“Are courtly dinners in Tír na Strelle always so raucous, Sir Cathal?”
“You don’t have to call me Sir Cathal all the time, you know. I’d prefer you call me Lachlan.” He leans forward, resting his bare forearms on his thighs. To no one’s shock, least of all my own, they are stunningly formed: corded with muscle, dusted with dark hair, and nearly as outrageous as his lips. The naked sight of them while we’re alone in my bedchamber in the middle of the night feels deliciously obscene. “And yes. Meals at the castle are often lively affairs. They are not limited to Desmond’s court. He prefers to dine with his people and invites a different cohort every night. Offers them access to him, an opportunity to air their grievances or share their wishes for the kingdom.”
I sit up straighter, ashamed I was so focused on my own circumstances that I didn’t pay attention to any of Desmond’s people. Many greeted me quite warmly this evening.
“Can I ask you a question, Miss Fitzroy?”
“If you insist on Lachlan, then I’m afraid I must insist on Charlotte.” I offer a wan smile.
He sends back a brighter one. “Charlotte, then. May I ask you a question?”
“You’ve just asked me two. The same question, in fact. But I suppose I’ll give you one more chance to pull yourself together. I’m sure I’m quite intimidating with my splotchy cheeks and dirty chemise, but if I recall, it isyouwho bites.”
His crooked smile broadens wide enough to pop his dimple. He looks …charmed. Which is quite absurd.
“Only when the request is as polite as yours was.” He leans back in his chair, legs spread wide. A man so sure of himself, so comfortable in his position, he could relax anywhere.
I’d give up my artistry for that kind of self-assurance.
“Do you want to be queen?”
His question catches me off-guard. Do I? I take a deep breath and let everything fermenting in my brain since this morning come pouring out.
“I have neither the skills nor the constitution to go traipsing around your kingdom in search of magical tools, even though back home I’m actually quite fond of nature, but it just seems that perhaps the nature here would be of the variety that might eat me, and I’d rather not die before I’ve reached the age of thirty, not to mention that finding the relic is only half of it, and if I have to charm three faerie men with whom I have not even a species in common, well, I promise that will not go smoothly, so you see even if Iwantedto be queen?—”
“But do you? You’ve offered nothing but a list of reasons why youcan’tbe. If none of that were a factor, what would your answer be?”
“I … I am not sure I would be the best choice for queen.”
“Who cares whether you would be the best choice? Right now, you are the only choice.”
“I feel like it may be a moot point, though. You’re dismissing impossibilities which, I’ll remind you, not a single human woman in seven years has been able to overcome. I know what I am, Lachlan. There are things I am made for and things I am not. For example, I am not made for adventurous quests through faerie kingdoms.”
He brings a hand to his face, rubbing his jaw. “What were you made for then?”
“Long drawing sessions outside in the sun. Eating an inadvisable amount of pastries in a single sitting. Spending a quiet afternoon with a raunchy book and a strong cup of tea.”
“Thought you preferred coffee.”
“In the morning, yes. In the afternoons I … What does this matter?”
“Do. You. Want. To be queen?”
“Well, whowouldn’t?”
“Charlotte.” His voice is stern. Scolding.
I bite back a smile. He’s even more ridiculously handsome when he’s angry.That’sgoing to be a problem.
But I suppose if I do the mental exercise, ignore the difficulties, then, yes, I am tempted to stay here and earn a crown. What better chance to reinvent myself, unyoked by the perception of the snobs in Breton? No one here knows a thing about me. They think I’m the Favourite, for god’s sake.
And Granny Maggie always said that if you weren’t at least a little bit uncomfortable, you weren’t truly living.
I sink back into my chair, mirroring Lachlan’s pose. Maybe if I take up as much space as possible, I might feel a tenth as confident as him.
The move lifts the hem of my chemise, exposing my knees. His eyes flick there before returning to my face, and a faint blush colors his cheeks. It’s so sweet, this small moment of transparency from this powerful man, that I decide to tell him the truth.
“Yes. Yes, I want to be queen.”
