“I realize I should have sent a messenger requesting an audience, but I couldn’t bear the attendant wait, High Lord. Once my mind was made up, there was nothing for it but to come straight here and hope that you would agree to see me. You have not disappointed me; I am most appreciative.”
“What matter is it that brings you to us, Lord of Rhyndweir?” he asked.
Laphroig straightened noticeably, as if bracing himself. “High Lord, I know I have not been the best of neighbors in the past. I know I have been difficult at times, even rude. I attribute this to my youth and my inexperience, and I hope you have found it in your heart to forgive me.”
Ben shrugged. “There is nothing to forgive.”
“You are entirely too kind, High Lord. But I know differently, and I offer my apologies for all offenses given. I wish to start anew with our relationship, which I expect to be a long and productive one.”
Ben smiled and nodded.
“I also intend to be a better friend to the members of your court, starting with Questor Thews and Abernathy, to whom I have been less than kind at times. That is all in the past now and will not happen again.”
His tongue flicked out as he gathered himself. “High Lord, I have come to ask you for the hand of your daughter, Mistaya, in marriage.”
Whatever Ben Holiday might have thought he was ready for, it certainly wasn’t this. He was so shocked that for a moment he just stared at the other man. “You want to marry Mistaya?” he said finally.
Laphroig nodded enthusiastically. “I do. It will be a satisfactory match for both of us, I think.”
Ben leaned forward. “But she’s fifteen.”
Laphroig nodded. “Older than I would have liked, but still young enough to teach. We will be a good match: she an eager helper and dutiful wife and I, a strong protector and devoted husband. She is young enough to bear me many children, some of whom, I fully expect, will be sons who will succeed me. She has a pleasing face and temperament to match. She is clever, but not too much so. She is the woman I have always hoped to find.”
Ben stared some more. “Am I missing something here? Don’t you already have a wife? And a son and heir, for that matter?”
Laphroig looked suddenly sad. “Apparently you haven’t heard, High Lord. News doesn’t always travel as fast as we might think. My son caught a fever and died not twenty days ago. His mother, in her grief, killed herself. I am left with neither spouse nor heir, and while I would like the period of mourning to go on longer than it has, duty dictates that I act in the best interest of my subjects. That means taking a new wife and producing an heir as quickly as possible.” He paused, shaking his head. “Even in my grief, I thought at once of Mistaya.”
So that was it. Suddenly Ben wanted to wring his visitor’s scrawny neck. He could do it, right here in the reception room, and no one would know. Even if Questor or Abernathy guessed at the truth of things, they would never say a word. The impulse was so overwhelming that he found he was clenching his fists in anticipation. He forced himself to relax and sit back.
“Your dedication to your duties is commendable,” he said, trying to decide how to put an end to this.
“Mistaya, I understand, has just returned from her schooling in what was once your old world, High Lord.” Laphroig smiled, his tongue flicking out. “I gather she does not intend to go back, but to remain here in Landover. That makes it all the easier for a wedding to be arranged. It is a suitable match, don’t you agree?”
Ben knew enough not to tell the other what he really thought. He also understood how marriage protocols worked where the Lords of the Greensward were concerned. Taking wives to produce heirs was standard practice. Young wives were favored to allow for maximum production. Marriages were arranged between the ruling families all the time. Such unions created alliances and strengthened friendships with allies. Nothing that Laphroig had suggested was out of line with common practice.
On the other hand, it was entirely out of the question. Ben and Willow’s opinions aside, Mistaya would run screaming into the night if the suggestion were even broached; she hated Laphroig, who was always patting her arm or trying to kiss her cheek. Given the opportunity and the least bit of encouragement, she would have turned him into a real frog But Ben had cautioned her against doing anything overt, pointing out that he had to live and work with people like Laphroig, and there was nothing to be gained by making it harder than it already was.
He half wished now that he had let her have her way.
