She gestured for him to turn. “Of course, it must be unique. Perfect. Elegant yet utterly different. A Consort Ceremony doesn't occur every day.”
He smiled his most charming smile. “If it did, you would be the perfect seamstress to make it happen.”
“My fingers would be raw, is what would happen.” She muttered something under her breath as she worked.
A smart courtesan knew when it was best to be silent.
He shut up.
Two weeks of utter mayhem were finally coming to an end. The trance was still a potential threat, but now they knew the cure worked. A few more green-eyed women were found amongst the late duchess’ servants. Once broken of the trance, they freely offered the formula for the potion.
Laureline suggested killing them. The knowledge they carried was too dangerous to set them free.
When Castien argued that he should have been killed as well, the Escorts compromised on sequestering the women in a safehouse instead. Strangely, the Nadraken women seemed to trust him. He had traveled with them to help them settle into their new home.
Upon returning to the palace, he discovered the court still swarming with soldiers. Duchess Satryani’s sycophants were notably angry. However, they were a snake without a head, only united in their hatred for the crown. Tension hovered in every word and glance. And outside the Queen’s influence, armies moved.
The seamstress measured his waist. He held his breath until she finished.
Satryani’s death had felt symbolic. For Anais, it had been vengeance long overdue. Vern might have had a slightly lesschilly attitude on occasion – or perhaps that was because he no longer wanted Castien dead.
For Castien, the duchess' end felt like one step closer to ending the Queen of Nadraken.
“I'm finished,” muttered the seamstress as she packed her tools.
Castien rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms. The lady's servants stole glances at him. He gave them a wink.
As the edges of the seamstress’ lips pinched, he gently took her hand and bowed low. “Thank you, my lady. I am grateful for the time and care you put into your work.”
When he straightened, a faint blush colored her cheeks. She snatched back her hand and bustled the servants away.
Hurried bows and murmured, “My Queen,” crowded the door.
“Terrorizing the seamstress again?” Anais drawled as she strode right into his arms.
Her exhausted but bright eyes darted across his face as she appreciated his features – lips to cheeks to eyes. In the few moments that he let her admire him, he noted the edges of cold in her gaze, the distance in her smile, and the tension in her shoulders. His work was cut out for him.
Then he claimed her luscious mouth all for himself.
By the time their lips separated, the cold had receded.
“I think she was terrorizing me. Come to my rescue again?” he murmured as his fingers absently worked on her muscles.
She arched into his touch and smirked. “Oh, no, you're on your own with Agnes. She doesn't change once she's made up her mind about a person. Darius has been trying for years.”
“I'll simply have to try harder.”
Snorting indelicately, she breezed past him toward her desk, the near-transparent layers of her form-fitting dress whispering against his legs. He tilted his head at the outline of her dagger.Too many people had seen the way that silky fabric slid along her curves.
To think that he had wanted to run from her. He would have been a shadow in truth then, purposeless until he faded away.
He captured her hand and spun her back into his embrace. Brushing her hair behind her ear, he crooned, “Where are you going, my Queen? I've just thought of a dozen ways to peel this wicked little dress off of you.”
“I have work to do,” she sighed. But her eyes lingered on his lips.
Work could wait.
He stepped backward with her, his hand running down her spine to flatten at the curve of her lower back. Raising a brow, he picked her up, turned sharply, and set her down on her desk. “I wouldn't dare interrupt the Queen's work. Don't let me distract you, love.”
