He leans across the table wearing an amused expression, then whispers loud enough for Sir Cathal to hear, “Hunting maidens used to be his favorite pastime. Perhaps youshouldrun. You’d give him the most thrilling morning he’s had in years.”
Warmth floods my face, even though I haven’t been a maiden for quite some time. When I muster the courage to look toward Sir Cathal again, he’s blushing as well. But his impenetrable stare has returned to the gardens.
“Forgive my insistence,” I ask Desmond, who’s slouched with an arm thrown over the back of his chair, “but whatamI doing here?”
“What’s your name, darling?”
“Charlotte. Charlotte Emilie Fitzroy.”
He smiles, as if he’s about to bestow a great gift upon me.
“Well, Miss Charlotte Emilie Fitzroy, you are here to marry me.
“And become queen of the celestial Otherworld.”
Chapter
Eight
Iemit a small, choked laugh, then look to Sir Cathal again.
This time, he’s staring straight at me, pinning me to my chair like a moth in a shadow box. I suspect he has a plan for whichever way I react.
I would hunt you down. And return you.
My mind stumbles over his promise before landing on the least discombobulating piece of Desmond’s information.
I am in the Otherworld, the mythical home of the Fae. Faeries. They’re real. Or so the solid metal chair beneath me, the warm cup heating my fingers, and these twoveryreal faerie men would have me believe.
Either that or heartbreak has driven me mad, tempting me with dreams of a title and a proposal. I realize with a jolt that this is the first I’ve thought about George in hours. How pleasant.
I take another bolstering sip of coffee, banishing him from my mind. “Does the Otherworld not already have a queen, Your Grace?”
“The greater Otherworld has several. But here in the celestial kingdom, we’ve been without one for quite some time. And it’s Des, remember?” His sly wink makes my pulse skitter.
“How much time?”
“To your human perception? Nearly fifty years. Feels like a bit less on this side.”
“What does that?—”
“Lesson number one, Charlotte.” Desmond sighs dramatically, picking at his shirt cuff. “If you want useful answers, you must ask useful questions.”
I pluck a cherry scone from the basket between us, then slather it with butter, buying myself some time to think of ausefulquestion.
“Why has the celestial kingdom been without a queen for…?” I trail off, hoping he might supply the rest.
Desmond leans back, contented. “This is the seventh year since Queen Caer’s passing. She died in the same breath as her husband, King Aengus, to whom her human life was bound when they married.”
I run a quick calculation—a year in the Otherworld is equivalent to seven years in the human realm, or thereabouts. “And why has no one succeeded them? Did they have no children?”
“Our monarchy is not built upon primogeniture. And anyway, a human and a faerie cannot produce a child together. We have a different system for selecting our rulers.”
“I see,” I mutter, not really seeing at all. “So I am to be queen, and you will be my king.”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps? Are you rescinding your proposal already, Your Grace?”
