Page 23

ALISTAIR

Fuck. What am I going to do about Tremaine?

A headache pinches my temples at the thought of having to request yet another delay from my father. Will Elinor relent if he refuses?

At least one problem has a straightforward solution. I stride over to my guard and prod him with the toe of my boot. “Othmar.”

“Sir? I wasn’t asleep, I swear it. Resting my eyes but wide awake.”

I don’t care if he was sleeping on the job. He has been a serviceable if not spectacular guard. Now he will have an opportunity to do the kind of service that will set him up for life. “How would you like to be promoted?”

He blinks at me. “Are you quite well, Your Highness?”

“I need a favor. If you agree to it and follow through, I’ll grant you land and a title above the rank of knight.

Manage your estate properly, and you’ll never need to swing a sword again.

” Something must be done about that tumbledown country house of Tremaine’s.

Now that he’s dead, ownership reverts to the crown.

Not that anyone knows he’s gone just yet.

Worse, I can’t even prove he’s dead. Rolling Tremaine’s body in a carpet and hauling him out of the cellar was a grim task, but I should have thrown his corpse onto the pavement instead of into the moat.

Made it look like a suicide. Killian wouldn’t have made such an amateurish mistake.

What a mess I’ve created for myself. I must produce a reasonable facsimile of Tremaine.

One good enough to fool his own daughters.

Then, I need to find a way to make Tremaine die publicly, immediately after the wedding’s conclusion.

Impossible. But if Elinor needs to see her stepfather give his consent to our marriage in order to feel secure in our union, then she will have it, no matter what dark arts I’ll have to resort to.

“I’m quite fond of my sword,” Othmar says, interrupting my churning thoughts.

He doesn’t appear to intend anything untoward by this statement. How did a man this wholesome manage to survive in the barracks? A mystery for the ages.

“Unless you want to,” I agree easily. I don’t care what he does with his weapon as long as he performs this one service for me. “But it’s a commitment.”

“What kind of commitment, Sir?”

“The marital kind.”

Othmar blinks stupidly. “Marriage?” His voice squeaks like a teenage boy whose balls have just dropped.

“To Lady Anastacia Tremaine.”

He relaxes immediately. “I do like a girl with—” He mimes a curving motion with both hands. “You know. Big ones.”

“Yes, I understand some men have a penchant for a certain physique.” How fortunate for me that Othmar’s preferences match Lady Anastacia’s description. “Is that a yes?”

He nods eagerly.

“Tomorrow morning, then?”

“Tomorrow?” He gapes at me in shock. “Won’t I have to secure her father’s permission first?”

A dull ache throbs in my temples.

“I shall have it by morning. I strongly suggest you spend a few hours getting to know your bride.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Actually, on second thought, why not make it a surprise proposal at breakfast?” Gods help me if he decides against the wedding upon closer acquaintance. He’s not marrying the girl for her personality, after all.

“As you wish, sir.”

“Stop calling me ‘sir.’ I’m not your commander.”

“Yes, Highness.”

One down, one to go. I expect it will be more difficult to find a willing husband for Drucilla with her maimed foot, perpetual scowl, and vicious tongue—although I have an idea where to look.

When I was frantically reviewing the land records looking for clues to Elinor’s identity, I came across a name that might solve at least one of my problems.

But first, my father wants a word with me. The grayish cast has deepened. His eyes have sunk into his skull. He cannot stand, so I am summoned to his room. Pungent odors of tinctures and concoctions meant to soothe his cough permeate the air. I gag. How his nurses stand the smell I cannot fathom.

“I want to know if you will marry your lady tomorrow as planned,” he wheezes.

“Ah…not quite. I need more time.” I wince as I say it. The king rolls his eyes. “Not much. A day. Two at most.”

“What is the holdup this time?”

“I beat her loathsome stepfather to death. I wasn’t thinking about needing his permission for her to wed.

Legally, I mean.” A grimace seizes my face.

I am not giving my sire the impression that I’m ready to lead an entire country, and I know it.

“Nor was I thinking about what I would tell her sisters.”

“Let me guess. She says she won’t marry you unless you can produce him in the flesh.”

“More or less. Elinor also wants her sisters to have husbands.”

The king scoffs. “That would take years.”

“I think I have a solution.” I explain what I have in mind. “I only need twenty-four hours or so. We could be married, say, the day after tomorrow?”

“There will be no more roadblocks,” my father says.

“None,” I say with utter confidence. Unwarranted confidence.

I can forge a letter granting Tremaine’s permission, but what will I say to the vile Tremaine sisters when their own father doesn’t show his face at their joint wedding?

Even I, the king of liars, can’t think of an untruth convincing enough to sway Drucilla. As awful as she is, she isn’t stupid.

Nor do I know how to summon Killian down from his monster-infested mountain. The last time I tried to contact him, Briar sent her pet dragon to scare us off. The gate to Thorn Mountain was locked and barricaded with magical vines.

Imagine. The onetime dragon hunter now consorting with the fae beasts.

