Page 31

A handsome prince with a talented tongue had almost been enough to make Aemyra forget what the spy had whispered to her during the cèilidh.

But not quite.

Aemyra had pretended to be asleep when Fiorean had returned and slipped out of the room before dawn.

Padding toward the kitchen on quiet feet, wearing a simple gray dress, she blended in with the weak light permeating the halls. Aemyra employed the same skills she had used to explore the secret passageways in Penryth and followed her nose to the lower levels undetected.

Warmth reached her skin through the thin cotton of her dress as she approached the kitchen door. The room beyond was already bustling with activity, kitchen maids and cooks scurrying to ready breakfast for those still sleeping.

“Take out that pail before I throw you to the pigs with it, you wee chit!”

Leaning against the doorframe, Aemyra watched the kitchen boy tremble as he retrieved the slops from the corner before Marilde could brandish her rolling pin.

“Glad to see some things never change,” Aemyra drawled.

Three kitchen maids gasped and dropped into hasty curtsies. Marilde barely turned her head from the pastry she was rolling. The last time Aemyra had properly conversed with the cook it had been at Pàdraig’s breithday gathering, when everyone had gotten uproariously drunk and Adarian had woken up in the cowshed.

“Couldn’t wait for your breakfast this morning?” Marilde asked in her deep voice.

Smiling, Aemyra strolled into the kitchens like she belonged there.

The kitchen maids exchanged a look as Marilde wiped her hands on her apron. “Kincaid sliced his thumb off with a knife last week. You’d have been useful then.”

Allowing the cook to steer her into the pantry, Aemyra replied, “My needlework has ever been more suited to stitching flesh than embroidery.”

Scrutinizing a turnip, Aemyra lowered her voice. “Have you news for me?”

Marilde leaned against the crates of produce, utterly at ease in her domain. “Your father is aware of your predicament and pushes toward the Forc with your army.”

Aemyra nodded. She had already figured out that much.

“You would be best served working from within these walls.”

At this, Aemyra frowned. “My father doesn’t want me to escape?” she asked, placing the turnip back atop the precarious pile.

“A queen must think about how best to secure her reign, and how best to achieve that end. Your first escape attempt was a failure, they will be more vigilant now.”

Glancing at the mark of offering on Marilde’s palm, Aemyra was sure there were more who resided within the caisteal who supported her. Together with the servants, they could create an uprising from within.

“There you are!”

Maggie’s exclamation had Aemyra whirling around, heart in her mouth.

“What are you doing here?”

Two bemused dimples appeared in Maggie’s cheeks. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“She heard I was making pork pies this morning and wanted first pick,” Marilde easily supplied the lie and sauntered back into the bustling kitchen.

Maggie crossed her arms over her bump. “I thought you were perhaps avoiding your husband?”

Memories of the night before flooded in.

The way Fiorean’s tongue had expertly met her own, a challenge she wanted eagerly to meet in another kiss at the earliest opportunity.

Flushing, she pushed the thought aside.

“I am always avoiding Fiorean,” Aemyra said, striding back into the kitchen with Maggie trailing her.

This court was driving her to distraction. Why else would she have kissed the man who was keeping her prisoner and whose dragon had killed Pàdraig and Lachlann? No matter how confusing his revelation had been, Aemyra was sure that Fiorean still wanted Evander’s backside firmly on the golden throne instead of her own.

She was feeling lonely and isolated and not at all like herself. That was why she had kissed him. A momentary lapse in judgment was what last night had been. Her focus needed to be on escaping the confines of this caisteal, reuniting with her dragon, and making life better for the very servants who worked around her.

Her husband was definitely not her priority.

But, Goddess, the things Fiorean did with his tongue…

Flustered, Aemyra said the first thing that came into her head. “I thought about what you said at the cèilidh last night, about baking.”

The princess’s full lips plopped open in surprise and her brown eyes landed on the dough resting on the counter.

“Don’t even think about it,” Marilde warned, gesturing with her rolling pin.

“You would deny a princess and an old friend? How is your granddaughter?” Aemyra asked, eyebrows raised.

Everyone in the kitchen held their collective breath as Aemyra challenged the formidable cook.

A sly smile spread across Marilde’s face. Aemyra had delivered the underweight newborn that looked more rat than human. Thanks to her grandmother’s talent in the kitchen, the toddler now resembled a suckling pig.

And happened to be Marilde’s pride and joy.

Thankfully, the cook’s quick mind understood that it would give Aemyra the perfect excuse to return to the kitchens.

Perhaps she could also find a meal down here before the binding agent had been added to it.

Hope surged in her chest. If she had contact with her army and her magic restored, she might actually be able to topple Evander’s reign from within.

“I promise I wouldn’t be a bother. I could knead the dough if you like,” Maggie said politely, cheeks flushing with happiness.

Marilde’s head was bent to her work, looking so at home with her vocation that it reminded Aemyra of Orlagh.

“The rabbits need skinning, if you think your stomach can handle it,” Marilde finally said, without looking up from her kneading.

Maggie paled noticeably at this and Aemyra grinned. “If you don’t do it, she’ll never let you back in here.”

A queen could issue a challenge, but so could a cook.

With a laugh, Aemyra unhooked the brace of rabbits from the peg where they had been hung and handed a skinning knife to Maggie. “Rather you than me.”

Surprising her, Maggie wrinkled her nose and pinched the foot of one rabbit between her thumb and forefinger.

“What is the meaning of this?”

The rabbit dropped onto the wooden board with a thump as Athair Alfred appeared in the open doorway, flanked by two acolytes.

