The Queen's Bargain Page 11

  “Yes, sir.” He was letting her go. He wasn’t going to push. She hurried out of the room but stopped when he said, “You didn’t eat this morning. Get some food in your belly before you leave here, so your legs don’t give out. Understood?”

  Maybe feeling dizzy wasn’t all due to relief. “Yes, sir.”

  As she passed through the eyrie’s kitchen, Marian handed her a hollowed-out roll filled with scrambled eggs, bacon, and cheese.

  “You know he’ll ask you if you ate anything, and you know you can’t lie to him,” Marian said quietly. “If he was willing to use Craft to pin his sister’s chair to the table and keep her there until she ate enough to satisfy him, he won’t hesitate to do the same to you.”

  Lucivar’s sister had been Jaenelle Angelline, the Queen of Ebon Askavi. Jaenelle could have exploded Lucivar’s defensive shields and torn him to pieces, despite his Ebon-gray Jewels, but he still was willing to fight her into the ground if he thought she was ignoring anything she needed to do to stay healthy. Which made no sense, on the one hand, since that kind of fight would have left both of them badly injured—or worse. But knowing he was willing to do exactly that usually had the Queen backing down or negotiating a compromise.

  Unlike Jaenelle Angelline, she wasn’t powerful and she wasn’t a Queen. She’d have no chance to make her own choices if Lucivar started paying that much attention to her.

  Jillian took a small bite of her sandwich. Marian smiled in sympathy and shooed her out of the kitchen.

  “I’ll be back in the afternoon to help with the baby,” Jillian promised.

  She collected Titian, ignored Daemonar’s surly looks, and made them wait—him especially, since he’d been the one who had tattled to his father—until she finished her sandwich. Then they flew to the eyrie that had been converted into a small school.

  * * *

  * * *

  Lucivar’s chest tightened as he watched Marian walk into the laundry room. His darling hearth witch was ill, and there was no denying it even if he pretended along with her that it was just something that happened sometimes after a hard birthing and she would recover.

  Pretending because that’s what she needed from him didn’t mean he wasn’t acutely aware of every aspect of his wife’s health—and would fight her with everything in him if that’s what he had to do to keep her safe. To keep her with him.

  “I don’t know what to do for the girl,” he said as she wrapped her arms around his waist and settled against him. “How can I help her if she can’t tell me what’s wrong?”

  “She’s not a girl,” Marian replied. “She can sense the sexual heat now, so she’s not a girl.”

  “Well, as sure as the sun doesn’t shine in Hell, she isn’t old enough to be considered a woman.” He tried, unsuccessfully, to keep temper and frustration out of his voice. Marian didn’t need either of those things. Not from him.

  She looked up at him and smiled. “Is that transformation from boy to man as hard on your gender as girl to woman is for mine?”

  “Not a question I’m going to answer.” When she laughed, he rested his forehead against hers. “She kissed Tamnar, which Rothvar and I already figured out. Kissed him without permission, which explains some of her moodiness and the boy’s lack of concentration when he’s been sparring.”

  “It was mutual, wasn’t it?” Marian sounded concerned. “I can’t imagine Jillian taking advantage of a boy—and certainly not a Warlord she’s grown up with.”

  “It was mutual, but I think Tamnar is going to be disappointed if he hopes Jillian will continue to help him practice his kissing technique.”

  “There aren’t any other Eyriens their age,” Marian said.

  “I know that.” Just as he knew how limited the choices were for his own children finding Eyrien partners.

  “Did you know what you wanted to be at her age?”

  “I wanted to survive.” By the time he was Jillian’s age, he’d realized that wasn’t something he could take for granted. He was a half-breed bastard in the Eyrien hunting camps, and every man in those camps wanted to put him in the dirt, wanted him to believe he was nothing. Problem was that the boy was already a better fighter than most of them, and the boy grew up fast and hard and deadly. “I’m a Warlord Prince. We’re born to fight—and to kill.”

