The Queen's Consort (11 page)

             
Ansel burst out laughing. Some of the tension in his chest unwound, letting him breathe deep and relax a bit. He wanted to to enjoy this time with her.

             
The letter in his pocket dug into his leg, reminding him of his continuing deceit and making him shift uneasily. He had to read it quickly and return it before she noticed it was missing.

             
She ate a bit more and then pushed her plate away. “Let me return the tray,” he said, “before that cursed girl knocks on the door to fetch it.”

             
Clairwyn smiled slightly, agreeing.

             
Ansel scooped up the tray and walked to the door. He paused for a moment, shifting the weight of it to turn the knob. With one swift move he pulled the letter from his pocket and scanned the contents.

             
Troop numbers, status reports, training levels. He memorized it quickly, opened the door, and put the tray down on the other side. He folded the letter into his hand and returned to the table.

             
Clairwyn lingered there, staring into her cup. Perhaps his elaborate charade had been completely unnecessary.

             
He sat down again, opening his hand and letting the letter fall to the floor next to the table.

             
Her eyes flickered to him, her face serious, and the silence between them grew until it filled the space between them, thick and dark and heavy with words unsaid.

             
And then he remembered the package inside his shirt. He slipped it out and placed it on the table between them. “Happy birthday, my Queen.”

             
Bemused, she glanced at it, then at him. She reached out and pulled back the velvet covering.

             
Ansel leaned forward, as curious as she was. He saw a massive square-cut diamond surrounded by a cloud of emeralds. Diamond chips studded the gold band.

             
She stared at it for so long that he began to fear she might not like it. Then, finally, she ran her finger over the gold band. “I will not ask how you got, or when, or why.”

             
The familiar tension coiled through him. More things they couldn't talk about.

             
She raised her eyes. “I will merely thank you for a beautiful gift. It is truly lovely.”

             
Ansel came to his feet as his hand closed around the ring. He held the other out to her.

             
She took his hand and stood.

             
“It is fit for a Queen.” He lifted her left hand and slid the ring over her fourth finger.

             
Blinking rapidly, she stared at her hand and at her ring, and then at him.

             
He knew she had as many questions as he did, and he was grateful that she knew better than to voice them. Neither of them wanted to hear the answers.

Those questions and answers hung heavy between them, trying to come between them and push them apart.

              Ansel clutched her shoulders and pulled her close. He kissed her forehead, her temple, her lips. He tasted her tears as she melted against him.

             
He couldn't say the words or speak the promises every woman wanted to hear. But he could worship her in the only way he knew how.

             
Without breaking their kiss, he stooped and caught her behind her shoulders and under her knees. He felt her smile against his lips.

             
It was enough. Right now they were alone and they were together. It was enough.

             
For now.

Eleven

             
Ansel woke to the unfamiliar sensation of sharing his bed. He lay wrapped around Clairwyn, his head on her breast, his leg thrown over hers as if he was trying to restrain her. Her hand rested between his shoulderblades, covering the spot that always itched when he thought crossbows might be aimed at his back.

             
She stirred sleepily and he raised his head to look down at her. Her eyes were soft, her face relaxed, and she smiled gently, happily, as if she didn't have a care in the world. He wished she could look like that more often.

             
But, already, reality was setting in. “I must rise.” She pushed at his shoulder. “I have duties.”

             
“You do,” he agreed. He moved at her urging, but he didn't move away. Instead, he settled himself more firmly on top of her. “And your first duty, dear Queen, is to learn to please your consort.”

             
She blinked at him. “Do I not please you, dear prince?”

             
“You please me very much.” He ran his nose along hers, then kissed her eyes. “But there are deficits in your education.”

             
“I am fluent in five languages,” she protested as he caught her wrists and pinned them above her head. “I am learned in math and science. I assure you that I am in no way deficient.” She giggled as he moved against her.

             
“Ah. But do you know how to torture a man until he begs for more?”

             
“I have people who do that for me.”

             
He gave her a stern look. “I am talking about the arts, my Queen.”

             
“I can paint and sing and I play three instruments well, if not with artistry.”

