Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1)

by Miranda Honfleur

  Many tables filled the hall, covered in embroidered white tablecloths and dishes heaped with tarts of mushroom, spinach, beef, and pork; pear custard; peacock with ginger; stuffed capons stewed in wine; herb-roasted quail; a small tower of profiteroles wrapped in caramel threads; and roasted venison in red wine. The spiced creamy scent of her favorite custard tarts teased, although she couldn’t spot them among the abundance spanning the tables.

  Nobles swarmed the tables like butterflies, adorned in colorful silks, jewels, gold, and ornaments. A band played a duple-meter movement of moderate tempo on the harpsichord, the harp, violins, and horns.

  Swaths of sapphire, crimson, emerald, violet, turquoise, and white swirled in breezy grace on the dance floor in a quessanade—all spins with joined hands, hops, rotations, and lively kicks. The first movement of the suite, then. The quessanade would be followed by a sprightly courante, then the passionate and scandalous sarabande, and finally, the gigue.

  A soft bubbling splashed nearby amid the activity. Deep-red wine cascaded from fountains—no doubt built for the occasion. A dazzling woman in her early thirties impressed a group of guests nearby with a lively tale, her radiant face framed by golden locks. She wore a peony-pink gown decorated with pearls, soft and lovely, luxurious and elegant.

  Brennan’s long-time Companion, Liliane, who’d turned a boy into an impressive courtier and had been the object of Rielle’s jealousy for many years.

  Like all Companions, she was a person of beauty and talent, educated in the fine arts, etiquette, politics, and combat. They often served as bodyguards, entertainers, and sometimes paramours. Although loyal to the Camarilla, Companions were renowned for their discretion and confidence to their patrons. Most nobles retained one or, if their finances allowed, sometimes several Companions—Brennan’s father, Duke Faolan, had four.

  It was a well-known fact that Liliane was Brennan’s closest friend. And she would never betray him—assured by the Camarilla’s three vows: I serve at the pleasure of my patron. I offer all that I am, apart from my love. I keep the confidence of my patron, but give my loyalty only to the Camarilla.

  Liliane sent a wistful smile her way, and her ocean-blue eyes dulled, taking on a somber grayness; she inclined her head and returned to regaling the guests surrounding her with some tale.

  Rielle inched away toward the beverages and the men liveried in red and gold, serving port.

  Port. She glanced down at her white silk gown, embroidered with rosebuds, a gift from her fiancé. Probably not the best idea to sip a burgundy-colored drink while wearing it.

  Best to drink it quickly. She drained the glass. “Another.”

  “It will take more than a few glasses of port to forget your troubles, scarecrow.”

  Scarecrow? One windy day during a hunt, and—

  Only one lady had ever dared call her that. Rielle spun and met the sculpted-pleasant smile of Chantal Barthélémy Armel. Chocolate-brown curls pinned in an elaborate array framed a fine-boned porcelain face, bright sage eyes overwhelming a small nose but balancing full lips. Even from a young age, she had been expected to be a true court beauty, worthy of not mere nobles but princes and kings. Her parents had their pick of marriage contracts for her.

  What was she doing here? There had been rumors of a dalliance between Chantal and Brennan, but he must’ve ended it.

  Don’t let her know I care.

  “Chantal,” Rielle acknowledged with a nonchalant sigh. “To what do I owe the torture?” She brought the glass to her lips and sipped, scanning the great hall for the only person who mattered.

  Chantal’s face sagged in splendid annoyance. “Is that any way to greet your cousin?”

  Rielle fought back a snort. “You’re no kin of mine.”

  “We’re of the Houses, scarecrow. We’re all kin.”

  Admittedly true. “What do you want?”

  Chantal gazed out at the dance floor, and Rielle followed her line of sight to spot perfectly coiffed dark hair and bronze skin—Brennan—presented to best advantage in deep crimson brocade and black. He swept his beautiful younger sister Nora, recently married to the Count of Vauquelin, about in a courante, a sweet, hopeful piece. Sharing her brother’s attractive features but for her long, bouncing dark tresses, they were a matched pair.

