Page 62 of The Cornish Princess
“More questions?”
“But you give me no answers.”
“I was summoned,” he said.
“By whom?”
He turned to look at her now and smiled. “You truly enjoy playing the sleuth-hound, I see.”
“I—”
“You can fool many, Princess, but you cannot fool me. You think I do not know why you were delayed before leaving the city, but I know.”
“You can’t, possibly.”
“I know more than you think,” he said.
“Then perhaps you will help explain the discrepancies I found?”
“I would if I cared to.”
“But I care! Something is wrong, and I mean to find out what it is.”
He lifted his brows. “Wrong with you? Your marriage, or something else?”
Gwendolyn was confused now. Did he, or did he not, know about her investigations? She grit her teeth. “I mean to say that something is amiss with the Alderman’s death.”
“So, you confess you are not traveling to Chysauster to invite your cousins to your wedding?”
“Nay! But—yes! Of course I am. I am, and you will see me do so. And yet I also have a… certain… intuition, and I must speak to the Alderman’s wife.”
“And this was not something you were inclined to share with your father—the King, to whom you owe your fealty?”
Gwendolyn lifted a shoulder, resigned to the truth of it. “If I had, he would not have allowed me to come.”
“Because he wouldn’t wish to see you meddle, perhaps?”
Gwendolyn’s cheeks burned hot.
Frustrated now, she popped the reins, deciding she’d had enough. “You are the most infuriating creature! I’m grateful our time together will be short,” she said, veering her mount toward a thicket of trees, inclined to find herself a moment’s respite.
Chysauster was over the next rise, and she needed to repair herself as best she could. If nothing else, she must steel her nerves—to put Málik in his place once and for all.
No matter how familiar he was becoming, he was not her betrothed. She could simply not allow him to speak to her the way he did. She was the Princess; he was her Shadow.
ChapterTwenty-Four
Gwendolyn expected her uncle would ride out to greet them and escort them the rest of the way into the village. She also realized that, even as he greeted them so warmly, there were archers concealed in the nearby trees, ready to strike if he gave word.
He would not, however.
With a genuine smile, Gwendolyn offered the missive from his brother, and Duke Cunedda accepted it, sliding it into his belt without breaking the seal, offering her a nod and smile. Whatever that letter contained, it was for his eyes alone, and like the Treasury itself, Gwendolyn would never think to pry. For all she knew, her father was merely adding his own invitation to her wedding.
“Your cousins will be pleased to see you’ve returned,” he said.
“I am, too,” said Gwendolyn, wondering what her uncle thought of theSidhein her company. So much as he had yet to confess it, hisráswas clear in his features—the hair, eyes, ears, teeth, and lucent flesh. And this was if one ignored his indefatigable arrogance. Though thankfully, if she worried how Málik would comport himself in her uncle’s presence, she worried for naught. He fell back before the Duke joined them, assuming a subservient position, ahead of the other guards, as was his right. Duke Cunedda’s men assumed the rear, because despite that this was her uncle’s land, and his borough to govern, he served her father. As she was heir of Cornwall, he served Gwendolyn as well; therefore, her guards outranked his. But unlike her uncles Arthyen and Hedrek, Duke Cunedda had no pretensions or ambitions. He was content enough to be his brother’s keeper. On the ride into the village, they spoke at length—mostly about Gwendolyn’s wedding plans. She told him about the Promise Ceremony, eschewing the tale of Bryok’s death. The two events were hardly connected anyway, and she didn’t wish him to suspect the reason she’d come. Let him believe it was simply to invite them to the nuptials, because the less he knew about her true purpose, the less he would say to her father.
“I hope you’ll join us,” she offered.
