“Someone to woo?” He looked too distracted to even comprehend was she was talking about, and she sighed.
“Lady Shannon?” she pressed, suddenly needing to have it stated so that she could step out from behind the pillar and go in search of her dance partner.
It was for the best.
For the good of the kingdom, truth be told, since it seemed the sooner Malcolm was mated the sooner the reason for the king’s moot would be warranted, with the moment of transference proving whether their gathered force was enough of a deterrent. Malcolm confessing his love to his future queen would either prove the end to the threat that loomed over all of them, or the revelation.
Then Malcolm looked at her, and it was as though he was waking from a dream, his sight clearing as he rested his gaze on hers. Lady Shannon. She had reminded him of his duty and the way he could perform it, she could see it in the shifting expression of his eyes. But there was something else there. Something unspoken and yet present as his gaze lingered in hers for a drawn-out moment.
Then he said, “Lady Shannon?”
He spoke the name as if still half-dazed and unsure of the meaning of the words.
Yes, your soon-to-be beloved, Iona thought, ignoring the bitterness lacing it.
She had been asked to be a member of the king’s closest council. A mere handful of hours ago this had been an honor she wouldn’t even have fathomed might ever be hers. There was no point in being petty and possessive. She was going to have to share him.
“Go,” she said, even though he hesitated.
She put her hands against his shoulder and gave him an encouraging push in what she thought might be the right direction, but he didn’t budge. It was as though there was a struggle going on within him, and he didn’t know quite where it would take him. One foot remained planted and pointed at her while the other had moved in the direction she had indicated he should go.
What was he contemplating? That she needed him to step between her and Sir Patrick? She knew Sir Patrick’s reputation as well as anyone. He was the most decorated knight of the king’s guard. The youngest knight to ever rise in the ranks as fast as he had. He also carried the titles of philanderer and gambler and all-around scoundrel when he was out of his suit of armor. She was not foolish enough to think that such a rake had honest intentions with her.
“It is one dance, Mal,” she said, frowning lightly at him. “I’ll be fine.”
“I do not want—”
But he was interrupted again, this time by Lady Shannon who peeked her head around the pillar and said, “Found you.”
She smiled, reaching her hand out to Malcolm. He took it reluctantly. “My lady,” he said, forcing a smile in return, Iona could tell. “Thank you for your aid in getting the festivities underway.”
“The least I could do, my lord,” she smiled. “When your father has organized such a grand tournament for us all to enjoy. Come and let us dance.”
“Yes,” he mumbled, glancing back at Iona as Lady Shannon led him onto the dance floor.
“Yes,” Iona mumbled as some sort of echo, staring after him with her hearts thudding in her chest at the sight of the two of them hand in hand.
A moment ago, that had been her. And soon, it would never be her again. Not with that sort of ease, not with that careful possessiveness, as though he was already the lady’s and the lady knew it. Had he spoken to her then? Why would he not have told Iona? Why would he not have asked her advice before now? Why couldn’t they seem to speak about such things?
She felt she already knew the answer, but it was drifting somewhere outside of her comprehension.
“The Lady of Lakely, I presume?” Sir Patrick’s voice said behind her, and she spun around to face him.
“Hardly that, sir knight.” She smiled, though she felt a tremble go through her at his sudden presence. He was handsome, there was no doubt of that, but he was also cunning and had a certain way, one that meant he always got whatever he wanted. She had often wondered how it was that he would so easily get women into his bed. What did he say to them? She would not go easily, that much was already decided.
In fact, she would not go at all.
She had never shared a bed with anyone, and she would be loath to begin with him.
Still, she smiled as pleasantly as she could.
“I owe you a dance,” she said.
He looked pleased with her admission, holding his hand out to her to bring her onto the dancefloor. He moved with the grace afforded those with good breeding. There was no stumble in his step, no hesitation in how he guided her into the flow of the dance. His hold on her was firm but pliant, leading her into the swell of skirts with a confidence that would have been immediately disarming if she didn’t know of his reputation.
She had never liked him, but now that she had him this close to her, she realized that the reason was simple: he had failed to present her with any reason to. Unlike Malcolm, who was personable and charming because of it, Sir Patrick wore a persona like a tight mask that showed its edges now that she was this close to him. He was wearing a small but arrogant smile and she was getting the feeling that the only reason he had asked her to dance was in order to step on Malcolm’s toes. He must have known, for Malcolm to put her in such a gown and secure her an invitation, that she had been chosen. That her station, once Malcolm was crowned, would be far beyond anything the knight could hope to secure for himself.
As though he could sense her changing mood, her slowly dawning understanding and the need that arose for her to get away from him, his hold on her tightened.
