by Bec McMaster
Leave?
Or stay and fight?
But what had she meant?
* * *
Gideon,
* * *
I need to speak with you. Please seek a meeting with me at your earliest possible convenience.
* * *
Her Royal Majesty,
Queen Alexandra
* * *
And that was it.
The formality of the letter made his heart sink.
Was she cutting ties with him? Did she wish to gently inform him that she’d accepted Prince Ivan’s suit?
Or was the formality a means to hide her thoughts—and heart, hopefully—from those who might intercept such a letter?
A sharp rap came at the door.
“Come in,” Gideon called, scrunching her letter in his fist.
His man of affairs appeared, impeccable in black. “Shall I have the carriage sent for, Sir Gideon?”
He still didn’t know the answer to that. “I….”
Long seconds ticked out.
Hansen cleared his throat. “It’s just… there seems to be quite a goings-on down in the courtyard. It may take some time to arrange matters, what with all the ruckus.”
“Ruckus?”
“News, sir.”
“What news?” he asked sharply.
Sympathy twisted Hansen’s expression. Few knew of his affections, but Hansen was a loyal servant and no doubt he’d caught wind of his master’s feelings. “There is talk among the servants that the queen is going to reveal some happy news by the end of the day. She sent for Prince Ivan an hour ago, and they are walking in the garden together. Alone. The entire palace is waiting to hear word of their conversation.”
The floor fell out from under him.
Gideon slowly sank into an armchair. He couldn’t even blame Alexandra for the void where his heart lay. He’d known she was destined for another. He’d known another man would end up with her hand—and hopefully her heart. She needed to marry.
And he could never be the one to take her to wife.
He was too human, his bloodlines virtually worthless. They had never stood a chance, and in his heart of hearts, he’d always known it.
But it was one thing to know it, and quite another to see it actually happening, right before his eyes.
“Sir?” Hansen murmured.
His fist curled around her letter. “Send for the carriages,” he said brusquely. “And then I shall get you to deliver a letter for me.”
One final goodbye to the woman he loved.
“Your Highness.” Malloryn lay in wait as the prince stormed up the stairs onto the balcony.
Prince Ivan turned on him, his lip curling and one hand dipping to his side where a weapon no doubt lurked. “You had a hand in this, didn’t you? What did you say to her? What did you do? She was mine, I know she was mine! She was ready to surrender!”
Malloryn merely arched a brow. “If you think Her Majesty was prepared to propose to you, then you are a fool. Her Majesty does not surrender. Nor are her affections dictated by those around her. She is the Queen of Britain, and I am her servant, and nothing else. You would be wise to curb your tongue, for the sake of Britain and Russia’s abiding friendship.”
Ivan’s lip curled. “Perhaps that friendship will endure. Though whether the queen does, is another matter entirely.”
He moved to push past, but Malloryn grabbed his arm, his voice dropping to a lethal level. “What does that mean? Are you threatening Her Majesty?”
“Of course, I’m not. Do you think me a fool?” This time, it was Ivan’s turn to smile as he reached out and straightened the lapels on Malloryn’s coat. “I don’t have to do a thing. All I have to do is watch. Britain will fall, torn apart from within, and Russia—”
He slammed the prince back against the wall, one second away from doing violence. “You skate treacherously close to ruin, Your Highness. Have a care. Because I swear to you, that if the queen falls, then I will do everything in my power to ensure you are blamed for it.”
A hint of caution reared in Ivan’s dark eyes. “My hands are clean.”
“And yet, you know something. I’ll consider that akin to playing part in a conspiracy.”
Ivan curled his hands around Malloryn’s and eased them from his coat. “I saw a familiar face today. Think about it, Malloryn. Who has the most to gain from the queen’s death? Do you think they’re going to stop just because their first two attempts were foiled?”
“Who is it?”
Ivan pushed him away with a faint smile. “Oh, I’ll tell you. But that will take time, Malloryn. And right now, the queen is alone. You should never leave her alone. Not here, in this pit of vipers. It’s your choice. The truth? Or the queen’s life?”
He froze.
Gemma was trailing Her Majesty today. And Gemma was his best.
But doubt niggled. All it would take would be one stray bullet. A blink from Gemma. A moment of distraction.
“Curse you.” He started toward the gardens. “This conversation isn’t finished.”
Ivan smiled, as Malloryn reached the top of the stairs.
He almost slammed into Obsidian halfway down.
“The queen.” Malloryn demanded. “Where is the queen?”
Obsidian frowned. “She was heading toward the stables. Why?”
“Because I think our killer’s going to make another attempt.”
Slipping away from Kensington Palace unseen when one was the queen was impossible.
And stupid.
So Alexandra did neither.
Knowing Malloryn’s spy was better at surveillance than Alexandra was at evasion, she simply ignored Miss Townsend and summoned a horse from the stables. Two of the Coldrush guards trailed her at a distance until it felt like she was leading a bloody parade, but at least it wasn’t the entire court.
And after dozens of years of having her every move monitored, she ought to be used to it.
