Traitor (A Crown of Lilies Book 1)

by Melissa Ragland

  He paused, shoulders squaring with effort, that long-familiar posture of stiff authority returning to him once again.

  “But that is not your place.”

  Deep in my gut, a thrum of understanding buzzed and settled, a truth I’d always known coming to rest at last.

  “I know.”

  With a half-step forward, Father erased the careful distance between us and reached for my hand, lifting it and pressing the sheathed dagger against my palm.

  “I have never once regretted you, Elivya. You have been the joy of my life since the day you were born. No matter how many times you disobey me, no matter how far you stray, you will always be my daughter.”

  The tears from earlier threatened to resurface as I held his earnest gaze, those deep Lazerin eyes so much darker than my own. His thick hands gave a pointed squeeze, voice darkening with caution.

  “But I am still the lord of this House. You would do well to remember it.”

  A few hot trails of moisture slipped down my cheeks and it was all I could do to nod my silent acceptance before he pulled me against his massive frame and hugged me to his chest. Despite my pride, my resolve, my newly-formed sense of purpose, that months-long rift between us had gnawed at my heart and the relief of reconciliation poured through me like a cool summer stream. I clung to him, the dagger clutched in one hand, sniffling into his doublet for long minutes before he finally released me.

  “Go,” he said, voice rough with emotion and a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “You’ve two months’ worth of filth to scrub from yourself before supper.”

  My chest ached at the thought, the promise of something so ordinary as a family dinner plucking a deep chord of yearning in me.

  “I stink of horse,” I observed lightly, simultaneously giving myself a sniff and wiping my damp face on my sleeve in one move.

  He quirked a bushy brow at me. “Among other things.”

  I left the garden feeling as though a great weight had been removed from my chest, every breath coming easier than the last. A hollow kind of exhaustion hummed at my core, the ache of a deep wound finally on the mend. The heavy door clicked shut behind me and I padded down the dim hall toward the common room and the stairs up to my quarters.

  “Your forgery needs work.”

  I whirled to see my mother’s dark features materialize from the shadow of a doorway. I’d walked right past her without noticing. Despite the severe expression on her face, her tone was casual.

  “Wax grows brittle as it heats and cools in a courier’s satchel. Scuffs, too, as it rubs against other missives.” She slunk a few lazy steps toward me, her skirts whispering in the close air. “A pinch of wood ash, next time, and a bit more attention to the weathering.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Not that it would have mattered,” she dismissed with a wave of her hand. “You broke the cardinal rule.”

  “I had little choice, given the circumstances.”

  A razor-sharp edge crept into her tone. “You chose the easy path over the safe one. You trusted others to do what you could have – should have – done yourself.”

  “I used the resources available to me.”

  “She has no training. Her face gave you away the day after you left.”

  I clenched my jaw, stifling a retort. I’d given Shera strict instructions to only leave the letters on the breakfast table, and under no circumstances deliver them directly to my parents. Apparently, not all had gone to plan.

  “If you saw through it from the start, why did it take Father so long to come to the garrison?” I challenged, but I knew the answer before I’d finished uttering the question.

  She didn’t tell him.

  She folded her hands neatly and raised her chin a proud fraction, returning my dumbstruck silence with that sharp, piercing gaze.

  “You wanted your chance. I gave it to you.”

  Between those stiff words lay the bitter burden of the near-lie she told on my behalf, keeping the truth from the one person in the world with whom she had no secrets.

  “Perhaps now you’ll see that the weapons I have offered you are far more useful than any blade.”

  Two more silent steps brought her beautiful, terrible features right up close to mine, her bright eyes carving through me. I barely dared to breathe, pinned beneath that scorching stare.

  “Never use them on me again.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Shera was waiting in my chambers when I arrived, still battered and shaken from the confrontations with my parents. At first sight of her smiling face, my melancholy was overcome in an instant by overwhelming relief and I flung my arms around her. She clutched me just as tightly, chattering a string of apologies and questions into my hair until they halted abruptly and her whole body tensed against mine.

