Page 46 of Traitor Son

“This is Josue Orris,” said His Grace, gesturing to the man who had handed her the bread. “He has charge of the hunters.”

As he spoke, he was heaping meat, bread, and spoonfuls of green things onto her plate, and Ophele looked from the dripping red joints to Josue, who laughed.

“Aye, though I probably didn’t kill that one personally, Your Grace,” he said, bowing his head. He had the flat, burring accent of the Midland Empire.

“Thank you, all the same,” she said, looking uncertainly away as the duke sliced her meat for her. It had never occurred to her that they would be lacking something as basic as utensils, but all the men nearby were tearing into their food using only fingers and belt knives. She was fairly sure both methods were forbidden to ladies.

“How is the hunting?” asked the duke.

“Better. Fatter game since the last frost, though we’ve been trying to go easy, let them graze before we run them to sinew,” answered the hunter.

The duke grunted. “The first wagon of pigs should be arriving in a few months. That ought to help.”

“With respect, Your Grace, I’d keep them penned up and domestic, you haven’t seen the tuskers in these woods,” said Josue. “Big as cows. We’d be eating one of those fu—things for days, if we could kill it.”

Ophele nibbled on a bit of bread, wondering what word started withfu-that they were so reluctant to say in front of her.

“We were planning to coordinate a few hunts, if we could borrow some men,” said the man next to Josue. “It’s no fish story, there would be three hundred pounds of meat on just one of those boars. But it’s not something one man ought to tackle by himself.”

This was fascinating. Ophele had never considered how her food came to the table, much less how that small miracle fit into the creation of a town. For weeks she had been listening to the duke and his knightsplan how they would build the town, from the walls to the herds to the drains, and it made her wonder who had built Aldeburke, who had planned it, how all that stone and glass and plaster had become a house.

These men had built everything here. The benches. The tables. The two stone hearths, blazing away at either end of the room. It was such a monumental undertaking, and she wanted to know all about it, every bit of it. She wanted to help, if she could. Even if it was only in a small way…

The sounds of their voices faded away as she drifted into the dream, and then into a doze, her head drooping over her plate.

“…wife home,” said a deep voice close by, and she lifted her head, blinking owlishly.

“Oh, I beg your pardon.” She looked around, trying to shake the fuzz out of her head. For some reason she thought she had fallen asleep on horseback again. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s time we left.” The duke caught her elbow and lifted her over the bench entirely, minding her long skirts as he set her back down. “Good night, lads. Go easy on the ale, I’ll make you work it off tomorrow.”

“Good night,” Ophele said over his shoulder. “We don’t have to go,” she added, looking up at the duke as he strode toward the doors of the cookhouse, opened to admit the cool night breeze.

“You were falling asleep in your seat, Princess.” He didn’t sound annoyed. Outside, he lifted her up into his arms again, his boots crunching down the gravel path to the lane. “Besides, the wine is flowing, and they’ll soon be in their cups. It’s no place for a lady.”

Would he take her to the cottage and then go back to the cookhouse himself? Or would he stay? Heat washed through her, reddening her cheeks, and she was glad the darkness hid her face. It hadn’t hurt at all, that night in Granholme. She had liked it. He had been so tender, so passionate, but then the assassin had come, and ever since, he looked at her as if she were his enemy.

What if that was what he wanted, though? Should she ask? Should she try to apologize for her father, as little as that would mean? The duke was silent, carrying her up to his cottage. Its front window glowed golden from the oil lamp she had forgotten to blow out, and it didn’t look so bad like that. It looked like a home.

“Stand still, I’ll unlace you.” Once inside, he set her down gently. “We’ll put this in storage tomorrow, and find another trunk for your things. If there’s something you need that you don’t have, tell me.”

“I will.” His hands moved over her back and she lowered her head, standing perfectly still. She remembered how he had pushed his face into her hand like a huge dog, and that look in his black eyes, and…why had he done that, if he hated her? How could she bear it if he touched her again tonight, and then pushed her away in the morning?

Silently, he removed her overdress, hanging it over the back of a chair. His hands settled on her shoulders, such big, warm hands, his rough thumbs gliding over her skin to undo the fastenings of her kirtle. It slid off her body in a whisper of silk, and he laid it with the overdress. For a moment, she was sure she would feel his lips on the back of her neck, and even imagined she felt his breath, a tickling warmth against her skin.

“I’ll sleep on the floor.” He said into the silence, low. “Go to bed, Princess.”

“Oh. Oh, but…but no, it’s your bed,” she stammered, turning to look up at him. His expression was unreadable. “You’ll get cold, and…you don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

“No,” he said quietly. “It’s too soon for children.”

She had forgotten that. Of course. Of course, that was what she was for. That was why he had married her, to have children with the Emperor’s blood. In time he would touch her again, but only to get a child in her. This was what he wanted from her. This wasallhe wanted from her.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said through the tightness of her throat. “It’s your bed, too. I can sleep on the edge. I don’t take up much room at all, I’ve slept in very small spaces. You’ll get sick if you sleep on the floor.”

There was a peculiar look on his face.

“No. Go to bed,” he said, turning his back. “Don’t argue with me.”

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