Page 32 of My Highland Bride

One by one, the guests turn toward us.

“To Queen Cettina”—the host raises his goblet—“to Edingham, and to the Mountain Men.”

“And women,” I mutter, drinking.

“And women,” Erik repeats. “You would like her,” he tells me as a maidservant hands him a new goblet. I do not need to ask of whom he speaks. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him he’s wrong, but I refrain from saying so. The musicians have struck up another song, so at least the attention is no longer so squarely on us.

So this is envy. I know the signs from “Roman de la Lily,” a poem where a man falls in love with a flower.

Aye. A flower.

His friends and family become jealous of his love, and they all eventually leave him.

“A smile? The first since I ruined your evening.”

I would tell Erik he did not, but I do not make it a practice of lying.

“I was thinking of ‘Roman de la Lily.’ It’s a—”

“Poem. LaRus falls in love with a lily. He wakes each day thinking of his love. Written during King Onry’s reign, I believe.”

“You read poetry?”

Also, why am I still speaking to him, precisely? Blast him for being so interesting.

“Nay, I am sorry to say I do not. But ’tis often read at court, and I remember that one for its absurd topic and how, despite being simple, it manages to address politics, medicine, gender, envy, and even religion. It was the topic of conversation for nearly a fortnight.”

“That is the brilliance of it.”

Laughter beside us draws our attention. The gathering becomes increasingly jovial as sweets begin to circulate. I cannot resist a sugared pear when it’s offered to me. Erik takes my drink so smoothly, I hardly realize he’s done so until I’m finished with the half pear.

“’Tis delicious,” I say, wiping its juice from the corner of my mouth.

Erik watches me, and despite myself, I feel another flutter between my legs. When he hands back the goblet, his fingers touch mine, lingering there long enough to make me forget, albeit temporarily, that he is here only to forge an alliance with my father.

“It looks delicious.”

I’d say he was speaking of the pear, but it is gone. And Erik stares directly at my mouth, looking very much like he did earlier. As if he desires me.

Which he does.

As a wife, to please his queen.

“Dance with me.”

My answer is swift. I enjoy dancing, but I am quite ready to leave. And I tell Erik as much.

He does not respond at first.

“I am sorry for deceiving you, Reyne. I never thought to involve you in this. When your father proposed a union, it came as a surprise, as you can imagine. I should have told you straightaway. I’d not want to be deceived as you were.”

I hate myself for wanting to stay. To dance. To have him continue to look at me as if he wants to be here with me, and not because of my father.

For still wanting him to kiss me.

“You do not trust me. Nor should you, Reyne. But dance with me. Forgive me for just this eve. Enjoy this”—he waves his arms in the air—“and then tomorrow, you can choose never speak to me again if you so desire.”

While I attempt to decide, he deftly takes my goblet once more, places it onto a wooden tray propped atop a barrel for such a purpose, and takes my hand. His grip is strong and sure, and although I know he’d free me if I pulled away, I can’t lie to myself. I don’t want to.