Page 89 of Bloodguard

“There’s no time,” Father says.

Leith’s features ice over as we follow Father from the ballroom to the entry hall. Leith brushes his sword hilt and then, arms loose at his sides, faces the door.

“Are you ready to greet our guests?” Father asks.

I glance at Leith, who stands next to me, more marble than flesh. “Always, Father,” I say, straightening my shoulders and lifting my chin.

Father kisses my head. “That’s my daughter, the future queen.”

I grimace when the muffled gallop of hooves striking the front lawn pricks at my ears. Ten, maybe twelve guards on horseback and the rumble of at least three carriages.

Taking a deep breath, I clasp my trembling hands in front of me.

Unlike me, Father is rock steady. He walks to Neela and carefully takes her heavy hands in his. “My most distinguished friend,” he begins. “If I’m not arrested this eve for cracking a wine bottle over these fools, we will meet later for tea and reading as promised.” He chuckles when Neela doesn’t budge. “Please leave us. This is neither your battle to fight nor your war to win.” He bows and kisses her crooked knuckles. It’s only when her bushy gray eyebrows lower that I know she’s conceded.

I press my lips together as she shuffles up the stairs, her movements slow and careful so she doesn’t slip, even as she shoos away the herd of estrellas poking their heads over and through the railings. Pasha returns from the kitchen. She wipes her wet hands on her apron and quickly takes the position by the door.

Leith is most dangerous when he’s quiet. And he’s very quiet now, his gaze unwavering on the door. My ears prick again when the horses chuff and stomp as they come to a stop outside the front of the manor and several guards dismount, shouting orders. The sounds carry clearly to us through the open windows.

When Leith checks his sword again, I give him a small bow. “If you would, my future king, kindly suppress your great urge to stab Vitor and Soro on their way in.”

His lips barely move when he mutters, “I’m not making any promises.”

The hem of my skirt slides over the marble floor as I straighten. “Leith,” I whisper, “the last thing either of us needs is to have the entirety of Vitor’s and Soro’s allies calling for your head.”

“Maeve.” Pasha’s hands are shaking horribly as she peers out the window. “The high lord and his son are almost to the door.”

There’s a pitter-patter of little feet. Lots of little feet. I exchange glances with Father. He shrugs, unaffected. “If you would, sweet Pasha, please let them in.”

Pasha, her tight gray curls askew from dancing, wipes her hands on her white apron one last time and casts a final look at Leith. Then, after only one knock, she throws open the door and steps aside, bowing.

My eyes practically shoot from my skull when the first of five…six…eight…twelvepageboys in pale-blue silk shirts, white breeches, and round flat caps march in, their arms full of golden and midnight roses.

Leith turns to me, his features darkening to those of the Bloodguard he’s destined to be. “I’ll ram every last flower down Soro’s decapitated throat if he so much as reaches for you.”

I’ve come to think of Leith as more wolf than man. The way he eliminates his competition, the way he moves—ready for a fight that may come without notice—and how protective he is of those he considers his pack.

“We can’t accomplish everything we mean to if you’re sentenced to death.” My voice trembles when Father steps forward to greet the lords outside. “Leith, you’re not in the arena, and neither are they. Any harm upon a noble outside that battle zone results in execution. They will find you, and they will kill you.” I squeeze his arm. “Please, Leith. I need you.” I’m not thinking of the throne now. No, I’m terrified forhim.

“What are you doing here?” Father demands. As proper as he is, he’s never forgiven Vitor for imprisoning Papa.

Vitor strolls in like the king he believes himself to be, gallantly removes his robe of gold-and-white silk, and passes it to Pasha without even looking at her. He adjusts his long, thick braid of dark hair so it lies over his left shoulder. “Now, is that any way to greet your High Lord?” Vitor laughs wholeheartedly as he motions around the entry hall and the rooms beyond, proclaiming them his to conquer. “Especially after such a grand gesture from my child to yours.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose when the smallclinkof Leith’s sword against his buckle announces he already has his hand over the hilt.

Several of the flower arrangements are placed along the sills of the densely leaded windows that overlook our front garden. Some are placed on tables and mantels in the library and parlor, and more are arranged along the length of the buffet tables in the ballroom.

“Bloodguard. Bloodguard,” one of the pageboys chants in a whisper.

It’s hard to know who’s chanting. All the pageboys are running circles around Musy as she directs them where to set the vases. Yet the chant continues, loud enough for the little boy to alert Leith to his presence but not so obvious that he may immediately be discovered.

“A friend of yours?” I ask.

Leith thrums the hilt of his sword, choosing to keep his eyes on Vitor and Father’s exchange instead of answering me.

“Please don’t do anything, my champion,” I whisper.

“I’m going to tear out his throat,” my champion replies.

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