Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1)

by Miranda Honfleur

  Everything went white, intense pressure in her skull ripping out of her throat in screams, powerful, unstoppable, impossible to contain, all to the throbbing primal beat in her blood, and she tightened her arms around him, riding out her climax. Her body contracted in waves that whispered a tide of pleasure to every corner of her being, flowing and flowing until her blood hummed. Squeezing her eyes shut, she threw her head back, secure in his hold, and let her body arch as it pleased, limbering as she kept moving against him. Divine, it felt good, so good, the pleasure of him.

  In a dreamlike blur, she caught his intense eyes fixed upon hers. The rhythm of his breathing changed—he was close. She sucked in a breath, and summoning renewed vigor, she took him.

  Each breath louder, stronger, deeper, he slowed his movement, his firm hold on her hips matching her pace to his own, until finally he found his own release, forcing out breath after breath with each thrust, his body rippling. Wringing out the last of his pleasure, she watched his awestruck face in gaping fascination until he was utterly spent, the sight caressing something wild deep within.

  That look—that spent, lazy, blissful look—she wanted to see it again. And again. And again. To elicit it over and over. And over. And over.

  His eyebrows drawn, he could have been contemplating the great mysteries of their time so intensely, or the sublime marvel of two halves finding completion.

  The tension that had hardened his entire gleaming body took its leave, relaxation left in its wake. Their fire banked, his eyes went dark, locked with hers in a moment of shared revelation.

  A hint of a grin teased his mouth. Pleased with himself. Pleased with her. She couldn’t help but kiss him. His embrace tight, he reclined onto the bed, taking her with him.

  After checking his stitches, she collapsed onto his uninjured side. Tracing figures on his skin with her finger, she let her mind empty, dominated into numbness by sensation while he stroked her hair gently.

  “Perhaps I should pull my stitches more often.” The rumble of his voice reverberated in his chest beneath her.

  Grinning, she rubbed her cheek against him, toeing the red sheets in idle play. “Pleased?”

  He blew out a breath. “In ways words cannot express.”

  She chuckled softly. If she could spend the rest of her life like this with him, she would ask nothing more. Delightfully sated, she closed her eyes. She would regain control over her lower half eventually, but for now, she couldn’t bring herself to care about anything but the bliss whispering under her skin.

  “Was that...” he began, then pressed his lips together. “I mean, are you...”

  She beamed a wide grin. “Oh, yes. Very.”

  For a moment, he shared her grin, then glanced away. Shy?

  “Are you sure you haven’t done this before?” she teased.

  He rumbled a low laugh and shook his head. “I think I would have remembered.”

  With a toothy smile, she traced a spirit-magic sigil on his abdomen. “So what you’re saying is that it was memorable.”

  That laugh again. “I’m not altogether certain I’ll remember anything else ever again, witch.”

  “If you do, we still have plenty of time to make an amnesiac of you yet.”

  The bed shifted as he shook his head, toying with a lock of her hair. They lay there in a comfortable silence, breaths slowing, pleasure fading to a contented lull.

  He took a deep breath. “Rielle,” he began, “there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  Enjoying his fingers combing through her hair, she hesitated to open her eyes. “Hm?”

  His arm tensed. “You know I was discharged from the Order.”

  Her eyes fluttered open. Long had she wondered about the circumstances. Staring into the darkness, she waited. He continued to stroke her.

  “It was an honorable discharge, or so I was told.” His fingertips trailed through her hair, languid and pleasurable. His touch felt so good, a distraction when she now wanted her wits about her.

  Frowning, she took his hand and brought it to her chest, holding it close. “Why wouldn’t you mention that?”

  He shrugged beneath her. “Because I didn’t know what it meant. The message didn’t say why, just that I was honorably discharged and to report to Monas Amar. I was on my way to Monas Ver to confront Derric the night I broke through the Tower checkpoint.”

  “Isn’t an honorable discharge a good thing?” She lowered her chin and traced his thumb along her lower lip.

