The Queen's Consort (10 page)

             
An approving roar greeted her. Ansel leaned back and watched as she waved at the people gathered along the street. And then he eased a stealthy hand under her skirt to cup her behind.

             
She froze but could hardly react. “Ansel!” she hissed through her rigid smile.

             
“Yes?” he asked innocently, his hands roaming.

             
She squirmed and, by the time they reached the market square, they were both flushed and breathless. Ansel's breeches were so tight that he was a little sorry he'd been so bold.

             
Clairwyn glanced at him through her lashes. Her tongue skimmed over her lips, and he decided that he wasn't sorry at all.

             
The Guard forced the market crowd back and helped Clairwyn down from the elephant's back. They left Ansel to fend for himself, he noticed with amusement. But he stayed close to her.

             
The market was packed solid with a loud and boisterous crowd. The Guard surrounded Clairwyn—and Ansel, since he refused to leave her side—and pushed their way into a roped-off square. The large bags he'd seen before were stacked in the center.

             
Clairwyn opened the bags and filled her hands. Soldiers filtered the crowd, allowing parents and children to move up to the ropes. Clairwyn walked around, smiling and laughing, kissing babies and passing out small commemorative coins, candy, beads, and toys to the children.

             
Tristam shouldered a bag and kept her hands full as she moved along the ropes. “I hate this,” Tristam said to Ansel. “But she will do it anyway.”

             
“Only a monster would attack when she is surrounded by children.”

             
Tristam raised a brow. “If you asked me, only a monster would attack her, ever.”

             
Then here be monsters.
“I'll walk the perimeter,” Ansel said, “and keep my eyes open.”

             
“Uh-huh.” And, clearly, the wiley old Guard would keep an eye on him.

             
Oh well. If their positions were reversed Ansel wouldn't trust himself, either. He wasn't sure he could trust himself now. It was still his duty to kill Clairwyn, and the conflict between his duty and his desires was tearing him apart.

             
He could barely hear himself think above the noise of the crowd, but he thought he heard his name called. Since he was taller than most, it was easy for him to scan the sea of faces before him. About five rows back a young man stared right at him, jumping and waving his arms.

             
It took Ansel a minute to recognize Cordy. He hadn't expected to ever see the boy again.

             
Ansel slipped under the rope and plowed through the crowd until he reached the boy. “How fare you?” he asked.

             
“Wonderfully well, my lord.” Cordy beamed at him. “I have found employment!”

             
Cordy seemed amazed at his luck but Ansel wasn't surprised. Vandau seemed a thriving place filled with opportunity. Cordy was young and strong and, thanks to a week of square meals, healthy-looking. Of course he'd find a job.

             
“I've been made a sergeant in the Queen's army!” he seemed thrilled.

             
Ansel was appalled. “You would take up arms against your own country?”

             
Cordy looked astonished. “No, of course not!” He considered. “Well, maybe Lord Durnham, if I had a chance.”

             
Ansel blinked. Was this the loyalty the feudal system inspired? Would Courchevel's own soldiers turn against their overlords?

             
“At any rate,” Cordy said, recovering quickly, “for now I'm just teaching farmers and city boys how to drill. Marching, maneuvers, obeying orders.” His chest puffed up. “Because I've got training, you see.”

             
The boy's six weeks of boot camp qualified him as a trainer? The Queen's army must be in desperate shape. It was good to know.

             
“Anyway,” Cordy continued heedlessly, “we're to give each recruit one week of training to get the basics down. Then they're to march to Hilltop for more extensive training.”

             
Ansel's internal struggles increased. He had so much to think about, so much to consider. But right now he had a problem that Cordy could help him with.

             
“Cordy,” he said quickly, “today is the Queen's birthday and I have no gift to give her.” He gave the boy rapid instructions, then watched as Cordy disappeared into the crowd.

Ten

             
Ansel fought his way back to the ropes. Once there he had a brief but spirited discussion with a young soldier who didn't want to let him pass. Luckily, Tristam vouched for him before he had to gut the soldier. Ansel was glad. Screams and gore would have put a damper on Clairwyn's birthday party.

             
She was still working the crowd like a pro, smiling and shaking hands. Half of her bags were empty, but the crowd was still massive. The soldiers, Ansel admitted reluctantly, did an excellent job of letting parents through, then directing them away after the children met the Queen.

             
Ansel watched indulgently until he saw that she was starting to tire. She'd been through a horrible ordeal the night before, and he wasn't going to let her exhaust herself today.

             
At least, not here.

             
He wrapped an arm around her waist and turned her away from the ropes. “Time to go home,” he said firmly.

