Love's Call (33 page)

He was almost as tall as her five feet ten inches, but his frame was slender. She sensed strength in him and not just magic. Lucan was building muscle with training. He’d only fill out with age. Handsome and sincere, he was a sweet lad that would no doubt become a good man.

They found a rhythm soon, and Ansley found herself thoroughly enjoying his company. Lucan was soft spoken, but witty and funny, and she danced with him through the next two songs, too.

Her father stepped in after that, and Ansley liked dancing with him as well. Though he was a knight, he’d never been much of a courtier, so Murdoch was almost as awkward as the lad had been, in a different way. But it was very sweet of her father to take time to dance with her.

Unwillingly, her gaze kept finding Leargan. He danced with no one, but he was moving about the room, talking to anyone and everyone who stopped him or called with a smile. His position as captain of Cera’s guard made his company desirable as much as whom he was as a person.

However, Ansley didn’t see him speak with any females alone.

If he was waiting for an opportunity to ask her to dance, Leargan was going to be disappointed. It mattered not if the whole room knew them betrothed. Ansley wouldn’t be that close to the man she was no longer going to marry. Her heart would be unable to endure it.

Before she could even take a seat, Alasdair asked her to dance, bowing with a charming flourish that made her grin. She couldn’t refuse him or the twinkle in his blue eyes. He was very handsome in his blue doublet and fine navy breeches.

He pulled her close to his well-muscled chest, and Ansley pretended not to feel Leargan’s dark gaze burning her as they twirled past him.

Alasdair’s touch was firm, but nowhere near inappropriate, yet jealousy was written all over Leargan’s face. Alas was either ignoring his captain or didn’t notice.

He sat with a few men of the personal guard watching. Ansley couldn’t look away from him, either, no matter how she ordered herself to do so. Distraction caused her to miss a dance step and nearly tromped Alasdair’s foot only halfway through the lively tune.

Her face warmed when she met his blue gaze and she apologized.

Alasdair wore a lopsided grin. “No problem.” He steadied her with a hand on her forearm. “Are you all right?”

Ansley nodded.

The knight’s gaze became concerned, studying her face. “Let’s get you in a chair and something to drink. You look flushed.”

“I do?”

“Aye. Are you sure you’re all right?”

Nodding again made the room spin, and Alasdair slipped an arm around her shoulders, pinning her to his side.

“Easy.” After guiding her off the dance floor, he pressed her into the nearest chair. “I’m getting Lord Dagget.”

Before she could protest, the knight disappeared into the crowd.

Cera appeared in front of her, a goblet in her hand. “Ans, are you all right? Alasdair said you almost fainted.”

“I did not.”

“You
are
pale. Here. Water.”

“I’ve been dancing for over an hour. I’m fine. Everyone needs to quit fussing over me.”

Cera’s expression brooked no argument, so Ansley took the water and sipped.

“I’m fine,” she repeated feebly. A yawn took her by surprise as fatigue made her limbs heavy. “I think I’ll just go to bed.”

Her friend studied her, then nodded. “Jorrin,” Cera called. In a moment, the half-elfin duke appeared at his wife’s side. “Can you escort Ansley to her room?”

“Sure, love,” Jorrin said.

Ansley sputtered. “I’ll find my da.”

Cera’s gaze swept the great hall. “Sir Murdoch isn’t here.”

She groaned. The king and Leargan were missing from view as well. That couldn’t be good. “Well, it’s not necessary. I can find my own quarters.” The great hall whirled as she stood.

The duke grabbed her arm, the only thing that kept her from landing in a heap on the floor. “Whoa.”

“Looks like it is necessary.” Cera’s tone concerned, brows knitted tight.

Ansley didn’t like the appraising expression that settled on the duchess’ face, though the redhead said nothing.

“Let’s get you to your room.” Jorrin tucked her hand into his elbow and threw a worried glance at his wife.

She had no energy to argue, so Ansley sighed. She was tired and hungry. The long day and light meal was getting to her. Obviously she was coming down with something.

Cera looped her arm in Ansley’s free one, and the duke and duchess escorted her from the great hall.

Ansley wouldn’t have been able to get away if she’d tried.

