I turn back to the duke. “Forgive my ignorance, but … where precisely are we?”
“Precisely? The veranda of my castle in Tír na Strelle.” He leads me to the table and shoos his knight away.
I wrack my brain for a seed of recognition, but I have never heard of a city, town, nor even a collection of cottages called Tír na Strelle.
The duke pulls out a chair. “You should eat.” He rounds the table and picks up the carafe. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
He fills my cup, then adds a teaspoon of sugar and a generous helping of cream. It’s exquisite, rich with a bitter edge. I help myself to an egg cup, then crack the shell with a spoon. The yolk is warm and runny; just how I like it.
As I munch my divine breakfast, Sir Cathal pipes up from where he’s leaning casually against the balustrade. “Did you send the declaration to the other Houses?”
The duke’s previously pleasant expression sharpens. “Do you think me a fool?”
“Depends on the day.” Sir Cathal chomps into an apple.
“I sent it as soon as you informed me you’d retrieved her.”
“Good.” Sir Cathal nods, turning for the steps.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
The knight glances over a pauldroned shoulder. “To help with the preparations.”
The duke grins. “I think not. You can stay right here. Stand behind us and look menacing.”
Sir Cathal polishes off the apple. I never knew it was possible to eat fruit angrily, but he pulls it off. He chucks the core over the railing. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
“He is rather good at that,” I offer, trying to ease the tension.
“Good at what?” the duke asks.
“Looking menacing.” My eyes dart to Sir Cathal. The faintest twitch lifts the corner of his mouth. Better than the scowl that was forming.
“Yes, well, at least he’s good for something.”
“What would he do if I leapt from this table and ran away?”
The duke scratches his temple. “And why would you do that?”
“Well, I have no idea where I am nor what your intentions are. Nor even what your name is.”
He presses a palm to his chest. “Duke Desmond Macán. You can call me Des.”
“Can I? Seems a bit informal. Is that what all your subjects call you?”
His eyes twinkle. “I do not have subjects. Yet.”
I cock my head, confused.
Desmond adds softly, “There are many rules to this game we are about to play. You will be embroiled soon enough. For now, eat. Relax.”
I try to do as he’s asked, managing the eating part far better than the relaxing part. But my eyes won’t stop drifting toward the hulking tower of armoured muscle standing at attention behind him. “But whatwouldhe do?”
Sir Cathal’s deep blue eyes bolt straight toward me. “I would hunt you down. And return you.”
My excitable heart lodges somewhere in my throat—entirely thewrongreaction for his answer—and I glance back at Desmond.