             
“But—” she twisted in his arms, forcing him to half-drag her “—there are still gifts, still children—”

             
“You have to consider yourself.” He clamped her to his side, lifting her until her toes brushed the ground. He gestured for the elephant handler.

             
The crowd parted easily for the huge beast. Ansel hoisted her, still protesting, into the gazebo, then climbed up beside her. Tristam hurried forward and handed up the bags of gifts.

             
“Here,” Ansel said, arranging the cushions for her comfort, “you can toss handfuls to the crowd from here.” And she was out of the sun, off her feet, and distanced slightly from the demands of her people.

             
Clairwyn sighed and rolled her eyes, but smiled. The elephant strolled calmly down the road as she dipped her hands into the bags and tossed the small gifts far and wide. The crowd cheered and scrambled for the gifts.

             
This time it didn't surprise Ansel to see that the crowd stayed good-natured. He saw adults catching the tokens and handing them to the children at their feet. There was no fighting, only laughing and celebration.

             
Finally, finally, they reached the Queen's residence. The elephant was allowed to pass through the gates but the crowd had to stay outside. The immediate decrease in noise was a welcome relief.

             
On the ground Ansel could clearly see how weary Clairwyn truly was. “Tristam,” he said briskly, “have a tray prepared for the Queen and brought up to her rooms.”

             
“I can't,” she protested. “I have guests to entertain.”

             
Ansel shook his head. “Not tonight. You’re too tired.”

             
Her face turned mutinous.

             
“Tell me you're not exhausted,” he said, “and I will sit next to you through the hours and eight courses, chatting politely and entertaining boring diplomats and their fearsome wives.”

             
Her shoulders slumped. “The mere thought wears me out,” she conceded.

             
“Make the Queen's apologies,” he ordered before turning back to her. “Now, can you walk?” he asked her. “Or shall I carry you?”

             
She straightened and scowled at him. “I can walk, my prince.” And she swept up the stairs with the regal grace of the queen she was.

             
He winked at Tristam, who smiled hugely. Ansel started up the stairs before he heard a voice hailing him.

             
“My prince!” Cordy thrust his hand through the gate, nearly losing it to a sword-happy soldier.

             
Ansel leaped forward and swatted the sword away. The soldier looked as if he'd be happy to gut him but, with an obvious show of reluctance, stepped back. Ansel snatched a small velvet-wrapped parcel from Cordy's hand.

             
Cordy withdrew his hand and gave Ansel a crisp salute, which was marred somewhat by the boy's big smile, then retreated quickly.

             
The Guard crowded close, eyes on the parcel. “Uh-uh,” Ansel admonished them, sliding the parcel inside his shirt. “You don't get to search me. If I want to kill the Queen, I don't need a weapon.”

             
The Guard looked at him sourly but stepped back.

             
Tristam edged forward. “Don't goad them,” he told Ansel as the two men climbed the stairs and crossed into the palace. “They are absolutely faithful to the Queen. If they think you're a real threat to her, nothing would save you.”

             
“I'll have to trust you, then, to keep them from sliding a shiv into my back.”

             
Tristam was silent.

             
Ansel clapped him on the shoulder. “I appreciate your caution. But I haven't harmed her yet. And I don't intend to. Ever.”

             
“I appreciate that, sir,” Tristam said cautiously.

             
They reached the Queen's chambers. “And here we part ways,” Ansel said with mock regret.

             
The Guard on duty gave him a baleful glare but let him pass. With a wave and a final smile, Ansel closed the door against them.

             
Clairwyn stood in the middle of her chamber, absorbed by some missive. She finished reading and sighed, then dropped the paper onto the table. When she turned to face him she smiled, but it seemed forced. Her eyes were preoccupied.

             
“Is the honeymoon over?” he teased her.

             
That got her attention and made her cheeks redden. He shouldn't enjoy her blushes so much. He stalked toward her, intent, and reached for the front of her gown.

             
“Hold.” Although color still flared in her face her voice was firm. “I cannot lose another gown, my prince. I shall undo the laces, here. It buttons down the back.” She lifted her hair and whirled around to present her back to him.

             
Ripping and tearing came more naturally to him, but he found a great deal of pleasure in the exquisite torture of each tiny button. As he opened each one he explored her skin with fingertips and lips, moving down the curve of her spine until he knelt behind her.

             
His fingers curled around her waist, then skimmed up her sides to her shoulders. He caught the edges of her dress and pulled it down, down her shoulders and over her hips until it pooled around her riding boots.

