For several long minutes he debated bringing with him the duchess ring. In the end Col put it on his smallest finger; let her notice and be aware that he was just as ambitious as she. Then they could solidify any arrangements tonight: bargain and share drink, and she would take his ring, and he would take her to bed. Stars, but that would be glorious. Finally.
And in the small hours of the night, when he’d satisfied her and made her beg to have him, they would discuss the crown itself.
He allowed himself only a single short cup of his favorite Aremore wine while he waited.
Gaela arrived exactly as the sun set, entering on the tail of her name, as called through the door by the retainer on guard. Col did not usually keep one, being confident enough in his own ability to defend himself, but for this occasion, he’d thought it best to act as a king might.
She swept in wearing a bold, dark blue gown split at the sides so it appeared like a military tabard, and the arms quilted just as a gambeson would be. A belt of silver plates pulled all together at Gaela’s waist, and cuffs of beaten silver clutched her forearms, more like gauntlets than bracelets. Streaks of white clay hardened swirls of her short black curls into a crown.
Col did his best to moderate the lust and admiration in his face, though he did not want to hide it: let her see she impressed him, and that he desired her in her martial beauty.
“Gaela,” he said, standing and offering his hand. She gave hers, too, and he bowed over it, drawing her firmly toward him.
“Astore,” she replied, and allowed him to seat her on one of the hard benches beside the window. Before he could do aught else, she continued, “I assume you intend to be my husband.”
Taken aback, Col laughed. He did not let go of her hand. “I do, Gaela Lear. I assume you intend to allow it.”
“It would be in both our best interests. I will be queen after my father, and you are his closest ally. He does not question your strength, your loyalty, nor your faith in his stars.”
“All our stars,” Col said. “I have seen yours, Gaela, and heard the entire life chart read at your naming. It fits well with mine. I commissioned a joined chart two years ago: we will have a unique partnership, and successfully achieve our destinies.”
Gaela twisted her mouth and stood. It put her close to him, enough that he could smell the cool, earthy clay and a sharp soap lingering on her skin. He did not step back to make room between them. Her eyes were just beneath his. “One requirement for our partnership, Col: do not speak to me again of the stars.”
He frowned. “Stars speak themselves and so should not be ignored.”
“For men of Lear, those who would follow my father, perhaps, but I have never been served by stars, and neither was my mother.”
“Ah,” Col said, understanding. She was the daughter born to mark her mother’s death, by those same celestial bodies. An aversion to such things was inevitable; he minded not at all, so long as she did not swing so far as to worship the mud. “You can make your own destiny,” he said, to soothe her, and to prop her up.
A smile spread across her delicious, plump mouth. “I do, Col Astore, and I will make yours, too, if you join with me.”
“Yes,” he said, undeniably aflame at being told, instead of doing the telling. Discomfort rose in him, made rather delicious by the perversion. He put a hand on her waist, and she did not shy away, or even move. Instead, Gaela reached for his hand and lifted it so she could access the ring on his small finger. Still smiling, she tugged at it, and Col let her do the work, take this ring from him, and then slide it onto her own hand.
He ached for her, hot and ready, and he pulled her hips against his, pressing himself against her.
Gaela gasped softly, and Col nearly broke. He’d held himself in check so long, forced away these urges during the four years she’d been under his protection, while she trained with his men. Despite Gaela’s flaunting of her strength, her intensity and the way she walked, spoke, and carried herself, as if already she owned him and all his retainers. As if she tempted him on purpose, was made to be his challenge. Col expected her to be ferocious, expected her to resist giving herself to him, and this tiny breath of submission was almost too much.
He dug his fingers into her hips, holding her belly against him. Even that gentle pressure burned up into his face. His cheeks would be red, he knew, his eyes hot. But he did not care if she saw, if she realized how badly he wanted her. Would she taste all of Innis Lear, or some foreign flavors, too? Her mouth would be hot as his, and her depths like a well of
