The prince kept going, pointing now to Luca. “Remember, Princess, if you die, he dies.”
Amarande straightened. Luca was watching her, the fierceness in his eyes overpowering every bruise, cut, scrape, and speck of red dirt. That fury was love. Holding his hands now, bound as they were, she saw the boy she’d grown with in the Itspi, the boy who made her blood hot in the meadow, who held her heart with the gentlest of care.
It didn’t matter who watched—Renard, Taillefer, the guards, the hired hands, the eyes of the castle ready to report back to the Dowager Queen. Amarande angled into Luca, lifted her hands to his face, and kissed him.
Vaguely, she heard Renard sigh, Taillefer chuckle, and the guards shift with discomfort. Only the kidnappers and Osana didn’t react, unsurprised by her boldness.
When she pulled away, Amarande met Luca’s eyes and leaned up and into his ear. “I love you. Tonight does not change that.”
“I love you, too, Ama. Always, Princess.”
Tears sparked in Amarande’s eyes and she sucked down a shuddering breath before turning to Taillefer. “I expect to inspect his conditions as soon as possible.”
“Of course, Princess.” Taillefer half-bowed. It felt formal yet mocking, and if Amarande weren’t so angry, she would’ve been annoyed.
She wheeled on Renard, who seemed to deflate in relief. “Remember, Prince, if he dies, you die.”
If Renard was at all startled by Amarande tossing his own words back in his face, he didn’t show it. Rather, he nodded. “I would be a fool to test you.”
It was the first thing he’d ever said that actually pleased her.
RENARD’Schambers were not his own. That much was clear from the decor—oiled wood and leather, furs that seemed more a source of pride than comfort. Cobwebs, too, time collecting in a space that had once belonged to his father, King Louis-David, dead these four years.
Maids were already about, throwing open the blinds, tidying, trying very hard not to appear horrified about the thick layers of dust.
Amarande stood in the entryway of the receiving chamber, adding to the disaster as red dirt that had hitchhiked from the Torrent shed from her hair, tunic, breeches, and boots and onto the white marble flooring.
“The library and study are this way, followed by the bedroom,” Renard was saying, like she might care about any of this. His voice crackled with an energy that didn’t match the mundane words that came out of his mouth. “Of course, you’ll have your own space. Follow me.”
For once Amarande did as she was told, a young maid trailing along with a broom as the Torrent further left its mark behind both of them.
He led her to another sitting room, this one lush with aubergine satins and tapestries of mountain flowers and summer sun. A balcony extended off the side. Amarande aimlessly tried the knob, but the glass doors didn’t so much as rattle. “We’ll open those in the morning, Princess. Safety first, remember?”
Attached to the ladies’ sitting room was a private bath and another bedroom, full of high windows and curtains that coughed dust, though not nearly as much as the main chamber. The maid was forced to leave them there as Renard closed the door to the suite behind them with a wooden slam. “Mother slept here most nights. But after Father passed she decided she wanted full chambers of her own. Actually, that’s incorrect—she wanted to redecorate the entirety of these chambers, but the council told her no, so she moved out, into the next biggest set.” Here, he laughed. Yes, he’d become giddy with proximity to his wildest dreams. “She will hate it when I’m allowed to redecorate.”
The princess tilted her head. “I will not stop her if she aims to suffocate you with her preferred silk palette.”
Again, he laughed. It was quickly becoming the worst sound she’d ever heard. “Do tell me, will you always be like this, Princess? Or will your tongue soften with pillow talk in the marriage bed?”
Amarande lunged at Renard. Both his hands blocked to cover the sword at his hip, leaving the rest of him wide open. She clamped her fingers tight around his neck, thumbs pressing together into his jugular.
“My bed is not your bed unless I deem it so, ring or not, title or not. Understood?”
His eyes flashed with what he wanted to say—Do not forget, I have your stableboy.But he kept those words to himself, nodding slowly instead.
She released her hold, purple splotches the shape of her fingers blooming across the width of his neck.
Renard swallowed. “I’ll have the maids draw you a bath, Princess.” He took a step backward, the majority of his giddiness drained, the remaining bits fighting to the surface. “The seamstresses will take it from there.”
He placed his hand on the doorknob but paused for final instruction. “We shall wed in three hours’ time.”
Amarande’s heart skidded to a stop, the blood freezing her veins, her breath still.
Three hours and her entire fight was lost.
CHAPTER
44
