Page 13 of The Queen and the Half-blood
She couldn’t help it—she screwed her face up. It took all her effort not to call out to Cailean and Roth and order them to drag this dung-eater from her sight. “You ask too much.”
“Do I?”
“Aye.” Her voice was icy now, yet he seemed oblivious.
“So, victory isn’t important to you?”
“Oh, it is.”
“I’m a valuable ally.”
“I have no wish for another husband.” And even if she did, this sly man who lived amongst wulvers would be at the bottom of her list. His proposal was an insult.
He inclined his head. “King Dunchadh of Braewall was a disappointment then?”
A brittle silence fell in the pavilion. Meanwhile, Bree and Mirren’s gazes drilled into Lara. They were waiting for her to respond—and she would.
Rising to her feet, she handed her half-finished cup of wine to Mirren before smoothing her palms on the skirt of the ankle-length tunic she wore. The garment was slit at the sides to allow her to stride out properly and to ride a horse without impediment. However, after a long day, the pine-green wool was stained with rain, mud, and blood from the healing tent.
She didn’t feel particularly regal at present, for she was sure the rest of her clothing, and her face, were as dirty as her skirts, but she cut Alar an imperious glare, all the same. He’d never know just how much he rattled her. “Why do you want to marry me?”
“I want a better life for my brothers and sisters. Wulvers have always been gentle creatures. In the past, they’d often guide the lost and leave fish for the poor. But your people turned on them.” His eyes glinted then. “And I’m ambitious … I want to co-rule Albia with you.”
His last words hung heavily in the air.
Heat started to pulse in her belly. “What, no flattery?” Her marriage proposals so far had been tedious, but this one was a slap across the face. Unlike Niall of Braewall—her new southern overking—he hadn’t droned on about her beauty, about how he wished to protect her.
She almost wished he had.
He arched an eyebrow. “Would you like me to sweeten my words?”
“It wouldn’t matter if you did,” she shot back, her anger surfacing. “The answer is still no.”
That wiped the smile off his face. “Nearly a thousand wulvers at your command … an army that would take back, not just Doure, butallof The Uplands,” he replied, his tone cooling. “You’d throw that aside?”
“That’s right.” Gods, how she wanted that army. However, his price was too high.
“Then you’re a fool.”
Bree made a hissing noise between her teeth. Her warder stepped forward then, the scrape of a blade drawing filling the tent. “Watch yourself.”
Alar ignored her. Instead, his slate-colored eyes bored into Lara, holding her fast. “You won’t take Doure without help. You know it as well as I.”
Lara’s hands curled into fists at her sides. Sourness flooded her mouth as despair rose like a specter once more. Viciously, she shoved it down. “My warriors will see you out of the encampment.” She paused then before calling out, “Cailean. Roth.” Immediately, two tall, broad-shouldered figures shoved aside the tent flap and pushed inside. Lara nodded to them, even as her pulse thundered in her ears. “We’re finished here. Take him away.”
The Half-blood stood up and held out his empty cup to Mirren. The maid approached him warily, as if she expected him to leap for her throat. Once Alar had handed over his cup, the chief-enforcer stepped forward, his hand fastening around his upper arm.
Lara thought he might try and shake off Cailean’s grip, but he didn’t. Instead, he allowed the warrior druid to steer him toward the exit. However, just before he reached it, he glanced over his shoulder, his gaze spearing hers once more. A challenge glinted in his eyes. “My offer still stands,” he said softly. “I will be waiting in the woods north of here. Send word, if you change your mind.”
6: A BLADE OFFERED HILT-FIRST
ALAR WALKED THROUGH the High Queen’s encampment, his pace unhurried. He was aware of his escort—the bullish chief-enforcer and the glowering captain of the army—stalking at his heel, but he ignored them.
Something wet and cold pushed against his neck then. Stumbling under the force of the nudge, he turned to find a huge dog with a shaggy dark-green coat and massive jaws looming at his shoulder. The beast—at least four times larger than the biggest wolf he’d ever seen—had massive jaws that could crush a man’s skull like a walnut, yet its amber-hued gaze was adoring.
“Hello there,” he murmured, wary. He was used to wolves and dogs responding well to him, but it was wise to be careful around a fae hound. He’d never stood so close to one before.
The dog gave a low whine and nudged him once more.