  Across the hall, Brennan’s eyes found hers, a slight raise of his eyebrows his silent greeting as he danced in ideal form, not a finger deviating from the full choreography. He held her gaze a moment longer, until the heat began to swell inside her, and then turned back to his sister.

  In her periphery, Chantal’s face blurred through a range of emotions.

  “...when I am speaking to you.” Chantal glared at her. “Bedding your master at the Tower while engaged to the marquis? A common-born mage, no less? How can you even show your face? I’m genuinely curious.”

  Rielle smiled. “That common-born mage is the most powerful man in Emaurria.”

  Chantal scoffed. “With a stroke of the pen, my father can make anyone’s life very difficult—”

  “And with a stroke of his hand, my former master can make anyone’s life end.” Rielle set down her half-full glass, gestured an ice spell over it, and savored Chantal’s flustered expression as the remaining port froze solid and fractals of frost spread outward. “And so can I.” She raised her chin as Chantal’s mouth dropped. “Scared?”

  Chantal’s mouth clicked shut.

  “Just doing what scarecrows do. You understand.” The courante finished, and Rielle met Brennan’s eyes as he strode toward her.

  Half the faces in the hall turned to her. Brennan approached, and when Rielle offered him her hand, he kissed it with a lingering look over her dress. “Beautiful.”

  “It was a lovely gift.” Her cheeks warmed.

  A slow smile seduced his face. “I wasn’t referring to the dress.”

  He held out his arm, and she curled her own around it.

  Chantal cleared her throat. “You’ve outdone yourself, Tregarde.”

  Brennan glanced over his shoulder. “The night is yet young, Chantal. Observe and enjoy. I expect news of tonight to spread far and wide.”

  News of our forthcoming wedding. Rielle tried to ignore the fluttering in her belly as he led her to the dance floor.

  “Would you care to dance the sarabande, fiancée mine?”

  A scandalous dance, few nobles dared participate lest committed to their partners. The harpsichordist and flautist began a slow, stately movement in triple meter accompanied by castanets. Some of the dancers fled the floor.

  With the discretion he’d shown in the foyer, dancing the sarabande with her only meant one thing. Commitment.

  Holding Brennan’s gaze, she nodded. Eyes never leaving his, she followed him to the center and, once in position, started with the dance’s coupé, changing her feet one in front of the other, and into the chasse, a slide.

  To coy notes, they circled each other, undulations of the body and massive hip movements an extended flirtation; he closed in on her, and his hands nearly brushed hers, then swept away, a tease of touch and denial, a sensual pantomime of seduction, conjuring dizzying images of lips on lips, skin on skin, moments behind closed doors. Relentlessly, his eyes sought hers out, dark pools inviting her to the depths where pleasure and little death awaited in breathtaking excess.

  Heat spread through her, an inner fire that burned for him, and would burn until he sated it. She swallowed, trying to ignore the pulse of her body, but it had already invaded her every movement.

  A smug smile curled a corner of his mouth, but his motion didn’t deviate from perfection: controlled, slow, sensual. Touch and denial, touch and denial...

  Great Divine, she couldn’t bear it another second. She forced her body through the steps, glancing about the exits. After this, she would have to run outside and throw herself into a snowbank to cool off.

  And just like that, the music ended, and Brennan offered his arm, leaning in.

  “Respite?
” A soft, brief whisper; barely audible.

  Please. She inclined her head as subtly as she could manage, chest heaving and pulse refusing to slow.

  Before three hundred watching faces, she followed his lead to the beverage table, where he handed her a goblet of wine that she drained instantly. Although his mouth remained immobile, his eyes gleamed. He leaned over to pour another goblet full.

  “Exit to the right and follow the hall,” he said quietly. “I will find you shortly.” He stood tall, eyeing her over the rim of his goblet as he sipped.

  Find me. Her body throbbed painfully, urgently. Invitation.

  When he lowered his goblet, he inhaled lengthily, and a predatory grin stalked his mouth.

  Great Divine, he knew. He knew.

