“You’re lying. You’re upset right now. I can tell.”
“I’m not.”
The other boy cast a dark glare at Aron and then at Cleo and Mira. “Are these people trying to cheat you, Father?”
“Jonas,” Silas said tiredly, “this isn’t your business.”
“This is my business, Father. How much did this man”—Jonas’s gaze swept the length of Aron with undisguised distaste—“agree to pay you?”
“Fourteen a case,” Aron offered casually. “A fair price that your father was more than happy to accept.”
“Fourteen?” Jonas sputtered. “You dare insult him like that?”
Tomas grabbed the back of Jonas’s shirt and pulled him backward. “Calm down.”
Jonas’s dark eyes flashed. “When our father’s being taken advantage of by some ridiculous silk-wearing bastard, I take offense.”
“Bastard?” Aron’s voice had turned to ice. “Who are you calling a bastard, peasant?”
Tomas turned slowly, anger brimming in his gaze. “My brother was calling you a bastard. Bastard.”
And this, Cleo thought with a sinking feeling, was the absolute worst thing someone could ever call Aron. It wasn’t common knowledge, but he was a bastard. Born of a pretty blond maid his father once took a liking to. Since Sebastien Lagaris’s wife was barren, she had taken the baby on as her own from the moment he was born. The maid, Aron’s real mother, had died soon after under mysterious circumstances that no one had dared to question either then or now. But there was still talk. And this talk was what had met Aron’s ears when he was old enough to understand what it all meant.
“Princess?” Theon asked, as if looking for her command to intervene. She put her hand on his arm to stop him. This didn’t need to become more of a scene than it already was.
“Let’s go, Aron.” She exchanged a worried look with Mira, who nervously set down her second glass of wine.
Aron’s attention didn’t leave Tomas. “How dare you insult me?”
“You should obey your little girlfriend and leave,” Tomas advised. “The sooner the better.”
“And as soon as your father fetches the cases of wine for me, I’d be more than happy to do just that.”
“Forget the wine. Walk away and consider yourself lucky that I didn’t make a bigger deal of your insult toward my father. He is trusting and willing to undersell himself. I am not.”
Aron bristled, his previous calm now thrust aside by offense and inebriation, making him much braver than he should be when faced with two tall, muscular Paelsians. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
“Do we care?” Jonas and his brother exchanged a glance.
“I am Aron Lagaris, son of Sebastien Lagaris, lord of Elder’s Pitch. I stand here in your market accompanied by none other than Princess Cleiona Bellos of Auranos. Show respect to us both.”
“This is ridiculous, Aron.” Cleo hissed a small breath from between her teeth. She did wish that he wouldn’t put on such airs. Mira slipped her arm through Cleo’s and squeezed her hand. Let’s go, she seemed to be signaling.
“Oh, your highness.” Sarcasm dripped from Jonas’s words as he mock-bowed. “Both of your highnesses. It is a true honor to be in your shining presence.”
“I could have you beheaded for such disrespect,” Aron slurred. “Both of you and your father. Your sister too.”
“Leave my sister out of this,” Tomas growled.
“Let me guess, if it’s her wedding day, I’ll assume she’s already with child? I’ve heard Paelsian girls don’t wait for marriage before they spread their legs to anyone with enough coin to pay.” Aron glanced at Felicia, who looked mortified and indignant. “I have some money. Perhaps you might give me a half hour of your attentions before dusk.”
“Aron!” Cleo snapped, appalled.
That she was totally ignored by him was no surprise. Jonas turned his furious gaze on her—so hot she felt singed by it.
Tomas, who seemed the marginally less hotheaded of the two brothers, turned the darkest, most venomous glare she’d ever seen in her life on Aron. “I could kill you for saying such a thing about my sister.”
Aron gave him a thin smile. “Try it.”