Marek reached down and offered his hand. If she could have avoided accepting it without causing insult, she would have, but her flustered mind couldn’t think fast enough to find an excuse. With a hesitant reach, she eased her ungloved hand into his. His fingers enclosed and pulled her up. When she tried to remove her hand, he clasped it tighter.
“The pleasure was all mine, Lady Carina.” His baritone voice seeped into her pores. “I’ll see you at dinner?”
Startled, she gazed into his eyes. Did he really want to see her again? She searched his face for any hint of sarcasm, but saw only sincerity and warmth.
“I doubt she’ll be able to wash the Criton smell off her by then,” Marissa trilled.
Carina stiffened, trying again to pull free. Marek’s grip tightened. With deliberate slowness, he raised her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips across it. “Lady Carina, would you please join me for dinner?”
The ground spun beneath her feet. She struggled to maintain her balance as an energy ripped through her, awakening her body with an acute, almost painful attraction for the man standing before her. She didn’t know if the sensations zinging around inside her were ignited by the gentle press of his lips against her hand or the deep timbre of his voice, but they fascinated her. Tongue-tied by her body’s inner turmoil, she could only stand there, speechless, staring at the massive chest of the man in front of her.
“Carina!” Marissa’s voice held an unmistakable edge. “Don’t act like a dolt. Let go of his majesty’s hand.”
Marek refused to let her go when she tried to withdraw from his grasp. His vivid, grey-flecked eyes pierced her with such intensity, her breath caught in the back of her throat.
“You haven’t answered me,” he whispered, his eyes sparkling.
“Oh, of course she’ll be there,” Regin huffed. “But only if she finishes her chores.”
She remained silent. If Father knew she’d already finished her chores, he would’ve found another reason to keep her from attending the formal dinner.
Marek released her hand, straightened to his full height on an over six foot muscular frame, and stared into her eyes. “Very good, I’ll see you at dinner.” With a slight pause, as if reluctant to dismiss her, he turned away. “King McKay, you wished to show me your estate?”
“Oh, yes,” Marissa exclaimed.
“Then carry on.”
Carina stayed behind, listening to the fading drone of her father’s voice as he bragged about the castle and grounds. Her eyes followed as Marek’s broad back, with Marissa attached to his arm, disappeared around the corner of the medical barn.
The thought of seeing Marek again filled her with excitement as a dormant part of her stirred to life. But her more realistic side dreaded the idea of attending dinner. She’d have to find something to wear, which always caused heartache. But Milly, a household servant who also happened to be an excellent seamstress, could help locate a suitable gown.
With growing anxiety, she stomped toward the main house.
Though she’d embarrassed herself with King Duncan, she anticipated that her appearance at dinner would cause Father and Marissa greater distress.
4 – GETTING READY
Perched on an old rickety chair, Carina stared into her dressing table mirror. Milly had surreptitiously acquired a gown Marissa no longer wore, and in a flurry of ripping, cutting, and sewing, altered it in time for dinner. Milly had boasted about how she changed it to fit Carina’s style—Carina didn’t even know she had a style—by making the bottom half stream out in flowing layers instead of billowing out in a hoop skirt. Although Milly had kept the long, snug fitting sleeves, she had cut a large scoop out of the neckline so the gown rested just off Carina’s shoulders, accentuating her mother’s necklace.
Carina preferred to wear her hair down, but somehow Milly had convinced her to arrange it differently. After much griping about Carina’s unruly golden-brown locks, Milly had wrangled it into an elegant affair on her head, but left a few long curls to drape around the swooping neckline in a graceful display.
At last, alone in her small bedroom, Carina studied herself in the mirror. The sweet scent of jasmine filtered in from the open window, filling the room with a flowery aroma. She turned her head to the left and right, admiring Milly’s handiwork. To her surprise, with the fancy dress and hair, she almost looked like a full royal.
But even with her sophisticated appearance, her stomach churned at the thought of seeing King Duncan. Her temper flared, flooding hot blood to her cheeks. He must’ve enjoyed humoring the poor mixed blood girl until the nobles arrived home.
