#wendylyn

Like hell she’d be an accommodating host, she thought drily, she’d rather run him out of the castle with a stick, send him back to his dark mistress in the fabled land beyond the mountains where he belonged.

Even if his strong jawline and tawny eyes had stirred something . . . more . . . in her.

She ignored the phantom flicker of enticement that zipped through her and she continued to lace up Evalin’s bodice.

“Perhaps Glaston will have him sent away after dinner.” She tied off the last of the ribbons crisscrossing the back of the azure gown before reaching for the neat pile of golden hairpins beside her, easing them into Evalin’s curls one by one.  “And send along a sweet little note detailing our feelings regarding his visit: ‘Dear Maeve, thank you for making your threat more pronounced by sending one of your favored members of your harem to us immediately after returning my dear sister. In the future, kindly try to pretend to not be the heinous hag that you are and stay put in your drab city of stone.  Sincerely, The King of Wendlyn.”  She snorted. “A good start, no?”

“Eleanor,” Evalin’s voice was exasperated but Eleanor swore she heard the slightest hint of amusement and caught a glimpse of upturned lips in the mirror as she finished pinning her golden curls.  “If you’re going to send such a letter, at least be sure you include her proper title: Queen Maeve.” “Hag Maeve.” “Mistress of Doranelle.” “Unholy Witch of the North.” “Her most illustrious Majesty.” “Spider of the Wood, best dealt with by using the bottom of a boot—” Evalin coughed, trying to cover her laugh, her turquoise eyes shimmering in amusement.  Eleanor hummed her victory as she adjusted the last of Evalin’s curls and stepped back, admiring her handwork.

Where Maeve was an insufferable immortal cow, Evalin was a rare and coveted golden heron, proud and beautiful.  Prince Rhoe had never stood a chance.  

“Well, off with you,” Eleanor flicked a wrist over a shoulder towards the tall and intricately carved door that led out of Evalin’s chambers. “You wouldn’t want to keep his Majesty or his royal guest waiting.  Do pour something foul in his wine for me, perhaps a pinch of mandrake—” “Oh no, don’t you even contemplate it,” Evalin quipped, her shoulders tightening as she looked Eleanor over, an aura of command slipping into place, the aura that would one day lend itself to her rule as Queen, “If you even consider the idea of not attending this dinner . . .”

“What? Glaston will have me contained to my chambers? Force me to--” she gasped mockingly, a hand fluttering to her mouth, “--drudgery duty?  Oh no, what ever shall I do if I have to waulk more fabric?”

She waved a dismissive hand, let her cousin punish her as he saw fit.

What was the worst he could do?

Make her mop the floors?  Sit through more nasally history lessons with her childhood tutor Randor?

No, she was quite content not facing one of the warriors that poised such a threat to her dearest friend, content to remain quietly in her room so that her damnable mouth didn’t instigate something more than Glaston’s irritation.

She suspected the warrior would be wearing gravy in addition to the piss and dye if she attended this dinner.

“Elle,” Evalin’s voice was laced with warning, a sound that Eleanor was certain her future children would become accustomed to very quickly, “dress now so we can go.”

Eleanor sniffed disdainfully, sidestepping Evalin as she made her way toward the large canopy bed and gracefully eased into a lounge across the delicately embroidered duvet.  “Oh, I fear I’ve taken ill cousin, a right case of the pox.  I regret to inform you I won’t be able to attend dinner tonight.” She rolled over onto her back, staring at the canopy above her.  “Do send my best regards though.”

Yes, a cat nap and tea sounded rightly delightful, especially if she could manage to sneak a few sugar-dusted pastries from the kitchen.

Eleanor barely registered the movement beneath her before she found herself sliding off the bed as the covers beneath her fled.  She plopped unceremoniously onto the floor with a yelp, scowling at the golden bedding in Evalin’s manicured hand.

“Get dressed, Elle.”

“I do not wish to,” she quipped in return, a streak of stubbornness washing through her, “and since I am a princess, I do as I please.”

The argument she had used time and time again since she was a child.

Most times it proved successful, even against her more formidable foes.

Evalin’s brows furrowed.  Delicately, she dropped the fabric to the floor and planted her hands firmly on her slim hips before approaching Eleanor with a knowing look on her delicate features. “Get dressed or I will tell Glaston who, exactly, let that entire flock of geese into the spring masquerade two years ago. The one where Duke Marwick nearly lost an eye?”

Ouch.

Well, when she put it that way.

“Fine,” Eleanor rose, brushing bits of invisible dust off her gown, frowning at her still emerald-tinged nails.  “But I will not be happy about it.  Perhaps I’ll visit the apothecary and get a pinch of mandrake to poison his tea myself.”