  “I had dreams when I was her age,” Marian said quietly. “I wanted to get out of the Black Valley, wanted to get away from the drudgery of caring for my mother and sisters, since they made it clear that my being a hearth witch was a family embarrassment and I was beneath their notice—unless I didn’t do a chore they wanted done right that instant.”

  “Bitches,” he said just as quietly. He hadn’t met any of Marian’s family. He still hoped they would be foolish enough someday to come to Ebon Rih and try to contact her. Even if they weren’t that foolish, they would die eventually, if they hadn’t been swept away decades ago in Witch’s purge of the Realms, and then they would end up having a chat with his brother.

  “Being a hearth witch, there are skills I’ve had since I was very young, and there is work that attracts me. So my dreams had a shape. But Jillian is a young witch who hasn’t found her passion yet, and I think this valley is starting to feel small. She doesn’t fit in with the Rihlander girls who are her equivalent age. She might one day, but she doesn’t now.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Let her be moody and unhappy?”

  Marian rose on her toes and gave him a light kiss on the lips. “For now.”

  Lucivar studied the concern in her gold eyes. “What?”

  “Are you going to check on your brother today?”

  “Wasn’t planning to. I have a full day of work in Ebon Rih. Besides, if I show up today, he’ll think I’m worried about him.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  He sighed. “Yeah. I am. But that’s not something I can tell him.” Just like I can’t say how much I’m worried about you.

  “You could tell him that Nurian asked how he was feeling and if he’d like her to make up another batch of those healing herbs for him to take when the headache is just coming on.”

  “I’m not going to lie to him, Marian.”

  “It wouldn’t be a lie if you actually asked her.”

  That would give him an excuse to see Nurian and ask about other things as well. “I can do that.”

  She gave him another kiss and stepped back. “You’re lingering and about to start fussing. Go to work, Lucivar.”

  “I’ll bring something from The Tavern for the midday meal.” She would “forget” to eat during the day if he wasn’t there, so he made sure he swung back home to feed her. She was still nursing the baby and he could see the weight slipping off her—weight she couldn’t afford to lose.

  He flew to the communal eyrie, where Rothvar and the other men waited for him to review the day’s list of duties. Once the other men headed out, he flew to Nurian’s eyrie.

  “Prince Sadi?” she asked as soon as Lucivar entered the room where she made her tonics and healing brews.

  “He’s fine as far as I know. I just wanted to check if he could get another batch of those herbs. . . .”

  “He’s run out already?” Nurian sounded alarmed. “I gave him enough to make up several healing brews. If he’s run out—”

  Lucivar raised a hand to stop her. “I just wanted to let him know you would do that if he needs more.” His eyes narrowed as he watched the tension leave her shoulders.

  “Of course,” she said. “My apologies, Prince. I made the mixture strong, since his headaches were so severe, and it shouldn’t be used in excess.” She thought for a moment. “And it shouldn’t be used by anyone else. You would be all right with that mixture, but not anyone who wears a Jewel lighter than Ebon-gray.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t leave the jar unshielded, but I’ll have a word with his valet j
ust to be safe. Right now, I’d like to encourage him to use the stuff, but I’ll say something to him if it looks like he’s using more than he should.” He gave Nurian that lazy, arrogant smile. “Now, Healer, is there something I should know about my wife?”

  She hesitated. “I’ve told you everything I know, Prince. I won’t deny that I’m concerned, but Marian isn’t the only woman whose recovery after having a baby has taken longer than is usual. It happens. There is nothing for me to heal, nothing to mend.”

  “She’s fading, Nurian. She’s hidden it well, but she’s fading.”

  “I know. All I can recommend is food and rest—and time to let her body heal on its own.”

  He wasn’t sure that would be enough, but he knew Nurian was doing everything she could—and he suspected everything she could do wouldn’t be enough.

