“You!” Uachdaran thundered.
Léirsinn didn’t stop to think, she simply bolted across the polished expanse of floor that separated her from the man she needed alive for various not-entirely-self-serving reasons. She would have flung her arms around him, but he was filthy.
“This is becoming something of a bad habit,” he murmured.
She swore at him, then stood there, shaking, while she waited for either a sword or a spell to slam into her back. She was almost surprised to realize the only things flying in that grand hall were noises of disgust and anger coming from the monarch behind her. Given the revolting condition of the man she was protecting, she thought she might share in at least the disgust.
Acair, that damned rogue, seemed to find nothing untoward about the situation. Surely that was the only reason he took her hand and brought it to his lips.
“Thank you, darling—”
She released him, gave him a bit of a shove and a warning look on principle, then turned and faced the king. She ignored the undeniable fact that she was blushing and hoped the king would do the same.
“I need him,” she said firmly.
“And I need him slain,” the king said.
“You’re supposed to leave me alive,” Acair put in helpfully.
“I don’t want a horse that badly!”
Léirsinn suspected the king might want to rethink that given the nature of the pony in question, but perhaps the current moment was not the proper one to offer that sentiment. Actually, she didn’t imagine anyone would hear anything she had to say given the way the king was shouting at Acair and her would-be lover—there, she had admitted it, which she supposed would have satisfied his mother—was returning the favor.
Acair took her by the hand and pulled her behind him. She didn’t think to protest until she was standing there with her nose as close to his back as she could bring herself to put it. Either the man had lost his wits or he’d decided gallantry could replace his sense of self-preservation for the moment. She would have to compliment him on his copious amounts of the former the first chance she had.
Then again, perhaps she wouldn’t, given that she realized that in the midst of that piece of chivalry, he had slipped something into her hand.
A spell of death.
Realizing that she knew what she was holding without having to look at it was the single most shocking thing that had happened to her in all the moments since she’d overheard her uncle plotting to kill her.
Knowing Acair, what she was gingerly holding onto was likely a rather elegant disk of gold infused with vast amounts of his power so that he needed to use nothing himself in order to use it on someone else. That she simply stood there and wondered where she might stash it for safekeeping instead of rushing screaming off into the night was…well, it was merely something else to add to that list of things that had never before been a part of her very sensible, magickless life.
She slipped the spell into the pocket of the dressing gown Master Ollamh had so thoughtfully insisted she put on, then leaned on the king’s throne that sat directly behind her. She realized she’d knocked a helmet off the seat only after it clattered to the ground. Well, the mystery of where the third guardsman’s gear had gone was at least solved. The noise didn’t seem to distract the two men in front of her from their conversation.
“I could slay you and make it look like a terrible accident,” the king growled. “It’s been done before.”
Léirsinn stepped forward and stood next to Acair. “But I would know the truth of it,” she said. “You would have to slay me as well to keep it all quiet.”
The king looked briefly as if that might not bother him overmuch, then he sighed gustily and scowled at Acair.
“Your woman saves you for the moment, but trust me, that won’t hold true if I get you alone. Now, put that damned piece of lace back where you found it.”
“But it is my grandmother’s—”
“Exactly,” the king said crisply, “which is why I’ll treasure it more than usual from now on. She’ll hound you endlessly for it, which will give her something to do besides make a nuisance of herself on my borders.”
Acair didn’t move. “I don’t imagine begging will sway you—”
“It won’t.”
Léirsinn listened to Acair sigh heavily, then make a production of returning the lace to its place of honor on a small round table near the king’s throne. He smoothed it out, then patted it with a look of sadness that she supposed would have softened the heart of anyone watching him save the monarch still tossing vile curses his way. She watched Acair thoughtfully. While recovering his grandmother’s doily certainly seemed a reasonable enough activity, she had the feeling that had been secondary to what he’d come for.
He’d been after that damned spell of death that was now in her pocket.
Acair turned and made the king a bow. “And all is put to rights, Your Majesty,” he said. “My apologies for the intrusion.”
“Your groveling needs work,” the king said shortly. He pulled a rich woolen cloak out of thin air and held it out. “Wrap up in this, Léirsinn lass, and let’s be off.”
“To the dungeons?” Acair asked carefully.
“Kitchens,” the king said shortly. “You’ve interrupted my slumber again and I need something soothing to allay the irritation. I’ll consider a final spot for you after I’ve eaten.”
“Your Majesty,” Acair began carefully, “if I might—”
“Or you might not,” the king said. “Dangerous to ask too many questions.”
Léirsinn had to agree, though she didn’t say as much. Acair sighed lightly, then started toward the hall doors, reaching for her hand on his way. She saw him hesitate and imagined he realized that he was holding the hand he’d put the spell into, but the spell was no longer there.
“Other pocket,” she murmured.
He smiled at her very briefly. “Thank you.”
“I’ll keep it close.”
“And unused, if I might offer an opinion.”
She would have told him what he could do with his opinion, but she realized she’d been fingering the damn thing with something that might have charitably been termed preoccupation.
“Very dangerous,” he added.
Well, if anyone would know, it would be him. She kept hold of utter destruction and walked into slippers that had somehow been placed in her path. Master Ollamh hard at work, no doubt. She accepted the cloak the king handed her with equal gratitude. His hall was warm enough near any sort of fire, but damned chilly everywhere else.