Enchanting the King (The Beauty's Beast Fantasy Series) (22 page)

Thomas winced. “Do you really think it would be a kindness for me to speak to Aliénor now? To tell her now?”

“You think it a kindness
never
to speak?” Llewellyn swallowed. “Go to her, Thomas.”

Thomas ached inside, as if iron bands were slowly constricting around his chest. “I thank you for your wise counsel.” Llewellyn’s mouth snapped open to retort, but Thomas held a hand up to forestall him. “No. Really. Thank you. I will consider what you’ve said. Good night, my friend.”

Llewellyn bowed. “Good night, my king.”

Thomas stood for a long time staring at the open door to his chamber, thinking. At last, with a sigh, he went inside and firmly shut the door.

Aliénor bathed and ate and changed into clean, dry clothes—three things that she’d been dreaming about for months, and she barely noticed, barely cared. Thomas was staying behind. Thomas was abandoning her. Still she felt only a melancholy resignation.
This is who he is. This is what he does
. She would not care so much for him if he were not so admirable and good. It was wrong of her to wish him to betray his honor just to be with her.

That didn’t stop her from wishing he would, though.

She slept but little that night and woke early to an urgent summons from Guillaume. Her river boat was ready, and she had to leave at once for the docks. She and her ladies all helped each other dress in the near dark, Noémi braiding her hair and Violette’s since the girl’s wrist was still too injured to use. Aliénor doing up Noémi’s gown and Violette’s. Aliénor was getting quite deft at all the chores her ladies used to do for her.

The ladies had nothing of their own, so there was nothing left to pack. They made impressive speed out of the palace and down to the docks. Indeed, they moved with such haste and bustle that she hardly had time to think about the fact that Thomas had not come to see her, had not even said good-bye.

“Are you all right, my lady?” Violette asked.

“Just tired.” True enough, if incomplete.

“Aren’t we all,” Noémi drawled.

The smell of the river reached them first, a surprisingly clean scent. Rich and earthy. The gurgle of the water sloshing against the dock made Aliénor wistful somehow.

“I wonder if your cousin will be at the docks to say good-bye. He’s quite handsome.” Violette dimpled at the thought, and Aliénor couldn’t quite tell if the girl was thinking of Guillaume for herself or as a match for Aliénor.
It hardly matters. If the Tiochene take the city
—but Aliénor shook her head, unwilling even to finish that thought.

Guillaume was indeed waiting for them, and Llewellyn and—her breath caught—Thomas. He must have taken the time to clean up and borrow clothes from someone, for he looked magnificent. His beard was neatly trimmed, and his long, muscular body showed to advantage in the chain mail and crisp green surcoat he wore. Someone had given him a sweeping white cloak with a tasseled hood. A very dashing style. He looked like a king out of one of the old story collections her father used to read to the household at night. She wanted to fling herself toward Thomas so badly that she had to curl her fingers into balls, crushing the fabric of her skirts to stop from reaching for him.

“Cousin.” Guillaume led her forward by the hand. The river churned ahead of them, looking like molten gold in the gentle pink dawn. Her ship was of simple design with a flat bottom almost like a skiff’s, one lone sail, and a small, squat box, which was to be her cabin on the trip. “Forgive the simplicity, cousin. You understand I have no grander crafts to offer you.”

“It’s fine, Guillaume.”

“Princess Aliénor.”

She actually flinched at the sound of Thomas’s voice, and it took all her self-control to turn and look him in the eye. “Yes, King Thomas?”

“I will pray for your safety every moment.” He lowered his voice, and his gaze fluttered away from hers. “I am sorrier than I can ever say to part from you.”

Of a sudden, anger flared inside her, a burning resentment that he should send her away, that he would deny what was between them at such a time as this.

Thomas must have seen some of this in her face, for his forehead crinkled, and he actually reached over to cup her elbow. “My lady—”

“
Fire
,” Violette screamed, pointing. “The ship is on
fire
.”

Aliénor whirled around, gaping in shock and dismay as the little ship went up with a whoosh of flame.

Guillaume was yelling for a bucket line when an arrow slammed into his shoulder, spinning him to the ground. Screams and cries erupted on the dock, and Aliénor’s blood went cold as she heard the high, familiar war cry of the Tiochene. Two dozen of them came running out of one of the side streets, swords drawn and already bloody. A few of their archers stayed behind a sheltering wall and fired their deadly bows at the crowd on the dock. No spell-casters yet, though.

