Ansel's expression softened, and combined with the smile, it was like seeing a fraction of his mask disappear. She wondered if he'd ever fully removed it.
"Come," he said, and led her over to the wardrobe. She followed, even more confused, and he pulled open the doors fully. Pushing aside the dresses, he revealed the back panel, against which he pushed hard. To her astonishment, it slid open at his touch.
"A door," she whispered. "A hidden door. What?—?"
She stepped forward into the wardrobe and peered through the opening inside. There was a small room with a simpler bed, a chair, a desk, and a chamberpot inside. It was not particularly comfortable-looking, but neither did it seem to be a prison—infact, it was startlingly like the maid's quarters back at Blackthorn Castle, only with one bed instead of four or six in each room.
"This room is secured. When ye enter, ye may lock the secret door from inside so that naebody can enter without yer willingness," Ansel explained. "When the attack comes, ye will hide in here until it is over. I will teach ye a secret knock so that, when it's over, I can come and fetch ye and ye will ken that it is me."
He displayed the knock, a succession of five different movements with different strengths, and made her repeat it until he was satisfied. They exited the wardrobe back into the main room, and Ansel closed the secret door behind them before closing the wardrobe doors as well.
"What is this, Ansel?" Neala asked, his first name escaping her lips before she could stop it.
His pupils contracted a little at that, and he turned to face her, standing a little too close. Her body yearned for the tiny gap between them to close even more, but she kept herself very carefully still, trying to ignore her traitorous longing.
Despite her impropriety, he did not correct her on her form of address. Instead, he simply answered the question.
"This is yer room," he replied, his voice unfairly calm and even compared to the wildness that was flooding through Neala right now. "Naebody will bother ye or harm ye while ye are here. Naebody will dare."
"I dinnae understand!" Neala exclaimed, her frustration and need and the overwhelming conflicting emotions from being in this castle in the first place wiping away her common sense and caution. "Why did ye bring me here? Why would I have me own room? Am I nae supposed tae be yer maid?"
Ansel did not react to her outburst. He continued to stare at her with those intense eyes and spoke quietly. "Ye're me guest," he replied. "Ye are here because I wished it."
"But whyme?" Neala demanded.
His response was surprisingly matter-of-fact. "Two reasons. Firstly, ye're the only person who has so easily caught me traps in chess. I may have still won, but yer insight and perception presented me with the first real challenge I've faced in a long time from anyone, man or woman, servant or noble. I would like ye tae use these values tae aid me in findin' gaps and weaknesses in me real plans and strategies."
Stunned, Neala opened her mouth to answer, but no words came out. He brought her here because he wanted… her opinion? As a woman? As a servant? How could he value such things? And how could it have gone so wrong? The whole point of the Sparrows' method was that women and servants, and especially those who were both, could blend into the background. What had she done—how had she ended up here, where she had somehow managed to fail at that without even trying? And why did Ansel care about what she thought?
"Are ye satisfied?" he asked, seeming a little amused. That disarming, genuine smile was back, and it was driving her to destruction. He was standing so close she couldn't bear it.
"What… what is the second reason?" she asked.
He tilted his head, obviously in silent question.
"Ye said there were two reasons. What was the second?"
"Oh." Ansel's smile faded, though his frown didn't seem to be directed at her. Instead, he seemed thoughtful. He reached out and, seemingly without thinking, tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. It must have come loose during the ride. Neala felt the heat of his skin so tantalizingly close to her face that she had a mad urge to turn and catch his fingers with her lips.
What was going on in her mind? She wanted to shake herself. She didn't understand what he was doing to her, and she was so frustrated by it all that she wanted to scream—especially as he seemed so unaffected.
She forced herself not to react outwardly. "Oh?" she pressed.
"It's simple. After a lifetime spent amongst me father's men—indeed, even more so, a lifetime with me father himself—I ken what they are like. I ken whatheis like. I saw how he interacted with ye the day I dueled James O'Sullivan. I heard what he said tae ye. I saw the hunger in his eyes, a hunger I've seen many times before. I heard how his guards were talkin' before I found ye in that room." He grimaced, shaking his head. "A quick-witted, bonny lass like ye with a bit of fire tae ye? Nay. There's nae way ye would have lasted alone in Blackthorn Castle with naebody tae protect ye."
Neala wanted to snap that she could protect herself, but thankfully, she managed to hold her tongue. Instead, she allowed her sense to take over again, and caution rose within her. She, too, remembered the king's hunger and the way her skin had crawled when he touched her. She, too, remembered the thrill of fear she'd felt when she'd thought she'd have to fight or even kill those men to protect herself before Ansel intervened.
"Why would ye want tae protect me?" she asked carefully, desperate not to offend him but needing to know the answer. "What… what do ye wish for in demand for such protection?"
His eyes narrowed, and the genuineness vanished. The mask was back on in a second, and Neala knew that she'd said or implied the wrong thing.
Coldly, he asked, "If I told ye tae disrobe right now, Abby, would ye do it? If Iorderedye, as yer prince and yer master, tae lay on this bed and reward me for yer protection, would ye obey?"
There was a correct answer, Neala knew it—the answer that any sensible servant girl would give. That it would be an honor to be chosen in such a way by the prince. That his wishes were her command. That she was his to do with as he pleased.
And he was so close. Her body grew warmer at the idea of being held in his arms, here in this room far from any war or prying eyes, held close to him with nothing in between. Her pulse quickened as she imagined those lips pressed against her jaw, her throat, his strong hands holding her, exploring her, claiming her, and her own body conquering this man who should have been her enemy in a way beyond anything she'd ever dreamed.
She didn't want to admit it, but it was true. Those ideas, those thoughts, were intoxicating. If he asked her, here and now, she would go to him, and she would make him hers, and give herself to him. It would be foolish, traitorous even, but she longed to know what it felt like. For just that moment, if he asked, she would not be Neala, Princess of the McNair clan, and he would not be Ansel, son of the False King. They would be a man and a woman, drawn together by hope or fate or destiny, and everything else would cease to matter.
