He had promised her that she could stay. He had promised.
But Lorn had decided.
It was long after midnight before he joined her in the private garden connected to her suite. She gave him a sleepy, relaxed smile and held out her hand. Gratefully, he linked his fingers through hers.
"It was a lovely party," Jaenelle said as they strolled through the garden. "I'm glad you invited Char and Titian." She hesitated. "And I'm sorry it was so difficult for Cassandra."
Saetan gave her a considering look through narrowed eyes.
She acknowledged the look with a shrug.
"How much did you hear?"
"Eavesdropping is rude," she said primly.
"An answer that neatly sidesteps the question," he replied dryly.
"I didn't hear anything. But I felt you all grumbling."
Saetan drifted closer to her. She smelled of wildflowers and sun-drenched meadows and fern-shaded pools of water. It was a scent that was gently wild and elusive, that captivated a male because it didn't try to capture him.
It relaxed him—and slightly aroused him.
Even knowing it was a Warlord Prince's natural response to a Queen he felt emotionally bound to, even knowing he would never cross the distinct line that separated a father's affection from a lover's passion, he still felt ashamed of his reaction.
He looked at her, wanting the sharp reminder of who she was and how young she was. But it was Witch who looked back at him, Witch whose hand tightened on his so that he couldn't break the physical link.
"I suppose even a wise man can sometimes be a fool," she said in her midnight voice.
"I would never—" His voice broke. "You know I would never—"
He saw a flicker of amusement in her ancient, haunted eyes.
"Yes, I know. Do you? You adore women, Saetan. You always have. You like to be near them. You like to touch them." She held up their hands.
"This is different. You're my daughter."
"And so you will keep your distance from Witch?" she asked sadly.
He pulled her into his arms and held her so tightly she let out a breathless squeak. "Never," he said fiercely.
"Papa?" Jaenelle said faintly. "Papa, I can't breathe."
He immediately loosened his hold but didn't let go.
Soft night sounds filled the garden. The spring wind sighed.
"This mood of yours has something to do with Cassandra, doesn't it?" Jaenelle asked.
"A little." He rested his cheek against her head. "We have to leave the Keep."
Her body tensed so much his ached in response.
"Why?" she finally asked, leaning back far enough to see his face.
"Because Lorn has decided we should live at the Hall."
"Oh." Then she added, "No wonder you're moody."
Saetan laughed. "Yes. Well. He does have a way of limiting one's options." He gently brushed her hair away from her face. "I do want to live at the Hall with you. I want that very much. But if you want to live somewhere else or have any reservations about leaving the Keep right now, I'll fight him over it."
Her eyes widened until they were huge. "Oh, dear. That wouldn't be a good idea, Saetan. He's much bigger than you."
Saetan tried to swallow. "I'll still fight him."
"Oh, dear." She took a deep breath. "Let's try living at the Hall."
"Thank you, witch-child," he said weakly.
She wrapped an arm around his waist. "You look a bit wobbly."
"Then I look better than I feel," he said, draping an arm around her shoulders. "Come along, little witch. The next few days are going to be hectic, and we'll both need our rest."
Saetan opened the front door of SaDiablo Hall and stepped into orchestrated chaos.
Maids flitted in every direction. Footmen lugged pieces of furniture from one room to another for no reason he could fathom. Gardeners trotted in with armloads of freshly cut flowers.
Standing in the center of the great hall, holding a long list in one hand while conducting the various people and parcels to their rightful places with the other, was Beale, his Red-Jeweled butler.
Somewhat bemused, Saetan walked toward Beale, hoping for an explanation. By the time he'd taken half a dozen steps, he realized that a walking obstacle had not been taken into account in this frenzied dance. Maids bumped into him, their annoyed expressions barely changing upon recognizing their employer, and their "Excuse me, High Lord," just short of being rude.
When he finally reached Beale, he gave his butler a sharp poke in the shoulder.
Beale glanced back, noticed Saetan's stony expression, and lowered his arms. A thud immediately followed, and a maid began wailing, "Now look what you've done."
Beale cleared his throat, tugged his vest down over his girth, and waited, a slightly flushed but once more imperturbable butler.
"Tell me, Beale," Saetan crooned, "do you know who I am?"
Beale blinked. "You're the High Lord, High Lord."
"Ah, good. Since you recognize me, I must still be in human form."
"High Lord?"
"I don't look like a freestanding lamp, for example, so no one's going to try to tuck me into a corner and put a couple of candle-lights in my ears. And I won't be mistaken for an animated curio table that someone will leash to a chair so I don't wander off too far."
Beale's eyes bugged out a bit but he quickly recovered. "No, High Lord. You look exactly as you did yesterday."
Saetan crossed his arms and took his time considering this. "Do you suppose if I go into my study and stay there, I might escape being dusted, polished, or otherwise rearranged?"
"Oh, yes, High Lord. Your study was cleaned this morning."
"Will I recognize it?" Saetan murmured. He retreated to his study and sighed with relief. It was all the same furniture, and it was all arranged the same way.
Slipping out of the black tunic-styled jacket, he tossed it over the back of a chair, settled into the leather chair behind his desk, and rolled up the sleeves of his white silk shirt. Looking at the closed study door, he shook his head, but his eyes were a warm gold and his smile was an understanding one. After all, he had brought this on himself by telling them in advance.
Tomorrow, Jaenelle was coming home.
Chapter Four
"That gutter son of a whore is up to something. I can feel it."
Deciding it was better to say nothing, Greer sat back in the patched chair and watched Hekatah pace.
"For two glorious years he's barely been felt, let alone seen in Hell or Kaeleer. His strength was waning. I know it was. Now he's back, residing at the Hall in Kaeleer. Residing. Do you know how long it's been since he's made his presence felt in one of the living Realms?"
"Seventeen hundred years?" Greer replied.
Hekatah stopped pacing and nodded. "Seventeen hundred years. Ever since Daemon Sadi and Lucivar Yaslana were taken away from him." She closed her gold eyes and smiled maliciously. "How he must have howled when Dorothea denied him paternity at Sadi's Birthright Ceremony, but there was nothing he could do without sacrificing his precious honor. So he slunk away like a whipped dog, consoling himself that he still had the child Hayll's Black Widows couldn't claim." She opened her eyes and hugged herself. "But Prythian had already gotten to the boy's mother and told her all those wonderful half-truths one can tell the ignorant about Guardians. It was one of the few things that winged sow has ever done right." Her pleasure faded. "So why is he back?"
"Could—" Greer considered, shook his head.