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For a moment, Jocelynn was frozen, like a deer startled by hunters, as she looked at Owain’s furious gaze and the knife gripped firmly in his right fist. Looking at him, her mind flashed back to a time several months ago, at the Summer Villa, when she asked if her sister suffered before she died.

"Of course she didn’t suffer," Owain had told her, as he stroked Jocelynn’s hair. "She may have been a witch, but for a few hours, she was my wife. I gave her a clean death. A single stroke of my sword. Swift, merciful. She was your sister after all," he said gently. "She deserved that much."

"...a single stroke of my sword..."

The knife in Owain’s hand filled her vision, and she wondered if he could kill her with a single stroke of his blade.

"Did she use witchcraft on you?" Jocelynn had asked that night, so many months ago. "If she hurt you in any way..."

"As if I would give a witch the chance," Owain said fiercely, as if he was insulted that Ashlynn could threaten him in any way, even with the powers of witchcraft.

"... as if I would give her the chance..."

The words echoed through Jocelynn’s mind, and for a moment, her world trembled as Owain’s furious gaze broke open the lock on her doubts about what had happened that night between him and her sister.

But now wasn’t the time to doubt, nor even the time to ask.

Now, as she saw his normally warm gaze growing colder by the second, she had to act before.

.. before he decided not to give her a chance.

"My lord," Jocelynn said, dropping to one knee beside him, resting both her hands on his knee and leaning forward to look up at him through quivering lashes.

"You know my heart is yours, now and forever more.

Loman is kind, handsome even," she admitted, only to tremble when she saw Owain’s eyes narrow at her honest appraisal of his brother.

"But he is no hero," she added quickly. "He cannot lead the people of Lothian March, no the future Lothian Duchy, because he lacks your strength, your drive, and your courage," she said, piling up heartfelt praises on the man she loved lest he doubt her genuine affection.

"No man in the world is more perfect than you, my lord," she said, lowering her gaze to the floor as if she couldn’t bear to see him looking at her with hostility.

"I would never betray our love," she added softly.

For what felt like an eternity, Owain said nothing, simply looking down at the kneeling figure of Jocelynn Blackwell as he struggled to suppress the surge of rage that overwhelmed his heart and senses.

After all that he’d done for his father, all the battles he’d fought against demons on the Southern Steppe or even in the dark forests outside the Vale of Mists, after traveling the entire breadth of the country just to negotiate with merchants on his family’s behalf. ..

After everything he had done to show his father that he was strong enough to take up the throne, to win the battles that even his mighty father couldn’t, it had come to this.

His father wanted to give the throne to the sniveling coward who had run into the safe shelter of the Church’s mighty walls while his brother risked life and limb against the demons.

And to make matters worse, he wanted to give away his precious Jocelynn, who adored him like no woman ever had, seeing his courage and brilliance in equal measure. Jocelynn never doubted him, never scolded him, or told him that he should have done something better.

During the long negotiations with those scheming, greedy merchants, she’d written to him several times to reveal their wicked thoughts and seemingly harmless demands that would have placed him at an even greater disadvantage but she’d never once suggested that he should have noticed their devious ploys the way his father insisted he should have.

Instead, she made it clear that it was because he was too upright and honorable that the deceitful and power-hungry merchants sought to take advantage of him.

"Oh Jocelynn, my Jocelynn," he said, relaxing his grip on the knife and reaching out to gently stroke her hair in much the same way he had during their conversation at the Summer Villa. Only this time, she wasn’t sitting next to him, pressed up against him and filling his nose with the soft scent of the sea that clung to her like an exotic perfume.

This time, she was kneeling before him, offering him a view of her perfect, pert assets nestled in the soft pale silk of her dress like a pair of prized Blackwell pears, and her enticing vulnerability trembled with a hint of intoxicating fear that stirred his desire to conquer her this very moment.

"How could I ever doubt your love," Owan said smoothly, though he made no move to lift her from the floor of the small dining room. Jocelynn was as beautiful and regal as a proud swan, and he would never see her kneel like this in public, but he couldn’t resist the feeling of power that swelled within his loins when he looked at such a proud beauty lowering herself to her knees before him.

"Now tell me, by sweet pear," he said with a smile that didn’t manage to appear as affectionate as he perhaps thought it did. "How deep is this betrayal? If Father intends to give my throne to Loman, then what does he intend for me?"

"He, he said that the bargain with the Church must be kept," Jocelynn said with a slight catch in her voice as she was caught off guard by the gentle smile on her love’s lips that never reached his cold, piercing gaze.

"He intends to offer you to the Templars to take Loman’s place if Loman ascends the throne. "

"But, my lord," she said quickly, hoping that Owain wouldn’t misunderstand and lash out at his father because of her words.

She was already walking a fine line with the Marquis, and if Owain confronted him directly, she was afraid that even if Owain could still secure the throne, his father might not bless their union.

"He hasn’t made up his mind," she explained. "We still have time to help him see that there’s only one choice if he wants to see Lothian March reborn as the sixth Duchy. He’s given us until the end of the year to show him that we’re capable of leading the march to greatness.

Together," she said, moving her hands from his knee to his muscular forearm, pulling his hand from her soft hair to the center of her chest so he could feel the heart that beat for him and him alone.

"I’ve been making plans. Would you like to hear them? "

"I told you before, my sweet," Owain said, relishing in the feeling of her soft skin beneath his fingers. "You don’t need to worry yourself with such matters. I will find a way to deal with my father, one way or another." Even as the words left his mouth, he recalled how her subtle warnings about the merchant guilds had saved him from several embarrassing missteps. A woman’s place wasn’t in politics, he reminded himself firmly, and his dealings with the sharp-tongued Isabell only reinforced his opinion, yet somehow, Jocelynn’s insights often proved useful in ways he couldn’t explain.

"But," he added, pulling her up to her feet and into his lap, delighting in the feeling of her soft thighs and firm buttocks pressing against him.

"If it would delight you, my Jocelynn," he said, reaching out for a piece of pickled fish and spearing it with his knife to offer to her.

"Then I will listen to the music of your every word while you share your thoughts with me. "

He would, of course, be the one to determine which parts of her plan were worth implementing and which were merely the fanciful notions of a woman’s mind.

After all, listening to her had a way of helping him to form the most successful plans, though he’d never say as much where others might hear.

If she’d thought of something that had been beneath his notice, it could save him quite a bit of trouble later on.

"In that case, my lord," Jocelynn said as she pressed herself up against Owain’s sculpted chest, feeling his warmth through his tunic and drowning in the rich scent of sweat and sandalwood soap that clung to his body.

"I think we should plan a trip to visit your Steward Hugo’s father, Baron Hanrahan.

He may have just what we need to draw things to a close with the Guild Masters. .."