“What?” That knot in his throat was growing, growing, growing until he thought his neck might explode with the pressure. He coughed to clear the obstacle. “What did you say?”
“Once your betrothal is announced, I intend to step aside and you will take over as king of the House of the Cat.”
His mother beamed with approval.
Jarlath…he wasn’t sure how to react, which emotion to tag. Worry for his father’s health, respect for his father who had carried out his duties as leader with a deft hand and…and the weight of responsibility.
Jarlath found himself nodding like a wooden puppet, controlled by some outside force. “It would be my honor.”
Stars and meteors, had those words come from him? No, no! He didn’t want the kingship. He didn’t want marriage to a woman who merely desired position and prestige. He didn’t want to provide heirs and subject his children to this bloody yoke.
“You do us proud, my son,” his father said. “You will make a good king.”
Unspoken were the words of Lynx’s embarrassing exploits.
“I find myself fatigued,” Jarlath said, anxious to escape. He walked around a low table bearing a glittering black cat statue and over to the gel-duo seat where his parents sat. He stooped to press a kiss to his mother’s smooth, perfumed cheek. He kissed his father’s hand. “Good rest,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morn.”
“Take care of that eye,” his father said.
“I will. Villars has given me an ointment to treat the bruising.”
Jarlath strode from the room, praying to every goddess for his legs to get him to his private wing before he crumpled under the weight of expectation.
His valet waited for him, even though he’d told the older man not to bother. Jarlath bit back his grumpiness and gave Villars a stiff nod.
“How was the ball, Prince Jarlath?” His pale green eyes glittered with interest from a face mapped with wrinkles. “Let me help you from your jacket.”
Jarlath allowed his valet to tug the close-fitting black garment from his shoulders. Churlish to refuse when the man had waited for him. Churlish to ignore his queries when the man had looked after him since his first shift at the age of twelve cycles. Churlish, too, to unleash his temper when the man was blameless.
“I think I danced with every single woman in the kingdom and several from neighboring planets and satellites. My feet hurt.” He yanked off his wrinkled cravat.
“Ah, I did suggest you wear your other shoes.”
“You did, Villars, and next time I will follow your suggestions.” Once free of his jacket, Jarlath kicked off the offending shoes. “Why don’t you seek your bed, Villars? Don’t you have an early flight tomorrow? I can manage the rest. I thought I’d have a glass of apecot port before I retire.”
“I have set out a glass and the decanter in your sitting room, Prince Jarlath.”
“Thank you, Villars. Your ability to read my mind is uncanny. I don’t know what I’m going to do without you while you’re visiting your new grandchild.”
Villars smiled, broad and toothy. “You always have a glass of apecot after a night out.”
Flaming meteors, was he that predictable? Things were worse than he’d feared. Ellard met him at the stables every afternoon to go for a ride, even though he never called for him. Villars set out his apecot port. He’d even picked out his shoes, and Jarlath had rejected his choice, just to be contrary. The result—a nice fat blister on his heel.
“If that is all, Prince Jarlath, I’ll leave you to your apecot. You know, I can still arrange a temporary replacement until my return.”
“No, I don’t want a replacement. I’ll manage until your return. Good rest, Villars, and thank you for the eye ointment. It has helped to ease the throbbing. Enjoy your holiday and give your new grandchild a kiss for me.”
Jarlath waited until the door closed behind his valet before he prowled and paced past the room containing his entertainment center. He hesitated, taking in the screen that took up an entire wall and the holo headset he’d discarded on a float table, then shrugged irritably and continued. His restlessness took him through to his sitting room, where he paused to pour a glass of apecot. The pale golden liquid sloshed into a chill-vessel and out the rim on the other side. Jarlath cursed and snatched up the drink. He fingered the excess drops from the vessel and took a large sip. The liquid burned down his throat, melting the lump of tension so his throat began to feel more normal. With apecot in hand, Jarlath stalked the confines of the luxurious room.
King.
