Broken Dove (Fantasyland 4)

He knew.

“I haven’t felt free in eleven years,” I whispered.

A muscle jumped in his cheek and his eyes bored into mine.

“Thank you for making me feel free,” I finished.

Then I swept into the room, closed the door and told myself one day I’d forget the love and tenderness that suffused Derrik’s face at my words.

But I was lying.

Chapter Six

Not Your Biggest Fan

Apollo drummed his fingers on the top of his desk, scowling at the papers there as his secretary droned on.

But he wasn’t listening to a word the man said.

He was staring at the stack of missives that reported the frequent delays—and the reasons behind them—of Derrik’s party arriving in Lunwyn.

From the last letter, he estimated they were to arrive any day.

And he had a damned war to plan. For the gods’ sakes, he had no time to sit around waiting for a troop of guards watching over a single woman to frolic through three countries, taking double the time it should to make the journey simply because a female from another world wanted to watch Laures win a challenge.

“My lord, did you hear me?” Jeremiah, his secretary, called.

Apollo lifted his head and transferred his scowl to the man.

Jeremiah caught it and nervously lifted a finger to push his half-spectacles up the bridge of his nose.

“As I said, decline all invitations and my calendar is to be kept clear for the foreseeable future,” Apollo stated.

Jeremiah, nor anyone but rulers, a few select generals and trusted soldiers, knew that any day, at any time, darkness could descend, sweeping across the land, black magic and dragons at war, lives at stake, men taking up arms, no one safe.

This being the whole bloody reason he had no time to sit in his study waiting for some woman from another world to enjoy the new one she found herself in.

Jeremiah’s eyes got wide. “But, there are hunts and gales you attend every year.”

“I won’t be attending them this year,” Apollo returned.

“But—”

“Send my apologies,” Apollo ordered. “And Achilles will be arriving imminently. He’ll look after my affairs while I’m away. As soon as the party I’m awaiting arrives, I’ll be leaving for Bellebryn.”

“But—”

Apollo interrupted him by raising his hand as he heard running feet outside the door.

He trained his eyes to the door seconds before it was thrown open.

His young servant Nathaniel ran in and came to a swaying halt, snowflakes in his sandy-blond hair, his boy’s short cloak still on.

“You said to say the minute I saw riders and I saw a rider, sir. It’s Derrik returned,” he announced.

Bloody hell.

Finally.

“Go to Torment, saddle him and bring him to the front. Then get warm,” Apollo commanded and looked at Jeremiah. “Leave me.”

Jeremiah’s eyes got wide. “But sir, we have hours of—”

Apollo stood, leaned into both his fists in his desk and rumbled, “Leave me.”

Jeremiah nodded, quickly gathered the large stacks of papers he had in his lap, and the ones on the edge of Apollo’s desk, and also the ones in the chair he’d pulled close. He shoved them in the gaping, battered case, grabbed it and hurried out.

Nathaniel was already gone.

Jeremiah closed the door behind him.

Apollo moved to the window that had a view to the front of the house and looked out, seeing Derrik on his horse galloping into view up the pine lined lane as he did so.

He took a breath in through his nose. This did not calm his temper so he took in another one. This, too, failed, so he stopped trying.

When Derrik halted at the steps in front of the house, Apollo turned away from the window and moved to his desk. He stopped beside it and leaned his thigh against its edge. He then crossed his arms on his chest and his boots at the ankle.

He stared at the door and as he did so, he didn’t bother himself with taking deep breaths to remain calm.

Moments later, it opened without a knock and Derrik came through, his cloak and hair dusted with snow, the former swirling around him.

He was taking off his gloves but doing this with his eyes to Apollo.

“Close the door,” Apollo ordered.

Derrik kicked it closed with a boot, took two strides into the room and stopped, gaze still locked with Apollo’s.

“You’re late,” Apollo uttered a vast understatement.

Derrik said nothing.

“By two bloody months,” Apollo went on.

Derrik still said nothing.

“War is pending,” Apollo reminded him.

Derrik remained silent.

Apollo held on to the frayed threads of his control and invited, “Would you like to explain why you’re late?”

Derrik finally spoke. “I believe that was explained in our missives.”

“Indeed,” Apollo bit out.

Games. Fayres. And Ilsa of the other world wanting to eat some fish cooked in a thick crust of salt, this descending, for some mad reason, into a two day cooking war where she tried to best a local chef in the preparation of seafood.

She won, Remi had reported with apparent jubilation, with some dish which included salmon wrapped in pastry dough.

At the reminder, Apollo clenched his teeth.

He unclenched them to ask, “Is she at The Swan?”

“She is,” Derrik answered and Apollo didn’t understand the emphasis on she.

He also didn’t care.

He pushed from the desk, dropped his arms and murmured, “Then I’m away to The Swan.”

“If you don’t want her, I’ll have her.”

At Derrik’s words, Apollo stopped dead and pierced his friend with his eyes.

“Pardon?” he whispered.

He wanted to believe he didn’t understand his friend.

But he had a feeling he understood his friend.

He watched as Derrik planted his feet apart and his fists to his hips.

Oh yes.

He understood his friend.

“If you don’t want her, I’ll take her,” he repeated.

By the gods, he had to jest.

“Are you talking about my wife?” Apollo asked low.

“She’s not your wife,” Derrik returned.

“She’s my wife,” Apollo bit out.

“She’s not your bloody wife,” Derrik clipped.

“Gods, man!” Apollo exploded, coming to the end of his patience and swinging out a hand. “You know she is just as she isn’t.”

“No, Lo. I just know she isn’t,” Derrik returned.