About halfway through the first page, Jaenelle began to chuckle. Wasn’t his reaction to the words, but he had suspected it would be hers.

“Oh, my,” Jaenelle said. “Cassie is really pissed.”

“And showing a fair amount of backbone,” Saetan said.

“She always had that, but she never had to fight for anything enough for it to show.”

“Looks like she’s fighting now.”

“And may the Darkness help whoever is dumb enough to get in her way.” Jaenelle folded the pages and handed them back to him. “She didn’t provide any dimensions. Hard to really know what she wants, isn’t it?”

He knew a leading question when he heard one. “Yes, it is. Any suggestions?” As if he hadn’t guessed.

Jaenelle smiled at him. “I think we know a good carpenter who could be persuaded to work in Dena Nehele for a few days.”

He returned her smile. “Yes, I think we do.”

CHAPTER 17

KAELEER

Daemon walked into his closet and pulled a white silk shirt off its hanger. As he stuffed one arm into a sleeve, he muttered, “It’s your own fault, you brainless fool. So do something about it.” And he damn well was going to do something about it just as soon as he got this miserable rag of a shirt over his shoul—

“Stop it,” Jazen snapped, rushing into the closet. “Stop!You’ll rip the seams.”

Daemon bared his teeth and snarled at his valet. “What’s wrong with Lord Aldric that he couldn’t get the measurements right? I give him enough business.”

The valet stripped the shirt off him and hung it back up with a fussy care that honed Daemon’s temper—and also made him wary.

“It doesn’t fit because it’s not your shirt,” Jazen said, examining the shoulder seams for rips.

“Then why is it in my closet?”

“Because it’s Lady Angelline’s shirt.”

“Then why is it in my closet?”

Jazen huffed out a breath, and Daemon got the impression the valet had hoped never to have this conversation.

“It has to stay in your closet with the rest of your clothes in order to absorb your scent,” Jazen said.

“Are you saying I smell?”

“If you want to pick a fight, look elsewhere,” Jazen said with a rigid courtesy. “You asked a question; I’m trying to give you an answer.”

Daemon closed his eyes and struggled to leash his temper. “My apologies, Jazen,” he finally said. “I’m a bit . . . cranky.”

“Prince, you passed cranky halfway through breakfast—which is when Beale suggested I pack a bag for you so that you could leave the moment you decided to go to the Keep.”

He’d always been so good at hiding feelings he didn’t want anyone to see. When had he stopped being good at hiding?

He opened his eyes and looked at Jazen. “The shirt.”

Jazen selected another white silk shirt and handed it to him. It didn’t look any different from the other one—except it fit him perfectly.

“Servants are discreet,” Jazen said. “Especially personal servants. And while they won’t discuss things that go on in the household with anyone outside their house, they do talk among themselves. So I began to see a pattern with the laundry. Lady Angelline would borrow one of your shirts, and when it was laundered, it would be returned to her closet. But the second time she wore it, she would seem dissatisfied—and go browsing in your closet again. That’s when I realized the shirt itself wasn’t the attraction. The appeal was your scent—physical and psychic—that was absorbed by the material.

“I also realized from the things the maids said that your shirts were a little too big to be comfortably big, and it was easy enough to learn that the High Lord’s shirts had been a better fit. So the last time I was in Amdarh to place an order for your shirts, I took the liberty of talking to Lord Aldric, and he made a couple of shirts that were just a little smaller than your measurements for shoulders and sleeves. I put a little bead on the hanger so that those shirts are easy to identify, and I position them so that Lady Angelline is more likely to choose one of them than any other.”

“I see,” Daemon said. He hadn’t considered why Jaenelle chose to wear one of his shirts. The way she looked always aroused him, even when it was clear she had no interest in him doing anything with that arousal. “Do you know why she does that?”

Jazen hesitated. “I wouldn’t presume to know what the Lady thinks.”

“I asked, Jazen. I’m not going to hold your opinion against you.”

Jazen hesitated a moment longer. “The servants at the Hall are very discreet,” he said again, emphasizing that point, “but they’ve told me a little about things that happened before the Lady came to live with the High Lord. So I would understand why she responds to some things the way she does.

“I’m guessing that she first started wearing the High Lord’s shirts when she felt nervous or vulnerable because she needed the reminder that she was safe, that he would stand as her sword and shield. Later on, since Helene and the laundry maids didn’t remember Lady Angelline abandoning his shirts after a couple of washings and she only occasionally borrowed a different one, I think she was at an age when she simply liked wearing one of his shirts—and she enjoyed a small rebellion against a father who liked women to dress for dinner.”

