Page 5 of Water Dragon
Was that a space she could see herself occupying?
Did she even want to occupy it?
She tried to picture herself spending hours each morning to get ready for a day at court, primped and primmed by some maid’s hands, and then having no other purpose but to float through the hallways and gossip and eat.
It sounded horrifically dull.
Except, perhaps, if she was kept close to the future king.
She might get to travel alongside Malcolm to visit far off places, meet dignitaries from foreign lands, even help rule the kingdom. She might affect change where change was needed, ensure Malcolm kept up with the progress already rolling through the populace where more and more of them sought fairer payment for whatever their occupation was. She could be the voice of the people in his ear.
The thought sent a flood of delight through her, but then she crash-landed again.
The point was that Malcolm should be able to be that voice himself.
She couldn’t occupy that seat next to him, because in truth, it was reserved for his queen.
Her hearts lurched, knowing that the time would come—and she had a strong notion that it would come sooner rather than later—when their everyday interactions had to come to an end. Perhaps she would see him more regularly as part of his court, but she would not be his eyes and ears.
He came up to the balustrade, accepting Lady Shannon’s applause with a flourish of a bow and one of the brightest smiles Iona had ever seen on his handsome face.
No, she thought.His future queen will take my place quite nicely.
She glanced at the picture-perfect profile of the lady next to her and blamed the sudden streak of jealous possessiveness in her chest on the fact that she had known Malcolm longer. He was her friend, and she could not stand the thought of no longer being central to his life. No matter how much she tried to be realistic.
The first and last trial would be given to him any day now; they both knew it was only a matter of time.
***
Five hours later, she shifted the tray in her hands to open the door to his bedroom. She never knocked. She had seen him naked since they were children, and it didn’t bother her. She’d even helped dress him, on occasion. It was her job to be readily available, so readily available she always was.
She freely admitted that he had been granted all the aspects of the male form to be considered attractive. He was muscular from daily exercise in the training circle or riding—sometimes both. He had that triangular shape of broad shoulders and slender hips, his hipbones dipping excitingly below the belt of his breeches in ways she sometimes had heard the courtiers titter about. Personally, Iona didn’t quite understand what the big deal was. It was a part of his body just as any other. His finest feature was his nicely shaped mouth and the honesty of his gaze, or so she thought. His thick head of dark brown hair didn’t hurt either. But to desire him?
She had never.
Or once.
They had both been budding, which had caused all sorts of confusion. She had seen him pull his shirt off for the first time. His boyish body had somehow transformed into a more defined male, seemingly overnight—though of course it hadn’t—and she had caught herself staring. Something had stirred in her as he pulled his breeches down, not noticing her taking note. She had very quickly snuffed it out. It was beyond the realms of imagination that she should catch feelings for someone so entirely removed from her reality.
She had refused and that refusal had been firmly adhered to.
He was her best friend, and she was his.
Which was also why all she did was chuckle at the groans coming from under the covers. As was his habit, he had crawled under them to nest in their warmth after a full day of makeshift combat had left him aching and bruised. It had also ended with him as the uncontested victor, no matter how merciful he had been to Sir Patrick and a few others.
“Kill me,” he grumbled, still out of sight beneath the sheets and blankets.
“By blade or by hand?” she asked.
“By the grave of my mother, I do not care,” he replied.
“Don’t bring the queen mother into this, Mal,” she warned. “She will rise up and kill you by blade and then hand.”
He chuckled, muffled by the fabric he was hiding under. He knew she was right. His mother had been as unbending as hers; only his mother’s strong will and ever-present backbone had been backed by the power of a crown.
“You need a bath,” Iona said. There was a pause before his hands slowly dug his head out from underneath the pile on top of him, his face appearing with a hopeful expression. “Yes, it has been prepared,” she confirmed. “What do you take me for?” she added when he smiled brightly.
It was at least as brightly as he had smiled at Lady Shannon, or so Iona thought with some satisfaction. Perhaps the smile he had offered the lady had had nothing to do with him marveling at her beauty and everything to do with her showering him with what he had needed in the moment. He thrived on the type of validation Lady Shannon most readily provided.
