And Nicolas made four, pushing off the wall and assuming my side. I glanced at him sideways.
“Which did you choose?” he asked, tilting his head for a peek at the title.
“Don’t you have a meeting with the newly-appointed Duke of Demagret?” I replied.
Nicolas waved a dismissive hand. “It can wait. The duke traveled for weeks; another hour won’t hurt him.”
My lips thinned. Behind us, a couple of ladies snickered. I caught one of them imitating Sahra’s little trick on her finger in insinuation.
“I’d rather spend the time with you,” Nicolas said simply, without flourish. Somehow that made it feel more genuine.
I sighed but didn’t protest as he followed me into my chambers. The rest of my group fell back, that heavy door clicking shut between us.
There was an especially comfortable camelback sofa that had snuck its way into my chambers this month, undoubtedly another gift, that I plopped into shortly after entry. A mid-day reading session gave my legs the rest and elevation they needed. Nicolas walked over to the vanity, rifling through my drawers with such a ruckus that I didn’t dare attempt to crack open my new novel.
“A-ha!” he declared, locating my hairbrush. Then he came over, raising it in offering. “May I?”
“Um…sure.”
I turned away, taking my hair down from its loose updo, and put the strap around my wrist. He worked through my hair with surprising gentleness, the repetitive motion soothing as I leaned back and let my hair fall over the armrest.
“Read to me?” he asked.
The corner of my lip curved, but I played along. The faint crack of leather on the spine was satisfying as I opened the book, finding the first chapter. As I began to read aloud, Nicolas finished with my hair, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he slid down to sit on the floor beside my chair, resting his head against my leg. Without thinking, I reached down and let my fingers card through his hair.
He made a strange noise—strange for him, anyhow. Soft and contented. His eyes shut.
“No one’s ever done that,” he whispered.
“Scratched your head?” I continued that gentle motion, nails grazing his scalp. “Not even when you were little?”
Nicolas chuckled drowsily. “Did you forget who I am, Alana? I can see why you would; in here, I’m no king.”
“There are no crowns in the bedchambers, husband. Only man and woman, and in the heat of it, I daresay we are hardly human at all.” I smiled, then continued to read. The story was witty, translating well into Gallaean, but I’d barely initiated the second chapter before a knock interrupted us.
“Gods,” Nicolas sighed. He rose to his feet, dusting off his breeches. “I should make that an executable offense.”
He opened the door to reveal Quinn, who regarded us both with nonchalant goodwill.
“Your Majesties,” he said. “Nic. Duke Demagret awaits your presence in the council hall.”
Nicolas groaned, turning his head back to me before he outstretched a hand. “Come with me?”
I set my book down, peeking at Quinn over my husband’s shoulder. His eyes lingered on me, darker than usual. I blinked, and his gaze snapped away.
We hadn’t talked, Quinn and I, about those many intimacies between us. The dust hadn’t settled quite yet; often I felt as though a storm was approaching, even through the façade of his perfect smile.
Nicolas returned, helping me to my feet. Then he kissed me on the cheek, and I wondered if it was meant in adoration, or as a slight to the watchful viscount.
Chapter 47
In my swollenfingers, the knitting needles felt like foreign objects. Fintrus' chill settled into the Lady’s Chamber despite the roaring fire. My back ached. Hells, everything did. It was all I could do to try and distract myself, but so late into my pregnancy, I couldn’t even manage a simple baby blanket.
Lady Maeve had perfected the craft since adopting the boy from Molehill. He was renamed Elliott, too young to remember his true name.Little El,we called him. “You’re holding them too tightly, Your Majesty.”
“She shouldn’t be knitting,” Angharad grumbled, massaging her head from a hangover. “She’s our queen. She oughtn’t lift a finger in this delicate stage.”
“You are more than welcome to—” I dropped a stitch after managing three crooked ones, and cursed under my breath. “Tojoinus, Angharad.”