“Rally to me!” Guillaume roared as he pushed to his feet, one hand clasped around the arrow in his shoulder.

Someone hauled on her arm, yanking her away. “Run, Aliénor.” Thomas shoved her in front of him, his face a mask of panic. “
Run
.” An arrow stuck out of one of his arms, and even as she watched, he snapped the end off and tossed it away. “Go. Please.” His voice was hoarse, frantic.

Aliénor tried to go toward him, wanting to help, to keep him close. She dragged her fingers through her hair, looking for the damn cursed hairpin, ready to stick all the Tiochene with it if she had to—

“My lady, let’s
go
.” Llewellyn caught her around the waist, bodily lifting her up, and dragged her away from Thomas.

She screamed and kicked, her heart in her throat, the hairpin forgotten. “
Thomas
.”

“Peace,” Llewellyn snapped out and tapped her temple. A little spark stung against her skin. Black clouded her vision as her body went limp in the magician’s arms. The last thing she saw before the darkness claimed her was Thomas cradling his injured arm as his sword clanged against that of a Tiochene warrior. Thomas grunted and lifted his arm for another swing. The Tiochene slashed with her own blade—

Aliénor fought to stay awake, to see, but at last the blackness snatched her away, and she knew no more.

“I’m sorry, Princess.”

Aliénor blinked and stirred. Her head felt foggy, her limbs sluggish. She stretched, trying to warm her body up, to make her mind kindle with something besides fatigue. “What happened?”

“A small force of the Tiochene were let in by a traitor on the walls.” Llewellyn’s voice. “We fought them off at the docks, but the assault on Anutitum has begun in earnest. I’m sorry, Princess, it is probably too late for you to get out of the city.”

As memory returned, she sat bolt upright in bed and gripped the magician's arm tight. “Thomas?”

“The king lives. He went with Lord Guillaume to check the wall, but he'll be back later to see you.”

“Good.” That done, she cuffed Llewellyn hard across the face.
Crack
. “You bastard.”

He sat there a moment with his pale cheek flaming red, not moving. Then he sighed and worked his jaw, wincing. “Fair enough.”

“Do not ever,
ever
use your magic on me again, do you understand?”

“I had to get you to safety.”

“And carrying my lifeless carcass is, of course, much easier than simply directing me where to go.”

He gave her a deeply sardonic look. “You would have left the king to fight then? If I had asked you nicely?”

Aliénor primly clasped her hands in her lap. “How’s this: I will endeavor not to panic in the future if you will promise to treat me as a rational, useful adult and not an idiot child who needs protecting even from herself. Deal?”

Llewellyn winced and looked away. “Yes, my lady.”

“Good.” She glanced around at her surroundings. The room was an opulent bedchamber with silken curtains and a heavy jacquard blanket over the feather mattress. “Where are we?”

“A nobleman’s house near the dock. Guillaume is still hoping to get you out on a boat, I think. Anyway, the palace isn’t safe anymore. If the city is overrun, that is the last place any of us want to be.”

Panic flared inside Aliénor like lit tinder. “Noémi? Violette? Are they—”

“Safe below, tending the wounded. After I carried you here, it became a sort of field hospital for those injured at the dock.”

Aliénor sagged with relief that her ladies were all right. If ever she made it safely home to her own castle, she would kiss the stones beneath her feet with gratitude.

“Master Llewellyn?” Violette’s voice called up from downstairs.

“Yes, Lady Violette?” Llewellyn yelled back.

“King Thomas has returned. Did you take your nasty curse off my lady yet?” Violette’s voice was unmistakably surly.

Aliénor bit back a laugh. “I’m all right, Violette. I’m coming down now.”

Llewellyn took her by the elbow to help her onto her feet, but she hurried past him, practically skipping down the stairs. She shot straight past Violette to stand in the large makeshift sickroom and gaze avidly around, trying to find him. The rest of the house was as lavishly decorated as the bedroom with fine tapestries hung on the clay walls, but the place was filled now with the cries of the wounded. Injured men were stretched out on trestle tables, on the floor. The smell assaulted her nostrils, blood and death. She reeled back, her heart hammering.