His destiny, and as the heir, he needed a wife. Yes, he’d choose her from a list, but in reality, his parents were picking his spouse—the woman who would stand at his side until death parted their union. It was a sobering, scary thought. Another swallow of apecot slid down as he admitted the truth.
He’d thought of marriage one day to someone who respected and loved him in return. But he wanted this when he felt ready, not on his parents’ calendar.
Jarlath wasn’t even sure he wanted to take over the role. No, of course he wanted to be king. He was born for the position. Jarlath drank more apecot and consciously relaxed his shoulders. The duties, the responsibility—he’d trained for them all his life. His hard sigh lifted his chest.
Tomorrow he’d choose names off his mother’s list. Tomorrow, he’d take the first steps toward becoming king. Tomorrow, he’d seal his fate.
* * * * *
Jarlath woke—much earlier than normal—his mind full of the list and his dreams of steamy-hot sex with Keira Cloud. Eventually his busy thoughts drove him to leave his sleep-bed. He ignored the clothes Villars had set out for him and rifled through his replicator for something plainer and unobtrusive. Unable to find anything suitable, he wrinkled his brow. He needed clothing of the like favored by Lynx.
Ah! His brief dejection lifted, and he plugged in his brother’s code. A quite different type of garment showed on the replicator menu. Plain black. No insignia. Perfect.
Jarlath plugged in the code and checked his eye in his looking glass. Nice and black but not painful. He’d live. A quiet hum and the metallic tang on the air showed the replicator was doing its job. While he waited, Jarlath dragged a comb through his hair. On automatic, his fingers reached for pomade to settle his rebellious locks. At the last min, he drew back, frowned into the looking glass then nodded.
Routine was boring, boring, boring.
A ding signaled the replicator had finished, and he lifted the lid of the unit to retrieve his new garments. Plain black trews and a black tunic. Soft black boots completed his outfit.
Perfect.
Jarlath donned the garments and grinned at his reflection in the looking glass. The boots molded to his feet, and he could scarcely feel his blister. It was like a glimpse of his brother, and the possibility of freedom, even if it was for a mere few hours, made him want to whistle. He grabbed his sat-com, although he turned it to vibrate rather than summons mode and stuffed it in his pocket. At the last moment, he strapped a blaster to his hip.
That done, he crept from his chamber, not wanting to attract attention. Unusually, he didn’t see anyone except a maid wheeling a tea trolley toward his mother’s chamber. The queen was a habitual early riser, yet she never appeared until late morn.
Jarlath let himself outside and strode in the direction of the stables.
A sleepy stableboy greeted him, yawning widely in Jarlath’s direction. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I’m going for a ride,” Jarlath announced. “I will saddle Black.”
“Black? But that’s Prince Jar—”
The boy’s face paled and he bobbed a quick bow. “I’m sorry, Prince Jarlath. I did not recognize you. I hope I didn’t offend.”
“Don’t trouble yourself.” Jarlath waved away the boy’s stammered apologies and strode into the stable and headed for Black’s stall. The aroma of polymox hay, nroc straw and saddle soap filled the air, the scents bringing back lazy days of childh
ood. He nodded to the stableboy mucking out a stall then collected his personal saddle from the harness room and opened the stable door. His cambeest gave a rumble of welcome and nuzzled his chest.
Jarlath didn’t normally saddle his beest, although he knew how and kneed Black in the ribs when the creature tried to hold his air-filled belly. Not a trick he intended to fall for this morn.
He swung into his tan malpack saddle and guided Black toward the forest before giving his beest his head and letting him choose their path. The crisp air chilled his cheeks as Black surged forward. Part of him had expected Black to tread his normal trail, but the beest cantered down a new one Jarlath had never noticed. Instead of going through the forest, the path skirted the edge of the trees. Birds sang, sitting so high in the treetops he couldn’t see them. The blue-tinged grass grew tall, and if it weren’t for his knee-high boots, his trews would have soaked up the excess moisture.
