Page 25 of Crown of Roses
“Stand down, Maeve,” Casimir muttered.
Maeve whirled on him. Her chest burned with a fierce sort of anguish, and she clenched her fists. “Excuse me?”
Saoirse blew out a low whistle and she snared Rowan’s arm to pull him to safety. The fae’s mouth gaped open.
“You forget your place, Captain. I am not one of your soldiers.” Maeve glared at the man she’d known since childhood. The man who knew her better than she knew herself. The man who taught her how to fight, how to survive, how to live up to the expectation of valor. She looked up to him, she relished in the fact that he treated her as an equal, and she was never ungrateful when he gave her extra training because he knew she would need it. He knew her life would be a fight. A struggle. Her very existence would be an endeavor. Except he’d forgotten one thing. “I may have been ignored and humiliated by my mother for the first twenty-four years of my life, but I’m still the fucking princess.”
“Apologies.” Casimir ducked his head. “You take over then, Your Highness.”
“Ouch.” Aran’s brows shot up in interest. “I like her.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” Rowan warned, then sent a wink her direction. “She’s feisty.”
Aran bowed. Excessively. “I’m afraid it’s not very safe for mortals in Faeven right now.” A strange look passed over his face. A silent debate. “Then again, it isn’t very safe for fae either.”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s dangerous.” Maeve dismissed his warning. There was more at stake. “We’ll be crossing either way.”
Aran considered her for a moment. He crossed his arms, and his gaze flicked to Rowan, then back again. “Payment will be required.”
“Obviously.” Maeve rolled her eyes to where the sun sank lower in the sky and colored the clouds shades of pink and gold.
“Careful, Maeve.” Saoirse reached out and gently took hold of her wrist. “Don’t make any promises you don’t intend to keep.”
Maeve nodded. She understood. She knew what was at risk, what was being asked of her. The books in the library weren’t always filled with the wonder and magic of Faeven. They recounted the horrors as well. Stories of humans being carried away to Faeven to become play things of the fae. On more than one occasion the fae had taken interest in a mortal sexually, and sometimes those humans were content to live out the remainder of their days as a kept soul, but for others, it was against their own will. Their minds had been swept of memories, and they’d been stolen away as slaves to do whatever bidding the fae demanded of them.
Whatever she said, she had to remember. Her words would be taken literally.
Maeve’s shoulders rolled back and she looked up at Aran. She kept her mask of indifference in place, just as Casimir had suggested. “What are your terms?”
Aran’s gaze wandered over to Saoirse and Casimir placed himself between them. This time he pulled his blade from the sheath at his waist, flashed the slightest glimpse. It was silver, but shone red in the fading sunlight. “None of the females in our party are variables. Nor are they bargaining chips. Nor are they at your disposal.”
“Darn,” Aran snarled, but then his brows rose in interest. Once more, he cast a hasty look toward Rowan, whose face remained impassive. “A princess and a captain. This must be a very important visit indeed.”
Casimir stepped up and Maeve was half-tempted to smack him. “We’d appreciate your discretion as well.”
Aran’s bemused expression deepened into a scowl and he set his sights on Maeve. His unsettling gaze burned into her. “Your price keeps going up.”
“Name it,” she fired back, unwilling to waste anymore time.
“Fine. I’ll cross you into Faeven as you ask. On one condition.”
Her heart slowed to a near stop.
“That I’m able to call in any favor,” he lifted a finger and loosed a disgruntled sigh when Casimir made to protest, “none of the sexual kind, from any member of your party when the time comes.” His mouth twitched and he pinned Casimir with a pointed finger. “You ruin all the fun.”
“Deal.” Maeve offered her hand and when Aran accepted, when the warmth of his palm pressed into hers, an image crashed into her. It was so strong, it stole her breath. A vision of autumn woods, of crimson and gold, of harvest skies, and the cold feel of death.
A ribbon of scarlet appeared between them, shimmering and pulsing with magic. It extended from Aran’s hand to her own, and imprinted upon her skin. The glowing thread wrapped around her forefinger like a vine, before settling into the shape of a leaf.
Maeve jerked backward. “What in the seven hells is that?”
Aran watched her carefully. “It’s called a Strand. It’s the bond that ties two beings together when they enter into a contract.”
He held out his hand, letting her see the same incandescent thread on his finger. “When the contract is fulfilled, the Strand will vanish.” Then he swept his arm back gallantly, allowing her entry onto his boat. “Welcome aboard the Amshir.”
As much as she didn’t want to love it, the Amshir was splendid. The hull of the vessel was long and tapered, and had been meticulously hand-carved both at the bow and stern so the glossy wood curled toward the water, much like a vine or fern would unfurl for the rain. A canopy stretched overhead, a shield from the elements, and there was a small room toward the back of the ship which she assumed was the main quarters. It looked like it sat shallow, so she wasn’t sure if there was a below deck, and while the craftsmanship was stunning, it was nothing like the ships that set sail out of Gaelsong Port. Those boasted masts and foremasts, shrouds and chains. Quarterdecks for command. Gun ports constructed for cannons and weapons. Mighty sails to catch the breeze and carry their crew home. Those ships were designed for conquest and war, to control and overtake.
But this…
