Page 28 of Forged in Cursed Flames (Crown and Crest 2)

Clover gives me her full attention, and her amusement becomes something a little more delectable. She pauses as she walks by, dropping her voice. “You shouldn’t listen to mindless accusations. Just think, if everyone did that, people might be inclined to believe you kiss like a fish.”

“I think we’ve disproven that.” I take her arm and lean close to her ear. “Didn’t we?”

Her bright eyes laugh at me. “I didn’t say a peck, soldier. I said akiss.”

I shake my head, ignoring the way my pulse reacts to her teasing. We can’t do this anymore—I know it as well as she does.

But neither of us seems to be able to stay away from the flame.

9

Clover

“I’ll be eighteen in Yelwin,”Bartholomew says to me, nursing his mug of cider.

The tavern is loud and busy, with all manner of elves, humans, and even a family of Boermin in attendance. Ayan and Lawrence stand at the packed bar that stretches the front length of the room, attempting to woo several women. Neither appears to be having a lot of luck.

I glance over at Bartholomew, wondering what prompted the information. “It’s a little early to be wishing you many happy returns, don’t you think? Yelwin is still seven months away.”

He doesn’t answer, but his frown deepens as he pulls his eyes away from his drink and studies his cousin and Ayan.

And I realize what this is about.

“It’s hard waiting for twenty, isn’t it?” I say with a sigh, referring to the age of majority in Caldenbauer.

Twenty is when land may be bought, contracts may be signed, and a man is considered old enough to marry.

And according to Ayan, it’s the age one can begin “chasing skirts,” though goodness knows Lawrence didn’t wait nearly that long. But I suppose it must be difficult traveling with four grown men when you’re on the cusp of adulthood yourself.

Bartholomew pulls his attention from Ayan and Lawrence to look at me. “In two and a half years, I’ll be duke marshal. Duchess is a fine title, don’t you think?”

I slowly nod, suddenly unsure where this conversation is going. I thought this was about Lawrence and Ayan.

“It’s not queen, but…” Bartholomew’s puppy-brown eyes search mine, and then he looks away. He shoves a hand through his hair and then braces his forehead on it, muttering to himself, “What am I doing?”

After that, his attention returns to his drink, and he falls into a pensive silence.

Leaning close to Pranmore, I whisper, “Did someone slip Bartholomew something a little stronger than he’s used to?”

Pranmore swirls his wine in his chalice, breathing in deeply before he takes a sip. “I don’t believe so.”

I jerk my head toward his drink. “How is it?”

“It’s very good—far better than what they tried to pass off as wine in Denmel.”

“I remember you said it wasn’t to your liking.”

He nods, and then his eyes slide past me into the crowd. Suddenly uncomfortable, he quickly looks back.

“What is it?” I ask, concerned. I didn’t bring my bow, but I have a knife at my hip should I need it.

“Nothing,” he says immediately, but two twin rosy patches appear on his cheeks.

“Are you blushing?” I ask, dropping my voice to a whisper, trying not to laugh and embarrass him further.

“Of course not,” he says hotly, taking a long gulp of his wine—which is odd, considering it’s been a small sip every time before, preceded by a swirl and a sniff.

Slowly, being very subtle, I pretend to stretch my neck so I can peer behind us.

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