  “Good gods, miss,” she mumbled, pulling away and crinkling her face. “You reek.”

  A laugh tore from me, a sound of sheer glee at both her unchanged demeanor and the fact that she hadn’t been dismissed for her complicity in my escape. She ushered me into the waiting bath, where she proceeded to tell me all of what had happened in my absence.

  Once discovered, she’d been assigned double-duties and spent six long weeks helping her father Eustace in the kitchens while still keeping up her chores as a lady-in-waiting. With me gone, the latter proved a blessedly light burden, but her father’s wrath had her scrubbing every inch of the scullery from hearth to cellar as punishment.

  While Shera continued to scour me to her satisfaction, I told her much of what had passed at the garrison. Near the end, I found myself faltering when describing those last few nights in the mess hall, avoiding certain details without really knowing why. I skirted around the way James had looked at me, the way our hands had touched, the flush of heat I felt at the memory of both; these things, I kept to myself, unsure of their meaning or what to do with them.

  They followed me into my dreams that night, my first decent sleep in months plagued by copper hair and a crooked smile; a hesitant touch, the brush of familiar lips on mine, that as-yet unexplored rise in my blood growing stronger, humming through me and settling in my loins. I woke abruptly the next morning, aching.

  I was no stranger to the passions between the sexes, at least in theory. Even as children, we whispered and giggled behind our hands about such things, the occasional firsthand account of an older sibling adding bits and pieces to our patchwork understanding of what exactly boys and girls did in the loft above the stables. What little mystery had remained to me after that was thoroughly erased by my three months at the garrison.

  I had little experience myself beyond a few timid kisses with one of the kitchen boys as a blushing twelve-year-old girl, but I was old enough to know what it was to want someone. I’d felt the primal rush of desire before and explored the workings of my own body in the dark hours of the night. This wasn’t the first time such images had invaded my dreams.

  But this was different. This was James. My oldest friend, my first confidant; all but a brother to me before now. But then I’d baited him in the mess hall barely more than a week ago, using my skills without thinking. Stupid.

  I could still see the flush in his cheeks and feel his palm against mine. His husky voice still echoed in my ear. The way he’d leaned close, warm eyes fixed on me – was it just the mead, or did he mean to look at me like that? I needed to know. I had to know.

  I caught him in the courtyard that afternoon, hauling a sack of oats from the cellars toward the barn. The mere sight of him felt like a sharp tug, as though a cord had been tied between us, pulled tight by simple proximity. Fiery hair blazed in the bright summer sun. Cats danced around his ankles, barely avoiding tripping him. He moved in the same easy way he always had, though he’d gained an edge of quiet confidence during our months at the garrison. His steps slowed as if he’d heard someone call his name, head pivoting, brows knit, eyes searching until they landed on me a
nd his face immediately brightened. He sauntered over, dropping the burlap bag carelessly at my feet.

  “Eli,” he teased in greeting, looking me over with a hint of disbelief. I couldn’t blame him. The last time he’d seen me, I hadn’t brushed my hair in months, was dressed as a man, and still had practice wounds on the mend. Now, I stood before him looking as if none of it had ever happened, though inside I felt wholly out of place in my delicately embroidered gown.

  “James,” I greeted, crossing my arms to brace myself against his nearness. “I wanted to see how things went with your father.”

  He shrugged with a small smirk that told me he was generously pretending not to notice my nervousness. “Too old for the belt, these days, but I got an earful. That, and half of Seth’s chores. What about Shera?”

  “Had to pull double duties in the kitchens while we were gone, but she kept her position.”

  James gave a small nod and I could tell that, despite their tendency to butt heads, he was glad for it. “And you?”

  Before I could respond, Stephan’s sharp voice barked across the courtyard. “Let’s go, boy!”

