The Demon of Darkling Reach (The Black Prince Book 1) (46 page)

“Tristan,” she asked hesitantly, “what did you mean? At the hunt?”

They were alone and there was no one to overhear what he said, but still he didn’t answer. She’d given up hope of his doing so when he spoke, surprising her. “You and Asher seem to get on well,” he said obliquely.

“I hope so,” she replied. “He’s a lovely boy. And he thinks very highly of you.”

“Yes.” It was a statement of fact, not praise, and Tristan accepted it as such.

Isla wondered, too, what Tristan’s feelings were toward his page—and what his intentions were, as well. She’d been surprised, but also not surprised when Tristan had referred to Asher, to Rowena, as his child. They certainly acted like father and son, although perhaps with a somewhat unusual relationship. Asher was far, far too old for his age and Tristan was nothing if not strict. The situation must, she thought, be terribly confusing for Asher: his new father had killed his old father, and where did that leave him?

Tristan finished his wine. He spoke without lifting his gaze from the fire. What he saw there, Isla didn’t know. “The child has enemies. And not only the kind who want him dead. There are those who’d use him for their own devices, as his uncle did.”

“But you thought someone wanted him dead on the hunt.”

“A great many lives have come to an end during
hunting accidents
. Even under the best of circumstances, legitimate accidents do happen. Especially when grown men have been drinking like foolhardy squires. And who was to say what had
really
happened, when a saddle strap comes loose and a young boy, barely able to ride, falls and breaks his neck? Or a rustle in the bushes is mistaken for a deer?”

“Who?” she asked.

“Rudolph’s mother.”

“Rudolph is too stupid for treason,” Isla protested.

“Yes, perhaps. I’d argue, not too stupid but too noble. He chooses to see the best in everyone and everything, which gives him the appearance of stupidity.” Turning, he glanced down at her. His lips quirked in a brief, wry smile. “I’ve lived a long time, and seen this all before.”

“You think he’s complicit with his mother…in what?”

“I think that, although he’d never knowingly betray the crown, or certainly harm a child, he could be all too easily tricked into providing aid to those who would. Where his own family is concerned, he has a blind spot. As many of us do, I’m afraid.” And for the second time, Isla wondered about his family. And wondered if he’d ever tell her about them.

Tristan had been concerned, it turned out, not that someone would kill Asher but that they’d try to kidnap him. Asher didn’t know it, but he labored at his page’s duties under almost constant supervision. Tristan’s most trusted retainers, his arms master and his master of horse, were responsible for surveilling all of the boy’s movements and keeping him safe. Even on those occasions when Asher had, according to his own belief, crept off into the forest to explore, Tristan had known where he was. Asher’s tutors might have been fooled, but Asher’s guardian would take no chances. And so while Asher continued to believe, as little boys everywhere wanted to believe, that he’d given the world the slip, he in fact lived in a state of security that most kings would envy.

Isla leaned her head against his shoulder. There had been no discussion of what had happened the night before. She still didn’t know what he meant about a
choice
, and was afraid to speculate. He’d walked her back to her room and when she’d seen him this morning at breakfast, it had been as though nothing had happened. He’d been polite and solicitous, amusing them all, Hart in particular, with stories of the capital. And now they were here, together, sharing a quiet afternoon like any other couple.

The mood last night had been electric, the energy between them palpable as she’d struggled to understand what he was telling her. As, after he’d told her that he couldn’t, or wouldn’t make love to her, he’d taken her in his arms again and forced her down onto the grass, his lips still on hers. She’d arched her back, pressing herself against him, on fire with need.

She jumped as a log split and collapsed into the coals, sparks shooting up the flue. The crack of exploding pine knots was like the crack of a longbow firing. Tristan leaned his head back, staring at nothing she could see. Sitting here together, enjoying these all too brief moments of silence, she almost felt like they were married already and sharing a rare calm afternoon together like any other couple. The manor’s soporific atmosphere was catching, and she was content.

“It’s one of the reasons I need to leave soon,” he said suddenly.

“What?” she asked. He’d said
I
, not
we
. She felt her heart sink. He’d promised her all this, and he wasn’t taking her with him?

Just then Alice came in with a jug of mulled wine. Seeing Tristan, she smiled one of her demure-seeming little smiles. She obviously found him attractive but, then again, Isla suspected that Alice would find any man with a fat purse and a strong sword arm attractive. She was hardly known around the manor for her chastity, regardless of what her brother Rand chose to believe.

“Your Grace,” she said, managing to imbue that single salutation with a world of meaning.

She bent to set the pitcher down on the table in front of them, exposing a very generous expanse of cleavage. Tristan watched her with an appraising eye that made Isla nervous. She wondered, briefly and bitterly, if Tristan would be so particular with her maid. Alice, of course, had no pretensions. She knew that Tristan was out of her league, just as she knew that Hart was out of her league. But that hadn’t stopped her from taking Hart up into the hay loft at every opportunity. Alice didn’t want marriage, or children; she wanted fun. And Isla, for some obscure reason that she couldn’t quite name, found her threatening.

Still grinning, Alice left. Her hips swayed from side to side, and but for her small, throaty giggle the movement might almost have been an accident. Alice was one of those girls who managed to exude sex appeal without even trying—or, rather, who knew how to give the impression of doing so without even trying.

Isla tried to abandon this train of thought as unworthy, and found it impossible to do so. Her would-be husband had, after all, just told her that he was leaving her for parts unknown and for, apparently, an unspecified length of time. Her good mood shattered, and she frowned.