--------

The water Gavriel dumped over his head was refreshingly cool in the stifling summer heat as it ran in long torrents down his bare neck and shoulders.  Gingerly, he reached for one of the vials of soap a set of young female servants had brought him, giggling and fumbling as they’d stared at him before sloppily curtsying and rushing back down the hall.

He’d sighed in quiet exasperation.

Perhaps his Queen should have sent Vaughan or Lorcan in his place, both were better suited to deal with the affections and pining of young women.  They enjoyed such attention.

Gavriel, however, would have much preferred a quiet retreat with no flirting women . . . and to not smell of . . . urine.

He sighed again.

Dumping the soap directly onto his wet hair he lathered it, relieved to find it did not smell of anything atrociously sweet.  Pulling his hand away, he was amused to find the bubbles were a rich emerald.

The young woman’s aim had undoubtedly been remarkable.

He had expected some resistance with his arrival, at least an air of distrust from the Wendlyn nobles given the nature of his visit in regard to Evalin Ashryver.  He hadn’t expected to be doused in a torrent of urine and dye, however.  And by a petite blonde with the most striking features he’d ever seen, no less.

An Ashryver noble no doubt.

She had looked like Princess Evalin but sharper and wilder, her eyes a bit smaller and more angled and her lips a plump pink line that he imagined sat in a delicate pout when she wasn’t fuming.

He’d heard her furiously grousing about his Queen as he’d approached before she’d thrown the bucket and splashed him with its contents before he could react.

He’d only been able to stare at her in disbelief as she watched him with an expression caught somewhere between horror and fury before disappearing beyond the stone, Princess Evalin’s laugh resounding across the battlement.

Honestly, he’d half expected the girl to throw the bucket at him as well.

He had felt oddly sheepish approaching the soldiers at the gate smelling of piss and dyed the color of evergreens.  The looks of disbelief and horror that had washed over their features had detracted from any of the fear that usually came with his arrival.

He’d only been relieved that Fenrys hadn’t been there to howl his amusement.

To his surprise, King Glaston had immediately welcomed him into the castle and had looked him over with quiet mortification before swearing he’d discover who had dumped refuse onto him. He’d then quietly offered him a room where he could freshen up and scrub the dye and . . . other substances from his person and clothes.

Glancing sidelong to the pile of clothing beside the wash bin Gavriel sighed, he was fairly certain his tunic would never be the same shade of grey it had been.  Fortunately, Glaston had offered him clean garments for the dinner he was to attend and had said a servant would tend to the washing.

Not that he was sure he’d ever see his clothes again if either of those young servants were assigned to the task.

He dumped another pitcher full of water over his head and found that the rivulets of the water were still a vibrant emerald.  He was going to need more soap.

 -------

Of course, Glaston had found it imperative that he seat her right across from the broad-shouldered warrior, right in the bask of the candlelight too, giving her a detailed view of his too-pretty face, the sharp planes illuminated by the soft glow.

Eleanor didn’t fail to notice the remnants of green dye that still tinged the male’s golden locks however, even if he’d successfully washed the stench of piss away.

Small victories, she thought smugly as she took a sip from her elderberry wine, the vintage that Glaston only had brought out when the most notable of guests arrived.

Too bad Evalin hadn’t given her a chance to drop down into the kitchen to look for some type of herb that might loosen his stomach a bit.

She watched him sip from his cup, his tawny eyes respectfully averted from her, roaming aimlessly across the large dining hall.  Perhaps if she bumped the table just so she might be able to send the decanter of wine spilling into his lap—

“What do you say, Eleanor?” She froze, having entirely tuned out the conversation as she glared daggers at the male before her.  She quickly took a sip of wine before turning her attention to Glaston, fixing her cousin with an easy and polite smile as she felt Evalin stiffen beside her.

“I beg your pardon, your Majesty?”

Her cousin’s lips downturned disapprovingly, his turquoise eyes flickering with annoyance.

Glaston’s broad face had only grown harsher with each year of his rule, the handsome features slowly settling into a permanent scowl.  Fortunately, his babe Galan had seemed to have taken after his olive-skinned mother, her beautiful features softening the harsh planes of his father.

“I was saying, Eleanor,” she hid the flinch from his tone well, “that it is most unfortunate that our guest Lord Gavriel,” A lord, of course, “was greeted in a such an unruly fashion upon his arrival.  Lord Dennor was strolling near the palace when he saw the incidenct occur and mentioned that you might know who the culprit could be.”

