Sophie stopped her jaw from falling open with an effort of will. Portholme? All the way to the harbor? Eloisa had never requested such a thing before. “But who will stay with you, milady?” She looked from Eloisa to the lieutenant, who was definitely looking disapproving now. He didn’t protest, though, so presumably Eloisa had already informed him of the plan and overruled any objections he had.
Eloisa waved her hand. “The door guards will serve me well. I have to see my father, but after that I have an urge to be completely lazy and just sit here and read for the afternoon. And it’s far too pretty a day for you to be cooped up here with me just because I’m a sluggard. So no arguments. Fetch your cloak, and the two of you can be on your way.”
“Stay close, milady,” Lieutenant Mackenzie said as he handed Sophie down from the carriage.
“I know the rules, Lieutenant,” she said with more bravado than she felt. It wasn’t like she went to Portholme terribly often. And never alone, with just one guard for escort. The few times she’d been here, she’d been arriving or departing the port, her family accompanied by a squad of guardsmen to and from the palace. Once Eloisa and her ladies had ridden this way, but they’d barely reached the borders of the port before the Red Guards escorting them had turned them back to safer paths.
But she wasn’t going to give the lieutenant the satisfaction of seeing that she was even the slightest bit nervous. He’d been silent, his displeasure with the situation perfectly clear, for most of the carriage ride to Portholme after an initial barrage of instructions on how she was to behave whilst they were dockside.
Definitely intimidating.
Sophie knew Cameron Mackenzie was Elly’s favorite guard, but perhaps Her Highness got to see a side of him that wasn’t on display currently.
Though right now, even if he did view her as an inconvenience, his looming presence was somewhat comforting. With him beside her, so unyieldingly proper and professional—not to mention so damned large—she doubted anyone would be unwise enough to bother them.
She looked down at the cloak draped over her arm. Rule one of traversing Portholme. Don’t look too rich. The cloak and her plain gray dress should help with that. But it was hot despite the port-fragranced breeze coming off the water, and she didn’t really fancy even the lightest layer of wool against her skin. She was stifling enough in the three layers of petticoats under her dress.
Besides, what good did it do for her to wear a cloak when the lieutenant’s deep red uniform jacket made it clear what he was? The Red Guard were named for the battle magic they wielded and the blood they shed, not the color of their uniforms, but they weren’t above reinforcing the former with the latter. “I know the rules,” she repeated when he didn’t answer her.
“Good,” he said, scanning the crowded street before them. “Make sure you follow them.”
“I’m not a child,” she muttered. She was sick of being ordered and bossed and curtailed. Maybe turning twenty-one wouldn’t be so bad after all. Perhaps magic would give her some tiny bit of control over her life. Or marriage. Married ladies were not as tightly policed as virgins. If her husband—whoever that might turn out to be—were reasonable, she would be able to decide some small things for herself.
She straightened her shoulders, hoping the low cut of her gown—and she would be very glad when the current court craze for reviving the gowns of two centuries ago was over—would emphasize the fact that she was quite grown up, thank you very much. Not that the lieutenant would notice her that way. Everyone knew he was basically a monk.
A well-armed monk, she thought as he clasped one hand around his largely ceremonial sword and straightened his pistol in its holster. But still, not one of the ladies who’d tried throwing themselves at him—after all, he was handsome if you ignored the stony soldier facade—had succeeded, to her knowledge. And there were no rumors of his tastes running in a less conventional direction. No counterweight love amongst his brother soldiers. Which would, given he was a third son, be acceptable if his own brothers had already spawned heirs. She tried to remember what she knew of Lord Inglewood’s family, but other than the fact that Cameron had two older brothers, it escaped her for the moment.
Much like the knowledge that she was female seemed to have escaped the lieutenant. His gaze remained firmly on the crowds of people swelling around them, not so much as a glance at her cleavage.
“Shall we, Lieutenant?” she said, putting a snap in her voice. The man could at least look. Yes, as a royal virgin, she was off-limits, but how was she supposed to learn how to deal with men as a woman if they all insisted on treating her like a cloistered prior of the goddess? Watching Eloisa gave her a good idea of the principles of flirtation, but being an untouchable, unwed lady-in-waiting offered little chance to practice them. Men danced with her at court because they had to. Until she was of age and of power, she was no use to a courtier, and the repercussions for a dalliance with a potential royal witch were severe enough to keep them from trying anything below board.
“Stay close,” Cameron said again as he offered his arm and stepped forward.
Sophie moved with him, drinking in the novelty of being in such a place. Portholme felt like an entirely different country from the court and the parts of Kingswell that surrounded it. The smells were different—salt and fish and the sweat of too many bodies rather than the perfumes, lamp oil, and incense that cloyed the court. The salty stink wasn’t exactly pleasant, yet it was refreshing somehow.
Even more refreshing was the way no one kept their voices to polite court tones. Sailors yelled at one another across the street, carters cursed their horses, and women screeched at the stallholders and the children who ran screaming as they played almost underfoot of the passing traffic.