In the distance, he saw farm dwellings, the lazy curl of purple smoke telling him they were burning the wood of the purple puzzle tree. An introduced species, this tree was an aggressive grower and threatened to choke their native forests. It had been his idea for their people to use it for fuel, and he was pleased with the results and the thinning of the puzzle copses.
The path meandered into the forest then exited near a small lake. The pale green waters steamed. Ah, his brother had mentioned this heated lake. He and his friends used to sneak alcoholic drinks and party here with their choice of the opposite sex. Lynx had seduced many a woman here, or at least rumor pointed that way. When it came to his brother, the tales were oft exaggerated. Lynx no longer bothered denying the gossip whenever he deigned to visit home.
Black trotted past the lake and into the forest again. Around twenty mins later, another farm came into sight, this one familiar. Jarlath hesitated, his heart skipping a beat as he struggled with his decision. This wasn’t a good idea, not when he should be at the castle whittling down his list to one marriageable woman.
But he didn’t give Black the signal to walk on when his beest pulled up outside the gate leading to Keira’s dwelling—an attractive cream farmhouse with two levels. Instead, Jarlath dismounted, opened the gate and led Black into the yard. He tethered his cambeest to a hitching post.
Someone was singing, the words in a foreign language. The language of the Cawdor, he thought with a frown. Ellard had said Keira came from Gramite.
He knocked and the singing ceased. Footsteps signaled someone was coming to answer the door. He stepped back, heart pounding. Was he walking into the parlor of their enemy? Ellard hadn’t mentioned anything about the House of Cawdor, and by mutual consent they’d ignored the subject of Keira after leaving her yesterday.
The door flew open and the scent of berries and baking flooded his senses.
Keira blinked at him in clear confusion. “Prince Jarlath.”
Jarlath hesitated now that this new knowledge battered his brain. Was this a honeycomb trap? Aware of the lengthening silence, he said the first thing that entered his mind. “I’ve come for pie.”
Chapter Three
Keira stared at Prince Jarlath, took in the black eye in the aristocratic face, the ruddy cheeks, the dusting of stubble and the curtain of untidy black hair before his firm lips with the hint of sharp canines distracted her, brought a flash of a warmth. A tingle.
He was real. He was here—standing right in front of her—and he wanted pie.
“I’ve come at a bad time,” he said, a flash of chagrin making him seem less princelike. “I’m sorry for the interruption.”
“No!” She seized his arm and tugged before he could retreat. She stared at her pale green-tinged fingers, felt the ripple of muscle from his hard forearm, even through the black sleeve of his tunic. Heat surged to her face, and she snatched her hand away. “Sorry. I…ah…you don’t have to leave. How is your eye?”
“It looks worse than it feels. The bruising will heal quickly.”
“Ah, that’s good.” Stupid, stupid fool. She was behaving like a jackass rabbit, drunken and silly from gorging on allyweed. It was that stupid dream, of course.
The hot, naked dream full of her vivid imagination and fantasies.
That cursed hotness in her face. Without fail, the prince would notice her vivid green cheeks. Gah! She thought she’d outgrown broadcasting her emotions long ago, all emotion sucked out of her by a stern father—the leader of the House of Cawdor—who demanded obedience. She sucked in a calming breath and backed away.
“Come in. The pies are cooking. They’re not done yet.” There, she sounded almost normal. Bolstered by this, she risked a glance in his direction. What she saw almost buckled her knees. Sweet, hot lust blazed from his moss-green eyes. No, not moss green, she decided as she stared, ensnared by his gaze. His irises were a curious color—a dark green in the center while there were bands of light green around the outside. Stunning, even with the decoration of bruises.
“I can wait.”
“But what about your duties? And where is your guard dog?”
Prince Jarlath shrugged. “I rose earlier than usual. No one was awake and I saw no reason to disturb anyone.”
“But you’re the prince.”
He grimaced. “I’m a man first.”
Keira cocked her head, his expression and tone prompting curiosity. “People don’t see you as a man?”
“They see me as an opportunity to exploit.”
