“What do you think caused it?”
Bennick stretched his legs to a more comfortable position, his hand still in hers. “He’s been on edge since the Mortisian emissaries arrived. Wilf fought on the front lines during the old war and lost good friends.”
“So he doesn’t want the alliance?”
His forehead creased. “I wouldn’t say that. Experiences have made him distrustful, but he’s not against peace. I put him in a holding cell until he was sober enough to calm down.” He glanced at her. “Wilf never gave up on me, even when I was a blasted pain, so I refuse to give up on him.”
A small smile caught her lips. “You’re a good man, Captain Markam.”
Bennick huffed out a laugh. “I have my flaws, same as anyone.” He tilted his head and viewed her with suddenly narrowed eyes. “Venn told me something troubling, Miss Ellington.”
Her mind flashed to the library and her prying questions. Her mouth ran dry. “Oh?”
Bennick’s lips twitched. “He says you’ve always called him Venn. I’ve known you a day longer, yet I’m still Captain Markam.”
She grinned. “To be fair, I knew you as Venn for that first day.”
“True. It still seems wrong, though.”
“Perhaps I’m more at ease with Venn,” she teased.
“Are you?” His hand hadn’t moved, but the rest of him seemed suddenly closer.
Clare’s eyes dipped to his slightly parted lips, striving to keep her light tone. She didn’t quite manage. “Venn doesn’t mock assassinate me every time I see him.”
Bennick eased closer and she leaned back, chin lifting. His hand twisted in hers and roughened fingertips brushed against her calluses. His arm was warm where it rested against her leg. “I’m not always fighting with you,” he said softly.
Clare’s heart skipped a beat. “True.”
His thumb stroked the center of her palm and she sucked in a breath, her hand flinching away in surprise.
Bennick drew back, a thin smile on his face. “Whenever you feel at ease with me, you’re free to use my given name.”
If her thudding heart was any indication, she doubted she’d ever feel at ease around him.
Chapter 15
Clare
Clare took the princess’s seat at the formal dining table and tried to keep her breaths even. It was her first public dinner as Serene and she was dressed in all the princess’s finery, all of her exposed skin stained a shade darker. The adjustments to her complexion were slight, but powerful. Breathing was a battle; nerves made her chest tight and her hands twitch, and the fitted bodice of her green gown didn’t help. Knowing she must fool a crowd of people tonight—and please King Newlan with her act—she barely dared open her mouth. Even after four weeks of training, she didn’t feel ready.
Stringed instruments created a soft backdrop for the laughter and conversation filling the vaulted room. Roasted pig and stewed vegetables spiced the air and Clare’s stomach tugged with a mix of hunger and nerves. Too bad all of Mistress Henley’s cautions about proper etiquette made her dread the moment she had to lift her fork.
The sight of Bennick and Venn watching from a few paces away calmed her frayed breathing a little. She caught Bennick’s eye and his familiar half-grin infused her with warmth. She sent a small smile back at him.
“Princess Serene.”
Clare twisted to find a stranger standing near her chair. He was clearly Mortisian. His clothing was a different style, more loose and flowing, and a wide sash of crimson crossed over his shoulder and chest. He looked to be in his early twenties with brown-tinted skin and dark hair that fell to his shoulders. A well-trimmed beard framed his lower face.
“You look beautiful as always,” he said, bowing low.
“Thank you,” she managed.
There weren’t many Mortisians in the castle, and when the young man took the seat beside her, her guess was confirmed—thank the fates she’d memorized the seating chart—the handsome young man was Ser Amil Havim, son of emissary Ser Bahri Havim.
Ser was the equivalent of lord, she’d learned from Ramus. Mortisians used the titles interchangeably, since the Garvins Treaty had been signed two hundred years ago, establishing fair trade among the four kingdoms of Eyrinthia. The same treaty had also accepted the common tongue, which assigned titles for the nobility throughout the kingdoms. “As a show of respect,” Ramus had explained, “we use their traditional titles. King Saernon is the serjan, Prince Desfan is the serjah. Lords and ladies of the nobility are sers and serais, respectively.”
Now facing the son of the Mortisian emissary, panic flooded Clare. Too much to remember—she’d surely make a mistake.
Ser Amil smiled, his brown eyes soft. “You seem distracted. Have I interrupted the great Princess Serene in the middle of some deep thought?”
She choked on a weak laugh. “No. I’m afraid I’m simply distracted.”
“I haven’t seen you since the betrothal was announced. How has the news been taken by your people?”
“Relatively well.” It was what Newlan had told her to say, if anyone asked.
Ser Amil’s dark eyebrow arched. “I heard there was a skirmish in Iden’s market yesterday.”
“Was there?” Clare hadn’t heard about that, but she imagined many people were unhappy about the prospect of peace with their long-time enemies.
“My father grumbled about it for quite some time. You know how he is.”
She didn’t. But Serene might, so Clare nodded. “Where is your father?”
“He said he might be delayed.”
Clare was saved from having to make more conversation when King Newlan stood at the table’s head. Silence fell among the gathered nobility and they listened raptly as Newlan gave a speech about peace, hope, and a stronger future. When he finished, the lords and ladies clapped politely, Clare with them.
As everyone began to eat, Ser Amil leaned toward her. “Have you picked a favorite yet?”
“A favorite?” It felt like she’d missed something, because his question didn’t make sense.
“It would be hard to decide,” Amil said, “but I must know.”
“I . . . I’m not sure . . .”
Seeing her confusion, he frowned.