In an attempt to calm her heart, she traced her finger over the two intertwined Criton heads protecting the red jewel in the center of her mother’s necklace. Her mother had told her the medallion held the key to her past and future. “Mama, I wish you were here,” she murmured.
A soft knock at the door beckoned her. She stood, inspecting her gown with a critical eye. She liked the dark green velvet fabric on the bodice that tapered into lighter, varying shades of green in her multilayered skirt. When she walked, the fabric flowed around her; only the wide swaths of cloth prevented her legs from showing. Very daring.
She straightened her shoulders and stood tall. Although she’d been made to feel foolish, she would not be made the fool. Since she only attended formal dinners on rare occasions, she’d make the most out of tonight. She forced a smile on the person staring back at her in the mirror and brought her Criton necklace to her lips for a quick kiss of courage before slipping out the door.
Her bedroom was located on the top floor of the castle, a floor reserved for servants who held a place of honor in the household, meaning they performed the more important tasks. The lower levels were reserved for Father and Marissa, followed by the main floor. The courage she’d so gallantly summoned melted away when she rounded a bend in the staircase and almost crashed into Marissa.
“Watch out!” Marissa snapped. “I don’t want you to wrinkle my new gown.”
Marissa stood in front of her in a pink monstrosity consisting of puffy sleeves and large hoops. To her shock, however, the dress lacked the high collar Marissa preferred.
As if reading her mind, Marissa’s eyes glittered. “In case he’d like to kiss my neck after dinner when we go for an unchaperoned walk.” She clasped her hands together and sighed. “Isn’t he the grandest man you’ve
ever
seen?”
“You’ll make a fine couple,” Carina muttered.
Marissa’s eyes narrowed to slits. “And you didn’t even know who he was.” Her hand flew to her chest. “Is that my dress? Oh, my goodness, you ruined it.” She opened her mouth to say something else, but paused. A sly smile creased her lips. “On second thought, maybe the dress suits you because it’s…different.”
With a final scrutinizing look, Marissa spun and glided down the hall, her hoop skirt swishing back and forth. After a few steps, her voice echoed in the narrow passage. “Don’t be late, sweet half sister.”
Carina trailed her hand down the front of her dress and watched the light strips of fabric sway on a gentle breeze. Marissa was right. The dress was too different. Tempted, she almost raced back upstairs to change into something else until she thought of Milly. Although she wouldn’t feel as vulnerable in an old dress, Milly had worked so hard. She just didn’t have the heart to offend her. So, with reluctant steps, she trudged down the corridor.
5 – TALK of KINGS
Marek strolled into the hosting chamber followed by Sampson. A roaring fire blazed in the stone hearth, but the heat didn’t reach his troubled heart. He hated formal occasions. Except for Carina, he would’ve preferred standing on a biting fire rifa hill to avoid spending an evening with the McKays. Regin and Marissa were just as he expected—all pomp and bluster. But as much as he disliked their arrogance, he did admire Regin’s thriving Criton market. With so many unbonded Critons converging on McKay land, the obvious conclusion seemed to be that Marissa, as a true blood royal, was the next Caller of Light.
He ran his fingers through his hair and stared out a window overlooking the gravel driveway leading to the castle entrance. A knot of apprehension curled in his gut. Marissa reminded him of Saffron. How could he take Marissa back to Stirrlan to become his wife and queen when he didn’t enjoy being in her company?
“Lady Marissa doesn’t even like Critons,” he grumbled. “Wouldn’t the Caller at least appreciate the companionship of the animals she calls?”
“Sire, there are more unbonded Critons nesting on King McKay’s land than I thought possible. Perhaps the attraction doesn’t have to be mutual.”
Marek stared at his captain. Sampson wore a heavy cotton tunic, quartered in white and red panels, with the Stirrlan crest embroidered on the upper left quadrant. Two dirks, their silver handles gleaming in the light, draped across his chest while his hand casually rested on the hilt of the great sword hanging around his waist.