  He squeezed her hand and held her closer. “Now it is, yes. I get to be with you.” He kissed her head. “But at the time, it gutted me. I had taken my vows in contemplation of serving for life, and the concept of no longer being a paladin was unthinkable.”

  “It’s a reward, though, isn’t it? An honorable discharge?”

  “Sometimes,” he said. “But paladins far more decorated than I hadn’t been given such a reward. It’s also granted to paladins rendered physically or psychologically unable to continue service, but clearly, that’s not it either. Rumor says it’s also done to quiet dissent that can’t be dealt with otherwise.”

  “Is that what happened to you?”

  “No. I’ve never made waves in the Order, just did my duty and kept my mouth shut. If someone didn’t like me, well, an honorable discharge is like blowing out a candle with a hurricane.”

  She snorted softly. “What’s your theory, then?”

  He pulled himself up a bit, and she did, too. “Well, I’m not decorated enough to be honorably discharged for excellent service. I’m not physically or psychologically unfit. I’m not important enough to be discharged for political reasons.” He sighed. “The Order is sometimes snidely referred to as the Order of Third Sons or the Order of Bastards. Since priests and paladins can’t inherit, noblemen often enlist their third sons, after the heir and the spare reach manhood, or their bastards, to keep inheritance from getting bloody. Still, the unpredictable can happen. It’s why the Order has the Last of the Line clause.”

  Her mouth fell open. The last of a line? She craned her neck to gape at him. “Your father’s a noble?”

  He raised his eyebrows, staring into space for the span of a few breaths. “I don’t know, but I have no other plausible explanation. And it would explain why I seem to be the only paladin assigned a mage protector.” He offered a smile that soon faded. “My whole life, it never mattered to me who my parents were. Derric, Tor, and the other priests and paladins who raised me, cared about me—they were my family. My bloodline never mattered to me. Until now.” He reached for her hand, cradled it in his own, caressed her knuckles with his thumb. “But if I’m not a nobleman’s son, if no inheritance awaits me, I plan to pledge my sword to the new king.”

  She drew in a long, slow breath. At dinner, when Gran had mentioned Duke Faolan being a likely candidate for king, a part of her had recoiled at the possibility of Brennan rising to princedom. But the duke was ignorant of Brennan’s condition, and to consolidate his power, he would surely see his only son wed to no less than royalty to legitimize his reign, breaking the betrothal.

  A disgraced Emaurrian marquise would never be accepted as a future queen by Parliament or any king in his right mind.

  Although she shuddered to think what kind of prince—what kind of king someday—Brennan would make.

  But she could be free. Free to be with Jon. He’d either be a knight, titled, albeit lowly, or a lord if his suspicion proved true. It was a long shot, but even so, her chances of freeing herself from the betrothal were now better than ever. “If it’s Duke Faolan—”

  He raised her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers. “I know, my love.” He lowered her hand and peered at it pensively. “If Duke Faolan becomes king and the Paladin Grand Cordon tells me I’ve inherited a title, some lands—”

  Freedom from the marriage contract. Jon with a knighthood, perhaps more, no longer a commoner... And she, free to marry him...

  He retrieved his belt pouch from th
e nightstand and removed a small, round glass bottle stopped with a cork. Inside, dried flowers retained a sunny yellow in a cluster of blooms. “It’s home. Immortelle. I cut this cluster about four months ago outside the monastery. Traveling north, when the fields are golden with its bloom, home is not far.”

  The dream in his eyes was home, a happy longing, and when he placed the tiny bottle in her hand, she blinked. “You’re giving it to me?”

  With a slow, playful smile, he skimmed her cheek with his fingertips.

  Her heart skipped a beat, and she clutched the bottle close. Time and again, her hopes for happiness had been dashed, but maybe this time, it would be different. Maybe fate, despite all she’d done, would let her be with Jon and be happy while she worked her way to magister, helped where she could, made herself useful to the world. Plenty of mages lived outside the Towers, taking missions as they received orders.

