The Betrothed (The Betrothed #1) - Kiera Cass Page 0,58
. . . But are you quite sure you’re safe?”
She nodded, holding my hands. “I am now.”
“Promise me you’ll write. I am going to need so much guidance. Like how to survive my children being used as pawns.” I felt a biting sting at the back of my nose, and I worked hard to suppress it.
“I know. Imagine the pressure I feel. But I will write when I can . . . though you may have to guess at my meanings sometimes. I don’t think my correspondence is entirely private.”
“I understand.”
“Take care of yourself, Hollis. Keep your king smiling, and all will be well.” She reached over and kissed my cheek. “I have to go oversee the packing. And rest,” she added, smiling.
I curtsied. “Your Majesty.”
“You write first,” she insisted quietly, “so I have an excuse to write back.”
And she was on her way out, joining with King Quinten, who gave me a final condemning look before he passed through the door.
Jameson walked over, rubbing his hands together as if he’d just delivered the finishing blow at a tournament, and I gave him what I hoped was a winning smile. “My father never could have done that,” he said with a laugh. “And I’m glad you spoke up when you did. Saved me the trouble of charging at an old man.”
“It would have been no contest there,” I remarked, and Jameson laughed again. I’d once considered a laugh from Jameson something like a prize; now it was so frequent it felt like noise. “I’m curious why he was trying to get an arrangement for Prince Hadrian’s children and not the child I suspect Valentina is carrying.”
“Like they say, no one can guess at that old man’s motives. What else is strange is that he even approached us at all,” Jameson commented, taking my arm to lead me toward the Great Room.
“What do you mean?”
“Most Isoltens prefer to marry their own kind, and their royal line has been completely pure from the onset. If he wants another princess to marry his grandchild, he must have a remarkable reason.”
“Interesting. Valentina told me Hadrian is marrying another royal as well,” I commented, too overwhelmed by my own feelings to really care one way or another. I smiled up at Jameson, trying to hide my sorrow with jokes. “Either way, next time you plan to sign away our children to another kingdom, could I have warning before I walk into the room?”
He scoffed. “Oh, Hollis, they aren’t our children. They’re mine.”
“What?” I forced myself to keep a smile on my face.
“Any children we make are arrows in my quiver, and I will aim them wherever I must for the sake of Coroa.”
He kissed my cheek as the door opened, letting me go into the company of my ladies. Delia Grace could read the horror on my face as we turned to go, but it was Nora who took my hand as we walked. For the sake of appearances, I kept my feelings pushed down, nodding my head at those we passed. And I managed to do just fine until I saw the Eastoffes.
The Northcotts were with them, perhaps saying their goodbyes, and I was thankful to know at least that Etan was leaving the country. But I caught sight of Silas’s blue eyes, and my mind jumped forward, imagining children with those perfect eyes and my olive skin. Those children . . . they would have been mine. . . .
I hurried from the room before anyone could see how violently I was crying.
Twenty-Two
AFTER THE ISOLTEN COURT LEFT, I found it nearly impossible not to look into the eyes of every child I passed, curious about their families, their futures.
Funny enough, it was the boys who always stood a little closer to their parents, either looking apprehensive or standing tall as if they were on guard. Most of the girls did as Delia Grace and I had done: find a friend to hold close, take in the excitement together, and wait to see what adventures life at court brought for you.
That was how it always felt when we twirled around each other on the dance floor or paraded around the palace on the holy days; it was a marvelous adventure. And I had pitied those girls in the country, the ones out working the land owned by our families, who would never know the feeling of satin or be lifted off their feet in the middle of a volta. After the shock of being