there is nothing more we can ask.”
“Sound advice,” Javier said. “Do you follow it yourself?”
“I try.”
She heard the smile in his voice. “And with these new gifts, where do your duties now lie, Beatrice? Does it change with what you’re able to do?”
Belinda spread her hands, looking at them. “A woman has only the power granted to her by men, my lord. At least…usually. No man has granted me this. Trained me in it,” she conceded before he could take offense, “but not granted it to me. Perhaps it changes me. Perhaps it changes what I ought to do.” She lifted her chin, looking out at the snow. “Although I command very little power, in truth. You…have more, my lord.” Almost a lie. Javier had no walls in his mind, cutting him off from the source of his witchpower. For the moment, at least, he commanded greater power than Belinda could call up. And it flattered his ego, which was more useful than truth anyway.
Thusly flattered, the prince chuckled. “What, then, would you do if you wielded the gifts that I do?”
“Dangerous things, my lord,” Belinda whispered. Javier’s body against hers turned curious, hips tilting as he canted his head closer so she might answer even more softly.
“What things? Tell me.” Command combined with desire in his voice; the thought of a powerful woman excited him. Belinda felt hairs lift on her arms anyway, reluctant to voice words treasonous to Aulun, even when those ideas were at the heart of the role she played. She wet her lips twice and swallowed before making herself speak.
“I would remove the Aulunian threat from Lanyarch, my lord. I would seek allies with Cordula’s support and break the yoke of Reformationism that weighs down on island shoulders.” Panic squirreled in her belly, spreading sharp claws of nausea up to wrap around her heart and tighten her throat. It trickled downward as well, pounding between her thighs and making her knees tremble. Belinda fought against banishing terror, knowing the calm of stillness would push it all away and leave her untouchable.
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.
