She frowned at that, pursing her lips. Evidently, I’d struck a sour note. Pregnant or not, she was very pretty. “Scorron is a more beautiful land, and the Eisenschloss a finer fortress.” She didn’t seem aware that we men of Red March counted the Scorrons as our mortal enemies. No matter—I’ve long been a proponent of love, not war, though they often make close bedfellows. “But you are right, Prince Jalan, Ancrath has much to recommend it.”
“Indeed. I fear though, my queen, that I’m somewhat at a loss here. I think perhaps it would be more seemly if we discussed these matters this afternoon at court? Your beauty is talked of far and wide, and people might mistake my intentions if it were known that . . .” Normally I would be happy to cuckold any man foolish enough to leave a woman like Sareth wanting more . . . but Olidan Ancrath? No. And besides, her pregnancy and my present invalid status both helped to lessen my interest in the opportunity.
Sareth’s face crumpled in dismay, her bottom lip wobbled, and, hefting herself from her chair, she hastened across to kneel beside mine. “Forgive me, Prince Jalan!” She took my dark and callused hands in her slim white ones. “It’s just—just—we’ve all had such a shock what with the arrival of this dreadful boy.”
“Boy?” I’d had very little sleep for two nights now and none of this was making sense.
“Jorg, Olidan’s son.”
“Ah, the lost prince,” I said, enjoying her hands around mine.
“Better he had stayed lost.” And I glimpsed some steel behind her tear-stained prettiness.
Suddenly even my sleep-deprived mind couldn’t refuse to see the problem any longer. This returned prince couldn’t be Sareth’s son, she wasn’t old enough for that . . . A second wife, then, busy producing what she had thought would be an heir of her own?
“Ah.” I leaned forwards, my glance falling to her belly. “I can see his return might be a problem for you.” Her face contorted in misery again. “There, there, don’t cry, my queen.” And I pawed her a bit, the bluff hero comforting a damsel in distress, and perhaps running his hands through that wonderful hair.
“Why couldn’t the boy stay lost and wandering?” She turned those wet-lashed eyes on me.
“Boy, you say?” I’d thought the prince a grown man for some reason. “Just how old is—”
“A child! A week ago he was thirteen and forgotten. Past all care. Now he’s reached majority and . . .” Another flood of tears, her face buried against my shoulder. “Oh, the trouble he’s caused. The chaos in the throne room.”
“It’s a difficult age.” I nodded wisely and drew her closer. It’s an instinct. I can’t help it. She smelled gorgeous, of lilac and honeysuckle, and pregnancy hadn’t just filled her womb—her bodice overflowed with nature’s gifts too.
“In my homeland they call you the Devil of the Aral,” she said. “The Red Prince.”
“They do?” I tried the words again, removing the surprise from my voice. “They do.”
A nod against my shoulder. “Sir Karlan survived the battle in which you fought, and escaped to the North. At court he told us how you battled without fear—like a madman, striking down man after man. Sir Gort amongst them. Sir Gort was the son of my father’s cousin. A warrior of some renown.”
“Well . . .” I guessed some tales grew in the telling and that too much fear might sometimes look like no fear at all. Either way, the queen had given me a gift and it was beholden to me to milk it. “My people do call me the hero of the pass. I suppose it’s fitting that the Scorrons call me the devil. I will wear the name with pride.”
“A hero.” Sareth sniffed, wiped at her eyes, one slim hand on my chest. “You could help.” Soft words, almost a whisper, and close enough to my ear to make me shiver deliciously.
“Of course, of course, dear lady.” I caught myself before I promised too much. “How?”
“He’s a bully, this Jorg. He needs putting in his place. Of course, he’s too highborn for just anyone to deliver the lessons he deserves. But a prince could challenge him. He’d have to accept a challenge from a prince.”
“Well . . .” I breathed in her scent and covered the hand on my chest with my own. Visions of chasing those damnable bucket-boys through the back corridors of the opera house floated before me. I’d kicked a few backsides that day! A ragged thirteen-year-old princeling, returned cap-in-hand after a month starving by the waysides before hunger defeated his pride and he came home to Daddy . . . I could see myself delivering a sharp lesson to such a lad. Especially if it won favour with his lovely stepmother.
Sareth nuzzled closer, lips very near to my neck, her overfull breasts squashing against me. “Say you will, my prince.”
“But Olidan . . .”
“He’s an old man, and cold. He barely sees me now he’s done his duty.” Her lips touched my throat, hand sliding to my stomach. “Say you’ll help me, Jalan.”
“Of course, lady.” I closed my eyes, surrendering to her ministrations. Kicking an arrogant little boy-prince around the court would be fun, and by the time I came to tell the tale in Vermillion, Prince Jorg would be older and my audience would forget that he’d been a child when I taught him his lesson.