             
He lifted each of her feet in turn, pulling her boots off. He stood, letting his hands slide back up her body. His fingers danced over her shoulders and caught her chin—

             
Someone knocked briskly on the door.

             
Clairwyn's startled eyes met his. She dove into the bed, pulling the curtains closed behind her.

             
Sighing, Ansel strode to the door and pulled it open to reveal a servant girl with a heavy tray of food and drink. He lifted the tray from the startled girl and started to close the door on her.

             
She put a restraining hand on the wood panel. “My prince,” she huffed as she struggled to keep the door open, “we need to attend the Queen—”

             
“I shall attend the Queen. Now get out of the way.”

             
She didn't look happy but she did obey, and that was all he cared about.

             
Ansel surveyed the contents of the tray as he carried it to the bed. Fruit, bread, cold chicken, and carafes of wine and spring water. Perfectly acceptable.

             
He pulled back the bed curtain. Clairwyn blinked at him. She had the covers tucked under her chin.

             
“This will never do,” he said disapprovingly. “I just spent all that time getting you naked. It was a beautiful sight.”

             
She blushed crimson and his body pulsed in response.

             
“Where is my bold Highland girl?” He showed her the tray. “Is she hungry?”

             
“She's starving,” Clairwyn replied eagerly. She reached for the tray.

             
“Uh-uh-uh.” He moved it out of her reach and slid it onto the table, neatly pocketing the letter she'd been reading earlier. He turned back to her and waited, hands on his hips.

             
She clutched the blanket higher. “This hardly seems fair,” she complained, “You're still fully dressed.”

             
“You're beautiful. I'm not.”

             
“I think you're very handsome.”

             
“
Handsome is too weak a word to describe him.”
The memory of her words brought out a softer side of him. Until this moment, he hadn't known he possessed a softer side.

             
“Come,” he said. “Dine with me.” He found her robe and held it out for her—a mere six long paces from the bed.

             
“Come on.” He waved the gown at her like a matador's cape before a bull. “Don't be shy.”

             
Clairwyn rolled her eyes but slid her bare legs over the edge of the bed. When her feet hit the floor she darted for the robe.

             
She was fast but he was faster. He dropped the robe and caught her, pulling her close for a long, deep kiss. Before he realized what was happening the kiss became urgent, with thrashing tongues and eager hands....

             
Gasping for breath, he broke it off while he still could, before he flung her on the floor and attacked her like an animal. She had needs, and her need for sustenance was more important than his need to take her.

             
He risked a glance at her. Her eyes were dark and luminous. She didn't seem embarrassed by her lack of clothing. In fact, the way she looked at him made him wish that he had tumbled her onto the floor.

             
Perhaps her need for food was less urgent than he'd imagined.

             
“Here.” For his own peace he handed her the gown. “You earned it.” He tried a brash leer but it faded under her regard.

             
She slipped the gown on and belted it around her waist. Ansel groaned. The sheer fabric of the gown did little to hide her from his eager eyes. It shifted and clung to her curves and tortured him nearly as much as her bare skin would have.

             
He knotted his hands into fists to stop himself from snatching it right off her. Instead, he pulled out a chair and held it for her. He'd never bothered with gallantry before, but he knew how to do it.

             
With a nod of thanks she took the chair. He seated himself opposite and poured goblets of wine for both of them. He took a sip as she loaded her plate.

             
“Hmm. The wine is very good.”

             
She nodded. “It's made from sweet grapes from the southern dessert. With irrigation the vines grow surprisingly well there.”

             
The sweet wine turned bitter in his mouth. It was probably another “gift” from the sheik.

             
Eying him, Clairwyn buttered a slice of bread and took a bite. “Still warm,” she sighed contentedly.

             
Remembering that she had fasted, Ansel frowned. But he also remembered that she didn't know that he had overheard that conversation.

             
He picked his words carefully. “I have heard that it is traditional to fast before your choosing.”

             
“It is.” She cut a bite of chicken. “I broke my fast this morning while you slept. But I still feel half-starved.”

             
He poured a glass of spring water and gave it to her. “Drink,” he urged. Fluids were more important than food.

             
She obeyed, then leaned back to study him as she nibbled on fruit. She watched him steadily as he considered and discarded one topic of conversation after another. He couldn't talk of their meeting baecause of Andromeda's unfortunate demise. He couldn't ask her about anything he'd overheard yesterday because he wasn't supposed to have heard it. He didn't want to bring up her preparations for war because she was mobilizing against his king and country.

             
Apparently her thoughts followed a similar path. “The weather was beautiful today, was it not?” she asked brightly.