unwavering, on her person. She didn’t feel protected—she felt like prey.
Was this the king’s intention? Was his Raven not a bodyguard but a spy, assigned to determine whether Farhall was intent on overthrowing Garimore from within? If so, she was going to have to be doubly careful.
Leisa decided not to attempt any dancing. There would be time enough to display her ineptitude on another occasion, and she was sufficiently discombobulated that she could scarcely discern a waltz from a minuet.
So instead, she sat and watched as her prospective bridegroom grew steadily more intoxicated and flirted wildly with every woman in the room who might reasonably be supposed to be under forty.
From the glances and comments she intercepted, this was simply his typical behavior, but from the expression on King Melger’s face, it was no more acceptable for a nearly-engaged man in Garimore than it would have been in Farhall.
Obviously, Leisa could not be said to be suffering from jealousy, either on her own behalf or Princess Evaraine’s. But it was difficult to keep her eyes from narrowing in disapproval as she watched his progress, imagining what his lack of decency and consideration would do to the princess’s feelings.
Evaraine did not, she’d confided, expect love. That was rarely possible in royal marriages, and to expect it would be to court disappointment. But she hoped for respect. Mutual consideration. The ability to share their lives and duties peacefully.
Prince Vaniell, Leisa suspected, despised peace.
“He’ll never change, you know.” Her antagonist from earlier in the evening took the seat next to Leisa without bothering to ask, casting a knowing glance from the corner of her eyes. “I saw you watching him. If you marry him, you’ll always be jealous of his flirts and his paramours, so if you have any illusions of him being faithful, perhaps you should look elsewhere for an alliance. Danric, perhaps? I can promise you he’s as rigid and impossible as he looks.” She let out a little trill of laughter. “But then, I suppose that might actually appeal to you.”
“Lady Marceline.” Leisa greeted her with a nod, unsure of the woman’s position but doubting she was anyone a princess would be required to curtsy to. “I appreciate your efforts, but I assure you, I know my duty.”
She snorted softly. “Oh, but do you?” She looked Leisa up and down with an insulting gleam in her eye. “With your… indispositions, I can’t see you bearing heirs anytime soon. Perhaps I should simply stop interfering. After all, you’ll be dead before long, and then the prince will be free to do as he pleases.”
Outrage snapped Leisa’s head around to meet Lady Marceline’s mocking smile. No matter what the other woman chose to think in private, her comment had been poorly calculated. After all, Evaraine might be ignorant and lacking in flounces, but she was still a princess, and Marceline was not.
But her words had also been unspeakably cruel. The truth was, no one knew what afflicted Evaraine, only that she was weak and often ill. But she never complained. Never showed anything less than courage and the determination to participate in life however she could. For this harpy to so calmly speak of death in front of a person she believed to be vulnerable…
Leisa started to rise. Probably would have done something to blow her cover for good, but there was suddenly a solid, black wall between her and Lady Marceline.
Her response died in her throat as she stared at the Raven’s back. What was he going to do? Defend her honor by cutting some poor woman’s head off in the ballroom? She might not like Marceline, but she certainly didn’t think the woman deserved to die for being a heartless viper.
His sword. It was still in its scabbard on his back. Not that Leisa imagined he wasn’t perfectly capable of doing unspeakable things without resorting to weaponry, but at least they weren’t likely to involve bloodshed. Perhaps he would settle for intimidating the harpy instead.
He was a full head taller than she was, Leisa realized, swallowing convulsively as she looked up towards the top of his lowered hood, relieved to be able to stare at him for a moment without feeling the pressure of his gaze. And his hands… At that moment, they hung at his sides, still covered in black leather gauntlets. But even allowing for the bulk of the leather, he could probably wrap just one of those hands completely around her throat.
A point of which Lady Marceline