The Queen's Bastard (23 page)

But the words she spoke were terribly dangerous, and Beatrice Irvine was no more than a minor noble who answered to Aulunian law. Beatrice could be put to death for the things she’d said, and it would be Belinda’s head that rolled. Javier himself might betray her, offer her to Lorraine as a gift to soothe troubled waters between Gallin and Aulun, betwixt Ecumenics and Reformationists, more importantly. A public execution, carried out by the queen’s men—Belinda Primrose would be no more. She doubted, in the core of her, that Lorraine would waste so valuable an asset; far more practical to behead some poor woman with similar features. Belinda herself would be safe to pursue the queen’s wishes under cover of another identity, but she would no more be her beloved uncle’s niece, no more be able to claim that thin line of heritage. Panic brought chills and sweat both at once, the air too thin to breathe. Why did he not
speak
? Belinda shuddered, afraid to move, afraid to speak, afraid to do anything but wait.

Javier’s silence brought her frayed nerves to the shattering point before he inhaled and straightened. “And then?” Light tone, almost playful, but Belinda felt the undercurrent of intensity in it. Acute desire pushed through him, pricking at Belinda’s skin, but she couldn’t determine
what
the man desired. She closed her eyes, wetting her lips again.

“I named you true heir to the Aulunian throne the night I met you, my prince.” Her voice quavered, so weak and small she barely recognized it. She swallowed again, trying to strengthen herself without lifting her voice so loudly that a spy might overhear. “The Aulunian queen is the child of an illegitimate marriage, and there are no other Walters to follow her father Henry. Moreover, your mother’s first husband was heir to the Aulunian throne, and you, though no child of his, are a child of hers. He made her queen, and in doing so made you heir.”

“Oh, but it’s more complex than that, isn’t it?” Javier’s voice was as low as her own. “Henry Walter’s first wife was my grandaunt, and if she was the only legitimate wife, then perhaps I can lay claim to the Aulunian throne through those means, too. But Gallin is mine already, and Uncle Rodrigo looks unlikely to wed, so Essandia is likely mine as well. Would you have me conquer all of Echon, Beatrice? Would you make yourself a king-maker?”

“I cannot make what God hath already wrought, your highness.” The fervor in her voice was such that Belinda believed herself for a moment.

“You would get on well with my mother.” Javier released her and Belinda’s heart lurched as he stepped back into the warmth of his chambers. He had not before made mention of Sandalia in her presence, certainly not in such intimate terms as
my mother.
It offered the first glimmer that her approach to the Gallic court had been a good one; that the prince should say such a thing so easily and carelessly hinted that there was a chance Belinda would be introduced to Sandalia so such comparisons might be made. No triumph rose within her; it was far too early for that, but a hint that she’d taken the right slow road pushed down some of the nerves that had come over her as she’d whispered her daring thoughts. Patience, patience; to trap a queen was a long and dangerous path, but finally she felt herself on it, one stride closer to success.

Buoyed a little, Belinda turned to watch Javier as she waited on his indication that she should join him. He dropped into a chair by the fire, sprawling his legs out. Slender calves, well-muscled under his tights, backlit by the fire. Belinda let herself admire the lines of him, the graceful turn of his fingers as he pressed them against his forehead.

“My lord?” she ventured when silence drew out too long. Javier lifted his head and crooked his fingers, the dismissive acknowledgment he might call a dog with. It was the way of men, especially men of power. Belinda crossed to him, kneeling at his feet in a rustle of skirts. “Forgive me, my lord.” Eyes lowered, she felt his touch on her cheek, drawing her gaze up, before she saw it.

“There’s nothing to forgive. I did ask. Watch your tongue, though, Beatrice. You do speak of dangerous things.”

“Yes, my lord.” Belinda lowered her eyes again even as she lifted her chin, giving her throat to the prince. Javier chuckled and leaned forward, wrapping his hand behind her head. She came to her knees, breath gone short, and smiled up at him.

“Another man might be less lenient.”

