Lady Markam shuddered and Clare’s hand tightened against the woman’s back. “Can’t you see she’s ill?” Clare all but snapped.
The commander’s intense gaze centered on her, but she wouldn’t be intimidated. Defending this fragile woman gave her all the backbone she needed, but being the princess in the public’s eye was an advantage; she knew the commander couldn’t hurt her in this crowded room, dressed as she was.
“She’s always ill,” the commander said, voice low and clipped. “That can’t excuse her from the most important ball of the year.” He eyed Venn. “Help her to her seat, Grannard.”
Venn’s eyes narrowed, but before he could speak Clare stepped forward, clearly shifting into a more defensive position in front of Lady Markam. Her expression hardened as she glared at the man towering over her. “I’ve givenher my permission to leave.”
The commander’s nostrils flared. His tone lowered dangerously as he grit out, “She’s my wife.”
“Please,” Lady Markam shuddered, clinging to Venn. “Don’t fight. I can’t stand it.”
Venn wrapped a supporting arm around her thin back, his tone sharp. “Sir, I think we should do as the princess suggests.” His eyes flared with meaning as he spoke Clare’s false title, a reminder that they were in a public setting.
The commander’s expression tightened. “Set her down, Grannard.” His eyes darted around them. “We don’t want a scene.”
“Then I suggest you give up,” Clare said, not bothering to keep her voice as low as his.
The commander’s lip curled. His words were barely audible. “You have no right.”
“Neither do you. She’s ill and needs rest.”
His face darkened. “You self-important, manipulative—”
“What’s going on?” Bennick slid beside Clare and the commander retreated a step as if on instinct. Bennick shot a glance to his mother and his jaw firmed. The look he cut to his father burned with undeniable hatred.
“Ben,” Lady Markam gasped. “I don’t think I can stay.”
He reached for her hand, everything about him softening when he faced her. “You don’t have to, Mother. I’ll check on you after the ball.” He glanced at Venn. “Will you take her?”
His friend nodded and slowly led the trembling lady away.
The commander’s eyes narrowed. “Ben—”
“If you’ll excuse us, sir,” he snapped, taking Clare’s arm. “The princess is needed elsewhere.” He guided her away, skirting the crowded dancefloor.
Clare’s pulse pounded and she wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline or not, but her body vibrated and it felt like she’d been spinning in the round dance all over again. Her headache flared and she felt a little disoriented, but blinking seemed to drive that away. Mostly.
After they’d taken several steps from the commander, Bennick lowered his voice. “What happened?”
“She was ill.” Irritation tightened her throat. “I asked Venn to take her to her room, and then he came. He would have forced her to stay all night!”
Bennick cut her a look. “So you defied him? Publicly?” She couldn’t find an ounce of remorse, and it must have shown on her expression. He looked mildly exasperated, but his mouth twitched. “Thank you,” he said, before eyeing her. “Are you all right?”
Perhaps he’d felt her hand shaking against his arm. Or maybe it was her flushed cheeks. “Fine. I just wish I’d hit him.”
Bennick barked a surprised laugh. “As much as I’d love to see that, I don’t think the king would approve.”
It was hard to focus on his words. A buzzing filled her ears. “The king . . . he’s angry with you.”
Bennick’s expression smoothed. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
“It’s not fair, though.” From the corner of her eye, Clare caught Amil watching her and she tensed. Bennick followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing.
“I overheard Amil talking with his father,” she explained quietly. She swallowed past her dry throat and told him briefly what she’d heard—Havim’s angry comments about Serene and how he’d stormed out. “Amil danced with me afterward. He tried to reassure me, but I think his father could be a threat.”
Bennick’s brow furrowed. “I’ll speak with the king.”
She nodded, fanning herself with one hand. The room had felt hot for a while, but she was suddenly burning. She was grateful when they left the stuffy ballroom and entered the cooler corridor.
She stumbled a little and Bennick’s hand clenched over her arm. “Clare?”
“I’m fine,” she repeated. “Are there any other suspects for the assassination attempts?”
“Nothing concrete.” She sensed more than saw him look backward, to monitor Dirk, who trailed behind them.
“What about Wilf?”
Bennick glanced at her. “What about him?”
She frowned. She hadn’t meant to bring that up. It was a suspicion she knew Bennick wouldn’t appreciate. But since she’d spoken . . . “Do you think he could be the assassin?”
Bennick pulled them both to a stop. The corridor glowed softly from the torches spaced on the wall, catching the bewilderment in his stare. “You think Wilf is trying to kill you?”
Her throat tightened, making her words sound defensive. “He has access to the room. And the Night Sigh and Ogai attacks happened after he lost his temper on the training field. He doesn’t want the peace—isn’t it possible he wants to end it by killing me and blaming the Mortisians?”
Bennick’s forehead creased. “You’ve given this some thought.”
“It makes sense. And he never had to put Serene in danger, because he could just target me.”
He pursed his lips. “Wilf isn’t trying to kill you.”
Denials filled her, but she couldn’t grasp the right words. She wet her lips, giving herself a mental shake before forcing the words out. “He knew about the Ogai. He fought against the Mortisians and lost friends in the skirmishes.”
“True, but he’s not the assassin. You’re safe with him. I swear it.” His eyes narrowed. “Look at me, Clare.”
“I am.”
His hands were cool as they cupped her face, forcing her head to tilt up. Her eyelids were suddenly heavy and she couldn’t quite hold his anxious gaze.
He cursed and she