“I have a matter of urgent business to attend to, for the king.” He spoke as though they hadn’t just been interrupted, continuing the same train of thought that he’d begun a moment before. “It’s not something I can include you in, and for your own safety.” He turned, meeting her gaze. “But I’m not leaving until a date has been firmly fixed and I’m not leaving you alone. Some of my own men will be staying, as well as my tailor when she arrives.”

Isla was growing more and more curious about this so-called
tailor
. “And when do you plan to leave?”

“I might be here as long as another week. I’m waiting for a message.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice.

“Isla,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle, “it’s alright. You’ll be fine here and, regardless, it won’t be very long. I intend for us to be married before the Month of Elder begins.” The Month of Elder was a northern term; he was referring to what in the south was known as the
Slaughter Month
, the last month of the year save for Winter Month. At Winter Month’s end, the Solstice marked the shortest day of the year and then, with its symbolic death at the fall of night, the gradual lengthening of the days that marked the beginning of the new year. The church had appropriated the holiday as its own, but even the ill-educated knew that the celebration of the Solstice long predated even the earliest church fathers.

“I don’t want to be here alone,” she protested softly, willing him to change his mind. She didn’t want to be here at all, with the sister who hated her and the father who’d almost let her die. That she’d find him and then he’d leave her here, for who knew how long…the thought made her feel empty inside. She squashed a growing feeling of desperation. Not now, not after all this, to have him leave and life return to normal and for it to be as though he’d never been. As though they’d never been. She didn’t think she could stand it. And what—what if he forgot about her? Or changed his mind?

“I know. But I promise, it won’t be for long.”

She let the subject drop. She knew that there was no sense in pushing him, on this or any other issue. Tristan Mountbatten was a man who made up his own mind, without the help of others. He might listen to their counsel, and was confident enough to admit if someone else had wiser, but he was no Rudolph to be poked and prodded and led around by the nose.

At least they had this week; the last few halcyon days of what had begun to seem like a dream. Human beings weren’t meant to be so happy, and Isla knew in her heart of hearts that, as hard as she tried to deny the truth, this newfound sense of bliss couldn’t last.

S
he met him in the grotto, as he’d asked her to during dinner. He’d referenced the place obliquely, while engrossed in conversation with someone else on a different subject entirely, but still she’d understood the message. They knew each other well enough, even after such a short period of time, that his coded phrases posed no challenge to her. And he, in turn, knew her well enough that he was well able to phrase himself in a manner that she understood. Thus, even at the dinner table, they were able to communicate privately. Of course, there were limits to what he could say and limits to how she could respond. It frustrated her, and she found herself counting the minutes until they could be alone.

Some caution was required; there had already been too much comment about how much time they spent together. It was a sad comment on Morvish society, Isla thought, that a betrothed couple appearing too interested in each other was cause for concern. Of course, no one was concerned about
Tristan
. As well as being a man, and thus immune to the greater part of society’s rules, he was a duke in his own right as well as brother to the king. He could do as he pleased. Isla, on the other hand, had encountered the wrath of both her sister and childhood nurse. Rowena had accused Isla of
throwing herself at him
, while Moira had muttered darkly in the background.

So Tristan and Isla ignored each other for the most part during dinner, sharing a plate but confining their conversation to others of their companions. Tristan got involved in a long conversation about horses, and Isla listened to Apple talk about the latest fashions from the capital. She’d heard all about them from the shop in town where she bought her fabric and was thrilled that the horned headdress was making a comeback. Isla forced herself to smile. The image of Apple in taffeta-crowned horns was more than she could stomach. She’d look like the Dark One on a bad day.

And so after dinner, he’d excused himself to converse further with a few of the other men and she’d disappeared to her room, where she’d sat in front of the small fire and brooded. Mabon was near the end of Autumn Month; soon it would be Wine Month, and then Slaughter Month. Each of the months in the Morvish calendar was named after the activity that principally occurred within it: Wine Month, the first month of fall, was when the grapes, blackberries, and other wine-making fruits were harvested and wine production began. Slaughter Month was when the animals were slaughtered and their meat cured. Feeding an animal through the winter was expensive; all but the richest of householders dispensed with their stock, saving only what they needed to reproduce the herd the next spring.

Winter Month brought the Solstice and then, with the turning of the year and the birthday of the entire kingdom came Fore Month. The Month of Sales was when seeds, farm equipment and other spring necessities changed hands, in anticipation of the coming thaw. The oldsters joked that Spring Month was
in like a lion and out like a lamb
, but in truth Spring Month was wet and raw from beginning to end. By Grass Month, the first of the heather began dotting the Highlands and by Flowers Month, the grass itself had finally arrived. Summer Month brought the warm weather, Border Month the incursions from the north, and Month of Harvest the rabid dogs and humidity thick enough to cut with a knife.

Which brought them back to Autumn Month. Isla sighed. Her marriage, and the freedom it promised, seemed very far off. She waited another half an hour or so, stirring the fire in a desultory fashion with the slim poker she kept for such purposes, before she got up to leave.

She got up and, throwing her cloak over one arm, walked across to the door. She opened it, and there was Rowena. Her sister brushed in past her, ignoring her startled exclamation. “And just where do you think you’re going?” she asked, without bothering to turn. Instead, she stopped in front of the window and stared out into the night.

“I…out,” Isla stumbled, “for some fresh air.”

“Hah.” Rowena turned. “You’re going to meet him.”

“And what if I am?” Isla challenged.