Conniving pig. Of course Dennor had been present for the event, the ruddy lord with a hooked nose and pump middle who’d been furious with Eleanor ever since she declined his proposition of marriage.  He’d fluctuated between making her life a living hell and showering her with trinkets to try and win her favor ever since.

Apparently, he was intent on having her hung this evening.  Likely hoping that Glaston would finally have enough of her and dump her into his lap just to be rid of her.

She barely resisted the urge to turn and glare at the round little man who sat at opposite the end of the table, no doubt inflated with the pride that he’d caught her doing something wrong.

Well, two could play at that game.

Eleanor straightened her spine as the king continued.

“We have been unable to discover which servant girl was so careless as to pour refuse off the wrong side of the battlement,” she felt Evalin’s hand rest on her knee, a reassuring squeeze, “and I was curious as to inquire if you might know, given there was rumor of your waulking fabric this afternoon.”

Furious.  Glaston was absolutely livid.

“I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest clue, your Majesty,” she wiped delicately at her mouth with a pressed napkin, keeping her face neutral as she spoke in a light tone, “but I assume whoever did so was likely not aiming for our honored guest and must have lost their hold on the handle when they smelt the enrapturing aroma of our dear Lord Dennor coming up the path.” She felt Evalin cringe beside her and didn’t miss the spark that went through Glaston’s gaze or the baffled, offended shriek from the lord.  She knew she’d be punished for it but the sound of the other courtiers snickering beneath their breath would be well worth it.

If she hadn’t known better she would have also thought she saw the slightest tilt of the warrior’s mouth, even as the rest of his face remained impassive, almost bored.

She sipped delicately at her wine.

If she was going to burn she was at least taking someone with her.

Gaston completely ignored the comment.

“Lord Gavriel,” the king addressed the warrior instead, the damning witness in this case. Eleanor swallowed hard as she watched him tilt his head politely in acknowledgement, the movement too smooth to be anything but predatory--and they’d given him dinner knives?  Foolish.  “Do you recall what the serving girl looked like?  Perhaps we can identify her and see to it that she is punished accordingly.” Eleanor was certain the male – Gavriel - was just waiting to sell her out so she braced herself, prepared for the hell wind that would sweep down upon her once Glaston knew for certain it was her.  Evalin’s hand dug harder into her knee.

“Your Majesty, I am a lord in title only and though I am honored that you address me as such, it is unnecessary.  I am only a soldier.”  He watched Eleanor curiously, his tawny eyes bright. “And as for the servant girl, I’m afraid I am uncertain what she looked like.  Dark hair, perhaps? Olive skin?  I cannot recall.  However, I do not believe she meant any harm and it would bring me great relief if she were not punished for a simple mistake.  I am here to build relations with your kingdom, not to incriminate your servants, your Majesty.”

Polite and succinct.

How many years had this male been waging wars not only on the battlefield but in the court as well?  He seemed well acclimated to both.

Eleanor tried not to let the shock creep onto her face as she watched the fae warrior before her.  He’d certainly known that it had been her who had dumped the bucket and had, for some gods forsaken reason, chosen to not acknowledge it.  

She could hear Dennor’s flabbergasted muttering, no doubt furious she’d gotten away with it and still recovering from his wounded ego.  She watched as the warrior dipped his chin respectfully to the king, briefly flickering his attention toward her before mildly returning to his meal.

“If you are certain, Lor—Sir Gavriel,” Glaston corrected himself, an air of confusion seeming to float about him, surprise almost.  Evalin visibly deflated, “In any case, I would still like to remedy the unfortunate accident. I would like to offer you a host for the remainder of your time here, company if you will.” Well, at least Glaston was finally talking sense, Eleanor thought in relief.  Having someone watch where the warrior prowled might make him less likely to do something foolish--

“—and I think our dear Eleanor would be ideal to escort you through our home.  I’m certain my lovely cousin would be more than happy to entertain you through the duration of your stay.” It was like a bucket of ice had be dowsed down Eleanor’s back as she openly gaped at Glaston, all sense of refinement gone.  Had he gone bloody mad?  Evalin stomped gently on her foot, trying to get her to regain her composure.

“It would be the highest honor to have a Princess of Wendlyn as an escort,” Gavriel nodded respectfully towards Eleanor, something like amusement flicking through those golden eyes.  “I thank you for your hospitality.” “It is no trouble, Sir Gavriel, we are honored to have you here.” Glaston looked a bit like the cat who had finally caught the canary, smug and content to glut himself on his kill.  He cast her a pointed look.  “She will meet you tomorrow morning at sunrise to explore the grounds and show you our noble kingdom.”

It took all of Eleanor’s control to not reach down the table and flip Glaston’s plate into his face.

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