Page 2 of A King’s Trust (Heart-Mage Trilogy #1)

2

NOT EVEN THE GOOD TALL TALES

I f one more waiter offered him the godsdamned champagne tray, Beau was going to lose his entire mind.

It was bad enough to be wearing itchy new clothing, stiff with embroidery, sweating through layers of fabric in this too-warm, too-loud room. Even worse to be confronted by lady after lady with cunning light in her eyes and a fake smile plastered across her mouth, each introducing herself with grating mock-humility and elaborate curtsies. Adding to all of that the insult of the constant temptation to drown his sorrows was too much.

A woman approached, his age or slightly older, her dark hair piled so precariously on her head he wondered how it didn’t topple off as she swayed closer. In his mind, he ran through the portrait cards his decorum tutor was making him study in excruciating detail until he matched one to her pretty face. “Lady Roben,” he muttered to himself. She was on the short list of marriage contenders.

“Your Highness,” she said, dropping into the deepest curtsy of the night, her long neck bending in a way that reminded him strongly of a water bird. “Lord Arshakuni told me I simply must ask you about your time on a merchant ship. Is it true you were accosted by pirates?”

Beau bit down on a sigh. This made the fourth version of that question tonight, not to mention the number of times he’d retold the tale at the last three balls. But she couldn’t have known that. It must be the only interesting story to make its way off the isles. At least she wasn’t talking about the weather or the ball itself or any other inane small talk.

Summoning a smile, he said, “Yes, I sailed on the Siren’s Lament for several months. It wasn’t quite the adventure people imagine, but it was honest work and I learned a lot. We were boarded by pirates as we passed through the Evenstar Strait and had to fight them off.”

She gasped with the theatrics of a trained actress, and Beau fought heroically against a smirk. “Was it terribly frightening?”

“It wasn’t exactly a lounge in a hot spring,” he said dryly. He lifted his left arm, showing her the pink scar along his thumb that traced up the outside of his forearm. He pointed, too, at the top edge of the scar peeking above the collar of his coat along his neck. “I’d been in the captain’s quarters. I was late to the fight. A member of the boarding party gave me a few good swipes, as you can see. But I prevailed in the end.”

The now-well-practiced summary. No need to get into the gory details of how many people he’d had to kill; how deep the blade had cut into the meat of his shoulder to chip his shoulder blade; the screaming as the cook sewed him back up, sprawled on his face on a galley table with a wooden spoon between his teeth; the unceremonious dumping of the dead off the sides of the ship when the wounded had been tended; the detached horror of swabbing up blood and bits of flesh off the deck. They didn’t want to hear those things. They wanted just enough excitement in their small talk to flavor it, not enough realism to spoil the taste.

Talking about it always brought back the sound of the chain-and-bar shot from the oncoming ship as it tore through their rigging, and the feel of the captain’s hands on him as he shoved Beau into his quarters and told him not to come out under any circum stances. Captain Ahirrim had raised the flag of no contest. Pirates would take their spoils from merchant ships and go; it didn’t have to be a fight, and Ahirrim didn’t want his crew killed.

But once they boarded, someone said ‘prince.’ And when the captain wouldn’t hand Beau over to be ransomed to the crown, all hell broke loose. Beau couldn’t bear it. He’d tried to give himself up, but by then the copper tang of blood was in the air and men slipped in their friends’ entrails trying to reach their enemies. Beau knew how to fight with a sword; he’d been trained. But he’d hesitated when pirates spotted him. He tried to speak first, to surrender.

The cuts the pirate made in Beau’s body hadn’t even registered as pain at first, just cold shock. And when his sword rose to protect him by instinct, by training, flesh parted like silk. His hands twitched, remembering the force it took to slice through muscle, the twang of tendon snapping under a sword edge, the horrible, buzzing shock of hitting bone.

He’d killed at least four people. No one had given him the final count. The Siren’s Lament sailed right back to the isles and put Beau off the ship, which was fine by him. He’d lost his taste for sea adventure. Lost his taste for all violence, in fact, and hired Elias to do his fighting for him not long after.