             
“I speak of the art of love.”

             
“Do you?” She arched against his questing hand. “Oh, yes, right there—”

             
He rolled suddenly, taking her with him so that she straddled him.

             
She shook out her long hair until it formed a curtain around them. Hesitantly, she traced her fingers over the ridges of his hard-muscled chest.

             
He put his hands behind his head and arched a brow. “Now, my wise and learned Queen, who paints and sings and can speak to me in five languages, what are you going to do with me now?”

             
“Hmm.” She looked as if she had a few ideas but wasn't sure how to start. “I can consult my notes,” she said seriously, “but I feel certain that none of my lectures taught me how to please a lover.”

             
“I am very glad to hear it.”

              Her fingers danced over his skin. “Here's an idea,” she said breathlessly, “why don't you show me how to do it?”

             
She is mine.
Ansel rolled again, pinning her beneath him. “And I am the only one you will share this knowledge with.”

             
Clairwyn pushed her hands through his hair. “Yes, Ansel. You are the only consort for this queen.”

             
“Very good,” he growled. He made an effort to rein in the beast that roared inside him. He calmed his voice. “Then we shall begin your lessons now, girl.”

             
Much later they lay breathless and entwined. At some point a servant girl had left a tray outside their door and they had breakfasted in bed. That had resulted in sticky fruit-stained sheets and another delay to the official start of the day.

             
Finally her official duties intruded. Ansel lounged in the bed, sheets casually drawn up to his hips, and watched Clairwyn's servants dress her. “Is every morning this complicated?” he asked.

             
She rolled her eyes at him. “You bring many complications, my prince.”

             
He grinned in response.

             
“But if you're referring to my dress,” she continued, “I only fuss this much for important events. And visitors, of course.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Anita, if you draw those corset strings any tighter I shall pass out before I can reach the stairs.”

             
“Very good, my Queen,” Anita gasped, tying off the strings.

             
“I have ordered Highland garb for when we mobilize,” Clairwyn said to Ansel. “It's much more practical.” She put a hand on her chest and made a face. “And much more comfortable, too.”

             
“Mobilize?” Ansel drew back the sheet and came to his feet. The servant girls scattered like butterflies and scrambled for the door. Normally that would have amused him.

             
He didn't see the humor in it today. He stalked to his trunk and drew out clothing more or less at random and dragged it on.

             
“You are angry?” Clairwyn asked.

             
A reply leaped to his lips but he stifled it. Yes, he was angry. But he didn't really understand why he was angry.

             
“I have put it off for as long as I could. Gods know that I don't want war.” Her voice was sad.

             
He didn't face her. He couldn't.

             
“But I cannot wait for Beaumont to strike first. You are a soldier, Ansel. In my place, what would you do?”

             
Ironically, he'd spent a great deal of time speculating on what she would do, how she would react. Yet another thing he could never say to her.

             
Finally he turned to face her. “Beaumont will expect you to defend the borders,” he said slowly. “He knows that you are kin to the Highlanders; his intent was to sow discord, but he never really believed they would abandon you.”
Until the tide of war turned against you. And then he planned to buy them.

             
Nodding thoughtfully, Clairwyn studied his face.

             
“Fighting his way through the mountains would be costly in time and lives,” he continued. “So he will focus his attacks by sea. In his place, I would take Southern Reach first.”

             
“Southern Reach,” she echoed.

             
“Yes.” There was no reason to go into details now or to explain how he himself would have taken the city. Beaumont was more direct and less cunning than his son. “Beumont will beach an army and surround the city by land, then attack by sea. His goal will be to acquire as many ships as possible to continue his assault.”

             
Lines appeared on her forehead. She looked confused. Obviously she was no tactician.

             
Ansel crossed the room and took her by the shoulders. “March your forces to Southern Reach. Perhaps you can stop him there.”

             
“But you don't believe I can stop him. There, or anywhere.”

             
Slowly he shook his head. The turmoil in his chest threatened to tear him apart.

             
She met his eyes and, again, he felt as if she could see right through him, could read his thoughts and understand his dilemma. Hells. If she could understand, could she explain it to him?

