As the room erupted in complaint, all to do with the iron placed under the mattresses and accusations of conspiracy, he wondered why such a reaction bothered him for the first time in centuries. But he was far too brutally honest with himself to pretend he didn’t know the answer. It was her. The wench from the night before, standing a step behind Princess Glory. Wearing his house colours, as though she belonged to him. He drew in a sharp breath as he realized the feeling he had at the thought was one of smug satisfaction. For a woman with such fire to belong to him ... to be his friend.
Friend?
The wench - what was her name? Magda? - focused intently on an approaching guardsman, a man of prowess and sure strength, from the look of him.
Friend? What was happening to him?
He shook his head free of the unusual thoughts. It was irrelevant in any case. She was taken. Her heart was involved. Once that might have made it a challenge. Now he was merely resigned. What purpose to weave forgetfulness over true love for a brief time of ... friendship?
He gave in to the impulse. Some mental imperative all but demanded he claim her friendship. Thus, he must destroy any possibility of it.
“Let us dispense with the charade, shall we, your Highness?” Rhys called to the king, his voice cutting easily through the bickering. “Your daughter has broken the treaty by her use of trickery as, no doubt, part of her childish quest to find a powerful Fae husband. The penalty is death or enslavement. I see no reason to execute such a lovely, if empty-headed, wench, so the princess will come to my bed until such time as I grow tired of her.”
Glory shrieked and all of the colour drained out of her face as her drunken sop of a father tried to pull himself to his feet, spluttering and blustering. A shocked silence fell over the rest of the room. Idly, Rhys noticed that the warrior - the guardsman -held his blade at the ready as he stood at battle stance, protecting the princess.
But Rhys was uninterested in any of their reactions. He focused his attention on the only woman in the room who held the slightest interest for him.
Her face too was as pale as death, but her eyes flashed deadly defiance. “You will not have her, my lord,” she said clearly. “At least not while I live.”
As she lifted her hands into the air, preparing to work some form of magic to protect the princess, a flash of silver at her throat caught his attention. It couldn’t be.
It couldn’t be.
Quicker than thought, he was across the room and bending towards her, catching the silver ring she wore on a chain in his hand. “What is this? Where did you get it?” he demanded.
“Release her or die,” the guardsman all but snarled at him, his sword raised in a lightning-quick motion to Rhys’ neck. “In fact, I may kill you anyway, for daring to touch her.”
Rhys knew a moment’s amusement and looked into the man’s furious grey eyes. “Negotiating, then, is not your skill, one can assume?”
“Release her or die,” the man repeated, pressing harder.
The excruciating pain of steel cutting into his throat barely distracted Rhys as he lost interest in the mortal’s nonsense and stared down at the girl again. “Where did you get it?” he asked, daring her to lie. Staring down into her dark green eyes.
Her oh-so-familiar dark green and slightly tilted eyes.
His own eyes. His sister’s eyes.
“You’re her child,” he breathed. “My sister’s child.”
Her eyes widened, and she began to shake her head no, but he’d had enough of guesswork and supposition. He dropped the ring and caught her face in his hands, then touched his forehead to her own. The immediate family bond flared to life with almost painful intensity.
She was his own, and suddenly his aversion to anything but her friendship became poignantly clear.
“You’re my niece,” he said, almost laughing with the first unfettered joy he’d felt in the 300 years since his sister had disappeared. “You’re my family.”
She looked up at him, blinking. Dazed. “I ... I know,” she said. “Somehow, I know.” She turned to glance at the guardsman who still held a sword to Rhys’ throat. “Don’t hurt him, Ian. He’s my . . . uncle.”
Ian slowly lowered his sword, clearly not understanding and just as clearly unwilling to trust the woman he loved to Rhys and his claims of family.
“Ah, and that is another matter,” Rhys said, drawing himself up to his full and quite considerable height. “You are not nearly good enough for my niece.”
In the space of a unicorn’s heartbeat, the sword was at his throat again. “I’d suggest you rethink that statement, Uncle,’“ Ian said grimly. “I’d hate our first outing as husband and wife to be attending your funeral.”
Rhys’ niece gasped. “Ian! He’s my uncle - Wait. What? Husband and wife?”
Rhys looked from one to the other and began to laugh. Gently moving the sword to one side so the human male would not be threatened, Rhys bowed deeply to the king. “I return to you your daughter’s life, though it were forfeit to me by right and by law. In exchange, I shall take this woman as my own. She is my kin, and it is my right. I hereby claim the Lady Magda.”
Every single Fae in the room, silent and motionless throughout the encounter, dropped to their knees and proclaimed their fealty and accord. “A Garanwyn!”