“Then I am fortunate to be wi—”

“Jav!” The door banged open, a feat in itself: the weight of oak and the woven rug it dragged across precluded such enthusiasm under nearly any circumstances. Asselin lurched in, his weight making the door bounce against the stone wall a second time, barely muffled by hanging tapestries. “Oh, bugger and bollocks, Jav, get rid of the tart, there’s things to discuss.” Asselin waved a flagon of wine around with more drama than care; red droplets flew and splattered across the walls and rugs. He focused on Belinda, blinking heavily, then sketched a bow so deep it bordered on ludicrous. “Forgive me, Irvine. I didn’t see you there. Shite, Jav, why can’t
I
find a noble girl who’ll go down on her knees for me?”

Blood drained from Belinda’s face, then rushed back in a pound of scarlet. She scrambled to her feet, knotting her hands in her skirt and staring fixedly at the floor. Stillness kept her a safe distance from laughter while she played out the part of Beatrice’s mortification, trembling with humiliation and embarrassment. Javier climbed to his feet with languid poise, brushing his fingers across Belinda’s crimson cheek in apology. “Sacha, you’re a pig and a fool,” he said mildly. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Asselin still watched Belinda. “Praying to God you’re as free with your women as with your wine, old man. Look at her, Jav, blushing like a maiden. You’re a widow, Irvine, and even if you weren’t Jav here would’ve had your head a hundred times by now. Come on, Javier, can’t we share a bit of a shag?”

Belinda jerked her eyes up, horrified on Beatrice’s part and startled beyond belief on her own. Asselin waggled his eyebrows at her with such exaggeration she wanted to laugh. He sauntered over to her, leading with his hips and both hands held high, wine droplets spilling carelessly down his wrist. “Never dreamed of that, did you, Beatrice? A woman’s got more than one hole, might as well put them all to good use.” He took a few dancing steps around her, and came up against Javier. “Shite,” he said into the prince’s closed expression. He let his arms fall and shrugged liquidly. “You can’t blame a man for trying, now, can you, Jav?”

Javier remained expressionless, staring his compatriot down. Asselin exhaled noisily and fell one step back. “My apologies, Lady Irvine. Drink has got me, and I take more pleasure in her than good sense might allow.”

“It…it is—” Belinda cast a frantic look at Javier, expecting, and finding, his slight nod. “It is all right,” she whispered. Heat still stained her cheeks, a flush that would be attributed to shame, not amusement or arousal. She locked her eyes on the floor, aware that she still held her hands clutched in her skirts, fig-leafing in a useless show of modesty. Everything in how she stood bespoke her embarrassment, but keeping her gaze down let her indulge in curious imagination without betraying herself.

“What’s so damned important, Sacha?” Javier settled back into his chair, gesturing for Asselin to take the matching one opposite him. Asselin flung himself into it hard enough to knock it back a few inches, and leaned forward to bring the front legs down again.

“What about her?”

Javier’s gaze flickered to Belinda. “Beatrice, there are wineglasses in the front chamber. Enough for all, please.”

“My lord.” Belinda bobbed a curtsey and took care not to stomp as she left the room. A woman was a serving maid no matter what her station, shy of being a queen. Carrying the rank of lady only made for better dresses to sweat in.

Asselin’s drunk had passed by the time she returned. He sat forward in his chair, flagon dangling from his fingertips and voice low as he spoke earnestly to Javier. The prince remained leaning back, ankle cocked over his knee and one arm dangling over the side of the chair as he listened. They were, Belinda thought, very much man and servant, for all the friendship held between them. Asselin straightened as she came back in. Belinda bobbed another curtsey, murmuring, “My lords,” and took the flagon from Asselin’s fingertips to pour wine. There was no moment of shared thought, as she hoped there might be; the fingertip touch was too brief, or her skill too little. His emotions were clouded with lust, as frank and open as it had been the night she’d met him in a low-class pub; as they had been when he’d taken her in the park days earlier. He was a blunt man, dangerous like a hammer, and Belinda found herself liking him for it once more, despite the threat he posed to her. Threat, though, could be dealt with without mercy if necessary, and for everything Sacha Asselin thought he knew about Beatrice Irvine, he knew nothing at all of Belinda Primrose. So long as their ends lay down similar paths, she was content to leave him alive, but should the knowledge he carried become a burden to her, her only regret in his death would be the hurt it would cause Javier.

Faint surprise coiled through her at the thought; Javier’s emotions were irrelevant to her goals. Sacha’s death might pull him away from the desire to teach her more of the witchpower magic, though, and that was enough to feel a twinge of dismay over. Belinda dropped her gaze briefly, then offered Asselin a filled wine cup. His eyebrows shot up as he took it. “Daring, to give me the first cup and not Jav.”

