The Queen's Secret (The Queen's Secret #2) - Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,34

Is she telling him to marry someone else?

“You two may have promised each other all sorts of things,” she whispers. Her blue eyes are kind, but holding her gaze makes him uncomfortable. “There are some promises that cannot, and should not, be kept.”

“I don’t see it that way,” he says.

“Not now, perhaps. But if you return to the court to find the queen with child, what then?”

A lump settles deep inside Cal, its pain pressing hard at him from within.

“Think about your own future, Cal.” Moriah pats his hand. “You’re young now. Strong. But there are other possibilities for you, remember that. Other assassins, perhaps.”

Moriah glances out the door. Rhema, he thinks. She’s suggesting he transfer his affections to Rhema. Has she gone quite mad? He could never love anyone but Lilac.

If you return to the court to find the queen with child . . .

“We should go. Jander!” he calls. “Rhema!”

“Coming!” the girl shrieks from outside, and in a moment she’s hurtling into the kitchen, holding onions and potatoes, a bag of carrots, walnuts, and apples swinging from her wrist. Jander emerges from below with his own sacking bag.

“And the rain seems to have stopped,” Mesha says, stepping up into the kitchen and lowering the trapdoor. “The heavens are with you, for now at least.”

Outside, fetched from the barn, the horses stamp and whinny, as though they know, as well, that this next phase of the journey will be crucial, as though they can scent a battle ahead.

“I was hoping you’d suggest staying here overnight,” Rhema says, arranging the food sacks into side bags across her horse to keep them dry.

“No time,” Cal says in a gruff voice. The days are short at this time of the year; after dark, they would make little progress in the marshes. In a few hours they’d need to find a dry place to camp, but those were hours they couldn’t afford to lose if they were to reach the abbey soon.

“Jander! Take this.” Mesha runs to Jander’s horse and hands him a small bag of oiled cloth, bound with a dark ribbon. “Farewell to you all. Safe journey. May Deia protect you.” She blesses and gives Cal a warm hug.

“And you,” Rhema says, astride her horse now and tugging at its reins.

“Be safe, Aunt,” says Cal.

Jander is looking at Cal, his serious eyes intent on him. Jander always knows when something is up. He is like the son Mesha and Moriah never had, attuned to the small motions and deep currents of the earth.

They ride away fast, as though they are being chased, and Cal doesn’t look back to the little house or the women watching them go. The thundering of the horses’ hooves on the hard winter ground helps drown out the ringing in his ears. But it can’t do anything for the swelling anger inside him. Perhaps the aunts know more than they are saying, and that’s why Moriah was telling him to turn his attentions to someone else.

Cal leans forward on his galloping horse, pressing the bay stallion’s strong flesh with his knees. Dirt sprays up around him, and the cold wind bites at his face. Before them lies the darkness of the marshes, shadowy with wild animals and other unknowable threats. All Cal wants to do is ride and ride and ride. Anything that dares to cross his path won’t last long.

He feels a feral surge in his body. He’s more animal than person now, away from Lilac, away from the sham of their secret life together. It doesn’t matter anymore if he makes it out of this mission alive. There’s nothing waiting for him back in Mont.

Nothing and nobody.

Chapter Fourteen

Lilac

I march into the Small Council meeting, and they all seem surprised to see me. Except for Hansen, who is sprawled in the seat close to the largest fireplace, his dogs panting around him.

“Now that you’re here,” he says, his face relieved, “I can go. I mean, it doesn’t need two of us, does it? Her Majesty knows much more than I do about . . . all this business.”

This is an appeal to the Duke of Auvigne. The duke’s pursed lips suggest he would much rather the king remain in the room.

“But, Your Majesty, please!” protests Daffran. His face is puffy and flushed, as though he’s been crying. “You must take this matter seriously. I warned you all of a gray monk, and now—”

“Yes, yes,” Lord Burley interrupts, with an impatient wave of the hand. “Don’t hector