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And significantly fancier than Delaney in her jeans and T-shirt.
“I am the majordomo,” the man intoned.
Then waited for her to reply to that in a proud manner that suggested a bended knee on her part might not be out of the question.
When Delaney did not alter the position of her knees, or change expression at all, he sniffed. Then proceeded to take her on a tour of the castle, stopping along the way to point out objects of note, paintings of historical figures—most, if not all, of the Arcieris—rooms wherein great moments in Ile d’Montagne’s history took place, and, at every window, a detailed description of the view. What lands, buildings, villages were before her, their significance, how they had disguised their true purpose during periods of conflict, and so on.
It took her longer than it should have to realize that this was not a tour. It was a lesson.
She blamed the jet lag again, but once she caught on, she paid much closer attention.
And chose not to ask herself why, when she was obviously not going to stay here, she felt it necessary to learn anything about this place. She told herself she was listening so intently because this was, in its way, a story about her family, too. Who better to tell the story than her family’s enemies? After listening to a litany of complaints against the Montaigne family across the ages, she could surely only be pleasantly surprised by Queen Esme one day.
She took in all the commentary about the Montaigne line, filing it all away to look up on her own later. To see how the story changed depending on the telling. But she couldn’t help but notice that, somehow, she was also interested not only in the details of the castle they stood in, and the valley she could see on the other side of the windows, but of Cayetano himself.
Knowing the enemy, she told herself stoutly. That’s all this was. She wasgathering intelligence, the way people did when embroiled in games involving castles and queens.
“The Arcieri family have controlled the castle almost without interruption since its inception,” the majordomo told her while standing in front of a portrait of a long-ago warlord, clearly taking great personal pride in both the image and the Arcieris. “They have been the heart, soul, and conscience of this island these many ages.”
Delaney could see Cayetano in the portrait of his ancestor. Stone and fire. Eyes like a hawk.
She could still feel his hard mouth moving on hers.
“It does make a person question what the royal family actually wants, though, doesn’t it?” she asked.
The majordomo looked at her as if he’d never heard such blasphemy. “It is abundantly clear that what the Montaignes want is power.”
Delaney nodded at him. “But if this one family—”my family, she thought, to try to get used to it “—has been the problem for generations, why didn’t they just take out the family instead of all these wars and skirmishes and whatever else?”
The way the man looked at her reminded her that she was standing there in another gleaming room, this one a gallery, with the smell of the farm all over her. In her T-shirt and jeans, which were as comfortable as they had ever been but really didn’t match her surroundings. And the way he was looking at her, she was tempted to look and see if, in fact, she was also covered in dirt.
“They have tried, madam,” said the man before, frostily. “They have tried and tried.”
“It’s really amazing, then,” Delaney said hurriedly, “that the Arcieris have managed to stand against them all the while.”
Themin this case being the bad guys whose blood ran in her veins.
When all she’d ever wanted was Kansas dirt and a long, fruitful growing season.
Her words seemed to mollify her companion, though the look he gave her was still ripe with suspicion. “It was not so long ago that we were certain the great cause was lost,” he told her, straightening the resplendent coat of his uniform as if it had somehow become imperfect during this lesson. When it had not. “Our current warlord’s parents...” But he stopped himself. “I do not wish to speak out of turn.”
Delaney wanted nothing more than for him to speak out of turn. At length.
Because she was buying time and collecting information, she assured herself. That little leap inside at the mention of Cayetano was nothing to worry about. Maybe it was heartburn after whatever she’d eaten earlier. She’d never had heartburn before, ever, but these were extraordinary circumstances. If it persisted, she thought as serenely as she could, she would have to ask for the warlord version of antacids.
“It is only history, surely,” she said mildly now, keeping her eyes on the picture of the historical warlord before her. He was very impressive, but not as impressive as the current version. But she was quite sure that if she showed even the slightest bit of prurient interest, the already-not-so-sure-about-her majordomo would go silent altogether.
She must have showed the appropriate amount of respectful disinterest, because he continued. “Our warlord’s father died when he was quite young and Cayetano became the hope of our people. But for a time it seemed that hope was to be dashed. His mother ruled our people in Cayetano’s stead, for he was underage. Some factions believed that she was Arcieri enough, having been married to the previous warlord, and could lead us where we needed to go. But then she considered remarrying, and things became more complicated.” He shook his head. “Her choice of a potential husband was no Arcieri. I will leave it at that.”
Delaney snuck a look at his expression then, and found it...troubling.
And she didn’t like that at all. Because all the things the majordomo did not say seemed thick in the air then, and it made her feel more sympathetic to Cayetano.
When she had no desire to feel the slightest hint of sympathy for him.
Not when she could feel the aftereffects of that hurricane, still kicking up a fuss inside her.
“That must have been hard for the warlord,” she said anyway. From some unknown place inside herself, where she was gentle and not the least bit stormy.
