“I asked Sir Quinn,” Lachlan continues, “if there was a chance the group was also responsible for the báshound escape, and his response was such a swift, emphaticyesthat the opposite seems more likely. Have you learned anything more about Lady LaBeaumont’s whereabouts that night?”
“Nothing conclusive,” Aowen answers. “She has alibis, but they’re from people close to her. Hard to know if anyone is telling the truth. And Sir Quinn could easily be protecting her on behalf of the duke.”
“If it wasn’t her, then who? Outside of the anti-monarchists, she has the most obvious motive.”
“Are we certain the anti-monarchists truly exist?” Aowen tosses her blanket of raven hair over her shoulder. “I’m still not convinced the duke himself didn’t orchestrate the whole thing in order to swoop in and play the hero. He’s certainly been milking the story for all it’s worth.”
“Perhaps,” Lachlan concedes. “But the duke was still in Farlock’s Edge when the beasts escaped their paddock.”
“He could’ve paid someone to let them loose.”
“Maybe the entire trip to Farlock’s Edge was a ruse to deflect attention from himself,” I add.
Lachlan frowns. “You’ve spent some time with him lately. What do you think?”
I snort a laugh. “On second thought, I’m not sure he’d willingly deflect attention from himself.”
An impression that is proven the next afternoon on what was to be our most promising outing yet—boating in the reflecting pool. The duke couldn’t possibly escape me there. And I was right. He doesn’t. He does, however, spend the entire afternoon regaling the couple in the next boat with stories about his trip toFarlock’s Edge. I’m not sure he realizes I have been rowing the boat the entire time. My arms are more sore than they were after I brandished that sword against Mortis.
He is, at least, marginally remorseful afterwards. Promises to share his clue at dinner this evening.
Where we are sitting next to each other at this precise moment.
And he is most assuredlynotclue-sharing.
He’s spent the entirety of the meal recounting the same tired tale of rescuing me from the báshounds that the table has heard at least a dozen times. There are a few extra embellishments this time—a refusal by Mortis to stand down, a dramatic showdown involving a decorative sword. I suppose I should be grateful he’s included an actual detail from the event. Even if it wasmydetail.
His courtiers’ obsequious smiles, hearty laughter, and appropriately timed gasps egg him on. I want to beg them to stop.
I dig into my entrée—perfectly medium-rare venison drizzled with a port wine reduction, and the only thing keeping me from stabbing my fork into my hand as an excuse to leave the table. I look longingly toward the far end where Aowen and Lachlan are seated together, the former enthusiastically chatting with the group around them while the latter quietly listens.
I would have rather sat with them.
I would have rather cleaned the castle privies with my bare hands.
Instead I cling to my boredom, trying to let it drown out the other, more petrifying emotions percolating beneath my placid surface.
The duke may be boring me, but there’s no doubt I am boring him as well.
And if I cannot turn the tide, I may literally be bored to death.
An hour later,I’m in the tub, furiously scrubbing my hair. Lathery bubbles drip down my face and sting my eyes, and I’m almost grateful for the pain.
The more time I spend with Duke Áine, the less becoming his queen seems like a better option than dying.
I swallow my anger and frustration, dipping my head below the warm water before rising and using a cup to rinse my body. All I want to do right now is dry off, sink into my spiky bed, forget the past few weeks in Tír na Lune ever happened and start ov?—
The door swings open and Lachlan steps in, shirtless. His lips part as he goes preternaturally still.
I shriek and drop the cup, barely managing to get a slippery arm over my breasts and a palm over my sex.
Sometimes when we’re together, plotting or talking or teasing, it’s easy to forget he’s a supernatural being. But right now, he’s every inch the strapping faerie knight.
Veins pop in his right forearm, which is flexed since he’s gripping the door handle for dear life. His broad chest, muscular arms, and abdominals have surely been sculpted of golden marble, and curling around his right shoulder and down his ribs are paragraphs of dark tattoos in the fae script. The few scars he bears—a puckered slash across his left pectoral, a pink half-circle by his hipbone—speak to the dangerous ways he wields his incredible body. And glinting at his right nipple, to my utter delight, is another silver hoop.
I want to tug it between my teeth.
Thediamhránis not fully open at the moment, so hopefully he didn’t hear that thought.
