The corner of his mouth twitches yet again, that almost-dimple there and gone in a blink. He inclines his head and begins to do up the laces, slowly, deliberately.
“Oh, you missed one,” I say, pointing.
His fingers freeze. His eyes lift to mine.
“Here, let me.” I step forward and, pushing his hands aside, carefully pull the misaligned lace free. “Hold this,” I add, shoving the gold rose into his hand before threading the lace through an embroidered grommet.
He breathes out a long exhale. Then, in that low rumble of his, which stirs my bones: “Thank you, Princess.”
“No need for thanks,” I reply, fingers crossing the next lace and pulling it through the opposite grommet. “I suppose your unique talent for unlacing ladies’ bodices doesn’t necessarily translate to fastening up your own garments. Not to worry! We all have our particular gifts.”
“I meant for saving my life just now.”
I fumble the lace. It slips through my fingers and falls across that slab of bare muscle and scar tissue. For a moment I stand there, lips pursed, staring at it. Then, with a little sniff and a lift of my chin, I take hold of the lace and thread it back into place, ignoring the way my fingers shiver.
“While I don’t doubt my ability to take down any of the champions either singly or in a group,” he continues, his voice low, his breath warm on my forehead, “I’m not certain I could have made my way clear of the entire palace guard. Some of those men look like proper fighters.”
“Well,” I say, fastening the laces in a secure knot at the end to prevent the whole garment from falling open again, “if you didn’t go around provoking people by flashing your naked flesh in public, perhaps you wouldn’t need saving. Just a thought.”
“Is my naked flesh so objectionable to your eye, Princess?”
I look up at him sharply. “You know exactly what I mean.”
His eyes meet mine, holding my gaze. He must realize that if I had known about that scar of his, I would never have kissed him, not under any circumstances. Does he know the visceralreaction the sight of that raw mark inspires in me? Of course he does.
His eyes narrow. For a moment, I could almost swear I see the murky reflection of memories playing out in the mirrorlike darkness of those orbs. Memories of a boy watching his father burn. Of a child, branded and in pain. Terrified. When I draw breath, I smell the stink of hellfire fumes. What did that boy endure as he fought against such impossible odds? What did this man become merely to survive?
“Perhaps you should take this back,” he says suddenly and holds out the rose I’d pushed into his grasp a few moments earlier. “Otherwise, they’ll think you meant for me to keep it.”
I swallow with some difficulty past the tightness in my throat. Then I pluck the rose from his fingers, twirling the stem lightly. “If you do not offer me your hand,” I say with a pert toss of my head, “the dance will be over before we’ve made a single turn about the floor.”
He blinks. I’ve surprised him, I think. He draws another breath, slowly inclines his chin. Then, first removing his gloves and tucking them into his belt, he offers his right hand, palm up.
Though I’ve not been unaware of the eyes fixed upon us, in this moment the force of those stares seems suddenly to redouble. All of them—the courtiers, the guards, the champions, the king—watching my every move. A single wrong choice, and this whole scenario will erupt into madness.
I paint an enormous smile across my lips. “All right, Seventh Champion. Let us see how well you dance.”
The lyrical melody plucks at my heartstrings. My feet, familiar with the steps, itch with eagerness to move. I place my hand in his, and he slips his other hand to the small of my back. I feel the weight of it there, hot even through the laces and layers ofbodice and corset boning. He begins to turn me, and I hold out my skirts with my free hand, flaring them like fluttering birdwings.
“Do you not know this dance?” I ask when his hand slips free of my waist, and he steps back to make room for me as I perform the more complicated series of steps.
He doesn’t answer, but when the music bids, he takes hold of me again and spins me in a breathless whirl. Guided by instinct perhaps rather than familiarity, he takes care to avoid getting in my way as my feet kick and my arms arch in time with the melody. He acts as a solid center to my energetic orbit. I’ve never danced the Springhopper Jig quite like this. It’s better, I suppose, than the last time I danced it, when young Yeoman Clancil stepped on my toes in his eagerness to pull me closer. Valtar maintains a respectful distance, moving with grace and power if not the sprightliness this particular tune requires.
As we perform the last turn, his fingers brush the bare skin of my shoulder, right across the edge of my scar. Fire erupts from that point of contact, so sharp, so sudden, I cannot tell at first if it’s pleasure or pain. It’s pure sensation, so shocking I miss my footing, step on the hem of my gown, and nearly tumble headlong.
“Steady, Princess,” Valtar says, shifting his grip. His fingers tighten around my waist, offering support.
“Oh gods!” I gasp. “Don’t let me fall on my face during the very first dance. I’m sure my dignity could not survive it.”
“Something tells me you have survived much worse.”
His voice is suddenly close to my ear, and his body is warm and solid at my back. His hand, no longer at my waist, slips to the front of my abdomen, pulling me against him, just for a moment. Just for a breath. But it seems to last an age.
Suddenly, he’s no longer there. I feel a sort of emptiness inthat space behind me, as though without his support, I’m doomed to fall. I catch my balance as he moves to stand in front of me. He bows even as the last lilting strains of the jig fade away into the gloom of thescintil-lit hall. Beyond him, I can see the six champions watching, arms crossed and feet widespread. They look ready for battle and blood. My heart shivers at the sight of them, but I hastily focus my gaze back on my dance partner and drop a curtsy graceful enough to satisfy even Philippa. “Thank you for the dance, Champion,” I say, flicking a glance up at him through my lashes as I rise. “May the gods show you favor in tomorrow’s trial. If you are permitted to compete, that is.”
He looks at me silently, his eyes both solemn and searching. Then he nods.
The next moment, without another word, he turns on heel, leaving me standing in the middle of the floor. Though my eyes try to follow where he goes, the other champions close in, blocking him from sight.