Lady Roben noticed the twitching of his fingers and smiled as though he’d done it on purpose to draw attention to them. “You must be an exceptional swordsman,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes. He found the calculated flirting immensely off-putting. “I suppose the skill runs in the family. Prince Charmant was always happy to show off his bladecraft at my exhibitions—”

Her eyes widened slightly then, almost as if she hadn’t meant to say that. But Beau was certain she weighed her words too carefully for a mention of his brother to have been accidental. Beau’s pretense of a smile dropped, and he narrowed his eyes at her.

What was her game, exactly? Why bring up Char? Did she think to ingratiate herself to Beau by suggesting she’d been close with his brother? The idea that she could come over to him, a scant handful of months since his brother’s death, and use Char’s name to gain access to him prodded the prince into almost incandescent fury.

At that moment, a grey-robed waiter appeared at the prince’s elbow with a tray. “Wine, Your Highness?”

Beau growled at the man in frustration before he checked himself. The waiter stumbled a step, trying to bow and back away hastily at the same time. Raising his hand as though he could physically smooth over his reaction, the prince said, “No, thank you. I don’t want wine. Please don’t send anyone else over here with wine!”

“Of—of course, Your Highness,” the man said, ducking into another deep bow before fleeing with all haste and dignity.

“No wine?” Lady Roben sidled closer, dropping her voice like a co-conspirator. “From the stories I’ve heard of you, I’d never have expected to hear you turn down a glass of something as fine as what the Duchess of Untillia provides.”

“You don’t know anything at all about me, my lady,” Beau said flatly, holding steady eye contact so she couldn’t miss his seriousness. “Not even the good tall tales. Whatever you came over here to get from me, it seems unlikely you’re going to get it.”

She flushed pink, dropped her eyes, dipped into a much shallower curtsy, and fled.

Beau sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in the hopes of preventing the building headache. Was this to be the rest of his life? Standing around meaningless, boring parties, conversing about nonsense with people he cared nothing about? Married to one of them?

Elias nudged him with an elbow, and Beau straightened, trying to look less bored and irritated. “I was under the impression you were attending balls to get to know the noblewomen who are trying to be nice to you,” his First said under his breath. “Not to growl at anyone who got close like a feral dog.”

“Maybe I should go full feral?” Beau whispered back. “Howl at the moon, bite a lord or two? At least then they’d have an interesting story for the next ball so they’ll quit asking about the fucking ship.”

“As much as I’d love to hear you explain the bite marks to His and Her Majesty, I don’t think it would do much for your image of ‘dutiful son doing his best to fall in love by season’s end.’ Undo your top buttons. You’re always irritable when your clothes are too tight.”

Beau nodded, loosened the neck of his shirt, and set off into the ballroom in search of someone—anyone—with whom he wouldn’t mind dancing. Halfway through his circuit of the candle-lit grand hall, he caught a flash of beautiful fawn skin, a dark tumble of curls, and two deep brown eyes watching him with a cold, uneasy expression: Lady Penamour.

His feet stuttered to a halt. He’d spoken to her a handful of times in the lead-up to the wedding, always perfectly politely. Beau had managed to evade interactions with her at the previous balls, despite his mother’s ham-handed attempts to shove him into conversation, but he’d already swung too close to her. If he changed course, it would be obvious he was avoiding her, and everyone was watching. He took a step closer, staring at the way her fine emerald silk skirts pooled on the floor around her.

Flicking a glance up at her, he offered a brief, polite smile. “Good evening, Your Grace.” He should’ve said more, but his mind was empty of words that fit the shape of this silence.

She was a stunningly gorgeous woman, but so entirely unapproachable. He didn’t remember her being that way before Char died. Her full lips pressed into a flat, tight line before opening to say, “Are you enjoying yourself, Your Highness?”

“Uh…” Beau half-laughed. “Sure.” She watched him so intently, so unhappily. Had he done something to anger her? Was she upset he hadn’t picked up his brother’s pledge where Char had dropped it? “Are you?”

She flicked her head to toss her curls over her shoulder, and it made her nose ring flash. That was interesting; he hadn’t seen many other ladies with piercings anywhere but their ears. “The Duchess of Untillia throws a beautiful event.” It didn’t really answer his question, but perhaps the unhappiness of her face was answer enough.

