Because she was.
How had he not seen it before now?
His fear of losing her to another; his scheming to find some way of making her stay, of keeping her at his side; his inability to simply ask her outright if she had any plans to find a mate and settle down. It had all been because of what he’d felt that morning, and the night prior, and every minute he had spent with her before then.
It had been because he loved her.
The acknowledgment kept bringing a rushing sensation to his head. It was soul shatteringly beautiful and awful at the same time.
Because she didn’t reciprocate his feelings.
“Mal.”
He turned his head to the sound of her voice. She stood hesitant just inside the opening flap, hand still holding onto it as though she was contemplating simply turning and leaving again. He hated that he was making her feel like she wasn’t any good for him. As though she was some bad influence or was to blame for what had happened the night before. She had no blame in it. Sir Patrick was to blame.
And Sir Patrick was about to bleed for it.
Malcolm was unused to bloodthirst, unused to wanting to escalate a fight. He usually did everything in his power to keep the peace, but this time… This time he felt like riding a bull instead of a horse and entering the jousting session with the tip of his lance sharpened.
Of course, he would never go that far.
It wasn’t merely frowned upon—it would get any contestant no matter their rank disqualified.
“Hi,” he said, gesturing for the men to leave. They were almost done with getting him into the armor and the few straps that were left he could do himself. Or Iona might do them for him. If he asked nicely. The men left, Iona stepping out of their way to let them pass. “I hoped you’d come,” Malcolm said once they were alone. “We seem to be a little… out of step.”
“I couldn’t let you get on that horse without letting you know that I’ll be watching from the lecterns.”
“I thought you were sitting by my father.”
She shook her head, a small smile on her mouth. She looked awkward.
What was wrong?
She held his gaze for another moment and then said, “Good luck.”
He realized she was about to leave, and so he took a step forward, encumbered by the metal he was wearing, even though the weight didn’t bother him. Dragonkin were able to carry far heavier things, and it was mostly for show. Something to catch the eye of the audience, adding to the theatrics of the tournaments. It did offer good protection, of course, but as a dragon he healed quickly enough. And deadly blows were not permitted. Intentionally killing another contestant was punishable by death.
“Wait,” he said.
She noticed the flower resting on the stool where it had been left and looked back at him. He couldn’t read her expression, so he simply offered, “Lady Shannon came by just now.”
“It’s a beautiful token,” Iona said. “You should secure it to your lance. Let everyone know that you have the lady’s favor.”
“No, I—”
“Be careful. Please.”
And with that, she slipped out of the tent, leaving him standing there and feeling useless, wishing he didn’t have the stupid armor on so he could go after her. Why were things so stiff between them? If she hadn’t felt what he had? Or had she noticed that he’d felt what he’d felt, and it had made her feel the need to distance herself? This couldn’t be all about him punching Sir Patrick in the face, could it? Not when she herself had admitted that the knight had deserved it.
Stop letting yourself be so distracted, he instructed.Focus on unseating the bastard and letting everyone watching know exactly what his worth is.
Once Malcolm got in the saddle and felt the power of his stallion beneath him, he began to feel better, focusing on the opponent waiting for him in the tiltyard rather than on how Iona wasn’t sitting with the highborn. She had chosen a seat among the commoners; among those she had grown up with. Was she trying to tell him that she felt she belonged there, that she had tried wearing a gown and heels and had realized that she didn’t want them. That they didn’t suit her.
Stop, he repeated.Focus on the battle ahead.
He was certain it would be nothing less than a battle.
Sir Patrick would hit him with everything he had, and he did wonder if the knight would try some trick or other. Malcolm supposed he had put the idea in Sir Patrick’s head himself after using his watermagic on Iona. He shouldn’t have, but he finally saw clearly why he’d done it. He’d wanted to take away any suspicion that she was somehow above the rest of them, that he would treat her differently from them. It hadn’t been about winning or about showing off, it had been about making certain that her fears weren’t realized, and everyone began to think they were sleeping together. That he was lenient on her, bringing her to court, because she was his secret lover.
