Lucy stood, frozen in shock, as he pressed a brief kiss to her lips and then released her.
“Two days,” he repeated, before bowing and resuming his journey up the stairs.
Lucy touched her lips with trembling fingers, wondering how such a slight touch could cause flame to sear through her body. She turned to watch his broad-shouldered, muscular form climbing the stairs and shivered.
Ian was King Padraic’s captain of the guard, and all knew he had earned the post. He was easily the king’s best warrior, best leader, best. . . everything. To hear him speak words of treason - on her behalf - was too much to comprehend.
But she could still taste his lips on her own.
“Lucinda!” Glory’s shriek echoed off the stone walls and through Lucy’s skull. “Get down here now!”
Grabbing a fistful of her skirt in either hand, Lucy took a deep breath and resumed her descent.
Two days, he’d said. Much could happen in two days. And, considering she’d be following Glory around the entire time, probably none of it would be good.
The dining hall was a scene of utter chaos, and Lucy nearly ran over Glory, who’d stopped dead at the threshold. Fae lords stood nearly nose to nose with the lords of the court and members of the palace guard, and all of them were engaged in shouting matches. At the high table, the king sat blinking in disbelief or - more likely at this late hour - sheer drunkenness.
“Glory, I think maybe we should return to our rooms. This looks as if it could go very badly, and I fear for your safety,” Lucy said, speaking loudly so that Glory could hear her over the cacophony.
“Very good idea, your Highness,” Ian said, suddenly appearing at their side. Only now he held a very sharp and deadly sword loose and ready in his hand. “I would feel much better if you were both to retire before these . . . debates . . . get further out of hand.”
Glory tossed her head and flashed her most dazzling smile. Lucy had seen human lords, princes and kings hypnotized by that smile. Even the lesser Fae lords were not immune to Glory’s beauty when she chose to employ it.
Ian, however, never even blinked. “Now, my ladies.”
Glory somehow looked down her nose at him, though Ian stood several hand spans taller than she. “I recommend you consider to whom you are speaking, guardsman.”
“If I had not considered that, Princess, I would have thrown you over my shoulder and carried you upstairs before you could endanger yourself and the Lady Lucinda,” Ian said evenly.
Lucy’s eyes widened, expecting Glory to throw one of her legendary tantrums, but to her surprise the princess only laughed. “Oh, there is no danger to me. This is the night I am to be engaged to wed,” Glory said, almost absently, her gaze sweeping the room.
“What?” Lucy caught Glory’s arm. “What? You did not tell me. Who is it?”
Glory shook her arm free, then smoothed down her skirts. “I don’t know yet, of course. Come help me find out who had the most difficult time sleeping last night on those horribly lumpy mattresses.” Her laughter tinkling like the sound of tiny bells, Glory lifted her chin and floated into the room like the delicate flower she had never, ever been.
“Oh no,” Lucy moaned. “The peas. This is going to be really, really bad.” Casting an apologetic glance Ian’s way, she raised the skirt of her dress and hurried after the princess.
Ian wanted to break something. Or someone. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of one of the fanciest of the elven lords staring at Lucy. Oh, yeah. He definitely wanted to break someone.
The Fae prince was dressed all in green and gold, signifying that he was the highest of the treaty lords here to negotiate. Elvania’s neutrality had long made it the perfect site for the renewal of treaty agreements between the various Fae factions. They came, they ate everything in sight, they ran through serving maids as if women existed only to give them pleasure, and then they departed for another year; if not pleased than at least content. From the look of things as they stood now, pleased wasn’t on the table, and content wasn’t looking very good, either. But if one of the lordlings thought he’d sample the pleasures Lucy might have to offer, Ian had a sharp objection to make. He grinned and glanced at the honed steel of his blade. A very sharp objection.
If he could keep his mind off how Lucy would look in his bed: that lush dark red hair spread across his pillow, those lovely breasts uncovered for his hands and mouth to touch and taste.
Or how she would look when he wed her, with flowers in her hair and his ring on her finger.
She was his, as he’d reminded her, and that meant his to protect in this madness. Ian tightened his grip on the sword and shouldered his way through the battling lordlings after Lucy. Although she’d easily slipped through the crowd, he took a certain grim pleasure in shoving his way through to the king’s table. One of the Fae lords Ian elbowed out of the way drew his dagger halfway out of its sheath, but a look at Ian’s face seemed to give the elf pause. A true Fae would never back down from a fight, but of course a fight could be avoided. The lordling suddenly seemed to find something on the opposite side of the room to be fascinating.
Just as Ian reached the single step leading to the king’s table, the princess’ sharp, clear tone cut through the room. “I beg your pardon, my lords and ladies,” she said with an arrogance that made it clear that - in spite of her words - she would never and had never begged anyone’s pardon, ever. The room fell silent as everyone turned to face her. “I understand there wa
s some problem with your rooms?”
Not without admiration, Rhys watched the deceitful little princess pose her deceitful little question. Some problem with the rooms indeed. Of course he’d found the iron pellet the moment he’d stepped into the very grand and overdone room assigned to him; of all the myths surrounding the Fae, that one was true. The higher-born the Fae, the more critically sensitive to iron.
Great power always seemed to come with great weaknesses, which seemed to Rhys itself to be a weakness in the basic ordering of things. Not that he’d ever voice such a supposition. To admit to even the slightest touch of philosophical thought would ruin his calculated image of languid boredom.
To that end, he adjusted one of his jade-green lapels, yawned and then raised one eyebrow. “Problem?”
A faint look of disgust moved across the princess’ face so quickly that another, lesser being might have believed he’d imagined it. Rhys knew better. This reaction to his affected pose was exactly as it should be.