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No, she couldn’t bear to lose him… it seemed he was the last thread tethering her to this world.
She met his eyes—beautiful and dark, commanding and gentle all at once. She thought of Mary’s eyes, which were different from Rowan’s and so like hers.
“Say what you must,” he finally whispered, his gaze never breaking from her own. Shyly, she lifted her hands and reached for him. He dipped into her touch as her fingers wound in the thick black locks around his face.
Mary isn’t your daughter. But she didn’t need to say it. And she didn’t have the heart to.
“How long have you known?” she asked instead.
He sighed. “A part of me has always known. That’s why I sent her away as a ward. I kept that moat between us for these past seven years. I knew keeping her close would have dulled my hate for your family. After all, what sort of monster could tear apart a young girl’s father? A mad dog, a hellhound. And if she was your father’s child… well, what responsibility did I have to her? These are the mental games I’ve played with myself every night.”
Blanchette glanced over Rowan’s shoulder and out at the night. The sky was a lush, velvety black without a star in sight.
“Will you tell Mary the truth?”
“The truth? And what truth is that, Blanchette?” She released a tremulous sigh as his long fingers traced the curve of her cheeks. They skirted across her forehead as if drawing something there. “Your beauty was made for a crown resting upon your brow. Not all my intentions have been noble… that is another truth I cannot contest… but my vision’s always been to heal this kingdom. Your goodness shall be the healing balm I could never provide.” Blanchette could scarcely breathe and didn’t trust herself to speak. He went on, his arms around her waist again, strong and sure and warm. “As for Mary… the truth is, she is my daughter. And I shall not let another day pass that she doesn’t feel that truth.”
* * *
Meet me in the throne room at sundown.
She’d found the letter that morning while she pored over the ledgers and tried to push her grief for Governess Agnes aside.
She stared at the stone throne chair—the source of so much pain and loss. The tears on her cheeks had dried, and her sorrow turned to anger. Her hands shook, and she exhaled a breath of agony.
“Good. I want you to use your anger, Blanchette.”
Rowan whispered, yet it filled the grand, high-ceilinged throne room all the same. She turned to him and glanced at his hands. He held a bow, quiver, and a handsome-looking shortsword. An iron raven graced its pommel, its wings spread in flight. “These are yours.”
“You made them?”
He nodded and held the dagger out for her. Its blade shone in the lantern. She hesitated—then wrapped her hand around the pommel. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s not for ornament,” he said. “It’s to kill with.”
She returned his smile and held the blade up to the torchlight. “I gathered as much.”
He took her hand, the one holding the pommel, and lifted it midair. His arm guided her own in a swift movement. He stood just behind her, his hard, muscled chest flush against her back. “Light, elegant, easy to wield, even for one with such short arms like yours.”
She playfully scoffed and elbowed him. “Careful now, sir. You’re speaking to your queen.” His chuckle rustled against her nape and sent chills racing down her spine.
“As you say, Your Grace.” He adjusted his body. She felt him hardening down there, his manhood pressed against the curve of her bottom, as he guided her arm back and forth, up and down. “As I was saying, if the foe is lightly armored—leather, even chain mail—you want to go for the heart. The point is fine and will poke right through.”
“The heart,” she echoed, turning her head up to look at him. Silently, he nodded and adjusted himself again.
“Now, if they’re farther away,” he said, stepping back and handing her the bow. “This is what you’ll use. Come with me.”
* * *
He brought her before the line of archery butts. The yard was nearly empty, with only a handful of young boys knocking and loosing arrows with silent determination. The soft whooshing echoed as they hit the straw more times than not.
Rowan gave her a grin, then took a moment to correct his squire.
“He quite idolizes you,” she said when Rowan returned to her side.
“He’s young. Young and far too brave for his own good. I’m afraid it shall get him killed.”
Blanchette looked at the squire, then back at Rowan. His eyes seemed too distant, and there was a sadness in them that hit her hard. “Then we must protect him,” she said, seeing Governess Agnes lying in the chapel all over again. “We must protect everyone who cannot protect themselves.”