  As he stood in front of Nurian’s eyrie, he looked toward the mountain called Ebon Askavi. A century ago, there had been someone else he could have asked for help, would have asked. But maybe there was someone there now who could help. It wasn’t his place to challenge visitors who came to the Keep. The vast library and historical records drew scholars and historians from all the Territories in the Realm. However, the appearance of someone wearing a Gray Jewel was bound to catch his attention.

  His visit to the Keep didn’t take more than a handful of minutes to confirm that, yes, Lady Karla was now in residence and would be staying for the foreseeable future.

  He didn’t think Draca could actually foresee the future, but considering who and what she was, he wouldn’t have bet on it. Didn’t matter at the moment. The sun was up, which meant Karla, being demon-dead, was at rest until the sun went down. He would return then, since Karla had not only been a Queen and a Black Widow; she’d been a strong Healer who had learned some of her healing Craft from Jaenelle Angelline.

  Nothing he could do right now for Daemon or Marian, so he dealt with the work of ruling Ebon Rih. If worry was the whip that pushed him to work harder, to work until his body ached with fatigue, it was no one’s business but his own.

  * * *

  * * *

  Daemon knocked on the door and waited to be acknowledged before entering Surreal’s bedroom. Staying near the door, he tucked his hands in his trouser pockets and watched her transfer the folded clothes on the bed into a trunk.

  “Going somewhere?” he asked quietly.

  “I’m going to check on the family’s other estates,” she replied, not looking at him.

  “Again?”

  “Yes. Again. I’ll be back in a few days.”

  Will you be home and back under my protection before your moon’s blood begins to flow? He’d done a quick calculation that morning while he was in the shower and wondered if her mood last night—and apparently this morning—had a simple explanation. While she should be safe at any of the SaDiablo estates, she knew it was easier for him to allow other males to be around her during the vulnerable days if she was here at the Hall or staying at the family’s town house in Amdarh, where he could count on the staff to assist in protecting her.

  He studied her stiff movements, which usually meant she was primed for a fight. It wouldn’t be prudent to mention her moontime, but perhaps he could make things easier for her.

  “Would you like help draining some of the power from your Gray Jewel?” he asked. Since she couldn’t use her power during those first three days of her moontime, her Jewels needed enough of the reservoir of power drained to make room for the power that needed to be channeled out of her body.

  “No, I already took care of that.” She looked up from her packing but didn’t quite look at him. “But thanks for the offer.”

  She’d already drained the Gray? How?

  “Surreal.” He took a step toward her, then stopped when she instantly snapped to attention, her right hand curling as if holding a sight-shielded weapon. Which was quite possible. “What’s wrong?”

  “What could be wrong?” she countered.

  That evasion instead of giving him a straight answer confirmed that there was something wrong, because Surreal didn’t evade. Something wrong with her? Was she hiding a secret from him for the same reason he was hiding the severity of his headaches from her? Because neither of them wanted to add another problem to a marriage that was turning sour?

  “You’re running away. That’s not like you.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to get in the middle of this ongoing pissing contest you’re having with Jaenelle Saetien over nutcakes,” she snapped.

  “It’s not about nutcakes. It’s about an attitude she’s trying on that can’t be allowed to continue.”

  “Whatever it’s about, I don’t want to deal with it. Is that clear enough?”

  “Very.” His voice cooled, his temper responding to hers. “My apologies for disturbing you. Have a pleasant journey.”

  She picked up a stack of underclothes and threw them into the trunk. Then she wrapped a hand around the bedpost, as if she needed help staying on her feet.

  Daemon crossed the room and had her in his arms before she drew another breath. They sat on the side of the bed, silent, while Surreal shuddered with the effort to regain control.

  “I’m all right.” She pushed at him, but he didn’t let her go. “Sadi, I’m all right.”

  “Would you like to try a more believable lie?”

  She hesitated. “I don’t want to fight.”

  “Since when?”

