She had done her duty as both princess and queen.
“Your brother should be passing by Midwatch right now,” Jor said, handing her another full mug of ale. “Tide’s low. We could take a stroll through the bridge and pay him a visit. Have a little family reunion.”
Lara rolled her eyes. “I’ll pass.” Her brother Keris had finally convinced their father to allow him to attend university in Harendell to study philosophy, and he was traveling through the bridge with his entire retinue of courtiers and attendants to start his first semester. One of the mail runners had come ahead of them, and he said the party looked like a flock of birds, everyone bedecked in silks and jewels.
“Let’s go,” Aren murmured into her ear. “I’m looking forward to a night with you in a real bed.”
“You’re going to fall asleep the second your head hits the pillow.” She relished the rising heat of desire between her legs as his fingers traced along the veins in her arms. She’d stayed with him at the barracks all through War Tides, but the narrow soldier’s cot had not been conducive to romance. Although they’d made do.
“I’ll take that bet. Come on.”
He led her out into the gentle rain, the worst of the squall already over. One of Aren’s soldiers was outside, and he looked at her with surprise. “Thought you already went up to the house.”
“Not yet. Jor kept refilling my mug. I expect they’ll be out of ale by the time your shift is up.”
“Thought I saw you, was all.” The big guard frowned, then shrugged. “They’re signaling for a supply pickup at the pier, so we might have more drink arriving.”
“I’ll send some down from the house,” Aren assured the man, tugging on Lara’s arm.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” But Aren was already towing her up the path, the chain in the cove rattling upward behind them. Mud squelched beneath their boots as they made their way up the trail to the house they’d barely visited over the prior eight weeks, neither of them able to relax enough to step away from the barracks.
“A bath, first,” Lara said, thinking dreamily about the steaming hot springs. “You smell like soldier.”
“You’re not so fresh yourself, Majesty.” Aren swung her up into his arms, the lantern light dancing wildly where it hung from her hand. She twisted in his grip, wrapping her legs around his waist. A soft moan escaped her lips as she pressed against him, his hands gripping her ass.
Lara kissed him hard, sliding her tongue into his mouth, then laughed when he slipped, the lantern falling from her hands and going dark. “Don’t you dare drop me.”
“Then quit distracting me,” he growled. “Or I’ll be forced to take you in the mud.”
She slid to the ground and took his hand, leading him at a perilous run up the slope until she caught sight of Aren’s cat, Vitex, sitting on the front step, tail twitching angrily.
“What are you doing out here?” Aren reached for the cat and it hissed and leapt away, limping slightly as it bolted into the trees.
Lara watched him go. “He’s hurt.”
“The female he’s been chasing probably got a piece of him. He likely deserved it.” Catching her by the waist, Aren lifted her up the stairs and shoved open the door to the house.
It was dark.
“Not like Eli not to set out a lamp.” Lara’s skin prickled as she stared into the yawning blackness. Aren had sent word up to the house that War Tides was over, instructing Eli to select an expensive bottle of wine from the cellar for his mother and aunt. But the Ithicanian boy never shirked his duties.
“Maybe he drank the wine instead,” Aren murmured, raining kisses onto her throat, his hands finding her breasts. “Will do him good.”
“He’s fourteen.” The house was silent. Which wasn’t precisely unusual, but there was something about the nature of the silence that rubbed Lara the wrong way. As though no one breathed.
“Exactly. Do you know the sorts of things I was doing at fourteen?”
Lara stepped away, listening. “I should check on him.”
An aggrieved sigh exited Aren’s throat. “Lara, relax. The storms are here and they will do their duty.” Pulling her into his arms, he kissed her. Slowly. Deeply. Driving all thought from her head as he gently pushed her down the dark corridor into their room, where, thankfully, there was a lamp burning. The yellow flame pushing back the darkness eased Lara’s agitation, and she let her head fall back as her husband’s teeth grazed her neck, feeling the faint breeze from the open window.
“Bathe later,” he growled.
“No. You stink. Get outside and I’ll be there in a moment.”
Grumbling, he shucked off his tunic and vambraces, tossing both on the floor, starting toward the antechamber and the door to the courtyard beyond.
Peeling off her hooded cloak, Lara hung the damp garment on a hook to dry and was unfastening the top lace of her tunic when her heart skittered, her eyes falling on a letter with a familiar seal. Next to it, a knife twin to the one at her waist sat in a small pile of crimson sand, its rubies glittering in the light. The knife Aren had thrown on the docks in Vencia. Dread filled her stomach as she walked over to the table, picking the heavy paper up with numb fingers, and breaking the wax.
Dearest Lara,
Even in Vencia, we have heard talk of the affection between the Ithicanian King and his new queen, and how it fills our heart to know that you have, however improbably, found love in your new home. Please accept our most sincere well-wishes for your future, however short that future might be.
Father
“Aren.” Her voice shook. “Why wasn’t this letter delivered at the barracks? Who brought it?”
No answer.
A scuffle of motion.
A muffled curse.
Whirling, she reached for the knife at her waist. Then froze. Aren was on his knees on the far side of the room. A hooded figure dressed in clothing identical to Lara’s own held a glittering blade to his throat. And beneath the bed next to them, a young man’s hand protruded, fingers covered in drying blood. Eli . . .
“Hello, little sister,” a familiar voice said, and the woman reached up and pulled back her hood.
40
Lara
“Marylyn.” The name croaked out of Lara’s throat, her chest a riot of emotion at seeing her sister again, even as she knew what the other woman’s presence meant. Beautiful, with golden blond hair.
Marylyn had been the noblewoman on the ship Emra had boarded.
“Lara.”
Aren started to struggle, snapping Lara out of her trance. “Don’t move,” Lara warned him. “Her blade will be poisoned.”
“You do know my tricks.”
“Let him go.”
“We both know that’s not likely to happen, little cockroach.”
The old nickname burned in her ears, while her eyes searched for a way to disarm Marylyn without getting Aren killed. But there was none.
“Who is this woman?” Aren demanded.
“Lara is my little sister. My lying, thieving, little bitch of a sister.”