Page 81 of A Court of Sugar and Spice
“I ask for no more than I’m willing to give. Which is everything.”
I twist so I can look at him better. “You have the gall to ask me for everything, when we’ve barely been acquainted for two weeks?”
“The Fae are not slow in matters of love. Once we know our hearts, we act on those feelings.”
“And your feelings for me—they are—”
“Love. I love you.”
Hearing him say it steals my breath. “You hate me. We fight constantly. How is that a wise foundation for a relationship?”
“We communicate. We find our differences and discuss them.”
I snort a laugh, facing forward again. “That’s certainly a kind way to put it.”
A chuckle rolls through him, and he kisses the top of my head.
I don’t know why that sweet, chaste kiss makes me warmer inside than any I’ve ever received. I’m so wet for him I’m afraid I’ll leave moisture on the saddle when I dismount—but beyond that, I think myheartis wet for him. It’s softening, melting, making me believe that if I just give in to this, if I let him choose me, everything will be all right.
“What would it be like?” I ask abruptly. “What would I have to do? If I—if you—”
“If I marry you and make you my Queen?”
A tremulous delight flutters through my chest. “Yes.”
“We could travel together, like this. See all of Faerie, visit the far corners of the kingdom. We could taste the most delectable foods, witness all the most fantastic sights. And when you tired of that we could return to the royal city, where we could host parties, see plays and performances, enjoy music and art. I could take you to the training fields and turn that innate talent of yours into true fighting skill. You also have a knack for strategy. The same mind that successfully planned so many seductions could be invaluable to this kingdom’s defenses. I would like to see you as a Captain one day, if you wish it. Or at least an advisor in my Court.”
The picture he paints is nothing like the dull, restrictive royal life I imagined, the one I let fear design in my head. His vision of a life together is open and free, a life of pleasure and possibilities.
Why am I holding myself back from this? I was going to marry anyone I could find, just so I could get my hands on my inheritance. Yet when I’m offered the passionate love of a beautiful man, aking—when I’m staring at the chance for wealth and travel, beauty and variety, training and authority—I balk at it. Maybe because I fear it can’t be true. I’ve never allowed myself to dream so high, never expected much beyond a comfortable life with a foolish husband whom I’d cuckold frequently for fun.
I think if I told Lir the kind of future I’ve envisioned for myself, he would frown and think it unworthy of me. Because for all his “little mortal” comments and his sneers about humans, I know he respects me. He shows it by asking for my advice and following my plans, by protecting me and by arguing with me like an equal. He sees more in me than I’ve ever seen in myself—a queen, a captain, a wife he would cherish for decades, maybe longer. His Chosen.
I’ve left him unanswered, the dream he shared suspended in the frosty air, fragile as a puff of warm breath, and gone just as quickly.
He doesn’t press me for a reaction or a reply. We ride on, until we come to a long line of blue-and-white tents, four or five deep. There are corrals for the reindeer and horses, low fires burning, a few voices murmuring. It’s still the dead of night, and not many are stirring. But I see a watchman posted in a tree, and a few guards patrolling the line.
It all looks so neat and lovely at first, but as we pass through the camp I notice the dark circles under the eyes of the warriors who are wakeful. I notice the dents and cracks in their armor, and the patches and scorch marks on the tents.
“I must speak with my people,” Lir tells me. “Go with Orain, and she’ll care for you.”
I nod, too weary to argue, though I feel a little abandoned. He’s with his folk now, reconnected with guards and servants who can keep him safe and take him where he wants to go. He doesn’t need me anymore.
Orain leads me to a large tent with a big wooden tub. It’s already filled with water, and she heats the water with a touch.
“I’ll find you some fresh clothes and some food,” she tells me before leaving.
The water soothes my aching body, but a restless unhappiness curdles my soul. I try to remind myself of Lir’s claim that he loves me, that he wants me for his Chosen. But I don’t like being passed off to a servant and sent to bathe, while he strategizes with his own kind. What is he telling them about me, about Clara? Will he divulge all aspects of his curse? Will he curl his lip in disgust when he admits he had to drink my blood to stay in his current form?
I don’t like being parted from him. It was rude and unkind of him to leave me alone when this isn’t even my world, when I don’t know any of these people. How long will it take him to finish with them and come back to me? Or perhaps he’ll leave me here while he continues with the quest. Maybe I won’t even get to see his curse broken.
After Orain drops off the clothing for me, I continue to soak and fume in the bath. Finally I climb out and dry my skin with the provided towels. I inspect the thick, soft, well-made clothes—silky yet sturdy underthings, a tunic and leggings of rich blue wool, a heavy cape, and a leather belt to which I can fasten my dagger.
As I dress, I chastise myself for my attitude.
I rejected Lir, and yet I want to be the center of his thoughts and attention at every moment? How foolish of me. How selfish.
Part of my craving for him is pure fear. We’re still much too close to the Ravine and the Rat King’s army. They could reach us in less than two hours. What if they were to attack while Lir is elsewhere in the camp? What if I’m taken away, or killed? What if he’s captured, and I can’t find him, and I never see him again?