“Aliénor.” The low timbre of Thomas’s voice filled the crowded space.

Tears stung her eyes as she wheeled around to face him. His white cape was torn, his chain mail bloodied. A smudge of dirt stained his nose. A cut bled down his cheek.

She flung herself at him and gripped him tight around his waist. He embraced her just as hard with one arm. He nuzzled his nose into her hair and took a deep breath, whispering, “
Aliénor, Aliénor
,” over and over like a benediction.

“Come upstairs and let Llewellyn see to your wounds.”

Thomas leaned heavily on her as they staggered up the stairs together with Llewellyn following behind.

The arrow of that morning was still stuck in Thomas’s arm, the barbed head caught with the links of his chain mail and half sticking out of the meat of his bicep. Llewellyn growled and swore when he saw the wound. “Lord Guillaume came earlier to have the arrow taken out of his shoulder. Why did you wait so long for yours?”

As the magician prodded his wound, Thomas grunted. “I took command so that Guillaume would have
time
to have his wound seen to. He was hurt much worse than I.”

Llewellyn made another impatient
tsk
. He’d brought his kit with him and began stripping away the links of broken chain mail with a small tool.

Thomas hissed and flinched. Aliénor squeezed his hand and smoothed back his sweat-soaked hair with a cool cloth. Thomas closed his eyes and hummed with pleasure. “Thank you, my lady.”

Aliénor’s heart hurt, pounding so hard with fear for him that she thought she might be sick. Still, she sponged his brow, singing a little under her breath. She smiled when she realized it was that song he'd been singing in camp all those weeks ago. That song about the maiden of spring with flowers wound in her hair.

On the other side of the king, Llewellyn swore again, and Thomas flinched with pain, his hand convulsing painfully around hers, mashing the bones. “I was thinking of you, you know. When I sang,” Thomas murmured, his voice tight. “Your summer-red hair, the shifting color of your eyes.”

“I know, I know…” she crooned.

He did not speak again after that, only gritted his teeth and gripped her hand hard enough to hurt. Drawing the arrow was fiddly, delicate work, but eventually Llewellyn sat back, hissing his breath out. “There.” He tossed the broken bit of arrow away and wiped his brow.

“Master Llewellyn?” someone called from downstairs, voice frantic.

“What is it?”

“A badly injured woman. Lady Noémi needs your help.”

Llewellyn nodded, surveying his injured king helplessly.

Aliénor jerked her chin toward the hallway. “Go. I can bandage him.”

Llewellyn nodded, pushing away from the bed. “All right. Best wash his other cuts too, and dab on some of this salve.” He tapped his finger on one of the little pots arranged by the bed. He left her bandages and a bowl of clean, hot water, then took the rest of his kit as he hurried downstairs.

Once he was gone, Aliénor busied herself with tending the king. They’d already stripped off his damaged chain mail and surcoat, and he lay on the feather bed, shirtless. His torso was a mess of bruises and small cuts.

She felt guilty for it, but she couldn't help but admire the chiseled muscles of his arms and chest, the broad, coiled strength under his skin. Nevertheless, she stayed brisk and efficient as she cleaned his cuts and dabbed them with salve. Inside, her body tingled, every part of her aflame.
Really, I must be the most wanton woman alive to ogle a poor injured man in this shameless fashion
.

She smirked, and after she’d dealt with his injuries, she washed his neck and face too. She traced her fingertips over his collarbone and shoulders. His eyes fluttered open as she gently sponged the dirt off his nose. She jumped in surprise but smiled. “I thought you'd fallen asleep.”

“No.” His gaze flicked all over her face, his blue eyes looking almost black in the weak candlelight. He touched one fingertip to her cheek and traced the bone there with a light, tickling touch.

“Does your wound hurt very much?”

His hand slid down to cup the back of her neck, drawing her closer. “No.”

She narrowed her eyes and tensed above him. “Are you lying?”

“Maybe.” He smiled, and she wanted to kiss his laugh lines, kiss every part of him.

Feeling very daring, she pressed her palm over his heart, sensing the vital beat of it beneath the skin. His body was lightly dusted with dark brown hair, and she danced her fingers over the hard breadth of his chest.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

Perhaps Jerdun and Lyond can surrender to each other, after all
. Her cheeks heated at the thought.