They come to a stop outside the door to her chambers. “Come in, I’ll look at your wound.”
Nicolo nods before glancing down at the empty goblet he carries. Gisella follows his gaze.
“I’ll go down to the kitchens to refill it,” she says, taking the goblet from him. “We don’t want to risk the king’s temper if you dawdle.”
* * *
—
Beatriz leads Nicolo into the small parlor off the entrance to her rooms, where she finds a maid cleaning the fireplace. The maid stands up when they enter and drops to a curtsy.
“Daniella,” Beatriz says. “Lord Nicolo tripped up the stairs and cut his face. Will you send for a physician?”
Daniella’s eyes dart to Nicolo, to the cut he’s covering with the scrap of lace. “Of course, Your Highness,” she says, bobbing another quick curtsy before hurrying out the door.
Nicolo fixes Beatriz with a glare. “I don’t need a physician,” he grumbles. “And if I’m not back with more wine soon, the king will have my head.”
Beatriz isn’t entirely sure that’s an exaggeration. “I know,” she says, rolling her eyes. “But how else was I supposed to explain bringing a boy, alone, back to my rooms when my husband is not home, if not by a medical emergency?” she asks.
Nicolo clears his throat, glancing away from her. “Fair enough, but I can’t stay and wait for a physician,” he says.
“I know,” she says again, gesturing to a high-backed chair next to the fire. “Sit there, I’ll be right back.”
He follows her direction and she slips from the parlor into the bedroom, returning a moment later with a clean strip of linen torn from one of Pasquale’s nightshirts, a bowl of water, and a clean washcloth. She feels Nicolo’s eyes on her as she approaches him, wary but curious.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” he asks her. When she glares at him, he holds his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m only saying, I wouldn’t expect a princess to know how to treat a wound. Besides, back in Bessemia, don’t you have vials of stardust lying around, ready to heal every splinter and scratch?”
Beatriz gives a snort as she dips the washcloth into the water and brings it up to the gash on Nicolo’s temple. “I never used stardust, remember?”
“Ah yes, because you were horrified by Bessemia’s sacrilegious ways,” he says, amusement coloring his voice.
“Besides,” she interrupts. “I know how to clean a wound because my sister Sophronia can be clumsy and our mother would always give her the worst lectures whenever she hurt herself. It was easier for me to take care of things.”
It’s a half-truth—the wounds were usually caused during their training. Sophronia was hopeless with a dagger and stabbed herself a handful of times while practicing. But the empress’s ire was real enough, though it would often go further than lectures. Once, when Sophronia dropped her dagger mid–sparring match, the empress made her stand out in the snow barefoot for half an hour.
“Sophronia’s the one in Temarin?” Nicolo asks.
Beatriz nods. “It’s a funny thing, with the three of us. I love my sisters equally, but I think I like Sophronia more. Daphne is so much like our mother, in good ways and bad. But Sophronia’s softer. She has always needed me.”
He nods slowly, meeting her gaze. “It’s always easier to love people who need us than people we need, I think. Being needed makes one powerful. Needing, though, makes one vulnerable.”
Beatriz considers this as she dabs at his wound with the cloth, making sure to clean it thoroughly. “I suppose I see some truth to that,” she says before pausing. “Thank you, for helping me get away from him.”
She doesn’t have to specify which him she means. Nicolo’s frown deepens.
“You should try to avoid him if you aren’t with Pasquale,” he says.
Beatriz has to laugh. “I’m his daughter now,” she says, though she still feels King Cesare’s hand on her arm, feels his gaze burning a hole in her gown, as if he were looking right through it. “He might say some things, but he would never go further, surely.”
“He has a tendency to fixate on girls,” Nicolo says, dropping his voice. “And when he does, he becomes…single-minded in the pursuit. He took a liking to Lord Enzo’s daughter a few months back—Lord Enzo sent her to a Sisterhood in the mountains to keep her away from him. A few days later, the king had her back at court. A few days after that, she was in his bed.”
Beatriz’s stomach plummets. “Willingly?” she asks.
Nicolo fixes her with a level look. “You’ve seen what he does to those who refuse him,” he says. “I think it depends on your definition of willing.”
Beatriz swallows. “I appreciate the warning,” she says, feeling nauseated, though she isn’t quite sure why. She’s been raised for this, hasn’t she? Brought up to be aware of how men view her, how to use their interest in her against them. Trained to flirt with and seduce powerful men to serve her purposes.
Pasquale doesn’t want her. Neither does Lord Savelle. What does it matter if King Cesare does? She knows that if she wrote to her mother about his attentions, the empress would tell her to encourage them, to use them to sow more chaos in the Cellarian court. It would be so easy, wouldn’t it? To use his attraction to her to make him look even more unstable, to be able to whisper in his ear and drive him to war with Temarin when the time comes?
Yes, she knows exactly what her mother would tell her to do, if she were here. But she isn’t, and Beatriz knows that this is a line she cannot cross, a part of herself she cannot give up.
“I don’t mean to frighten you,” Nicolo says softly.
“You didn’t,” she says, forcing a smile. “I can handle myself, I promise.”
“I believe that,” he says slowly, looking up at her.
Beatriz lowers the washcloth, his gaze catching hers and holding it.
There, she thinks. That is the way she hoped Pasquale would look at her—it’s the way she expected Lord Savelle to look at her. It isn’t, however, the way King Cesare looks at her. Nicolo doesn’t look at her like she’s a thing to possess, but rather simply like she’s a girl he desires. It occurs to Beatriz then that there is nothing simple about it.
She quickly covers his wound with the dry cloth, applying pressure to it and trying to ignore the fluttering in her belly.
Shameless, Daphne’s voice whispers through her mind, though she tries to ignore it. Inconvenient as it is, she has to admit that the feeling is a pleasant one. She isn’t foolish enough to act on it, but she can appreciate it at least. Doesn’t she deserve that?
The door to the parlor opens and Gisella comes in, holding a fresh goblet of wine. Her eyes dart from Beatriz to Nicolo for a moment, though if she’s alarmed at their closeness, she doesn’t show it.