Jorrin bid her goodnight and excused himself, letting Ali slip out of her rooms as he left. Her wolf would find Trikser and Isair and the three would likely go hunting.

She didn’t fight Cera helping her undress, yawning as soon as her sleeping chemise replaced the gown and settled over her body.

“In bed with you.” Cera tucked her in as if she was a child.

“Tell my father I’m fine, please,” Ansley said with another wide yawn. “I don’t want him bursting in here.”

“You should see Tristan in the morning.”

“Just tired. Be fine with a good night’s sleep. Long day.” She ignored the disagreement in her friend’s expression.

Cera’s mouth opened and closed, as if she was going to say something, but changed her mind. She gave a curt nod. “Goodnight, Ans. Sleep tight.”

“Goodnight. Tell Jorrin thanks. And I really did have a lovely time.”

“I will, and I’m glad. Sweet dreams.”

“Thanks,” Ansley muttered, asleep before Cera even closed the chamber door.

Chapter Thirty-two

Lucan he could handle. But Alasdair?

Logic told Leargan his friend had innocent intentions in asking Ansley to dance, but seeing her in another man’s arms—even on a dance floor—grated.

He growled.

Artan paused.

What had the knight said, anyway?

“Captain?” The gruff voice of his friend had Leargan’s head swinging around.

He met Artan’s dark eyes, avoiding the burn scar that consumed the right side of his face. The man didn’t like eye contact—even from a longtime companion.

The whole right side of the knight’s body was scarred from burns—his own fire magic gone horribly wrong when they were small lads.

Artan was from Ascova, brought back to Terraquist by the king, like Leargan. A man of few words, but he’d always been a friend. Always fought by Leargan’s side.

“Sorry,” Leargan said.

“Alas isn’t foolish enough to try to take your woman.”

Damn.

Artan had noticed where Leargan’s gaze had been glued since Alasdair had approached the love of his life. He cleared his throat. “I know.”

“You should go get her.”

Leargan muttered a nonresponse, and Artan said nothing more, swirling the ale in the stein in front of him before taking a sip.

Kale and Bowen were seated next to them, but engaged in a lively conversation that neither Leargan nor Artan was a part of.

Teagan had left the table moments before with his father, Tarmon, one of the king’s knights.

Padraig and Niall were also gone, dancing with their wives.

Roduch and Avril had retired for the night. The trial was in the morn, and despite the joyous feast, no doubt it weighed heavily on their minds.

Dallon, too, was gone. Probably curled up with a willing woman somewhere.

It was surprising Artan had even attended the feast. The knight wasn’t known for being social. Beyond time spent training with the knights of the guard, the man stayed in his quarters. Kept to himself. Because of his scars, he never bathed with the men after a long day on the fighting yard. Artan never even accompanied their brothers when they went wenching.

Artan’s dark eyes darted to the left and Leargan couldn’t help but follow. A petite, fair-haired maid placed empty trenchers on a tray. When she looked their direction, she flashed a shy smile.

His friend stared at the pretty girl.

Shock rolled over Leargan. She’d been looking at
Artan,
not Leargan. A smile, not a cringe on her face as she regarded him. Locked eyes with him.

Good for Artan
.

He was a fine knight, a hell of a warrior, and a good man.

People tended to retreat from him, not giving him a chance, judging the scars.

Especially women. Personality kept most females in fear of him.

His friend had become gruff over the turns.

If the girl could see the man, not the horrid markings on the knight’s body, good for her. Good for
them
. Let Artan, too find someone in Greenwald.

Leargan fought the urge to close his eyes as pain rolled over him in waves.

Ansley.

She still moved with Alas on the dance floor, graceful and elegant despite the required speed of the lively group song. At least he didn’t have to endure watching his friend hold her close during a love ballad.

His breath had caught when he’d seen her enter the great hall on her father’s arm.

Gorgeous.

Her hair in intricate braids and Ansley’s gown a dark green, the same color of the soft doublet Jorrin had insisted he wear to the feast. Lord Aldern had showed up at his door, pushing the garment at him, ignoring his raised eyebrow and questions.

Obviously, Lady Cera had taken a page from Queen Morghyn’s book and matched them.

Too bad Ansley hated him.

Hadn’t spoken a word to him all night, even during the meal at the head table on the dais.