Rain dampened the morning, the skies gray and overcast. It suited her mood. A pox on the whole damned court. A pox on the council. And a pox on Malloryn.
A particularly itchy one, preferably.
Urging her gray mare into a gallop, she let her mount fly across the grass of Hyde Park, the sting of rain lashing against her cheeks until she felt free for the first time in years.
It wasn’t long enough. Ahead of her, an elaborate folly loomed out of the gardens, a curtain of icy drizzle near obscuring it.
Sir Gideon paced the folly, the black lash of his coattails betraying his mood. The second he saw her, he stilled.
There were no words.
Only the impenetrable, implacable black of his eyes.
“Say something.” Alexandra lowered the hood of her cloak, shaking off the damp.
“What would my queen have me say?” he replied.
She held up the note he’d sent. “An explanation for this, if you would.”
Gideon raked his hands through his hair, leaving it in unruly tangles. “I told you I cannot do this. I cannot stay and watch you marry another.”
“And are you so certain I intend to marry another?” she asked sharply.
“Don’t.” His voice quavered. “Don’t toy with my affections thusly.”
She drew back angrily. “Do you think so little of me that you would think me so heartless?”
“Not heartless. No. But we both know how this ends. You are not at liberty to grant me anything more than your past affections. You are the queen. And Prince Ivan—”
“Is returning to Russia,” she said heatedly. “He did not appreciate my rebuff of his suit.”
Gideon froze. “You….”
“I told him that although our countries held great respect for each other, I could not accept his affections.”
Gideon pinched the bridge of his nose. “You should have married him.”
“What?”
“It was a sound alliance. He could have been managed as a consort, and Britain c
ould have pursued some excellent trade agreements.”
Alexandra drew herself up stiffly. “Trade agreements.”
Did he not even care?
They stared at each other.
And her doubts grew.
All along she’d thought his humanity had been the point of contention. But what if there was more to it?
Gideon had said himself that he had no desire to be named consort. He was the head of the humanist movement, and if he married her, he would have to give up his political ambitions. The very thing that made her love him the most, was possibly the thing that might keep them apart.
Her confidence evaporated.
“So you will go? Just like that?” Her voice broke. “You promised. You promised you would never leave me.”
“And I meant it. I will never leave you in here,” he said, thumping a fist against his heart. “But I did not realize how it would feel to watch you kiss another man.” His eyes grew anguished. “I cannot do this, Alexa. I cannot stand aside, not unless I am far away.”
“Then don’t.” She caught his sleeve. “Don’t stand aside.”
“I cannot marry you.”
“Says who?” she demanded. “Mina seems to think there is a way to manage the blue bloods. She seems to think I could marry a human. And your… your commitment to Humans First could be—”
“I’m not just human, Alexa. I am a no one. My father’s grandfather was a baron. I’m not a prince. I’m not even a noble myself. I have so little aristocratic blood in my veins, it may as well not exist. I am virtually a commoner, Alexa. And you are a queen.” He captured her face between his hands. “As for the party—”
She kissed him desperately, in order to still the words. Gideon froze, and then he captured her mouth with an anguished moan. All the things that couldn’t be said spilled forth in a storm of passion. But even as their bodies meshed, she couldn’t quite still her mind.
A tear slid slowly down her cheek as she realized this was very likely the last time they would ever embrace.
The urge to cast it all to the winds—duty, her commitment to the throne and her people—brewed within her like a stale batch of tea. Why could she not choose him?
Why could she not have just one thing for herself?
Alexandra broke the kiss, gasping for air.
“Stay,” she begged, clinging to his coat and shaking her head. “I won’t marry anyone else. I won’t do it. We’ll find a way. We could be lovers. We could take precautions. Elizabeth managed to rule by herself.”
“Alexa.” He carefully tugged her fingers free of their grip upon him, bringing them to his lips to kiss. The sadness in his eyes made the lump in her throat almost chokingly thick, for it held a “no.” “You must marry. I see that now. And I want that for you. I want you to be happy. I want you to bear the children I cannot give you. And I will always think of you fondly. I will always be there if you should ever have need, but this… this needs to end. For both our sakes.”
“And if I commanded you to stay?”
Gideon slowly stiffened. “I am bound to serve my queen.”
But it would break him to do that, and it was only selfishness speaking. Her need for him overpowering her respect for this gentle, intelligent man.
Alexa swallowed hard, letting go of his hands.
She wasn’t going to merely surrender. Not now. She just needed time to think her way through this mess.
“I will always love you,” she whispered.
His gloved hands came up, brushing the tears from her cheek. “And I you.”
A crack of distant thunder retorted.
Alexandra could bear it no longer. She tugged her hood up and swept away from him in a flurry of wet skirts, her eyes blinded by the tears she could no longer withhold.
And so, she did not see the figure step out of the bushes ahead of her, a pistol raised.
“Well,” Gemma said, huddling beneath an oak tree and blowing into her cupped hands. “It’s a lovely day to be squiring Her Majesty around the countryside. I don’t suppose anyone has a flask of hot toddy on them?”
The pair of Coldrush guards who waited with her glanced at each other.