“So she arrived at the table well dressed but in a man’s shirt,” Daemon said—and wondered if Saetan had been amused or annoyed by that maneuver.

He missed her so much he ached. Missed her so much the loneliness gnawed at his gut. He hadn’t been able to sleep last night because her absence was too much of a reminder of all the nights of misery when he’d thought she was dead.

But this he had done to himself. He had sent her away to keep her safe from a potentially dangerous adversary.

Him.

But he had to go to the Keep. Had to be with her. And had to believe that Saetan would do whatever needed to be done if he crossed some line that shouldn’t be crossed.

“So the High Lord’s scent represents safety,” Daemon said. “What does she get from me?”

Jazen studied him for a long moment before saying quietly,“If I’ve understood correctly, you’re the only man Lady Angelline has ever welcomed as a lover. Considering her past, I would say, Prince, that your scent represents pleasure and love—and trust.”

TERREILLE

“You brainless, pigheaded ass.”

Theran stopped at the edge of the terrace and faced Cassidy, choking on the words that razored his throat. He wanted to fight, wanted to spew out his own opinions and disappointments, but he didn’t dare. Not after Talon returned from an unexplained visit to the Keep and told him flat out that from now on, the Master of the Guard would back the Queen in any dispute, no questions asked.

So no matter what Lady Cassidy did or said, if she complained about him, he would be in the wrong.

The only good thing about Cassidy snapping at him this morning was the look on Gray’s face. Maybe his cousin would start to realize Cassidy wasn’t so wonderful after all.

“No need to be pointing the way,” a rough voice said. “When her temper is on the boil, the girl sounds just like her mother.”

Cassidy’s eyes widened with a strange kind of apprehension. “Poppi?” she said as she turned toward the terrace doors and looked at the burly stranger. “Poppi?”

“Hello, Kitten.”

The look on her face as she launched herself at the man, who hugged her hard enough to lift her off her feet.

I’ve never seen her happy, Theran thought, feeling uncomfortable about that realization because he might be partly to blame.

*Who is he?* Gray asked as he joined Theran on the edge of the terrace.

The psychic communication startled Theran since Gray used it so rarely.

*I don’t know,* Theran replied. *But he seems to know her well.*

A flash of something from Gray, gone too fast to identify.

The man set Cassidy down, then smiled broadly as he ran his hands down her arms. But his smile faded as he held her hands, his thumbs brushing her palms. Sadness clouded his face as he looked at her hands.

“Poppi . . . ,” Cassidy began.

“No,” he said firmly. “It’s best if we not have words about this.” He nodded as if he’d made some decision. “Yes, I think it’s best.”

Theran caught sight of Ranon coming up behind the stranger and figured it was time to do his duty as First Escort before Ranon did it for him. So he said, “Lady?” in a tone that politely demanded information.

“Oh.” Looking flustered, Cassidy linked her arm with the stranger’s and turned to face him. “Poppi, this is Prince Theran Grayhaven, my First Escort. And that’s his cousin, Gray.” She looked over her shoulder. “And that’s Prince Ranon.”

“Gentlemen,” the man said, touching two fingers to the brim of an old brown hat.

Certainly doesn’t look worried about facing Warlord Princes, Theran thought.

“Prince Theran, gentlemen, this is my father, Lord Burle.”

Theran saw Gray’s eyes widen.

“Your father’s come to visit?” Gray asked.

“Yes,” Cassidy said.

“Not exactly,” Burle said. Letting go of Cassidy, he pulled a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Cassidy.

She opened it, read it—and just stared at it until Theran wanted to rip it out of her hands and find out what in the name of Hell was going on.

“I don’t understand,” Cassidy finally said.

“Seems clear enough,” Burle said.

“I asked Prince Sadi to send a bed, a dresser, and a bookcase,” Cassidy said.

“You left out a few details, Kitten. Instead of sending something that may not be what you wanted, the Prince sent me. Four days of my time to cobble together the furniture you wanted. If it takes longer than that to get it all done, I might have some pieces already made that will do, or we can negotiate for more time. I brought tools and lumber and other things. Was brought down by Coach, courtesy of Prince Sadi. The driver says he can leave the Coach as a supply shed while I’m here, but it’s still sitting on the landing web beyond the gates and needs to be moved out of the way, so he’ll set it wherever you want before he heads back to Kaeleer.”