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Monarchs could wed as they chose and to whichever lover they wished, so long as those choices reflected their ranks. Casual romps between hierarchies weren’t taken seriously, but anything beyond that was forbidden.
Intimate friendships, for instance.
Naturally, people breached this rule behind closed doors. As a princess setting an example for her land, no one suspected me of being such a person. Regardless, I allowed myself this single indulgence. It was worth the risk and always would be.
“Briar,” he murmured into my shoulder.
“Eliot,” I replied.
Our given names. Much better. Far worse.
I yearned to have a brother. If only he and I shared the same bloodline, lived in the same court, we would not have to hide like this.
Eliot tried to pull back, but I held him fast. “Not yet.”
“Aren’t I the lucky one.” He obliged, clasping me to him. “It’s my private duty to keep the Princess of Autumn sane among this depraved lot. How is this for a hug? I’ve been practicing. That is, I haven’t been practicing on other heiresses. Not that there are any others to practice with, and even if there were, they’d smack the shit out of me if I touched them. Not that I would touch them, because well, maidens aren’t my fancy—except for you. But what I mean is, it’s been a long time, so I want to get the moment right. Is it right?”
Eliot tended to ramble. When we were younger, I’d sought to tame his digressions but eventually learned it would be easier to clear a moat with a ladle.
“Your embrace is unmatched,” I answered, then realized with contrition that I hadn’t disputed his remark about keeping me composed while in the clutches of Spring. Eliot was more to me than a crutch.
“Not everything about Spring is depraved,” I conceded. “Only most of it.”
“Still stubborn, aren’t you? You act like you’ve never been here. It’s as if you’re afraid the walls will devour you, which they won’t unless you’re having one hell of a nightmare, or unless we’re speaking figuratively, or unless you have kinks I don’t know about.”
Before he went on a tangent, I stepped back. “Let me see you properly.”
We surveyed each other. He had grown statuesque, whereas my legs had failed to stretch. Otherwise, Eliot looked the same. Gilded locks. Charming dimples. Wistful eyes. At twenty like me, his physique cut a fine figure in the elegant musician’s garb, his black checkered coat etched in bronze.
The makings of a lute tattoo covered the side of his neck, while the rest of the concealed design wrapped around the edge of his shoulder. His ballads proved a bit fanciful in their lyrics, with notions of courtly seduction and such prattle, but the melodies were nice.
“I approve,” I said. “You outshine a Royal any day.”
He grinned. “How long do we have?”
“About fifteen minutes before I must rush back. My escorts will be knocking soon after.”
“I’d say it must be nice having a set of bulky men brandishing weapons and flanking you like a sandwich on a regular basis. But from your sour puss, I doubt you’d agree.”
I crossed my arms and teased, “What makes you think they’re all men? They could be women.”
“True. I was fantasizing. It happens.” Eliot eyed the braid crowning my head. “I’ll never understand Autumn. What do you mean by this style? You’re a guest of Spring, you know. Ladies wear their hair loose here.”
“I am not a lady.”
He chuckled too loudly. I shushed him while trying not to laugh back, which was difficult. I hadn’t heard his infectious humor in a year, and I’d missed it. Eliot was one of those people who made others chortle simply from listening to his mirth. It didn’t matter if the joke or comment were truly funny. I would make a wry comment, and he would find it uproarious, and soon I would be joining him.
We once guffawed for a full minute. I’d never forgotten that.
The familiar scents of woodsmoke and sage wafted from his skin, mingling with new aromas. I detected notes of amber and vetiver, which didn’t come naturally from him.
No, they came from someone else.
His flushed skin. His swollen lips. His intoxicated eyes.
“You’ve been wooed,” I blurted, the revelation jumping off my tongue.
Eliot’s grin deepened. “Wooed? Such a genteel word for sex. Not that sex was involved—yet.”
