He didn’t feel easy until he was riding the Sapphire Winds and heading home.
Jared would have liked her. Thera would have liked her. Lia would have understood her.
Yes, he had a lot to think about.
Saetan walked into a sitting room similar to the one he’d left at the Keep in Terreille, but this one held a golden-haired treasure.
“Before we were interrupted, I believe you were going to tell me why you’re spending a few days with me here,” he said as he settled on the sofa next to Jaenelle.
“Because my moontime was supposed to start this evening, and Daemon politely requested that I spend the three days when I’m vulnerable here instead of remaining at the Hall.”
“With him.”
“With him.” She looked tired and sad.
“Was he right? Did it start?”
She gave him a sour look. “You know it did.”
Of course he knew. He smelled the change in her scent the moment he walked in the room.
“Give him time, witch-child. He’s running scared. He loves you with everything that’s in him—and he’s just beginning to understand that it really is everything that’s in him.”
“I miss him.”
Saetan drew her closer and put an arm around her shoulders. “Not half as much as he’s missing you. And right about now, he’s wondering why he’d been such a fool as to ask you to come here.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s a mirror.” He kissed her head. “So tomorrow when he shows up, don’t tell him he looks like he hasn’t slept, because he hasn’t slept. And don’t bristle over whatever paltry excuse he makes about you needing a nap. Just tuck in with him so he can get some sleep—and let him heal his wounds in his own way.”
Those sapphire eyes looked at him, looked through him.
“Will he heal, Papa?”
“In order to be with you, Daemon needs to heal. So he’ll heal,” Saetan replied.
They sat quietly for a couple of minutes. Then Jaenelle said, “So why were you called to the Keep in Terreille?”
“For this.” He called in Cassidy’s note and handed the pages to her.
About halfway through the first page, Jaenelle began to chuckle. Wasn’t his reaction to the words, but he had suspected it would be hers.
“Oh, my,” Jaenelle said. “Cassie is really pissed.”
“And showing a fair amount of backbone,” Saetan said.
“She always had that, but she never had to fight for anything enough for it to show.”
“Looks like she’s fighting now.”
“And may the Darkness help whoever is dumb enough to get in her way.” Jaenelle folded the pages and handed them back to him. “She didn’t provide any dimensions. Hard to really know what she wants, isn’t it?”
He knew a leading question when he heard one. “Yes, it is. Any suggestions?” As if he hadn’t guessed.
Jaenelle smiled at him. “I think we know a good carpenter who could be persuaded to work in Dena Nehele for a few days.”
He returned her smile. “Yes, I think we do.”
CHAPTER 17
Daemon walked into his closet and pulled a white silk shirt off its hanger. As he stuffed one arm into a sleeve, he muttered, “It’s your own fault, you brainless fool. So do something about it.” And he damn well was going to do something about it just as soon as he got this miserable rag of a shirt over his shoul—
“Stop it,” Jazen snapped, rushing into the closet. “Stop! You’ll rip the seams.”
Daemon bared his teeth and snarled at his valet. “What’s wrong with Lord Aldric that he couldn’t get the measurements right? I give him enough business.”
The valet stripped the shirt off him and hung it back up with a fussy care that honed Daemon’s temper—and also made him wary.
“It doesn’t fit because it’s not your shirt,” Jazen said, examining the shoulder seams for rips.
“Then why is it in my closet?”
“Because it’s Lady Angelline’s shirt.”
“Then why is it in my closet?”
Jazen huffed out a breath, and Daemon got the impression the valet had hoped never to have this conversation.
“It has to stay in your closet with the rest of your clothes in order to absorb your scent,” Jazen said.
“Are you saying I smell?”
“If you want to pick a fight, look elsewhere,” Jazen said with a rigid courtesy. “You asked a question; I’m trying to give you an answer.”
Daemon closed his eyes and struggled to leash his temper. “My apologies, Jazen,” he finally said. “I’m a bit . . . cranky.”
“Prince, you passed cranky halfway through breakfast—which is when Beale suggested I pack a bag for you so that you could leave the moment you decided to go to the Keep.”
He’d always been so good at hiding feelings he didn’t want anyone to see. When had he stopped being good at hiding?
He opened his eyes and looked at Jazen. “The shirt.”
Jazen selected another white silk shirt and handed it to him. It didn’t look any different from the other one—except it fit him perfectly.
“Servants are discreet,” Jazen said. “Especially personal servants. And while they won’t discuss things that go on in the household with anyone outside their house, they do talk among themselves. So I began to see a pattern with the laundry. Lady Angelline would borrow one of your shirts, and when it was laundered, it would be returned to her closet. But the second time she wore it, she would seem dissatisfied—and go browsing in your closet again. That’s when I realized the shirt itself wasn’t the attraction. The appeal was your scent—physical and psychic—that was absorbed by the material.
“I also realized from the things the maids said that your shirts were a little too big to be comfortably big, and it was easy enough to learn that the High Lord’s shirts had been a better fit. So the last time I was in Amdarh to place an order for your shirts, I took the liberty of talking to Lord Aldric, and he made a couple of shirts that were just a little smaller than your measurements for shoulders and sleeves. I put a little bead on the hanger so that those shirts are easy to identify, and I position them so that Lady Angelline is more likely to choose one of them than any other.”
“I see,” Daemon said. He hadn’t considered why Jaenelle chose to wear one of his shirts. The way she looked always aroused him, even when it was clear she had no interest in him doing anything with that arousal. “Do you know why she does that?”
Jazen hesitated. “I wouldn’t presume to know what the Lady thinks.”
“I asked, Jazen. I’m not going to hold your opinion against you.”
Jazen hesitated a moment longer. “The servants at the Hall are very discreet,” he said again, emphasizing that point, “but they’ve told me a little about things that happened before the Lady came to live with the High Lord. So I would understand why she responds to some things the way she does.
“I’m guessing that she first started wearing the High Lord’s shirts when she felt nervous or vulnerable because she needed the reminder that she was safe, that he would stand as her sword and shield. Later on, since Helene and the laundry maids didn’t remember Lady Angelline abandoning his shirts after a couple of washings and she only occasionally borrowed a different one, I think she was at an age when she simply liked wearing one of his shirts—and she enjoyed a small rebellion against a father who liked women to dress for dinner.”