“Tea?” she asked hopefully, trying to distract them from whatever was occurring within the folly.
As much as Malloryn would want to know all the details, the queen deserved a little privacy.
Judging from the guards’ faces, there was no hot tea to be found. Only the wretchedly cold drizzle of water dripping from the lip of her cloak down the back of her neck.
“Well, dash it,” she muttered, frowning a little as a strange sound caught her attention, something rhythmic and—
Hoofbeats echoed.
Gemma turned, palming her pistol and settling into a marksman’s stance. Two riders approached, clods of earth flying up behind them as they thundered toward her. She took a half-step toward them before she recognized the aquiline intensity of Malloryn’s expression and the broad shoulders of her lover.
“Gemma!” Malloryn yelled.
Instinct kicked into gear, and perhaps it was the urgency in his expression or some strange sense, but she whipped around, bringing the pistol up—
A blur of movement whipped into view a half-second before something smashed into her face.
Gemma slammed into the ground, the pistol flying from her palm. Heat and pain obliterated her thoughts. She brought her hands up, curling into a ball to protect herself as a boot drove into her ribs.
One of the guards. Hit her with some kind of weapon.
A pistol retorted.
Gemma lurched to her hands and knees, her childhood training kicking in. The guard had lifted his weapon again, and she threw herself into a roll, half-disorientated and staggering badly as she came up. Blood and ashes. Where was her pistol? Where was the other guard?
Down. Dead. She saw that much.
Oh, heck.
The queen.
She had a split second to make a decision. Driving herself upright, she lurched under the strike and slammed the flat of her palm up into the guard’s chin. His head snapped back, but she hadn’t put as much force into it as she’d have liked.
The world spun, and his weapon—some kind of truncheon—smashed down across her shoulder, tearing a scream from her lungs.
The truncheon whipped back the other way, and Gemma rolled beneath it. Too late. She was backpedaling, on the wrong foot, trying to adjust to her injuries….
Pain hammered through her ear, and this time when she went down, she stayed there. Ears ringing. Blinking through the white lights glittering in her line of vision.
Move. Or die.
She heard Master Rickard’s dry voice cracking through her memories. Saw again the line of children sparring in the Falcon’s training center, where she’d been forged into a child assassin.
Gemma rolled, biting her teeth against the pain. The guard took a menacing step toward her, then his gaze lifted and indecision flickered over his expression.
A shot ricocheted past.
Malloryn.
Obsidian wouldn’t miss.
“Gemma!” Malloryn yelled.
The guard turned away from her, sprinting toward the folly. The queen. Damn it! Gemma scrambled for her fallen pistol, water dripping down her face and obscuring what little vision she had. Malloryn and Obsidian were still too far away, and whilst her lover could snipe a man from several hundred yards with a decent rifle, he was merely competent at riding.
“Your Majesty!” she screamed, grabbing the pistol and cocking it as she staggered into the tree, using it to brace herself.
In the folly, both the queen and Sir Gideon both looked up just as Gemma lifted the pistol.
It didn’t matter.
She was going to be too late.
Because she wasn’t the only one with a weapon, and her arm was shaking so badly she could barely aim the bloody thing.
The Coldrush guard lifted his own pistol, and she saw the queen’s eyes widen
in horror as she realized what was happening.
Her muzzle flashed, and Gemma knew instantly that her bullet hadn’t flown true.
The Coldrush guard staggered, but his pistol retorted in echo to hers.
“No—”
A blur of movement slammed into the queen. Gemma tried to lunge forward, but her ears were still ringing, and it felt like she was moving through treacle.
Sir Gideon and the queen crashed to the ground just as Malloryn arrived, flying past Gemma and launching himself out of the saddle at the guard. They fell in a crashing mess, rolling head over heels.
Malloryn could handle it.
Then Obsidian was at her side. “Are you all right?” he demanded, trying to help her to stand straight.
“The queen,” she said breathlessly. She would never forgive herself if the queen died on her watch. How could she have been so stupid? As soon as she’d swept the perimeter and realized they were all alone out here in the park, she’d turned her back on the guard, lowering her vigilance for one precious second. Simply because she wanted the queen to have some privacy for her romantic rendezvous. She’d trusted a man she hadn’t personally vetted, when she knew someone wanted to kill the queen.
Obsidian nodded and sprinted toward the queen.
Gemma staggered after him, her head still spinning, though she had her pistol cocked and reloaded.
Sir Gideon lay slumped over the queen, his breath coming in ragged pants. Blood flavored the air, and the queen didn’t move.
“Is she hit?” Gemma demanded.
Obsidian hauled Sir Gideon off Her Majesty, his broad shoulders obscuring Gemma’s line of sight.
“Damn it, is she hurt?”
“No.” Obsidian looked up, his mouth tight. “It’s not her blood.”
And Gemma belatedly realized that the blur of movement had been the knight throwing himself at the monarch he loved.
“Oh, no,” she whispered.
“Gideon!” the queen screamed, scrambling upright and pushing Obsidian away. “Gideon!”
And that was when Gemma saw the bloodied mess of the man’s upper chest.
