Aowen smirks, mumbling something that sounds like, “High praise.”
“Tell me something, Your Grace.” Lachlan steps into his duke. They are nearly of a height, but there’s a power radiating from Lachlan that Desmond, despite his title and regal appearance, just can’t match. They are both broad and leanly muscled, so that’s not it. Lachlan’s armed, but I don’t think that’s it either. It’s his presence. Confident. Patient. Calm. A man who needs no more than a stern look to command a room.
He continues, “Securing Miss Fitzroy’s candidacy is the single most important task that anyone in all of Tír na Strelle could be assigned right now, yes?”
“Of course,” Desmond admits with a resigned sigh. As if he knows Lachlan is about to win this argument. As if he has won every previous one as well.
“And the reward for securing her candidacy will be well worth the inconvenience of losing me for several months, surely.”
“Even if she finds the other pieces of the Bannrhorn, I still need to win the Hunt and claim her to become king,” Desmond counters.
“And when that day comes, I will be right by your side to ensure your victory.” Lachlan’s eyes dart to me for a moment, then back to his master. “But we won’t even have the chance if—Danu forbid—any harm befalls her in Season. She needs the best protection this House can offer. That is me.”
It’s not boastful or arrogant. Just a bald fact plainly stated. It launches a fluttery sensation in my stomach.
Desmond sighs again, his shoulders dipping. Lachlan claps a hand on one, then turns to Aowen. “Take Miss Fitzroy back to her quarters and finish packing for the journey. She and I will leave for Tír na Lune tomorrow. You and Vesper should go on ahead tonight to announce our arrival.”
“I’d like a moment alone with Charlotte,” Desmond whines. “In private.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Lachlan bows.
Aowen rises from her chair, and Vesper zips up onto her shoulder. “I’ll wait for you outside, Charlotte.” Her eyes dance with mischief as she whispers, “We’ll bring those dukes to their knees, don’t you worry. They’ll bebeggingto hunt you when we’re done with them.”
I nod, anxious but excited.
“Food,” Vesper chirps on their way out the door. “Trembling food.”
Lachlan steps toward me. “No dallying.” He rakes narrowed eyes over his duke. “He can be extremely long-winded once he gets going.” Desmond scoffs, then shrugs in concession.
I tilt my head back to look up at Lachlan, lowering my voice. “Are you sure about this? It sounds like you have many important responsibilities here. I do not want to cause a rift between you and your duke, Sir Cathal.”
“Miss Fitzroy”—he takes my hand, and every nerve ending in my body stands at attention—“you are the most important person in the Otherworld.” He switches to my mind.I promised to help you. I am a man of my word.Then out loud, “It will be my honor to guard our future queen.” He grazes his lips over my knuckles, and a riotous explosion of heat burns away that fluttering in my belly.
It’s still smoldering as the door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone with the man who hopes to be my king.
Desmond’s sky-bright eyes dull with worry. “You must be careful, darling. Aowen will help you navigate the politics and personalities, and Lachlan will do everything in his power to keep you from bodily harm. I wish I could accompany you as well, but that would be too harsh a breach of Seasonal protocol.”
He moves in closer, lifting my chin with a knuckle. “I’m sorry we won’t have more time together before you leave. But after the Wild Hunt, after we’re married, we’ll have a lifetime to get to know one another. Would you like that?”
“I—”
He doesn’t wait for my answer. Instead interrupts me with our second kiss in less than an hour. It’s chaste. Sweet.
Before I can figure out if I want it to turn into something more, he pulls back and whispers, “My queen.”
Goosebumps pebble down my arms.
Let the grand reinvention of Miss Charlotte Emilie Fitzroy commence.
Chapter
Thirteen
The next day, I head down to the stables feeling like a duke’s confident fiancée, sartorially if not mentally. Aowen and Vesper left me an elegant sapphire riding jacket, butter-soft leather breeches, and a pair of comfortable boots that lace up to my knees.
They also left me some very small undergarments which, according to Aowen, are called panties. Apparently, the women here wear them beneath all their clothing. She was a bit aghast yesterday when I told her we don’t have anything like them in the human world, unnecessary with all the layers under our gowns.
“It’s rather an unpleasant word,panties,” I said to her, grimacing.