  “It’s the foolish dream of a forsworn paladin,” Jon said, with a self-deprecating laugh, “and I hardly dare give it thought, let alone voice—”

  Breathless, she leaned in and kissed him, then broke away, just barely. “If you’re trying to seduce me again, Jonathan Ver, it is working.”

  A hint of puckish smile appeared. “Saw right through my plan, did you, witch?”

  Grinning, she nipped his lower lip. “And I have it on good authority that it’s an opportune time to set it in motion.”

  “Is that so?” He took her face in his hands and captured her mouth with a kiss that soon escalated to more.

  It was all she could do to nod. Lips locked, she let Jon ease her back onto the bed and pin her beneath him.

  Chapter 46

  At the edge of the Lady’s Garden, Brennan kneaded his eyes with the heels of his palms. Foolish woman. The faraway look in her eyes—to exact that promise, she had been willing to bleed to death. What was he to do with her?

  Tonight the nightblooms here blossomed just for him, the air thick with their spicy scents. Somehow in darkness, they flourished. He closed his eyes and leaned in to sample the jasmine’s fragrance. The plan had been flawless. The castle guards were far, the garden had been dark, and the commoner would have been bitten—the perfect incentive for Rielle to break the curse for them both.

  Flawless. Until she’d threatened herself. The beat of her heart had been honest. Determined. Irrefutable.

  He’d overplayed his hand, pushed her too far. Cursing her lover would have forced her to break it, but now—

  That was hopeless now.

  He closed his eyes, let the defeat sink in. She’d never willingly give herself to him the way things were now, and he’d promised not to force her. Whatever he was, he would keep his word.

  And she—she was...

  The strength of her convictions, the ferocity in her eyes—she could stare down death without flinching. Even the Great Wolf would admit a fondness.

  Steps neared, light but not cautious. Confident. A woman with an agenda.

  He caught her scent on the wind. Lily of the valley and resinous amber. The duchess entered the garden. No guards.

  She’d confined him to his quarters earlier, and although he was defying her now, that defiance no doubt paled in significance to the rest of the night’s events.

  He didn’t move, tried not to give away any sign that he knew she’d arrived.

  “Out for an evening stroll, Marquis Tregarde?” The cold edge to her voice belied her casual question.

  He kept his tone even. “A beautiful evening for it. Wouldn’t you agree, Your Grace?”

  She remained silent too long. “You think I don’t know what’s happened between you and my great-granddaughter?”

  He exhaled softly. So much had happened between him and Rielle over the course of their stormy engagement. “What in particular, Your Grace?”

  “Everything. Her refusal to leave with you at the Tower nine years ago after the pirates killed her family. Your mistreatment of her three years ago. Your repentance. Her continued rebellion. The duel between you and her lover tonight. As I said, everything.” Her steps neared.

  Everything.

  Almost. No one knew about his werewolf nature, the blood curse, and the bond except for Rielle, and now—he curled his upper lip—her commoner lover. Perhaps Mother knew, but if she did, the duchess wouldn’t be her confidante.

  No, the duchess didn’t know; if she did, her treatment of him was curious. “And you let me live? Why?”

  “Because I know your heart.” She rested a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t hate my great-granddaughter. You love her.”

  He snorted an amused breath. “And here I thought with age comes wisdom.”

  The duchess sat on the garden’s ledge in a luxurious violet dressing gown, eyes warm. “You’ve convinced yourself that you hate her because that is the only way you can stomach her rejection. It’s easier to hate someone who doesn’t want you than to love her, Brennan. Unattainable grapes are always bitter.”

  Bitter grapes? “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Mind yourself, boy, when your betters are speaking.” She straightened, but then heaved a slow sigh. “I don’t say this to shame you, but to help you. You and I want the same thing—a stable, profitable marriage between our two lines, with plenty of legitimate heirs.”

  Heirs? Is that what this was about? Then the duchess wanted to strengthen and consolidate her political and economic powers—a marriage tie and a blood tie to the Marcels. Shrewd old she-wolf.