  James offered a quick wave of assent in his father’s direction, the stablemaster hovering just outside the barn, thick arms crossed and scowling furiously at us.

  “Gods, he’s livid,” I breathed in awe.

  James fetched the sack from the ground between us, slinging it back over his shoulder and muttering, “You’ve no idea.” He flashed an apologetic smirk and turned to go. I quickly snatched his arm to waylay him.

  “Harvest moon?” I murmured in haste, drawing a surprised look from him. We’d not used that silly code in years.

  “Tonight?”

  “…If you can.”

  A quiet smile lit his eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  I slipped out the servants’ entrance when the moon was high and the house still, hugging the shadows of the manor walls until I reached the back of the barn. Horses whickered groggily at my entrance, hinges creaking as I eased them shut behind me and followed my lantern into the darkness. Valor’s silver head emerged over the half-door of his stall and I paused to offer a few scratches and murmured promises of rides to come. He was surely just as disoriented as I by our return home, though he didn’t seem to mind the markedly improved accommodations. The stable hands had brushed him down and his coat gleamed in the faint glow. The hay rack behind him was bursting with a generous amount of alfalfa.

  “Spoiled,” I muttered fondly as he lipped at my stays.

  A second light flickered in my peripheral vision, James approaching down the aisle. He pressed a finger to his lips and beckoned me away from the stalls, past the tack room, and up into the hayloft above before either of us dared to speak.

  “Harvest moon, eh?” he mused, still keeping his voice low as he took my lantern from me and set both safely aside. “Not used that one in ages.”

  I settled onto the splintered boards, a mountain of straw at my back. “I wasn’t sure you’d even remember.”

  Back in our wilder days of wreaking havoc as a pack of unruly children, we’d used a handful of code phrases to coordinate all sorts of mischief-making. ‘Leek stew’ meant retreat to the kitchens, ‘mop bucket’ signaled an ally to create a distraction, and so on.

  “Of course I remember,” James snorted and toppled into the prickly stacks nearby, kicking up a burst of straw fibers that tickled my nose. “Though I’ve always wondered if you ever had cause to use ‘harvest moon’ with anyone else.”

  By the faint hint of jealousy in his tone, I guessed he was alluding to more than just an innocent midnight chat. He and I had snuck out to meet in the loft dozens of times over the years, but never for anything other than hushed conversation and the thrill of disobedience. Not that I was ignorant of the main use most young men and women made of that haystack, but the constant awareness of my station ensured that I made no such use of it myself.

  Flushing at the thought, I picked a few pieces of debris from my dress.

  “No.”

  His lupine grin flashed in the dark. With his hands folded behind his head and copper hair tousled carelessly, it made him look roguishly handsome.

  “Our little secret, then.”

  “One of many,” I drawled, looking quickly away.

  He stretched out his long legs and we both watched the flurry of tiny gold fragments catch the light as they floated back down over us.

  “Well?” he asked at length. “How did it go?”

  I shrugged one shoulder and focused on tucking my cursed skirts around my knees. “Not disowned.”

  “Too bad,” he sighed wistfully. “Lehs made a good offer. I was looking forward to watching you spill trays of ale all over the common folk.”

  I managed a half-hearted smile but it soon faltered and silenced stretched between us once again. I wanted to tell him what had passed between my father and me, sixteen years of contention finally brought to a head, but the quiet understanding on his face only made me that much more aware of the lingering bruised feeling in my chest. It was still too raw, too personal, to share with anyone – even James.

  “We don’t have to talk about it,” he murmured gently, reading my reluctance with ease. “I just thought, when you asked to meet…”

  Shaking my head loosened a few strands of my hair from its tired updo, all but bursting from the careful pinning Shera had put in place that morning.

  “I just missed you. It’s strange being back.”

  Blowing out his breath, he nodded in agreement. “Nice to get rid of the lice, though.” One hand reached up to scratch at his shaggy mop of hair. “Not getting splinters in my sleep isn’t half bad, either.”

