Page 40 of Disillusioned
“I don’t have a fiancé.” She picked up her stool, her face on fire, her tongue dry as she eyed her tankard in his hand, furious. She could really use that drink.
Marriage.The word tasted rancid on her tongue.
“Yet.”
How dare he interrogate her in the middle of a mortal bar, where anyone could hear. She sat stiffly down on the edge of her seat, not looking at him.
Garin took her silence as confirmation. “Clever girl. But you must have been propositioned by now. Who might it be, then?” When she didn’t answer, his hand tiptoed across the bar, toward hers. “Scotland?” Her reality and his venom sank deeper with every word, every guess. “England?”
“Garin,” she whispered. “Stop it.”
“What king?” His fingers brushed her knuckles, and she pulled her hand back.
“Not a king.”
“What prince?” He waved a hand. “What duke? Or…marquis.”
“An eligible bachelor from an allied kingdom.” Why was she telling him any of this? She had half a heart to give him answers—to prove wrong whatever it was he was trying to prove—and half a heart to dart out, into the square and away from a future she did not want to face.
“Soanyroyalty?” His eyes tracked hers to the door over his shoulder. “Don’t make me follow you into the square.”
“Not just anyone,” she said, lifting her nose and looking down on him. “Not necessarily a monarch or prince in line for the throne. Any foreign nobility with the armies to stand behind me in order to ward François off. I’m going to bargain to keep my sovereignty.”
He snickered loudly, and she resisted the very strong urge to snatch the drink from him and toss it in his face. “So your progenitors have lowered their standards for you even further?”
“Why?” she seethed. “And no, I have not been propositioned. You’re not offering, are you?”
His wicked smile faded. “No,” he said coolly, “I just didn’t think their standards could sink any lower than Sinclair.”
“The bar has been on the floor for as long as I can remember.”
“Wonderful.” Garin’s eyes flashed, so intense she was forced to look away as he took another slow sip from her tankard. “When it’s in hell, you’ll know where to find me.”
All the anger and irritation in her swelled and had nowhere to go. She felt trapped. She would not let him see her cry.
“Then you are still unspoken for.” He said the words plainly, quietly, likethey were simple for him to digest. But the way his hungry gaze wandered over her throat and dress was unconvincing. His eyes dropped.
“I suppose I am.” If Garin thought shechosethis, he was an idiot. If he thought she wanted this, he did not know her at all. And maybe he didn’t. “Surely none of this surprises you.”
“It shouldn’t have,” he said softly, gazing distantly at her dress, not with hunger—or jealousy—but something else she couldn’t quite place. “Not with the very real possibility of France gearing up for a real border skirmish. Your parents must have known. They’ve been eyeing your kingdom for years; someone must have suspected they would make a move once you took the throne.”
“It’s as if I haven’t had everyone telling me I’d be a weak ruler because of my sex,” she whispered frostily. “The idea of my marriage didn’t catch you off guard, did it?” The thought made her sick, but rubbing it in his face felt good. In truth, she had spent little thought of the immediate threat posed by France until receiving news of the scouts yesterday morning. Upon returning, she’d inevitably be thrown into hours of meetings regarding the matter. Another issue to stack against her parents and her ill preparation, yet she was in no way surprised.
Garin said nothing.
“I didn’t expect seeing me in a wedding dress would makeyouso angry.”
He scoffed, his glimmering eyes snapping to her face. “It is not the dress.” He tucked her hair behind her other ear and leaned in as if to whisper sweet nothings to her, elongated canines glinting in the firelight. “That dress is the least of my worries.”
Heated, Lilac turned her head away from him, both horribly aroused by his evident jealousy and disgusted by how he dared use it against her. Even Garin looked far less than his usual, collected self, his hands balled into fists as he unabashedly stared.
A bold, bleary-eyed onlooker walked by, took one look between the two of them, and slapped Garin on the shoulder. “If you don’t want her, I’ll have her.” Garin turned slowly to the man, whose smile abruptly faltered, and he quickly shuffled off.
Lilac was still trying to think of a proper rebuttal—or repair? She didn’t know what she wanted, where she stood where Garin was concerned, andshe wanted to understand why he seemed so furious—when someone started to play music.
Terribly.
A scruffy man in tattered brown robes came into view around the bar, plucking a lute and mumbling what resembled a sad tune, his beard dragging along the floor behind him. Some of the early-morning visitors swayed to his song while others jeered and booed.