Marek shook his head, disapproving of his friend’s eagerness. If Sampson thought spending what little money Stirrlan had left to journey here and court Marissa was a good idea, he was mistaken.
Sampson shrugged, his curly, black hair bouncing at the movement. “Well, even if she’s not the next Caller, you still need an heir.”
He threw Sampson a warning look. They’d grown up together as boys—he, a prince to become king, and Sampson, a captain’s son to someday run his army. Their friendship allowed Sampson the latitude of free speech, but this time the truth in his words touched a nerve.
Marek scrubbed a hand over his face. “I know Sampson, but have you seen her?”
Sampson’s eyebrows drew together. “She’s beautiful, no?”
“I suppose,” he groused. “But I never knew there could be so much to say about the way one dresses.”
“Well, as far as I know, not much talking need occur when conceiving an heir.”
He glared at Sampson. “Aye, but really?”
“The burden a king must endure, Sire.”
Marek frowned.
Sampson grinned.
Both men burst out laughing.
“I’m delighted to see you enjoying yourselves,” Regin bellowed as he entered the room. He sparkled in a burgundy doublet with slashed sleeves displaying the white lining underneath. Gold buttons fastened the bottom of the doublet for a snug fit around his ample waist. Breeches, stockings, and shiny black shoes complemented his royal ensemble.
Marek inclined his head in agreement. “Your house has been most hospitable.”
“Outstanding.” Regin strutted over to a plush, red chair and plopped his wide body into it. “Marek, please sit here,” he said, patting the chair next to him.
As Marek sat in his assigned spot, Sampson moved to a location offering the best strategic vantage point. From Sampson’s position, he could now watch the door and the entire room while protecting Marek’s back.
Regin’s fingers thrummed on the overstuffed armrest, waiting for the servant to pour the drinks. As soon as the servant stepped from the room, Regan sipped his drink and began asking the questions Marek expected, but dreaded just the same.
“How protected are your borders? I don’t want my girl going where she’ll be in danger.”
“My army is strong and my house well guarded.”
Regin raised his red, bushy eyebrows. “I hear savage tribes encroach your land?”
Marek kept his face neutral. “Although part of my eastern border butts against the Outlands, my perimeter remains secure.”
“And you seek my daughter’s hand hoping she’s the next Caller?”
“The goal of every king is to strengthen his holdings by having bonded riders protect not only his land, but his most prized possessions, like…” Marek swallowed, forcing the words from his mouth, “…your daughter.”
Regin chuckled. “I think she’s quite taken with you too.”
“I’m honored,” Marek answered with an obliged nod.
Regin’s wide smile pushed his chubby cheeks upward, squeezing his small eyes into slits. Regin’s scrunched look reminded Marek of a stubby legged, tusked pecari, forcing him to stifle a smile.
Regin swirled the dark liquid in his glass before placing the chalice on a nearby table. “Marissa will bear you fine heirs with strong, royal bloodlines. And, as the next Caller, she’ll increase our holdings substantially. By the time I leave this world, both you and Marissa will inherit significant wealth.”
Marek nodded. Regin spoke of Marissa as his only daughter. Yet, even a mixed blood could produce an heir if a king wished it so.
At the thought of mixed bloods, Carina filled his mind. His pulse quickened when he remembered chasing after her on FireStrike. She rode with an unwavering courage. Many people feared Critons and would never get close, let alone ride one. But Carina rode with a graceful, natural style.
He’d never encountered a woman with such passion. Although she deferred to Regin and Marissa, he detected an unyielding strength brewing inside her. He clenched his teeth and fought a growing urge to seek her company. She might not have the power to call Critons, but her inquisitive, brown eyes and slender, curvy body called him. He needed to be very careful.
“And your other daughter?” he asked. “What of her?”
Regin’s eyes clouded. “Carina is of no consequence.”
“She seems very fond of Critons. What happened to her mother?”
“She died of an illness several years ago when Carina was but a child.”