“Would you care to dance?”

Now where the fuck had that come from? His mind scrambled for a reason his mouth might have formed those words, but by then it was too late to call them back. Belatedly, he bowed his head and extended a hand in offer.

Her face tightened, hardened—not from fear or anger, but a skepticism so deep it almost made him doubt his own intentions. Despite the expression, her voice was honey and smoke as she said, “Of course, Your Highness. I would be honored.”

Something about the combination of sultry voice and the elegance of her hand as she set it on his made him wish she was someone other than his brother’s fiancée, the savvy politician and frigid conversational partner.

He guided her to the dance floor as a new song began and stifled a sigh. This particular dance had fussy steps, and he and the lady would only be within speaking distance every two or three turns. He missed dancing at The Powdered Hops on the isles, swinging people around, clapping, the genuine delight when the musicians played an old favorite. No steps to memorize, no rigid forms, just taking hold of a partner and twirling.

He’d give his left hand to dance that way with someone who looked like Lady Penamour.

Not her , of course. Not the most intimidating woman in the kingdom, who’d been engaged to his brother. But someone who looked like her.

They began a foot or so apart with a low bow and a curtsy, which she twirled gracefully out of as the music picked up. Beau’s part had him making a statelier turn in place, the anchor she’d return to, so he was able to watch her and plan what he intended to say. He hadn’t quite decided when Lady Penamour spoke first.

“I’m curious, Your Highness,” she said as their turns brought them closer. “What have I done to tick to the top of your list of obligatory dances this evening?”

Beau’s head cocked to the side. In a sea of dishonesty and pretense, here was someone who said exactly what she meant—albeit with open disdain for him. The dance swung them away from each other, circling around another pair of dancers before they returned face-to-face. “It was happy happenstance. You see, I was in the mood for something genuine,” he said, smirking into her distrusting brown eyes. “And here I’ve found very honest dislike for me. Would it be too presumptuous of me to ask the cause?”

She blinked, brows drawing down like he’d confused her. The music carried them through the steps, and they each lifted a hand to almost touch, his left hand mirroring the motions of her right. They rotated in place, and his fingertips buzzed strangely where he didn’t quite touch her.

Then she turned her face away and the dance spun her around another couple again, and he had to watch his own step to avoid collisions on his circuit.

“Does the interest and admiration of the entire court bore you so much?” Lady Penamour said, speaking before they were quite close enough. Again, they lifted their hands, though now they did touch, the back of her hand resting against the back of his as they turned. He was hyper aware of the smoothness and warmth of her skin against his knuckles.

“Only their scheming and dishonesty. I prefer to be openly despised over false kindness.”

Her smile held syrupy sweetness. “I’m always happy to oblige.”

“What have I—” His question cut off as they spun away again, more quickly this time, two couples sweeping in between them. Beau rushed his steps to get back to her and say, “What have I done to you, Lady Penamour? We barely even had a chance to speak during the wedding preparations, and we haven’t said a word to each other since Char—”

“ Don’t .” The word came out harsh. Swept away by the dance, Lady Penamour visibly braced herself, jaw tight as she ground her teeth. Why was she on guard with him?

It was their turn now to dance as a unit, bowling through the other couples on the floor. As soon as she was in reach, Beau set a gentle hand on the lady’s hip, extending his other hand for her to rest her fingers on; instead, she gripped it like an iron vise, and the hand on his shoulder could’ve been trying to break his collarbone for all the pressure she used.

He danced her through the couples, eyes mostly on her, since he knew the others would be twirling out of their way. “Will you answer a question for me honestly, Your Grace?”

“If you answer one of mine in return,” she said, eyes cold. She didn’t need to watch what went on around her, since he led; she could stare into his soul, weighing and measuring.

“A fair trade,” he said, looking up to make their turn at the corner. He lifted her hand to turn her, and she obediently spun in his arms, resettling with no loosening of her grip as they swept back to the other side of the room. “Your hatred of me…do you associate me with my brother’s death? Or resent me because I lived and he died? Is it something else?”

