Prince Alain looked up with a smile, laying down his quill. “Well, bid him enter, of course!” As Geoffrey came in, Alain rose from his desk, saying, “What moves today, my friend? A wolfhunt, or . . .” Then Geoffrey’s expression registered and he said, “What moves indeed!”
“My addlepated little brother,” Geoffrey answered, “and his devious betrothed . . . well, all right, wife. They have seen nightmares in their trances and are off to scour the land to make certain their dreams will not come true.”
Alain tensed; anything affecting the welfare of the land and the people affected him. “What manner of nightmare was this?”
“A cascade of monsters pouring from a whirlpool of fog,” Geoffrey answered, “and a bloodthirsty horde of people riding distorted mounts behind them, hell-bent to ravish and slay all the folk of Gramarye.”
Alain paled. “Could there be any truth in so horrible a vision?”
“I cannot believe that,” Geoffrey said, “but I dare not take the chance. If there are monsters loose, I shall not let my little brother face them alone—nay, nor even with his bride beside him.”
Neither of them had to say that they did not yet entirely trust Allouette.
“If you ride, I ride,” Alain said with determination, “you to ward your brother, I to ward my people.”
Geoffrey scowled. “We dare not risk the heir to the throne.”
“That old song again?” Alain sighed. “It was worn thin when first my mother began to sing it—and now you? Have you sewn patches on it?”
“Still, as your vassal, I must protect you,” Geoffrey said stubbornly, “not lead you into danger.”
“And as your suzerain, it is my duty to protect you,” Alain retorted, “you, and all my people.”
“But what if . . .” Geoffrey bit off the question before it was too late.
Too late it was; Alain grinned in answer. “If I were slain? Who would rule? Come, you know the answer! There is an heir and a spare.” He frowned. “Come to think of it, the spare should know where I go and the reason for it. Do you bide here while I speak to him.”
Neither even mentioned the king and queen, who would have forbidden the foray on the spot—but Geoffrey reminded Alain, “There is someone else to whom you should speak of this.”
“I shall tell her indeed.” Alain braced himself visibly. “Somehow I think there may be more danger in your sister than in your brother’s monsters. Wish me well, comrade.”
Diarmid was a slender young man some four years younger than his brother, almost as tall, almost as blond, even more serious—but there the resemblance ended. Diarmid was lean where Alain was stocky, wiry where Alain was muscular, quiet and reserved where Alain was open and direct.
“Ever the knight-errant, brother?” Diarmid actually smiled. “Well, good hunting to you.”
“Thank you for kind wishes.” Alain returned the smile, then turned serious again. “You know, Diarmid, that if I should fail to return, you would be heir apparent.”
The younger prince shuddered. “Heaven forbid! That I should have to forgo my books and spend empty hours in entertaining ambassadors and enduring the debating of lawyers! Take good care of yourself, brother, for I long to be back on my estates in Loguire, where folk speak to the point and do not waste my time in bandying words.”
“Ever the scholar,” Alain said, amused. “We must watch you closely, brother, or you shall be off to build a cottage in the shadow of Gregory’s tower and spend your days in study.”
Diarmid’s face turned gaunt with hunger. “Do not tempt me, brother.”
Alain was taken aback by his intensity and resolved never to mention the ivory tower again. He changed the subject. “I cannot understand how you can administer the whole of a dukedom, and administer it well, in only six hours a day!”
Diarmid shrugged. “It is only a matter of delegating authority—and of choosing good people in whom to entrust it.”
“You may yet prove more fit to govern than—”
“Do not say it, my liege-to-be,” Diarmid interrupted, “for the plain and simple fact of my efficiency in governance is that I do not really care tremendously for the people or the land.”
“Diarmid!” Alain cried, shocked.
Diarmid shrugged. “I do what I do out of duty, brother, not fascination. You, on the other hand, care for the common folk so deeply that you will spend hours agonizing over a ten-minute matter to be sure your decision is as right as it can be.” He shook his head, smiling with amusement. “I do not truly understand it—and have no doubt that you will be a far better ruler than I.”
“I thank you, brother.” Alain clapped him on the shoulder. “Soothe our parents for my absence, will you?”
“As well as I can,” Diarmid promised. “Give me the note you have writ for them.”
Alain handed him the scroll, then left, squaring his shoulders and bracing himself to confront Cordelia.
Diarmid looked after him with a pensive frown. If the horrid visions had been enough to rock Gregory from his studies, they must have been vile indeed—and there was a chance, no matter how slight, that Alain might find himself in greater danger than he knew. Diarmid made up his mind on the instant, for blood is thicker than ink. He would miss his books, but he couldn’t take the chance that Alain might be slain. He would follow him in case he needed to be pried loose from trouble. After all, he had only one brother.
Then, too, he really did not want to have to become king.
Prince Diarmid had been easy to tell; he took it in stride, used to his brother’s gallivanting in Geoffrey’s wake and quietly certain that the issue was more a matter of young men adventuring than of any real danger to the realm. Cordelia was another matter.
“Now? A month before our wedding? Have you a crack in your skull, that your brains could leak out and let you think of such a thing?”
Alain caught his breath at the vivacity of her, the way she seemed to glow with anger, her face only inches from his . . . He forced his mind away from that train of thought and said firmly, “If my people are endangered, I must go.”
“Aye, if! But what chance is there of that ‘if’ being true—and how great is the chance of your leaving me standing alone at the altar while you and my scapegrace brother go jaunting about the countryside?”
“I doubt highly that we will be gone more than a week,” Alain told her, then remembered what Geoffrey had told him about courtship and let his feelings show. He dropped his voice a few notes. “Besides, I am near to losing my wits with being so close to you, and so close to being your husband, and able to do nothing about it.”
Cordelia thawed on the instant. “There are always kisses,” she breathed, swaying even closer.
Alain took the hint, and the kiss—it lasted a long time, but as it ended, a groan escaped his lips.
Cordelia was instantly on fire again. “Are my kisses so distasteful as that?”
“No,” Alain gasped, “but they ignite a pain within me that shall not be quenched for a month and a day.”
“A day?” Cordelia stared at him, almost affronted. “Why the day?”
“Because I suspect you shall be exhausted at the end of your wedding day.”
Cordelia’s eyes lit with a different sort of fire. She pressed her cheek against his chest with a husky laugh. “Have more confidence in me than that, my love. I have more energy than you think.”