“Why are you unaccompanied?” he asked, beady eyes looking through the room for someone to blame.

Aemyra placed herself in front of Maggie.

“I am chaperoned by the princess, as Katherine ordered,” Aemyra replied.

“There is no authority figure present here. This is an inappropriate place for royal ladies to gather,” the Athair continued.

Looking pointedly at Marilde, Aemyra replied, “I believe the only authority figure you need in a kitchen is the cook.”

The servants kept their eyes averted as Alfred’s lips thinned and the two acolytes beside him moved, their black robes skimming the floor.

“It is time for prayers. We shall accompany you upstairs,” Alfred said.

Maggie made to follow the priests, but Aemyra held back. “I think I’ll stay here. Marilde promised me a pork pie.”

“Breakfast is usually served after prayers, but I believe we shall fast today,” Alfred said, his eyes lingering on the flour that had stained Maggie’s skirts.

Aemyra clenched her teeth. If the delicious smells coming from the ovens were making her mouth water, Maggie had to be starving. “You cannot stop a pregnant woman from eating.”

Alfred lifted his eyebrows at Maggie. “It is always her choice.”

Aemyra waited for Maggie to protest. Instead, the younger woman shot her a pleading glance and Aemyra didn’t resist when the priests restrained her. The whole way up the spiral staircase she imagined how it would feel to sink her dagger between Alfred’s shoulder blades.

“I can walk unassisted,” Aemyra drawled to the priests flanking her.

Their only answer was to tighten their grips. Knowing she was about to have to endure Goddess knew how many hours of droning prayers in the tower, she dragged her feet.

“Oi!”

The deep voice rang out through the corridor and their small party froze as Fiorean hurried toward them. Groaning inwardly, Aemyra’s stomach twisted as she remembered what had passed between them the night before.

“My prince, we located your wayward wife and are bringing her to prayers,” the Athair said.

“Yes. I am positively rejoicing,” Aemyra drawled.

Fiorean’s eyes lingered on the two acolytes and his features hardened.

“Oh, my husband doesn’t take kindly to other people touching me. I don’t think he learned how to share as a child,” Aemyra said, enjoying the muscle that was spasming in Fiorean’s jaw.

Fiorean prowled toward the acolytes with predatory intent.

“Leave us,” he commanded.

With a glare, the leader of the Chosen called off his dogs and marched up the corridor with Maggie in tow. Aemyra turned her attention to Fiorean, willing her facade of bravado not to crack as she met his emerald gaze.

“Don’t expect me to say thank you, I would have freed myself before prayers, I assure you,” she said, ignoring how her heart began to race as he advanced toward her.

Her voice was too quiet, the last word slipping out as barely more than a whisper as Fiorean shoved her into a broom cupboard. Without a moment to get her bearings in the tiny space, Fiorean slammed her up against the door.

“What are you playing at?” he growled. “I woke up to find you missing, none of the servants had seen you, and when I ventured out to ask Nael, his wife was also gone.”

Glaring up at him, Aemyra replied, “And we were having such a lovely morning without you.”

Fiorean looked ready to spit fire. With the heat pouring from his chest, he just might.

“What?” Aemyra asked. “Were you worried about me?”

Her tone was purposefully light, but the smirk on her face died as Fiorean tried to blink the truth out of his eyes before she read it there.

“You were worried about me,” she breathed.

Fiorean looked down his nose at her, doing his best to bring some loathing into his expression.

“Haven’t I proven to you by now that I can handle myself?” she asked, only half joking.

Again, Fiorean didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted the back of his hand to trail his knuckles down her cheek. Her body prickled with goosebumps at the touch, her stomach fluttering in a way it had no business doing.

Unable to deny it any longer, Aemyra admitted to herself that she was attracted to him. It was almost impossible not to be, she reasoned. He was a prince in possession of a tall frame, a pleasing face, and unsettlingly high cheekbones. Not to mention if his kisses were any indication of how he would be as a lover…

“What were you doing in the kitchens?” Fiorean asked, his voice low as he fingered one of her auburn curls.

“Maggie mentioned baking was a favorite pastime of hers in Tìr ùir,” Aemyra replied, sticking to the most believable story.

Fiorean dropped his gaze to her lips and a light sweat that had nothing to do with his magic broke out on her skin, making her breath hitch.

Hearing the sound, he grasped her chin with his forefinger and tilted her face up toward him.

She hated herself for letting him do it.

“Aemyra…”

Her eyes finally met his at the sound of her name and before she could think better of it, she let him brush his lips against hers. Unlike the crushing anger of the night before, this kiss was tentative, questioning. As if Fiorean were asking permission.

That was what made Aemyra hesitate.

Her hands were straining toward him, longing to fist in his hair. Heat was pooling at her core, and she needed to explore the dangerous fantasies she had been entertaining during her sleepless night.

But it was hope from Marilde that stopped her.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered.

Fiorean backed away, eyes on the floor.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she threw herself out of the door and hurried to their chambers, knowing that if she spent one more moment in Fiorean’s presence her resolve would break. Not wanting to be caught by Alfred and dragged to prayers, she dared not wander the corridors either.

When she was safely ensconced in her lavish prison, Aemyra found something poking out from underneath her pillow.

A token in the shape of Brigid’s cross.

Thumbing the crudely made design, she allowed hope to flourish in her chest.

There were acts of defiance all around her. A sliced palm, a network of whispers, a Goddess-token. Aemyra could not let lust cloud her judgment when her people were relying on her.

A blacksmith could take a tumble in the sheets with a rival, but a queen could never take her enemy to bed.