“My honor has never been in question,” Rangar snapped.
Declan rolled his eyes. “Perhaps not your honor, but your manners. EvenIwould question those. Look at you, my friend. You look like a woodsman who hasn’t seen soap in weeks.”
Bryn pushed herself to her feet and went to stand with Rangar. “They’re right,” she said in an exhausted voice. “You don’t come from a kingdom that cares about manners, but I do. The Mirien and the Wollin are very traditional in our values. We must present ourselves graciously if we want to influence Queen Amelia.”
Rangar’s face betrayed his severe displeasure at the idea of manners.
Phillipa scoffed wryly, “There’s the Barendur temper. No wonder they call you savages. Listen to your wife, Rangar. Now, come on, Declan. Let’s leave them to get cleaned.”
“We’ll send up fresh clothes,” Declan said. “And for the Saints’ sake, comb your hair, Rangar.”
Once the Hytooth cousins had left, Rangar stalked to the window. He muttered to Bryn, “It’s ridiculous. Ceremony and tradition when the kingdoms are in danger.”
Bryn touched a hand to Rangar’s cheek. “Declan and Phillipa are only trying to help.”
“They’re trying to helpthemselves,” Rangar growled. “While you and Phillipa were talking, I asked Declan about Queen Amelia’s succession plans. He confided that she has not designated an heir. Declan, Phillipa, and about ten other cousins are all vying for the crown, and they want to use the grand parlay as an excuse to pressure her into naming her successor.”
Bryn’s eyebrows rose. “So, they think if they help us, we’ll help them?”
Rangar nodded.
Bryn considered this as she gazed at the ocean, toying with the rings on her necklace. “An alliance isn’t necessarily a bad thing. You trust Declan and Phillipa, don’t you?”
“More than the other Hytooth cousins. Declan and Phillipa have an agreement between themselves. She supports his efforts to be named heir, and when he is the king of the Wollin, he will give her Ambrose Castle in the south.”
Bryn squeezed Rangar’s arm. “Then, if you believe Declan would make a good ruler, there is no reason not to support them and have their assistance in return. We can use all the help we can get if Baron Marmose is already here and speaking with Queen Amelia.”
Servants soon arrived with their belongings, as well as water and soap to bathe themselves, and food and wine. Though Rangar was anxious to meet with Amelia, Bryn urged him to take his time. She stripped him of his dusty travel clothes and scrubbed his scarred body, then commanded him to eat and drink while she bathed herself.
He tore into a small loaf of herbed bread, watching her change into one of the dresses Phillipa had sent up.
“Lords and ladies, all these laces,” Bryn muttered as she fumbled with strings. “How do Woll women function trussed up like cooked hens?”
Rangar took a swig of wine, his eyes on Bryn’s bare décolleté as she fought the complicated dress. “You know, thisisimproving my mood, after all.”
At his husky tone, she gave him an unamused look. “It’s hardly the time for flirtation.”
“You were the one who said we should rest. That I should calm my temper.” He leaned back in the chair, letting his gaze drip down her body. “Youknowhow best to ease my tension.”
She managed to tie the final lace and judged her success in the mirror, adjusting the intricate gown over her breasts. Once she was satisfied that she looked presentable, she came over and sat in Rangar’s lap. Wrapping her arms around his back, she said teasingly, “I hardly think the queen will think us well-mannered if we arrive smelling of a recent rut.”
Rangar adjusted his hips beneath her. “Then you need to stop talking about rutting, my sweet.”
She plucked a date from the food tray and stuffed it into his mouth. “There. Let that satisfy your sweet tooth until after we’ve spoken to the queen.”
He frowned as she climbed off his lap and pulled him to his feet. She brushed out his clothes—a crisp white shirt and dark blue trousers—and then unwrapped their crowns from their velvet coverings. She went to the mirror to place hers on top of her curls.
“There.” She placed his crown atop his head next. “NowKing Rangar of the Baersladen is ready to address another monarch.”
At the direction of servants, they made their way through the spacious hallways of Hytooth Palace until they reached the library doors, propped open with small dolphin statues. Before they could enter, a tiny dog shot out into the hall, snarling at them.
Bryn sucked in a breath. “It’s one of his,” Bryn whispered to Rangar.
Rangar growled back at the dog.
More yapping came from inside the library, followed by a man’s voice. “Daffodil, come back here!” The tiny dog yapping at Bryn’s heels did a roundabout and charged back into the library.
Bryn steeled herself before entering.That was Baron Marmose’s voice—I’d recognize it anywhere.