  “But my great-granddaughter follows her heart, as you well know.”

  The foreigner. The commoner. This stupid mission saving her friend. The girl was willing to drug herself, stab herself, die for those she loved. It was exhausting just trying to keep her alive.

  “And you will never win her heart with malice.”

  He looked away. “What, a few kind words will erase the past few years?”

  There was no turning back now. What’s done is done.

  She moved into his line of sight. “No. Love her. Love those she loves. Convince her you want to make amends, and convince yourself. Then make them. Rielle resists opening her heart to others, but it is not impenetrable. And I’ll make sure the new king doesn’t grant her any unnecessary favors.”

  Like breaking our marriage contract. Rielle’s petitions had fallen on deaf ears for a long time, thanks to Father’s influence with the Faralles—

  Or… was the duchess the one who’d kept King Marcus from granting Rielle a breaking of the marriage contract?

  “I want what’s best for my great-granddaughter and her House, even if she disagrees with what that is. And it can happen, if you resolve to be honest with yourself. You love her. Let yourself feel it. And see our lines united.”

  She glided away, quiet steps disappearing behind the thud of a door.

  Her suggested strategy... not courtship, but an extended game to win favor.

  He inhaled the soothing jasmine and gazed up at the night sky. He wouldn’t overtly pursue Rielle but entice her to pursue him. Let her think it was her decision.

  The idea had merit. If he succeeded, she’d never realize the game was being played until it was over and he had won.

  Let myself feel my love for her.

  Love. Did he love her? He needed her, but did he love her as a man loves a woman? The ties between them knotted like honeysuckle and hazel, and he couldn’t tell which was which anymore.

  He couldn’t tell, and he didn’t want to, need to. It didn’t matter. He required one thing from her, and it wasn’t love.

  The old woman was wrong. Yes, on that, she was mistaken. Had to be. But she was right about one thing.

  Currying favor.

  He sighed.

  An overture... He needed a diplomatic overture, something she wanted but didn’t expect from him.

  A gift. He’d make her a gift of Phantom.

  Chapter 47

  Shivering, Olivia sat against the iron bars in the torch’s fading
light. The rats here were braver than most and the torchlight didn’t bother them, but at least she could see them. Gilles hadn’t returned, and neither had any of his mage captains.

  Her gaze flickered to the two boxes in her cell. Was James still alive? At first, she had asked Anton each day, but the longer she went without a trip to the Hall of Mirrors, the more fear gathered in her heart that Anton would avert his eyes and shake his head.

  She hadn’t been to the Hall of Mirrors in a month’s time. Gilles must have at last gotten James to talk.

  What had it been? What secret had James held so close that not even she had been privy to?

  Whatever it was, he would never give Gilles anything important. James was intelligent. Brilliant. He well knew that when prisoners finally elected to speak, the issue wasn’t eliciting information but eliciting true and useful information.

  Endure, my love. She didn’t know when, or how, but they would survive this. They had to.

  Thanks to Anton, she still clung to life. True to his word, he had returned every day—sometimes twice a day—with bread, water, and a willingness to help. Divine be praised, he’d even occasionally sneaked in basic human necessities. Not enough to garner notice, but enough to deserve her eternal gratitude. She’d never been so grateful for a bar of soap, tooth powder, and a couple pitchers of water.

  But could he be trusted? Was this kindness truly to rebel against Gilles and do right, or was it simply a deception to coax some true and useful information from her?

  Her words had to be carefully measured with him... except about the rite.

  The rite... She drummed a finger against the muggy stone floor—or tried to. She winced. Too stiff.

  It didn’t matter if Gilles knew about the Moonlit Rite. In fact, better if he did—perhaps he’d see the wisdom in performing it. Few knew how humanity had come to sit upon the throne of the world; contrary to some legends, it hadn’t been through glorious battle. No, the ancient Emaurrian texts had revealed the truth of the matter: it had been through the secretive spellweaving of witches.