“Ah,” she said. “This, I know something about. My father sought to marry me off to a man who brought wealth and power to his house. We are—were—both tools.”
She’d said more than she should have. He’d start asking questions. He must have heard her singing. Yes, already the queries were forming on his lips. To forestall them, she grabbed his hand, heard his sharp intake of breath and squelched a nervous laugh with difficulty.
“Come,” she said, tugging him. “I’ve done my morning chores and was about to sit out on the terrace and break my fast. I’d be honored if you’d share my meal.”
“My cambeest is out front.”
“You can turn him loose with my herd of malpacks. They should do well together. I will summon one of my employees to show you the way. You take care of your beest while I organize our meal. Hortese!”
Her employee appeared in the kitchen doorway, her bright pink eyes bulging with inquisitiveness since they didn’t receive many visitors. “Yes, Keira?”
“Can you call Melvyn and ask him to show Jarlath the way to the grazing paddock? He needs a safe place for his cambeest while he is visiting.”
“I will com Melvyn.” Hortese pursed berry-colored lips and her pink hair tendrils rippled and writhed about her head. A sure sign of intense curiosity. “Should I ask Hilda to brew some tay?”
“Yes, please. I’ll be in to check on the pies in a min.” Smothering her amusement, she waited until Hortese departed before turning to the prince. “I apologize for not using your title. I thought it would raise nosy questions.”
“I like the sound of my name on your lips.”
“You’re flirting with me.”
“Yes. Am I doing a good job?”
Flying stars, yes. She moistened her lips and forced barriers between them, never taking her gaze off his attractive features. “I have a bad reputation. Your guard dog was correct. It’s not safe to socialize with me.”
Showering meteors, if he learned the identity of her father, he’d flee in the opposite direction. After Xavier Cronan—her father—had attempted to marry her to one of his Cawdor men, her mother had made contrary plans to get her off the planet, and she’d ended up with an arranged marriage to Marcus. Something she was grateful for since she much preferred the life of a farmer than one married to a Cawdor casino boss.
“No one knows where I am.”
“What if they panic?”
He tugged at his collar, some of the animation leaving his beautiful green gaze. “They will because I’m acting out of character. I did leave a
message on my apartment statboard. The staff will find it soon enough, but they won’t worry, not at first because I attended the ball and didn’t seek my bed until late.”
“It must have been an enjoyable occasion.” Envy chased her words because she would have given anything to dance with the prince. Although she’d considered attending, the upper-class attendees would have pushed her to the outer fringes. No chance for her to dance with eligible males.
“The event was excruciatingly boring and by the end of the night my feet ached.”
“The women in the kingdom are clumsy?”
“No,” he said with a snort. “Every time I sought a respite my mother induced me to ask yet another young lady to dance.”
“Your parents wish you to marry?”
“Yesterday.”
“Oh.” Which didn’t explain why he’d come to visit. She was sure the castle chefs would make the prince a pie. All he needed to do was snap his fingers or dial one up in his chefmate. Gossip in the marketplace said the palace had many mod cons not enjoyed by the Viros citizens. “You are the heir. They want to see you settled.”
“Yes.”
There was a knock on the door, and Melvyn stuck his grizzled head through the doorway, his swarthy complexion wreathed in a broad smile of contentment. He was a tall man with a solid and fit build, despite his advanced age. As usual, he wore the swinging leather kilt made famous by his Scothage race and paired it with a plain gray shirt. “Hortese said you required me.”
“Melvyn, this is Jarlath. Can you show him the malpack paddock? He wants to put his cambeest out to graze during his visit.”
Keira caught the exact sec Melvyn recognized the prince. A man of few words, her employee didn’t do anything to cause her embarrassment.
“Of course. I wanted to check their water trough anyway. There was something wrong with the pump yesterday.”
Jarlath followed Melvyn from the room, and with his departure, she could breathe again. She’d liked the prince when she met him yesterday, but seeing him again was enough to make her foolish heart race.
Claimed & Seduced Page 3