  She bobbed a hasty curtsy. “If you’ll excuse me, I must rest,” she said, loud enough to be heard. She tried to look weary, but a fire threatened to burn its way out through her skin. And she couldn’t wait to tell him about the curse breaking; he would be so relieved.

  Brennan bowed, every muscle in perfect place, begging to be touched, kissed, teased. “My household will see to your needs,” he replied in kind, as a proper host should.

  Mouth watering, she tore herself away and glided to the door on the right as the musicians began the gigue. She breathed deep, inhaling the space and respite, wishing she could claim its peace for her disquieted body. The hum and music of the great hall faded in the corridor, sparsely lit with sconces.

  She fanned herself with her hand. Divine, Brennan could have had her right there, on the dance floor, and she wouldn’t have remembered the other guests at all. She swallowed and focused on a well-lit room at the end of the hallway. Perhaps there she could compose herself.

  A shadow swept from an open doorway, pillaging the breath from her lungs and stealing her away into darkness. Cinnamon spice and cypress. His hot mouth covered hers, his body eager against hers, and he pushed her back against a wall, imprisoning her in his tight embrace. The scents of freshly baked bread, garlic, and herbs mingled with his—a kitchen.

  “I have been waiting for this all night, all my life,” he whispered between kisses. “Tonight, I’ll proclaim to the world my intention to marry you, my intention to make you mine, my wife, my duchess, mother to my children—”

  She shivered, desire burning to unbearable heat within her, and invaded his mouth with her tongue as her anxious fingers unfastened his doublet. His grip slid from her hip to her backside, and he palmed her flesh, squeezed, pressed, harsh rhythmic breaths escaping his mouth. She spread his shirt open and admired the vast expanse of his hard chest with awed hands as she devoured his mouth, lingering before she reached for his trousers.

  He spun her, turning her back to him, and pulled up the skirt of her gown. The mere thought made her gasp—but no, she pushed him against the wall and turned to face him once more.

  Nothing held him there but for her wishes—if he wanted to, he could have her any way he liked—but she had other designs, and he allowed them. Stroking him, she dropped kisses from his chin, down his neck, over his chest and abs and lower.

  Fingers gently raking her hair, he gasped, his breath catching as she took him, and she relished his enjoyment as her own, savoring every breath, shudder, and oath, keeping him paralyzed by sheer force of will, slave to her pleasuring, captive to her passion, until she drew him over the brink, lovingly and fully, until he unraveled over the edge, over and over and over, released all hold on the other side, and transcended into pure rapture.

  His spent breaths, his satisfaction, his fingers stroking through her hair made her mad with desire. She loved him.

  “Rielle...” He knotted her hair and pulled her away, cold eyes peering at hers. “You didn’t think I meant all that, did you?”

  She drew her eyebrows together. What—?

  Gasps and laughter fogged in from the room’s rim, and when she looked up at him—painfully as he tightened his grip on her hair—he smirked, eyes dark and shimmering with satisfaction.

  But the smirk wasn’t for her.

  “Will your scarecrow be joining us for the rest of the party?” Chantal’s voice lilted from across the kitchen, accompanied by the chuckles of several others.

  Heart gripped in a panic, Rielle gazed up at Brennan, tried to rise, but he trapped her hair so securely—

  This can’t be—there has to be—he’s about to make it right—

  “You made this so much better than I had planned.” He looked down at her, eyes narrowed to slits, then turned to the others. “I’m done with the little tart. She can find her way back to the Tower.”

  The blood drained from her face. It couldn’t be. Couldn’t. A tremor rattled her, and tears rose in her eyes; she could barely see, but she looked at him, willed her eyes open, because it couldn’t be, all of everything couldn’t have been for nothing—their betrothal; their years, almost decades, together; the heartbreak at the Tower; the years of silent offerings; the invitation; the gifts; the love letters; the carriage; the lady’s quarters; the party; all his time with her—

  All of this for revenge?

  Her chest hurt, a claw the size of Brennan’s wrath wedged in her heart, and he just peered at her, face set in a grimace.

