the antechamber, running a finger along her lip absentmindedly. Amused. Pleased.

  Far too pleased.

  For the past few days, the love in her eyes, her face, her voice, her movements—everything—had been plain as day, no matter that they had a lot to resolve. Just now, in the garden, they’d shared a moment, hadn’t they?

  Then what was this flirtation with Brennan? Mere amusement, or did she truly intend to marry him?

  She turned to him and held up the vial. “Shall we?”

  “Tell me what that was just now.” Stiff-backed, he peered at her.

  Her eyebrows drew together, a perplexed frown. “What?”

  Exhaling sharply, he took her hand and led her into the study. Out of his guards’ earshot. He rounded on her. “Out there. In the hall. With him.”

  Her mouth fell open. “What? What did I do?”

  He raked a hand through his hair and shook his head. Did she really not know, or was she being willfully obtuse? “The way you flirted with him.”

  “Flirted?” She laughed, but clipped it. “We were just talking.”

  “I know what flirting looks like, Rielle.”

  All traces of laughter fled her expression, and she narrowed her eyes. “Yes, I am certain you do. Given all the practice you’ve gotten in recent months.”

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. “You’re going to equate what I have had to do as king with this? Punishing me?”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “You think that was all about you?”

  He drew in a slow breath. That wasn’t it at all, and she knew it. She could have flirted with Brennan for any number of reasons, but the effect was undeniable.

  “Besides, we both know you’ve done a lot more than flirt. And not all of it was ‘what you’ve had to do as king.’ ” Her mouth twisted bitterly. “Brennan and I were just talking. So I’m not sure I understand… You can’t tolerate me talking with another man, but you want me to forgive you for bedding other women? Does that make sense to you?”

  You’ve kissed him. You were naked in bed with him, he wanted to say, but she’d told him the circumstances. That hadn’t been her choice.

  This was spinning out of control. “You know that’s not the same. I thought you were dead. It should be obvious, as I stand next to you, that I am alive.”

  She opened her mouth and closed it.

  “Whether you flirt with another man or not isn’t for me to tolerate or not to tolerate.” No matter how much he hated the thought. “But you told me last night that you and he are not involved. And I believed you.” He moved in closer, and although she looked away, she did not recede. “You know I want to make amends. And you know how I feel. If you’re in love with another man, don’t ask me to stand there and watch while you pursue him.” Stormy, watery eyes met his, but he continued. “If you love another man, tell me so I don’t have to watch it unfold right in front of my face.”

  She shook her head slowly. “Maybe I do love him—he saved me, treated me kindly, nearly died for me and asked for nothing in return. But I’m not in love with him. You know that, Jon. Divine, you know it.” Her eyes searched his.

  He took her hands in his, peered down at them joined. There was a chance, this one chance, to recover what was lost, but the sun was quickly setting. “Can we salvage this?”

  She rested her cheek against his chest, and he wrapped her in his embrace. Terra have mercy, it felt good, natural, complete to hold her like this. And he might yet lose her.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered as he stroked her back softly. “But I… want to try to start over. Slowly. Very slowly.”

  His breath hitched. He pulled away enough to raise her chin and see the truth of it in her face. “Then you’ll let me court you? In earnest?”

  They could still marry, and have two to three good years together.

  Her cheeks reddened, and smiling, she lowered her gaze briefly and
nodded. “Let’s talk about starting over after this… after the ball and Shadow has been dealt with. So there’s no confusion.”

  No confusion. For the sake of appearances, tonight they’d play the lovers at the height of passion. But that play couldn’t be confused for the true state of affairs between them.

  No, she was right. It would have to wait until after, and then he’d tell her what Olivia had told him about his heart, too. It wasn’t what they’d dreamed of in Melain, but any time they’d have together would still be blessed. “Agreed.”

  Her smile widened, right along with his, and Terra help him, he grabbed her and spun, laughing, relishing her squeals of protest—

  He set her down. “I make you a vow, Rielle. I will make you happy. Every way I can.”

  Blushing, she ran her fingers around the back of his neck and into his hair, urged him down, and rose on her toes to kiss his cheek. A whisper of soft lips, and then she pulled away.

  “Grand plans,” she whispered, tipping her head toward the bedchamber. “But first, the ward.”

  He laughed. Right. The sangremancy. “Yes. First, the ward.”

  Chapter 59

  The sound of clopping hooves just after dusk drew Rielle to the window, the skirts of her ultramarine silk ball gown swishing softly. Divine, tonight would be awkward. They’d agreed to start over, but tonight would be full of dancing, close contact, intimacy, pretending to be in a stable, healthy, long-term relationship. When that was very much what they both wanted, how much would be pretense, and how much sincere?

  The opulent coach-and-six had arrived, the golden carriage shining in the twilight, elaborate with painted panels and carved scrollwork, white feather plumage crowning its beauty. Immaculate white drapes hung in the windows, a striking match to the six immaculate white horses barded in gold.

  She pressed her lips together tightly. It was, by far, the most luxurious coach she had ever seen. They had planned on all eyes turning to them tonight—especially Shadow’s—and they would succeed. Spectacularly.

  Escorted by paladin guards, Jon walked the drive to Couronne, shoulders back and chin raised, his fit frame clad in an ultramarine-dyed velvet waist-length overcoat, with long coattails, and fine white fitted trousers tucked into shining black boots. Fashionable. Handsome. Kingly.