  She laughed, but it was a reluctant sound. “I just need some time on my own. That’s all.”

  “You would tell me if this was something more?” he asked quietly.

  “Of course.”

  She should have known better than to lie to him when he was holding her, when he was so attuned to her body and her emotions.

  He kissed her cheek and left her bedroom, then went down to his study to review paperwork and write a brief note to Beron, warning him that Manny and Mrs. Beale would be expecting him to bring his appetite when he came to visit. He seldom worried about the young Warlord, who had resided in Amdarh ever since Beron had been deemed old enough to live on his own and study to be an actor. Understanding how fast the leash could be tightened if he didn’t keep in touch with the patriarch of the family, Beron had always been a good correspondent. And while he had his own lodgings, he took advantage of the SaDiablo town house, staying over at least one night a week, which guaranteed he would be well fed for one evening meal and the next day’s breakfast. It also guaranteed that Daemon would hear any significant gossip or concerns about Beron, since Helton, the town house’s butler, would report any activity or association that might endanger the young man’s well-being.

  Daemon hesitated. Should he ask Beron to spend a few extra days at the family’s town house when it was most likely that Surreal would be staying there? Helton would defend Surreal with everything in him, but it would be easier on everyone who had to deal with a Black-Jeweled temper if there was a male member of the family in residence during Surreal’s moontime.

  He felt the absence of the Gray and knew the moment when his wife and second-in-command stepped on the stone landing web in front of the Hall and caught one of the Winds to ride to whichever estate was her first destination. Still, he waited for Beale to enter his study and inform him that Lady Surreal had left.

  “Jaenelle Saetien has gone to school?” he asked.

  “She has.” Beale waited a beat before adding, “The young Lady was keenly disappointed in the lack of breakfast pastries this morning, which I’m sure you’ll notice when you come in for your own breakfast.”

  Daemon set his pen in its holder and sat back. “Is this lack of pastries because of my instructions not to provide dessert or treats, or did Jaenelle Saetien do something to piss off Mrs. Beale?”

  “The young Lady made one or two imprudent remarks.”

  Hell’s
fire. Maybe Surreal had the right idea when it came to abandoning this particular field of battle. Except he couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

  He also wasn’t foolish enough to ignore Beale’s warning that the staff had noticed what he was—and wasn’t—eating and soon would come to their own conclusions about his lack of appetite.

  Pushing back his chair, he said, “I’m sure I won’t notice a lack of pastries while I’m tucking in to whatever dishes Mrs. Beale has prepared this morning.”

  As he followed Beale to the dining room, he noticed Morghann and Khary trotting out the front door.

  “They didn’t accompany Jaenelle Saetien to school?” he asked.

  “They did not,” Beale replied.

  That troubled him, because Scelties didn’t hold on to grudges. Not when they loved the person who had made the mistake.

  “Beale.” Daemon stopped outside the dining room door. “Was I too harsh? I hadn’t intended to cause a schism between Jaenelle Saetien and the Scelties over a nutcake.”

  “I would not presume to have an opinion about how you raise your daughter, Prince,” the butler replied.

  “If my father had asked you that question, would you have offered an opinion?”

  Beale looked him in the eyes—a reminder that no matter what Beale did for a living, he was a Red-Jeweled Warlord.

  “Like your father, you understand the need to draw lines when behavior is inappropriate,” Beale finally said. “In my opinion, you were not too harsh with the young Lady.”

  Relief washed through Daemon. At least he had one ally. But . . . “With Morghann?”

  “Whatever you said to Morghann is not the problem.” Beale sighed. “Trust betrayed is harder to forgive than a shared mistake.”

  Yes. “Thank you, Beale.”

  Opening the dining room door, Beale said quietly, “You can thank me by appreciating the breakfast Mrs. Beale prepared for you.”

  He felt a little fragile this morning, but the headache wasn’t threatening to return in full force, so he found his appetite and appreciated the breakfast sufficiently to please his staff.