“You missed me?” His seriousness might have frightened me, did I not know him.
Do I? I nodded, biting my lower lip.
“Missed me terribly?” he persisted, examining my face.
I nodded again, breathless, my heart racing. “I had awful nightmares.”
He brushed my cheekbone with callused fingertips. Why did he not look happier at the thought of my longing for him? He seemed pained.
How on earth did I come to be standing here in Arcenne, with Tristan d’Arcenne’s arms about me? “You look grim, chivalier.” Why did I always say the stupidest things to him?
“Not grim. Thoughtful.” He was bending down, slowly, his hand cupping my chin.
“Thoughtful—” I was about to say something silly once more, but his mouth met mine, and I forgot the very idea of speaking.
My hands crept up about his neck, one still clutching his sodden kerchief. I forgot the taste of morning in my mouth and the fact that I wore only a sleeping shirt. He flattened both hands against my back and pulled me against him, the Aryx giving forth a rippling thunderous melody. I had never kissed thus before, but it seemed I knew how, the knowledge springing full-born into my body, perhaps from his.
I had heard enough courtsongs to know what he wanted, and to know I wanted the same. I did not care if it was proper, or if manners were served, or if twas my duty to do summat or aught, as Drumiera would have said.
I knew only the man in my arms and the Sun through the window, and the blessed relief of a moment in which I did not need to plan, or think, or do. I merely existed, melting into him, with no barrier of duty to remind me of what I should instead of what I wanted.
Tristan broke away, kissed my cheek, my forehead, my other cheek. His lips traced my jawline and I tipped my head back, allowing all.
“Vianne,” he whispered against my skin. I could find no breath to answer him. “Gods above, you’re enough to make me forget my duty again, m’chri.”
“Duty?” I managed, blankly. To the seven hells with duty. What now?
“Breakfast for my lady Queen.” He smoothed my hair with one hand, pressing another kiss on my forehead. “Then to bring you to your Guard, so they can see for themselves you are well. And my father, and my mother. We must plan.”
“Plan?” I finally found my normal voice. “Oh, yes. That. We do need a plan.”
And suddenly there was business at hand. “Do you still require a Consort, Vianne? There is a Temple here. I do not ask for—”
A sharp pang lanced the region of my heart. “There is no one in the world I would rather have for my Consort. And my Left Hand.”
He nodded. But his expression was still serious, too serious. “You do not mistrust me?”
How could I? I touched the lock of gray at his temple. “And where did this come from, chivalier?”
He grimaced, an expression so unguarded it warmed me. He would not twist his face so where others could see.
“You noticed? I am not a gentle man.”
Do you think I do not know? There is a brace of peasants in the Shirlstrienne who know, as well. I shook my head, dismissing the objection. “These are not days for gentleness, Captain. I need you, as long as the Aryx persists in…this. If the Seal chooses someone else, I shall free you.” Though I do not like the idea. At all.
“If you contract me as your Consort, Vianne, it will be permanent. Even if the Aryx chooses another, I’ve sworn my oath to you, d’mselle. Do you think me faithless?”
“Very well.” I was helpless to stop a foolish smile from rising. “You really do wish to?”
“Vianne, you idiot, I want nothing else.”
I laid my head on his shoulder and sighed. He held me, stroking my tangled hair. At that moment, there was nowhere else in Arquitaine I would rather have been.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The dress was dark blue silk, simply but exquisitely sewn, the neckline modest and the sleeves falling away from undersleeves of white silk. Twas fashionable, too, or at least, what had been fashionable at Court three months ago. It was too close in the chest and too long at the sleeves, and a trifle too long otherwise, but all in all it felt familiar. I had no desire to ever wear breeches again. The relief of being dressed decently was well-nigh overpowering.
Of such small things is happiness made, I suppose.
I had lost flesh; my hipbones and ribs stood out starkly, my cheekbones stretching from under the skin. The mirror was unkind — it showed me how gaunt I had become. I looked ill-used, all things considered, and far too pale. It was a wonder I had escaped more fever, despite all Risaine’s and Jaryana’s tisanes.
I had considered wearing my garden-boots, or battering my bare feet on the stone floors of Arcenne, but Tristan brought me a pair of soft slippers to wear inside the Citadel.
Twas odd to feel so much softness again.
After a short, luxuriously hot bath and lacing the overdress with Tristan’s help — I had to laugh at how serious he was, and how his fingers fumbled with the laces — I combed my hair out and chose a simple braid, tying it off with a piece of ribbon. Tristan watched, and shook his head when I pushed the Aryx under my neckline.
“Leave it out, Vianne, an it please you,” he said quietly. “Tis better for us to see it.”
I nodded. “Did you speak of breakfast?” Now that I was clean, my teeth charmed, and my head a little less cluttered with fear, I found myself relieved and hungry in equal measure.
He nodded, and led me into the sitting room. There was hot chocolat, and chai, delicate pastries, fruit, cheese — the kind of provender I had not seen in ages. I set to with a will, my manners thankfully not rusty from so long without. Tristan joined me, pouring a cup of chocolat. I thought of Lisele while I drank, surprised tears did not rise to the surface. Instead, a hot dry-eyed grief rose, threatening to choke me.
It was tinted with anger, and the depth of my own calculating fury frightened me.
“Eat, Vianne.” Tristan’s tone brooked no disobedience.
After I could swallow no more, he gave me a few moments to gather myself, and led me out into the hall. A pair of Citadel Guard by the door eyed me cautiously. “Chivalieri,” Tristan said, my hand firmly tucked in his elbow, “this is Her Majesty Vianne di Tirecian-Trimestin di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, Queen of Arquitaine.”
I was hard-pressed not to blush.
They both bowed, a stocky older man and a slender youth I recognized from last night. The black mountain-pards on their doublets eyed me no less dubiously. I would have swept them a courtesy, but Tristan had my arm, so I merely nodded. Their gazes snagged on the Aryx, and remained there.
“A pleasure to meet you, sieurs.” I used the same tone I had been wont to address solicitors in, hoping it was not overly cool.
The older one gave me a glance I could only classify as astonished. “Likewise, d’mselle. Tis a pleasure to be in your service.”
My service? I glanced up at Tristan, whose blue eyes were level and intent.
I see. There have been events at work while I slept. I sought a grave, though welcoming, tone. “I thank you for your pains, chivalier.”
Tristan drew me away. I waited until we reached the end of the hall and turned into another corridor. “My service?” My eyebrows lifted. He had shortened his stride, since I was now gratefully encumbered by skirts — and a full stomach.