An emotion, dark and raw, passed over her face, curling her lip—grief or scorn or disgust, he couldn’t say. “I…” Her voice grew husky as she said, “I do associate you with your brother’s death, yes.”

They reached the opposite corner and Beau released her. She sprang away, trading curtsies with the ladies dancing on either side of her. The three of them rotated in their own ring while Beau danced a few steps with the men. Eyes on her, he flubbed the forms.

When she returned to him, they raised both hands and stood palm to palm—so hot , the air between their hands—in a line alongside all the other dancers. The whole group took mincing steps sideways, bouncing on every third beat.

“My question now,” she said, and Beau nodded.

With quiet, burning intensity, she asked, “Now you’ve gotten Charmant out of the way, do you have everything you wanted?”

Her eyes bore into him like augers, and Beau stumbled back a step, breaking the line of dancers. Each word struck him like thrown rocks. Stunned into stillness, he became an inconvenient island in the dance, couples edging around him uneasily or breaking away altogether as they watched to see what was the matter.

Lady Penamour danced on as if she’d said nothing, but she watched him. He couldn’t breathe. A whole storm of grief thundered its way onto his face.

Is that truly what she thought of him? That he’d be pleased his brother was dead? That he wanted a throne more than he wanted Char beside him? Or…the words played back to him: now you’ve gotten Charmant out of the way. Did she think he’d had something to do with Char’s death? How could he have? It was an accident. Going hawking hadn’t even been Beau’s idea; it’d been Char’s, and the other nobles who’d gone along had seemed pleased enough, until Char slid out of his saddle and his neck made that sound, that awful sound.

He was going to be sick.

Elias stepped onto the floor, concern writ all over his face, but Beau waved him away. This was already turning into a spectacle. He tried to pull himself together.

As the dance trickled past him again going the other way, he stepped into the gap in line and put his shaking hands against Lady Penamour’s slightly damp palms. In a strangled voice, Beau said, “Char’s death took absolutely everything from me, Lady Penamour. If there were any way to trade places with him, I would.”

Her eyes narrowed, suspicion alight in every curve and feature of her face. He couldn’t bear to see her not believe him, to see her think he’d manufacture public grief and privately rejoice in the loss of Granvallée’s best and brightest son.

Thank the gods the dance was winding down. He made his bow and fled the floor, sensing Elias’s return to his shadow. He didn’t stop and say his goodbyes to the hostess, didn’t meet anyone’s eyes as he marched down the drive.

A footman sprinted ahead, trying to bring his carriage up before he reached it, but it met him only a few feet from where it’d been parked.

“Take me home, El,” he said to the guard as the carriage began to move.

“We’re headed that way.”

Beau shook his head. Not to the palace. Not to the soulless, empty rooms full of expensive shit from all over the world. Not to the whispers and lies and scheming and bowing and belief that Beau had wanted his brother dead so he could snatch a fucking crown.

Elias switched seats to crowd in next to Beau, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. He was so steady, so solid. It took every scrap of energy and will Beau had left not to rest his head on El’s shoulder. That was too intimate; not his right. Instead, he drew strength from the quiet reassurance Elias’s presence always gave: I’m here, I’m never leaving, and I will protect you.

“Do you think I’m secretly happy Char is dead?” Beau asked, needing to hear Elias’s steady, solid answer.

Elias breathed out sharply, a quiet scoff. “No, I don’t think you’re ‘secretly’ anything. You loved your brother. You grieve his loss. And you grieve the life you would’ve had, had he lived. Anyone who believes otherwise simply doesn’t know you.”

“Take me back in time,” Beau said, hardly loud enough to be heard over the noise of the carriage. “Put me on his horse instead.”

“No.” Elias’s refusal was so firm it felt like a rebuke. “Not even in your imagination, Highness. You were meant to live. You were meant to lead. Even if it breaks your heart to be the one to do it, you’re going to make this kingdom better than it was.”

Beau closed his eyes and tried to soak in Elias’s belief. But all he could hear were those baffling, hateful words again and again: you’ve gotten Charmant out of the way.