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“Hello, my dear, your dress is lovely, though I wished you had worn your sapphire-blue one.” Micha’s rheumy eyes took in her form, and she could practically see the old man salivate. He was dressed in his country best—a velvet overcoat that had been overly adorned with golden buttons and jewel-encrusted medals proclaiming some military service he’d never actually performed. Micha liked to take such things off condemned prisoners and pass them off as his own, or so rumor had it.
One thing Bronwyn Finn was not about to become was the mayor’s wife. She would fight like hell to avoid that, no question.
“I apologize, mayor,” Bron said with a yawn, already planning her getaway. “I suppose I wasn’t thinking about such things as fashion. The harvest begins tomorrow. There was much to do this day to prepare. It has tired me out.”
His lips curled in a condescending smile. “Well, we shall have to make ours a particularly short engagement so you shall never have to work a plow again. Though I would say there will still be a bit of plowing involved in your life. Do not worry, dear, I’ll be the driving force in that particular harvest.”
It was all she could do to not show her disdain. She let her eyes go wide and innocent. She needed to be as virginal as possible so when she slapped him silly, she would have the perfect excuse of utter ignorance. “I did not know you planted your own food, mayor. Well, that explains why you selected me as your mate. I can certainly help with your farming techniques.”
The guards behind him laughed, elbowing each other. The mayor joined them. “My bride will need an education, will she not?”
“You’re just the man to give it to her, mayor,” one of the guards said. They stood behind him, two large men with swords at their sides. Bron noticed the long, distrustful stares of the farmers around her.
Bron felt herself flush. She wanted to show them just what her education over the last years had been. Swords and knives and hand-to-hand combat taught by a pair of open-minded goblins. They had taught her to fight dirty, to use her hands, her legs, her teeth. Anything to win the battle. They had taught her that the only true honor in battle was to stay alive.
There was a particular move they had taught her that she would love to practice on the mayor. It involved her knees and his balls. Yes, she’d been good at that move.
She pushed thoughts of crushing the mayor’s withered old balls down and granted him a curtsey and what she hoped was a simpering smile. “I am sure to be grateful for any instruction you can give me, Sir Mayor, but now I must go and aid my sister. I have left her all alone to sell our bread.”
The mayor frowned. “I don’t know that I like my future wife in a stall selling her wares. I think, perhaps, your sister can handle this day alone, Isolde. Come and we will walk the grounds. I want everyone to see what a lovely fiancée I have found for myself.”
He held out his arm in what she assumed was supposed to be a courtly gesture, and there was nothing to do but take it. Arguing with him would simply mak
e her look like a fool and get both her and Gillian in trouble. She walked sedately beside the mayor as he waved to the people of the town. He stopped and talked to the more prominent members and ignored the pure peasants.
“We shall have to work on your priorities, dear,” Micha said after leaving the town’s richest merchant. “You seem to smile at the worthless and frown at the wealthy.”
Because the wealthy of this town were complete asses. She took a deep breath and measured her response. “I am sorry, Mr. Mayor. Perhaps it is because I know mostly the working folk.”
Though her father had spent time with his subjects, both noble and peasant, he hadn’t ever had loads of time to lavish on her. One of her fondest memories was walking with her father through the village on Saturday mornings. He would stroll through, waving at people, buying food from the merchants and trinkets. It was the only real time he ever spent with her and Cian, and sometimes Dante when he visited. Her father hadn’t been perfect, but he’d understood the value of all of his subjects.
The mayor shook his head. “I know. The Fae you consort with shall have to change. How you behave is going to reflect on me. I can’t have you breaking bread with peasants. After all, the queen herself will be coming to our wedding.”
The thought of being in the same room with Maris brought a smile to Bron’s face. Yes, she had a few things to say to her brothers’ former fiancée, and she would say them with the point of her blade. Being able to kill the traitorous bitch would almost be worth going through with the sham of a wedding.
“Ah, that has made you happy!” The mayor looked delighted. “Yes, you will love the queen. Such a perfect female.”
“I would dearly love to stand in her presence,” Bron allowed. Preferably close enough to slip a knife between her ribs, though it might not work since everyone knew the pretender queen didn’t have a heart. It was said among the peasants she had sold it to a hag in exchange for her crown.
His hand covered hers. Soft and clammy, it was obvious that Micha had the hands of a man who had never worked a day in his life. “Well, dear, this gives me great hope. I worried for a while that you had no interest in court. Shall I fill you in on all the latest gossip?” He leaned toward her, a conspiratorial gleam in his eyes. “I have a spy in the palace. All of the mayors tend to. I talk to her through looking glass once a week.” He put a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell anyone, dear. Magic is getting a bad reputation these days, but this is a harmless thing.”
Yes, it was harmless because it gained the mayor something, but not three days before Siobhan Hannigan had been jailed for placing a blessing spell on a newborn child who was struggling to breathe. The babe had survived, but both of her parents sat waiting trial, too, for hiring a witch. They probably wouldn’t hold their babe again. Yet a little gossip was all right.
Still, she pretended to care because it kept his hands off her. “Tell me.”
He looked around, leaning in a little and pulling away from his guards. “The rumor is that the princess might have survived the king’s coup. My source said the king is initiating a countrywide search for Bronwyn Finn.”
Bron felt her stomach lurch, her heart stop.
Micha rolled his eyes. “I think it’s ridiculous. They buried the Finn bitch. She was a stupid child. She couldn’t have survived. The king was very thorough when he liberated us. And if she did survive, she’s more than likely with those brothers of hers, eking out an existence on some third-rate plane.”
The world seemed to tilt a little, throwing her off-balance. Micha continued to speak, but his words seemed to come from someplace far away. What had happened? Thirteen years had passed and not a word of her survival had been heard. There hadn’t been a whisper about her in all the towns and villages and provinces she and Gillian had sought refuge in. Thirteen years and now Torin believed?
Panic threatened to suffuse her. She felt that odd tingle that started in her hands whenever she was truly frightened. That tingle that always came before the fire.
Not now. Tears pricked her eyes. She had to get it under control. She couldn’t lose it now in front of everyone.
Over the years, she had been truly afraid a few times, and each time a fire began. The first had been an overzealous suitor who had plunged his hands down her bodice. The chair beneath him had caught fire mysteriously.
