“It’s about Prince Marcellus. Apparently, he enjoys his wine.”
She snorted. “Don’t we all?”
“Well.” His tone suggested he was smiling, too. “He likes hisquitea lot. And apparently, he needs it for courage when he’s bedding a woman.”
“Oh?” She didn’t know where this was headed, but her pulse accelerated. Excitement, rather than dread.
“Yes. And I was able to procure a special sort of powder.”
“Special, you say?”
“Yes. Let’s say that, with its use, our next obstacle will be the emperor’s suspicion when you don’t quicken with his grandchild.”
22
It was midday, and Oliver was choking down a light lunch of broth and bread. His fever was down, for the moment, which meant he wasn’t delirious, but he wasn’twell, unsteady and exhausted, barely able to swallow his food without retching.
As he mechanically dipped torn-off chunks of bread and put them in his mouth, he thought, as he did near constantly, of Erik. He didn’t think of him with hope; he wasn’t envisioning getting loose and returning to him, nor of Erik storming the palace to rescue him. He thought of him with grief, and regret, and his love sat heavy as a stone in the pit of his stomach, weightier than the fever that had rendered him sluggish and broken.
He thought of their time together. Replayed the quiet moments: waking before him, and watching him sleep; drowsing after lovemaking, touching lightly and talking to one another in lazy, sated voices. He thought of watching Erik act as king, and then getting him behind closed doors and being the one to massage the back of his neck and assure him he was doing the right thing. Thought of Erik being the one to comfort him. Thought of his heft and heat beside him in bed, and on travel bedrolls.
Compared to his life as a whole, his time with Erik had been so short. And now it was over, because Romanus—hisgrandfather—would never let him go, and he was too sick to be clever, and he didn’t think he’d ever see Erik again.
He wanted to be disgusted with himself for such dire thinking, but something in him was shattered.Oh, darling, he thought toward Erik.I so love you. I want to be with you.
But his body dragged bits of bread through broth and he chewed it laboriously.
Perhaps he should have gone on a hunger strike, but his body was too shaky for that. And so he ate, and the birds called out on the balcony, and he wondered if someone would materialize to stop him if he went out onto the balcony and flung himself over the edge.
As though conjured by such thoughts, the chamber door opened and a slave entered. “His Majesty requests your immediate audience in the solarium.”
Oliver finished chewing, swallowed, and gestured at himself. “I’m wearing a dressing gown and slippers.”
“He’s insistent, my lord.”
“It’s ‘Your Lordship,’” Oliver corrected, to be a stubborn ass, but pushed back from the table and got shakily to his feet.
The usual retinue of golden guards fell in around them as they journeyed down the hall. They took up posts at the door when they reached the solarium, and the slave halted on the threshold to wave Oliver forward with a quick bow.
Bright, midday sunlight poured down into the solarium from its domed glass ceiling, painful to Oliver’s fever-sensitive eyes. He put up a hand in a futile attempt to block it and saw Romanus waiting for him.
The emperor was smiling. Not broadly nor with anything like good cheer. It was a small, hard, self-satisfied smile, pleased that he’d called, and Oliver had come.
If he’d possessed the energy to do so, Oliver would have charged him. No doubt Romanus would laugh at his puny efforts, and lift him, kicking and thrashing, up by his scruff like a wayward kitten. But the personal satisfaction would be worth it.
He halted a handful of strides from the chair Romanus indicated and folded his arms. “What do you want?”
Romanus didn’t display annoyance, but no one around him spoke so rudely; it wasn’t as good as a physical assault, but provided its own kind of satisfaction.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked.
“No.”
“Your fever has broken.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m feeling better,” Oliver lied. He still felt wretched, but was upright and clear-headed. No amount of snow and broth and bread could cure his heartsickness, however, and so he did, in fact, feel bloody awful.
“No, I suppose not,” Romanus said, tone oddly conciliatory. “You’re still in a state of shock.”