  Soft steps drew near, and Chantal kissed him. “Happy Midwinter, my love. Did you enjoy your gift?”

  Brennan yanked his hand free of Rielle’s hair and left her to fall to the floor, glanced at her, then grabbed Chantal and kissed her passionately. “You’ve outdone yourself, sweet.” He righted his clothes. “Let’s return to the party.”

  And just like that, he and his tittering guests swept out of the spare kitchen.

  It was a dream. It had to be.

  No, a nightmare. Surreal.

  But her hand found a stone wall for support, and she pressed into it, scratched her skin against it until it bled hot, red reality. The crack in her heart fractured, crumbled into pieces, and it was all she could do to curl up on the floor.

  She recalled Liliane’s somber glance. Piteous, she now realized, but bound by her vows as a Companion to keep her patron’s confidence.

  How could she have been so stupid? To think that Brennan Karandis Marcel would ever forgive her for slighting him? She wrapped herself tight on the kitchen floor.

  Kitchen. She covered her mouth. Just like at the Tower.

  He’d planned it all to perfection. And dancing the sarabande? He’d all but announced his intentions to the entire room.

  What had he said? The night is yet young, Chantal. Observe and enjoy. I expect news of tonight to spread far and wide.

  A public rejection.

  She staggered to her feet and scrabbled against the wall, searching for an exit through blurry eyes. He’d been with Chantal all along, who’d been, what, his accomplice? Helping him plan this elaborate scheme?

  Her throat tight, Rielle slapped the wall. He never could have accomplished it without her own gullibility.

  She paused against the wall. The pain robbed her body of its strength, but she had to move, had to leave this place tonight and forever, to get away from it and them and him.

  But she’d see him again. He’d find her every month, get to her, no matter what.

  A sob escaped. They would never be free of each other. She would see him again before the full moon, before every full moon, for the rest of her life... unless she broke the curse.

  No. Unthinkable.

  She swung her head from side to side. She would never let him in again. Ever. Not after this.

  Not after this.

  At last, she found a door to the outside, and ignoring the guards, she threw it open, threw herself from the hateful castle into the white purifying cold of the snow. She wandered the grounds, found the stables, and trudged through the knee-deep snow to them.

  Her teeth chattered, so she cloaked herself in flame, an aura of fire that brimmed around her body and protected it. Warmth seeped into her weary bones, but not any deeper.


  She’d loved Brennan before, and he’d made her choose between controlling her magic and marrying him, then abandoned her.

  She’d loved Leigh, who now showed off a new lover every week with no regard for her feelings.

  And she’d been stupid enough to fall for Brennan again.

  Would it ever be worth letting another man into the mess of shards that was her heart?

  Better to play at love than to love. Better to pantomime it than to live it. At least the hurt, when it came, would be false, too.

  It would serve her, and it would serve everyone around her. No one to hurt her and no one to hurt meant no one to lose. No one to cause fureur. She dabbed at her eyes. It would all be for the best. Yes, for the best.

  She stumbled into the stable, dispelled her flame cloak, and began to saddle a bay horse.

  “Theft is a crime.”

  A violent shudder tore through her, and her head ticked in the direction of the hateful voice. Brennan leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, grotesquely handsome and emanating satisfaction.

  Burn. She wanted to burn the stable, the grounds, the entire place, but she’d only succeed in killing everything but the one man she wished to reduce to ashes—and likely getting herself excommunicated from the Divinity.

  She scrambled for some measure of composure and continued saddling the horse. “What, did you come here expecting applause for your performance?”

  A slow clap beat the air. “I definitely applaud yours. Skill born of much practice, no doubt.”

  She strode to him, scowling. “What did I do to deserve this? Did I say a single word when you fucked your way through the Houses? Did I?”

  He grabbed her shoulders and shook her, eyes wild, blazing amber, face livid. “We are not the same.” He held her mere inches from himself, from a hate-filled gaze. “You know we’re not the same. A betrothed nobleman can have his conquests, but a betrothed noblewoman—”