  “Eating a decent meal more than once a day,” I contributed, a grin creeping across my lips.

  “Having a proper bath.”

  “Gods, it took Shera hours to untangle my hair. My skin still hurts from the scrubbing.”

  “If you’re not bleeding, you’re not trying,” he growled in his best impression of Briggs.

  We both laughed, a faint chorus of crickets joining in our levity from the pastures outside.

  “I never thanked you,” I said once we’d settled, hugging my arms about my knees and watching him in the dark. “For any of it.”

  Propped on his elbows, his dismissive shrug looked more like a lurch. “No need.”

  “You risked a lot to come with me.”

  “Of course I did. It’s you.” The lanternlight ignited his fiery hair, laughter dancing in his eyes as he glanced at me sidelong. “We look out for each other.”

  I forced a small smile of agreement and he turned his attention toward picking a few bits of straw from his tunic. My eyes followed, the unlaced neck of his shirt hanging open to reveal the curve of his collarbone and the top of a muscled chest. A fragment of my dreams surfaced in my mind, the invented taste of his skin on my tongue bringing heat to my face. With effort, I forced myself to look elsewhere, eventually settling for tugging at the hem near my ankles.

  “My father…” I started, dredging up long-prepared words in my quest for distraction. James’ gaze snapped to me but he kept silent, giving me the space to work the words loose. “He didn’t believe I could do it. Not until he’d seen. But you…”

  Shaking my head, I forced myself to meet his eyes and immediately regretted it, the sympathy and worry in them dismantling my calm.

  “You never needed proof,” I grated out before I could lose my nerve altogether. “You’ve always stood by me. Told me the truth, even when I didn’t want to hear it. But even at the start, when I was so small I could barely draw Seth’s bow, you never tried to dissuade me. You never told me I couldn’t. Never made me feel like it was wrong to try.”

  “Not like you would have listened if I had.” A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but the soft gleam in his eyes and the rough cadence of his voice ruined his pretense of nonchalance.

&
nbsp; “Likely not,” I admitted with a tiny laugh, “but it meant…”

  My voice cracked, his face blurring in my vision. I swallowed the lump in my throat and inhaled sharply to drive back the tears, determined to finish the words I knew I should have said long ago.

  “It meant everything to me.”

  A frozen moment passed in the silent dark, our eyes locked as the lanterns hissed softly.

  “Everything,” I repeated, an emphatic whisper.

  He pushed himself upright, then, scooting across the boards to fetch up against me. A jolt fluttered through my stomach at his sudden nearness, vividly aware of every point of contact. Those warm brown eyes bored into me as his hand closed on mine and gave a squeeze.

  “You are the most impossible, irritating, pig-headed girl I’ve ever met,” he said flatly, mouth quirking at my gasp of startled laughter. “And if you want to give me credit for having enough sense to not bother arguing with you, then I suppose I’ll take it.”

  One rough hand reached to tuck a stray hair behind my ear, lingering a moment before he withdrew it. The other remained firmly clasped with mine, resting on his leg.

  “But I’d follow you to Tuvria if you asked,” he added with another flicker of a grin. “And if you don’t know that by now-”

  Without thought, without consideration, without finesse or skill, I lurched across that small gap and pressed my lips to his. Chaste and fleeting, it lasted barely the space of a heartbeat before I drew back to read his reaction, my chest a knot of terror and hope.

  Surprise, first and foremost, brows high and lips frozen slightly parted. Fear second, shallow breath flaring his nostrils and eyes widening as they stared back into mine. For a horrible moment, that was all I saw, instantly overwhelmed by the crushing certainty that I’d ruined – perhaps forever – the precious friendship between us.

  But then his copper lashes dipped low and lazy over the dark pools of his pupils, the lines of his brow softening, the corners of his lips easing upward.