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The mention of his mother hit Lachlan in the chest. Stars, he missed her. He nodded.
“Now.” Tomas clapped Lachlan on the back. “Call me, Tom.” He paused, then muttered, “Berkman. Berkman. That name sounds familiar. I can’t remember where I would have heard it.” His warm eyes looked over at Lachlan.
The whispers drew Lachlan’s attention to the four women—Jessamine, Brinna, Auri and Tarley—standing shoulder-to-shoulder, staring at him and Nix.
Tom laid one large hand on Lachlan’s shoulder, the other on Nix’s. “Don’t worry about them. They are gatekeepers for one another, but they are a good sort.” Then he walked past, instructing his daughters to be nice.
Tarley rolled her eyes and turned away, saying loudly, “It was him or Mr. Rufus.”
“No contest then,” Lachlan said, joining them at the table.
The sisters howled with laughter.
Tarley glanced at him, smiling, happy.
At that moment, clarity hit him in the breastbone like a punch thrown by Captain Johesha. He loved her. It wasn’t just a cascade into love he’d thought he was sliding through. That had started in the woods the moment he saw her standing like a woodland fairy wet with rain and golden with pleasure. No. The kaleidoscope of feelings he’d been trying to untangle couldn’t be unraveled because they represented a part of the whole design. That complete picture was that Lachlan was completely in love with his future bride.
His forced future bride.
His heart pinched in his aching chest.
He swallowed.
Scarlett set a final dish on the table. “Welcome, Ollie and Nixus.”
He took his cues from the rest, moving around the table to their places. Tarley grabbed his hand and pulled him to her side, making room for him to sit next to her on a bench.
The wooden table had clearly been made by an artisan, the wood smooth and polished but simple with two benches, one on each side, and two chairs, one at each end. It was set with the flourishes of a home: simple dishes, simple flatware, simple glasses, and sprigs of flowers and herbs.
Lachlan was used to beauty and an opulent table. Gilded dressings of candles, of flatware, and dishes threaded with gold and silver. Crystal wine glasses that sparkled in the light. Rich, decadent food, overflowing and served to him. Yet, standing there, looking at that family surrounding that table, the love that went into setting it, made it the most beautiful table he’d ever seen in his life.
Tom gave thanks the forest for its bounty, and when he’d concluded, the family erupted with movement and sound.
Tarley offered him a bowl of mashed potatoes toward him. “I’ll hold it while you put some on your plate,” she said, not meeting his gaze.
“Thank you,” he said and scooped a spoonful onto his plate. When he took the dish, their fingers brushed, and those pulses of lightning sizzled Lachlan’s thoughts. He handed the dish to Tom and turned back to the next, wild greens in herbs and butter, and the next, slices of roast pork followed by herb gravy, then wild fruit that Tarley suggested he put on the meat. With everything was dished out, he found he missed the ability to touch her and wondered how he might find a way to do it again, content for now to feel her leg pressed against his.
“Have you been to Jast, then, Ollie?” Scarlett asked. “Living so far north?”
“I thought the border was closed,” Jessamine said.
“It is.” Lachlan pressed a napkin to his mouth. “But people cross all the time.”
“Berkman,” Tom said again, and Lachlan knew he was putting puzzle pieces into place, and once he had them, he looked at Lachlan again. “The Prime-Advisor-to-the-King-of-Jast Berkman?”
Lachlan wasn’t surprised Tomas would place the name if he was half as astute as Tarley. Nerves coiled in his back with concern. It wasn’t so much that the Fareviews might ascertain who he was but rather that he’d been lying, and Tarley along with him.
All this suddenly felt wrong somehow.
Lachlan’s breath caught, and he glanced at Tarley frowning next to him.
He had to call off the betrothal. He wanted Tarley, but not because she’d been forced to marry him. He couldn’t take her from all she loved. Perhaps that wasn’t what was best for Jast. And maybe his father was right—he’d make a terrible king because he couldn’t put Jast ahead of his feelings for her.
Lachlan replaced his napkin in his lap, his arm brushing Tarley’s. “Yes, sir.”
Tom’s eyes flew to Tarley. “Did you know that?”
Tarley turned her head to look at Lachlan, and the strands of lavender in her eyes flaring with awareness, but also something else. “Actually–.”