Leargan’s heart had stopped when she’d appeared to choke. He’d wanted to rush to her side. But her father was right there—proving to be an oversized buffer—and he hadn’t been able to get close to her all evening.

Not that she’d let him anyway. Ansley had made it clear that afternoon that she still thought he was a liar.

Still hated him.

“Leargan.” The king’s deep voice took his attention.

“Sire?” Leargan’s legs pushed him to standing of their own accord.

Sir Murdoch was at the king’s side. Both large men appraised him. The king’s expression held concern, but Ansley’s father’s was tight, suspicious.

“Come, lad.” King Nathal beckoned with his hand.

Leargan looked away, meeting Artan’s dark eyes, but the other knight only inclined his head. A gesture he returned as he left the table, nodding to Bowen and Kale as well.

He gulped, then chided himself.

It’s not like King Nathal will let him kill you.

But Leargan felt as if was headed to the gallows as he walked to Jorrin’s ledger room with two very large men.

“So, what is this all about?” Sir Murdoch asked without preamble, glaring at Leargan.

King Nathal cleared his throat as he settled in Jorrin’s chair. “Your lass is stubborn.” He gestured for them to sit.

Leargan was antsy, but one didn’t refuse the king, so he sat in the very chair he’d been in when the duke had presented him with the scroll.

Ansley’s father remained standing, his thick arms crossed over his impossibly broad chest. Sir Murdoch made a face that Leargan couldn’t decipher, then gave a curt nod. “She is much like her father.”

The king chuckled.

Leargan sucked in a breath, but Sir Murdoch didn’t relax as he looked to him and back at King Nathal.

Should he say something?

No.

King Nathal seemed like he was going to lead the conversation, and Leargan was happy to let him do so.

“Ansley believes that Leargan’s intentions are solely because of my disguised order,” King Nathal said.

Leargan cleared his throat and Ansley’s father’s teal gaze shot to him. “I was less than upfront about the scroll…the order.”

“I suspected she wouldn’t take too kindly to my interference,” Sir Murdoch said, “But the lass is my heart, and I want her happy. I thought
you
could make that happen.” The last part of his statement was an accusation.

Leargan bit back a wince.
Truth.
Time to tell his former captain the truth. “I want to make her happy, sir. I love her.”

Sir Murdoch gave a curt nod. “Good.”

That was
it
?

Only one word to say about an uncomfortable confession?

Leargan blinked. Searching for the right words, he forced his mouth to remain moving. “She feels if I was dishonest about the scroll, I don’t actually want the marriage, or her. I was honest with her
before
I gave it to her. I told her I
wanted
to marry her. I’ve never lied to her.”

“And?” Her father’s one word was demand and order at the same time.

“She doesn’t believe me. All but called me a liar. Convinced I’m only following orders.” Leargan’s gaze darted to the king, but the man only nodded encouragingly. “She was furious with us all, Lady Cera and Jorrin, too. Forgiven some, obviously.”

Too bad he wasn’t included.

“Would expect no less from my lass.” One corner of Sir Murdoch’s mouth rose, and Leargan wanted to growl.

He was amused?

Leargan took a deep breath, then another and closed his eyes. Weakness was something these two men had trained him to
never
show. But here he was, about to
beg
his former captain’s help. “I don’t know what to do. I want to marry her.” Leargan dropped his voice. “I love Ansley more than my own life.”

King Nathal reached for his forearm and squeezed.

Leargan gave his foster father a grateful nod and met Sir Murdoch’s eyes. For the first time, he read sympathy in the man’s gaze. At least his former captain knew Leargan was sincere.

Believed he loved Ansley.

Would help him get her back?

“If I order her to marry you, she’d likely run away.” Murdoch stroked his neatly trimmed red beard.

“Aye, I agree.” King Nathal’s tone was thoughtful.

“You will have to wait until she comes to you, lad,” Murdoch said.

“What?”

“Ansley will have to come to you—but she will, have no doubt,” her father insisted.

Leargan sagged, the high back of the chair biting into his shoulders, but he clung to the sting. Needed it.

No way he could sit and do nothing.

He wanted Ansley by his side, in his arms, in his bed. He missed her so much he ached.