             
He rested his forehead against hers. “All I want, Clairwyn,” he said with complete honesty, “is for you to be safe.”

             
“Very good.” With forced amusement she stepped back. “If you are concerned for my health, we must leave now. If I am late again my advisors won't wait for an assassin. They'll murder me themselves.”

             
Ansel growled in response and reached for his short swords. “Over my dead body,” he declared, surprising them both.

             
She leaned close and lowered her voice. “Do you want to make a Guard cry?” she asked.

             
“That would make my day.”

             
“Let's do it.” She took his hand, threw open the door, and raced down the hallway.

             
The startled Guards yelped and bolted after them.

             
Although she was unexpectedly fast Ansel took the lead, dragging her behind him. “Left!” she cried, and he darted down the hall. The Guard were weighed down by their armor but were still hard on their heels.

             
“Left again!”

             
They ran up a flight of stairs. Ansel risked a glimpse back. The Guard were closing in on them.

             
“We're here!”

             
Ansel skidded to a stop and flung her behind him. The Guard slowed, too, spreading apart to block the hallway. They reached for their swords.

             
“Stop!” Clairwyn pushed Ansel aside. “Sadly,” she told him, “they have no sense of humor. And they hate when I do that.”

             
The Guard shuffled and looked annoyed, but they left their swords in their scabbards.

             
She waved at them. “I'm sorry. Well, not really. It's kinda fun to keep you guys on your toes.” She patted her hair and swirled for Ansel. “Do I look all right? Or does it look like I just ran through the castle?”

             
“You look beautiful.”

             
“Thank you.” She positioned herself regally in front of the door and gestured at a Guard. “Open the door, if you please.”

             
The Guard sighed and gave Ansel a hard look but pushed the door open. He strode in first and surveyed the room.

             
A dozen people stood there, watching the door anxiously.

             
One strode forward. “My Queen,” Caine said, “we heard a commotion in the hall.”

             
She waved her hand dismissively. “My Guard was merely getting some exercise. Now, Caine, please introduce these people to me and my consort and tell me what they have been up to.”

             
Caine looked doubtful but he bowed in agreement. “Very good, my Queen.” He turned back to the knot of people behind him. “Ladies, gentlemen, if you would be so good as to return to your stations, we will begin the presentations.”

             
The knot scattered. Ansel realized that tables had been set up around the room and were piled high with a wide assortment of items. Caine steered Clairwyn to the first table and Ansel tagged along.

             
“First, my Queen, we have your Chair of Education, Maribeth Norris.”

             
A woman? Mentally, Ansel rolled his eyes.

             
Maribeth bobbed a quick curtsey but didn't seem awed by the Queen. Or by him, for that matter. She handed the Queen a ream of parchment.

             
“Test scores improved again this year, my Queen. It seems conclusive that changing the curriculum and providing free daycare for all is really a win-win.”

             
A man edged forward eagerly. “Overall productivity has increased steadily, too, my Queen.”

             
“Very good. What of our plans to extend mandatory school attendance to the age of sixteen?”

             
“Right now,” Maribeth said, “seventy-five percent of students remain in school until sixteen.”

             
“So the transition should not be difficult.”

             
“That is our conclusion.”

             
“Wait a minute,” Ansel interrupted. Everyone—except Clairwyn—looked at him as if was a talking monkey. He ignored them and forged on. “You educate seventy-five percent of boys to the age of sixteen?”

             
Maribeth shook her head tolerantly. “In Vandau, all children, boys and girls both, are required to attend school until fifteen. Most continue to sixteen to take the university panel tests.”

             
He couldn't wrap his mind around these astonishing statements. “But what's the point of educating girls?” he blurted. “They're only going to get married and raise children.”

             
Clairwyn and Caine seemed amused. Maribeth sighed in annoyance. “Obviously,” she said flatly, “the prince of Courchevel is not familiar with our economy. Many women work outside the home.”

             
Plenty of women worked outside the home in Courchevel, too. In brothels. They didn't need to read for that kind of work.

             
“And,” Maribeth continued, “with the coming war, women will be even more valuable.”