“Hell’s fire, Jillian,” he hissed. “What’s going on? What are those things?”
“They’re Scelties. They’re chaperons.”
“You’re joking.”
She shook her head. “Everyone is upset about what happened the other day.”
“I thought that was settled when I made nice at the cake shop.” Dillon did not look or sound happy.
“What was settled was that we can see each other and spend time together. Public outings with a chaperon present.” She gave him a wobbly smile.
Dillon stared at her.
“You can come up to the eyrie,” she said.
Now he smiled. “Oh, yeah?” When he reached for her, she took a step back.
He looked hurt. And maybe something else. “I thought you wanted to be with me.”
“I do.”
“You can’t let Yaslana dictate your life. He’s not your father.”
The words made her uneasy, even though she had almost said the same thing to Lucivar herself. “But he is the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih, and everyone who lives in this valley lives under his hand. And that includes visitors.”
“If I don’t kowtow, what’s he going to do?”
Dillon sounded defiant. That he would be willing to defy an Ebon-gray Warlord Prince to be with her was thrilling—and terrifying. Had Dillon ever had personal dealings with a Warlord Prince before, let alone a man as powerful as Lucivar Yaslana? “He is the law in Ebon Rih. He could banish you from his Territory. Or he could kill you.”
“For a kiss?”
She wasn’t sure Yaslana wouldn’t, so she said nothing.
Dillon sighed. Then, tossing a defiant look at the Scelties—and Daemonar, who now stood with them—he held out his hand.
Feeling like she had to draw her own line of how much she would let someone interfere with her choices, she took his hand.
Dillon stepped a little closer, turning his back on the Scelties and the boy. Warm excitement filled her.
“I’m sorry I . . . Well, the thought of not being able to spend time with you made me a little crazy.”
“I told you. As long as we follow Lady Surreal’s rules, we can spend time together. You can visit with me at the eyrie when there is an adult present, or we can have a public outing together, with chaperons. But, for your sake, we have to follow Lady Surreal’s rules.”
He nodded. “Fine. I’ll make nice. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” Now he looked embarrassed. “Remember when I paid the bill at the cake shop? I wanted to make a good impression because I didn’t think Lady Surreal thought much of me. And now I have a bill that I have to pay, and I can’t.” His thumb rubbed across her knuckles. “Do you think you could . . . ? Just to tide me over.”
“Oh,” she said when she finally caught on to what he was asking. Pulling her hand out of his, she called in the embroidered pouch she used as a wallet and removed all the marks. “This is what I have. You’re welcome to it.”
He started to smile until he ruffled the marks. “This isn’t enough to cover what I owe. Is there any way you could get a bit more? Maybe borrow a bit from your sister’s cashbox? Or from the Yaslana housekeeping money?”
She felt as if he’d thrown ice water into her face. “That would be stealing.”
“If they’re as rich as everyone says, they wouldn’t notice if a few gold marks went missing.” When she took a step back, he laughed and touched her hand. “Hell’s fire, Jillian. I was only joking. If you loved me, you’d know I was joking.”
Of course he was joking. He wouldn’t ask her to steal from her sister or from Marian. And since his family was aristo, he would know that things were put on account, not paid for immediately, so housekeeping money wouldn’t be lying around.
Of course he was joking. “I have some money saved. I could take some of that if it would help.”
“That would—”
“Jillian,” Daemonar called. “If you want to stop at the library, it’s time to go before someone comes looking for us.”
A warning, since they both knew who would come looking.
Dillon vanished the marks and gave her a warm smile. “Will you give me the honor of escorting you to the library, Lady Jillian?”
“Thank you, Lord Dillon. That would be pleasant.”
She took the wrapped roast from Daemonar, relieved that the butcher had put a cold spell in the paper to keep the meat fresh. Then she vanished it and strolled to the library with Dillon beside her and Daemonar and the three Scelties trailing behind.
Rothvar stepped into Lucivar’s study, then nodded to Daemon before focusing on the man he served. “If you could spare a minute, Prince?”
“I’ll get out of your way.” Daemon started to push out of the chair but settled again when Rothvar raised a hand to stop him.
“Appreciated but not necessary,” Rothvar said. “Figured you would know about it anyway—or hear about it.”
Daemon sighed. “What did they do, and who should I compensate?”
Lucivar said, “Shit.”
Rothvar laughed. “Nah. If you’re talking about those Scelties, they caused a stir, but no trouble came of it. They were just helping some of the grocer’s customers select the best fruit, is all.”
Daemon groaned. “He’ll start thinking, ‘How clever. If I had one of those dogs around all the time, customers would flock to my shop instead of the fellow on the other side of the village, because who else would have such a unique helper?’ But Scelties herd. That’s what they do with unflagging passion. First the Sceltie will help customers select fruits. Then he’ll want to know why they didn’t buy fruit one week, and the person will brush off the question as they might do with another human. And because he’s small and furry, people forget about the Jewel he’s wearing, mostly because it’s hidden in the fur, and they forget that the nose that can pick out ripe fruit also picks up all kinds of interesting things. And if he’s helping that person select fruit and he can tell she’s unhappy, he’ll want to know why. So he’ll start digging into why she’s unhappy, and if he can’t do it by himself, he’ll have some Sceltie friends help him—or some of the kindred horses that come from Scelt, or an Arcerian cat, because, despite their having distanced themselves from humans once more, the cats have maintained a bond with the Scelties. And a Sceltie will not hesitate to publicly scold a man—or woman—for indulging in sex outside of the marriage bed and will not hesitate to announce, loudly, who the person slept with, because, of course, he can smell that too if the other person gets within range. But if the unhappiness is caused by someone else hurting one of his chosen people . . . Like I said, the Scelties and Arcerians still work together, and a big cat who is hungry doesn’t see any point in wasting the meat.”
“Mother Night,” Rothvar breathed. Then he shook his head and laughed. “You’re having me on.”
Lucivar wagged a thumb at Daemon. “He co-owns a few businesses with Scelties on the Isle of Scelt here in Kaeleer and a couple of farms in Dena Nehele and Shalador Nehele in Terreille.”
“Why?” Rothvar sounded horrified—a sentiment Lucivar shared wholeheartedly.
Daemon’s smile was bittersweet. “I continue what my Queen began, and in this way I serve.”
“If you’re not here because of the Scelties, that leaves the two children,” Lucivar said.
He listened to Rothvar’s account of seeing some “buzz” around the grocer’s and gliding in to take a look. Then Jillian walked into an alleyway and disappeared for a minute before the Scelties voiced their disapproval loudly enough to bring merchants and customers running to find out what was wrong.