Page 14 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“Koraleise.” Duncan stooped to retrieve the fallen book. He turned it over and read the stamped title. “By Trade and Tariff,” he murmured, lifting a brow. “Not poetry. Business?”

“Father recommended it.” Her hands came together, fingers lacing and unlacing. “I was only skimming.”

Amusement touched Duncan’s mouth. “You seem to grasp the subject keenly enough. I confess I have rarely waded through such volumes. Have I been remiss in neglecting them?”

Her eyes brightened. “I am certain Your Grace’s education lacks little.” Not flattery—only acknowledgment of fact. “But I do find trade similar to governance. Such books might offer a different perspective on ducal affairs.”

Duncan regarded her. “How so?”

The young woman hesitated. “Both governance and trade require balancing cost with favor so both sides believe they have gained.” She glanced toward the distant line of masts in the harbor. “A merchant must understand what his buyer desires, or the bargain will not stand. A ruler must know what his subjects need, or loyalty will not follow.” She paused, then added, “And both must be willing to part with something themselves.”

“A fair observation,” Duncan said, though the ease with which he agreed felt stranger than disagreement would have. He offered the book back with deliberate care.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” she said, taking the book. “I speak too plainly.”

“You said nothing that troubled me,” Duncan replied, not quite expecting there to be as much truth to it as there was. “It is refreshing to hear an honest opinion.”

She dipped into another curtsy. “May I assist you with anything, Your Grace?”

Duncan shook his head, his earlier numbness shifting into something far less comfortable. He felt unmoored. “It is my turn to speak plainly. I hope you will forgive the surprise of it.”

She tilted her head, eyes intent on him. One bare foot settled nearer to a closed bud. The bud seemed—surely, only seemed—to ease open slightly.

“I am… in need of a wife,” he said. “I will not compel you. Nor will your father. If you refuse, no blame will fall to you. But if you agree—”

“Me?” The color drained from her face. “Surely my sister—”

“I would prefer a wife who does not turn my halls into another battlefield,” he said. Then, more quietly, “I cannot survive another burden at home. My wife need not share them, but she cannot become one.”

Koraleise flinched. “You seek someone invisible enough not to trouble you.”

Duncan opened his mouth, then stopped. Whatever he said would not undo the hurt.

“I seek peace,” he said instead, finding no other words. “Wherever I can find it.” The confession carried more of him than he had intended.

She turned away, toward the ribbon of sea where sunset fractured against the water.

Duncan let the silence stand. He had sent men into battle with better words than these.

“May I have time to consider it?” she asked at last, still looking toward the horizon.

Duncan exhaled, surprised to find he had been bracing for refusal—and more surprised still that it would have disappointed him. “You may. The choice is yours alone. But I leave for the north the morning after tomorrow. If you are to come with me, we must be wed before then.”

She turned back, fierce thought in her eyes. Something in him wanted to ease it, though he did not know how. “I swear it,” he said, “if you refuse, no harm will come of it.”

She drew the book to her chest and nodded. “Then I will think on it.”

“I will await your reply.”

Duncan watched her a moment, then turned away. Sand whispered beneath his boots again as he crossed the garden toward the manor. The magnitude of what he had done settled across his shoulders—not for the act itself, but for the life it might set in motion.

What alternative had he?

His family was gone.

Lemierre needed an heir.

Wolmer had demands.