“I am counting on you not to fuck this up,” my father gasps out. “I cannot hold out much longer. Tomorrow at midday, you are walking down that aisle. If not with Elinor, then with another woman. Understand?”

“You shall have your dying wish,” I vow. Perhaps vows don’t mean much when spoken by a liar, but for once, I mean what I say. Elinor has set me a nigh-impossible task to win her hand, but I will have her at my side if it’s the last thing I ever do.

* * *

The dank castle dungeon makes my private pit of despair look as bright and clean as a surgeon’s operating theater.

Squalid hay reeks of human filth. Dark shapes moving in the shadows make it hard to tell where rats, mice, and other vermin end and humans begin.

The conditions should make my target particularly open to a discussion of what would be required to obtain a king’s pardon.

I try not to breathe in the smell as I stride after the prison ward. His hunched back and rattling chatelaine of iron keys suspended from his waist make an oddly cheery jingling sound with every step. He moves quickly for one with a deformity.

“Back,” he snaps at a feeble hand reaching between the bars, swatting it with his baton. “Die already, ye violator of children. Ain’t nobody wants you among the living.”

This could have been Tremaine’s fate. A public trial would have been unavoidable, though, and Elinor would have been subjected to withering scrutiny.

As much as he deserved to be tormented by sitting in his own waste for the next twenty years, I’m glad he’s dead.

Nor is it lost on me that if I weren’t a prince and word got out about how Tremaine’s fate came to pass, I would be the one left to rot down here.

We arrive at a cell that’s in better condition than the others.

A hand broom sits in the corner next to a bucket.

The floor is relatively clean. The occupant, Lord Layton, was imprisoned for tax evasion.

He’s fifty if he’s a day, and prison has taken a toll on the condition of his teeth, but his eyes are clear and cautious when the hunchback clicks a key into the door of his cell and opens it.

“In ye go. Ten minutes is what we agreed. His Lordship ain’t the violent type, but if you have any trouble, give a shout.”

Layton looks at me expectantly. “Forgive me, Your Highness, I would have cleaned up if I had known to expect a visitor.”

A skinny black cat winds around my ankles. I step away. The damned animal curls around my leg again, meowing. How did the damned thing get in here?

“Lord Layton, would you like to be pardoned for your crime?”

“Is that a trick question?”

I shake my head.

He chuckles. “I’ve become accustomed to my humble surroundings.

The rats aren’t so bad if you eat standing up and don’t drop any crumbs.

Keep your cell tidy, and the mice won’t visit.

There’s not much to be done about the mold, though.

” His eyes shoot to mine and hold. “What must I do to gain my freedom? Kill a rival prince? Fight a fae beast?”

“Worse. Marry a harridan of a woman.”

Lord Layton laughs outright. The cat won’t leave me alone. Her rusty purr vibrates against my calf.

“Is that supposed to be a hardship?”

“She has the most vicious tongue in all Belterre, and she’s ugly to boot.

” There’s no point in trying to gloss over Drucilla’s flaws.

“She’s been using magic to glamour her looks for so long that I don’t believe she would recognize her own face if she saw it in a mirror. She’s cunning, vain, and desperate.”

“Is she at least kindhearted?”

“Not remotely. Plus, her foot is mangled.” I leave out the part about how that happened. “The healers couldn’t repair the damage, but she should be able to walk with a cane.”

“Canes can be elegant.”

He doesn’t seem to notice the cat. I don’t like animals, but for some reason, I bend to pick it up. The creature settles in my arms, vibrating with a purr.

“If you agree to marry this wretch, sight unseen, tomorrow at midday, you may be freed this evening to be cleaned up. Once you have held up your end of the bargain, your name will be cleared and your land returned to you. You will pay your taxes fairly henceforth.” I stroke the animal’s soft fur.

“You must be a truly incompetent hunter to be so thin when prey is everywhere,” I tell it.

“I agree to your terms.” He squints at the cat. “Never seen one around here before. Must’ve slunk in through the bars. Lost, is my guess.”

The little creature follows me with unwarranted optimism as I exit the prison with Layton in tow.

I turn him over to Othmar to get cleaned up and properly dressed.

I missed dinner for this visit. I’m not sure how I will convince Drucilla to agree to a marriage she doesn’t want.

The stubborn woman would thwart me just for entertainment.

I must find something she wants. Use it as leverage. What does she like?

Money. Magic.

I could offer her a supply of glamours to conceal her maimed leg. The other sister will want them, too, but that can be arranged. As long as they keep using the stuff, I can always threaten to have them arrested for possession of illegal potions if either Tremaine sister gets out of hand.

“What am I going to do? Think, Alistair. You’ve been in tight spots before and you always managed to fib your way out of them.” Yet this time, I promised not to lie.

I set the cat down on the floor of my bedroom. The scent of the supper I ordered brought up fills the room. The bed where I made love to Elinor just a few hours ago remains rumpled and unmade. I open the chafing dish cover and extract a bit of chicken, and bend to place it before the cat.

Only to find myself staring at a pair of black women’s boots.

“We meet at last, princeling,” a woman’s voice purrs.