“We’ll be fine.”
The knight blows out a relieved breath, and Aowen tracks Sabre as he enters the manor, not bothering to wait for us.
Chapter
Thirty-Nine
The salon Sabre leads us to is all ebony-paneled walls surrounding a black brick fireplace. A few dim shardlights barely hold back the shadows and as my eyes adjust, I see a table set for three. Much more intimate than I was expecting, given the courtly dinners in Tír na Lune. Those were spectacles, a jockeying for power, a stage upon which the sycophants performed for Duke Áine.
House Cernunnos is far from that. No more than a single valet and a handful of housemaids appeared on our walk to the salon. And we certainly didn’t spy any courtiers nor even anyone who looked like a family member.
His words from the presentation ceremony tiptoe through my brain:Every soul enters the Afterlands alone, lady.
Does the duke live here by himself? Less witnesses, perhaps, for when he slits our throats.
As we take our seats, Sabre siphons a beam from the shardlight, then jerks his wrist and meals appear on our plates.Unidentifiable beige meat and a medley of bland root vegetables smothered in creamy gravy. I dip my fork into the sauce, then poke my tongue at it. The duke shoots me an affronted scowl that shouts,it’s not poisoned.
I take a tentative bite and not only do I not choke, but the food is surprisingly flavorful for all its lack of appearance. So is the wine.
Or perhaps my taste buds are desperate; I haven’t fed them anything since an apple and oat bar before we entered the luxbridge in Tír na Lune.
I dig into the meal, ravenous, but the silence in the room is deafening. Every chew and swallow is amplified. Not to mention Vesper’s satisfied growls as she digs into the plate of raw meat Sabre conjured for her. He’s generous for a murderer; I’ll give him that.
While we eat, I study him. He’s more severe than handsome, but not entirely unattractive. Thick, dark brows frame a pronounced nose that sits above pleasantly full lips. His eyes appear black, but every so often a flicker of shardlight catches spots of amber or chestnut. His hair is a pile of black waves that can’t decide which way to lay, and two enormous white horns sweep back from his forehead to curl beneath his ears.
For a man who looks so bestial, he is a neat eater. He cuts dainty bites, never switching his utensils—a skill I’ve yet to master—chewing slowly and methodically. After he’s polished off his dinner, he wipes his face, places his refolded napkin onto his plate, and patiently waits for the rest of the table to catch up.
Officially, he’s courting me—or plotting my death, hard to tell—but his attention keeps snagging on Aowen. He glances away each time she shifts, as if he doesn’t want to get caught staring.
Once we’ve finished dinner, he refills our wine glasses, then sits back and rubs his jaw with elegantly-sculpted fingers. He still says nothing, and I cannot tell if it’s because he has nothingto say or if he’s trying to lure us into a false sense of safety before feeding us to his undead pet.
I might be wary, but Aowen is not. “Why did you make that bargain with my brother?”
Sabre shows no evidence that her question has thrown him. “I did not request you, Lady Macán, if that’s what you’re implying. Your brother offered. I accepted. Always good to have a back-up plan.”
“A back-up wife, you mean.” Her bitter laugh sounds more like a bark. “You haven’t welcomed a candidate in Tír na Dubh since the one you killed.”
I search his face for a reaction—clenched teeth, a wince, an eyelid flutter. There’s nothing. He’s carved from the same marble as his great-grandfather outside. If the man truly is a killer, he’s showing no sign of guilt.
“Why now?” Aowen demands. “Desmond would have made you this bargain at any time had you hinted it’s what you wanted.”
“As I already explained, I did not request you. And in any case, the Wild Hunt was not possible before now.” He assesses me, and unease knots my stomach. “It may yet be impossible still.”
Aowen frowns. “Why?”
Sabre swirls his wine glass. I doubt he expected an interrogation on night one of our two-month courtship. But clearly, Aowen is not what he expected either. He doesn’t look entirely displeased. “What I am about to tell you needs to be kept in the utmost confidence.”
Aowen side-eyes him as she asks, “And why should we promise that, Your Grace?”
He takes a slow sip, peering at her over the rim. “Because I’ve asked you to. I am not trying to trick you or do you harm?—”
“No, just trying to marry me against my will.”
“Fate has determined no course for us yet. It could be Miss Fitzroy I marry.”
I imagine myself living in this gloomy, drafty house. Married to this man. Sharing a bed with him. It does not paint a tempting picture.
Sabre leans forward, fully engaged—perhaps Desmond knew exactly what he was doing offering up his sister—and continues, “But there’s a rather important obstacle that must be cleared before any marriage can take place.” He settles into his chair, his features hardening once more. “I do not know the location of my piece of the Bannrhorn.”