Nerves bunched in Belinda’s stomach. As a serving girl, she never would have made the error of serving the lower-ranked man first. She poured a second glass, offering it to Javier. There was no tremble in the liquid that betrayed the quiver she felt inside. Javier lifted an eyebrow, as aware of the slight as Asselin had been, but he took the glass. Belinda poured herself a glass as well, setting the flagon aside and smiling with cool reserve at Asselin. “You brought the wine.”

“And I,” Javier said, “did not rescue you quickly enough, hm?” His other eyebrow elevated to match the first, challenging. Belinda, trusting social propriety over Beatrice’s embarrassment, tilted her head.

“My lord? I am sure there was nothing I needed rescuing from. Lord Asselin is a gentleman, and you a prince. How could a woman fear in such company?”

“Oh, she’s good,” Asselin said past her, to Javier. The prince arched an eyebrow again, warning, and Asselin subsided. Belinda inclined her head and drew a footstool a little closer to the fire, smoothing her skirt as she sat down.

“Now that the matter of Beatrice is aside,” Javier said, “to what do I owe this unexpected visit, Asselin? You may have guessed: I had plans.” Neither man looked at Belinda. She felt the weight of their avoidance far more heavily than she might have felt a knowing smile or wink, and wished she dared roll her eyes. Instead she lowered her gaze and sipped her wine, demure, as Asselin launched into talk of inconsequentialities. Belinda felt Javier’s impatience as if it were her own, the witchpower stirring in him as he sought a way to bring Asselin to the point. It was her presence that stayed the young lord’s tongue; they all three knew it, and that Javier had waved her to stay was…interesting. Belinda pressed wine against her lips, feeling them wet, imagining colour staining them.

Golden witchlight spread through the back of her mind, tempered into darkness by the stillness. Belinda was grateful for that; without the stillness she thought the bright power might burst out of every crevasse of her body, blinding her and everything around her. She gathered the light around her as if it were the stillness, tucking it around the corners of her mind. It tingled and itched; she could not remember the same sensations a dozen years ago when she tried to hide in the shadows. But she had been less aware then, she reminded herself. More powerful, perhaps, but less aware. The prickle over her skin was bearable, even ignorable, but fascinating. She stopped herself from spreading her fingers to investigate, knowing she could try again another time when she would not call attention to herself with the action.

She took a slow breath, calmness washing through her as it suppressed the skin tickle that power had awakened. Excitement tasted of copper at the back of her throat and made her fingertips ache; the calm was so profound it had the weight of chains. She knew the sensation, like the frightening quiet at the heart of a storm. It held her prisoner and safe both at once, denying her the ability to break free even as it offered the consummate certainty that nothing could reach her. Belinda’s lungs burned, heart pounding sickly in the cavity of her chest. She dragged in a shaking breath that only served to prove how little air there seemed to be around her. With the breath, tranquility stretched taut and snapped. In silence, it surrounded her, tucking her safely into the shadows. The wine in her glass darkened, no longer reflecting the warmth of firelight. Asselin’s voice cut through, sudden and loud, amplified as if he stood in an echo chamber. Belinda lifted her head, confident in the shadows that held her, and watched the two men openly.

“It’s Liz, Jav. You don’t know—”

“Liz?” Javier glanced at where Belinda sat, clearly without seeing her there. “All this bother and dancing around the topic and it’s Eliza? What could you not say about her in front of Beatrice, man?”

Asselin’s silence fell almost as heavily as the solitude surrounding Belinda. “You are my prince,” he said eventually. “My oldest friend and my brother, but my God, you’re an idiot sometimes, Jav.”

Javier turned a round-mouthed gape of astonishment on the stocky noble. “I beg your pardon?”

Asselin sighed. “Nothing. Suffice it to say that Liz would rather not be discussed in front of your lady Irvine.”

“Liz,” Javier pointed out, “would rather not be discussed behind her back at all.”

Asselin waved a hand dismissively. “So would we all. But if she must be, let us not compound the injury by doing it in front of her ri—in front of Irvine.”

“You don’t like her.” Javier sounded stiff, petulant. Belinda, safe in her shadows, allowed herself an open smile, and sipped her wine. Asselin let out a raspberry of exasperation.