Chapter 11

11

A islinn bobbed her head in acknowledgement of Baron Bayard's fine courtly bow upon her entrance to the great hall.

"Ah, Aislinn, there you are," said her father in relief. Neither of them overly enjoyed entertaining Padraic Bayard when their neighbor decided to grace Dundúran.

Bayard strode forward to meet her, holding out his hand. Aislinn bit her cheek, offering as little of her hand as she could. She'd never cared for this custom, especially when it meant being touched and kissed by strangers—or worse, Padraic Bayard. Using the fingertips she offered, he pulled her closer and bowed his head to kiss the back of her hand.

"Lady Aislinn, you are a beautiful sight this day and every day," he pronounced.

"And your compliments are numerous, as always, Baron Bayard."

He smiled warmly, making her stomach clench. That was the problem with Bayard—she could never quite tell how much of him was true and what was prevarication or tact.

Similar in age to herself, Bayard had inherited the estate of Endelín and its vast vineyards at a young age. He had a boyish charm to him—although, this was perhaps fading as the both of them neared thirty. Still, he was a handsome man, with chestnut curls and sparkling blue eyes that he used to great effect.

He and Jerrod had been friends—of a sort. Mostly, they enjoyed outdoing the other. They lived to see who could goad the other into the more preposterous prank or throwing the most lavish banquet. If Bayard purchased a new gelding, then Jerrod had to have one, too—if Jerrod seduced a beautiful widow, then Bayard had to woo an even more beautiful heiress.

Unfortunately for Aislinn, she was the latest in his string of attempted courtships. She'd made her feelings about him, about marriage itself, clear multiple times, and yet he wouldn't be dissuaded or discouraged.

She'd hoped, with Jerrod's fall, perhaps Bayard would relent. Part of her suspected his interest was motivated by a desire to somehow get the better of Jerrod by bedding his sister. That she could believe it of him, and her brother, filled her with disgust for both.

Now that she was heiress, Bayard had only grown more ardent.

Like Brenden, and Alisdair too, Padraic Bayard was an ambitious man. The hand of Lady Aislinn Darrow carried weight, offered prestige, and promised position.

Not that it changed her opinion of him, but Aislinn couldn't say for certain that Bayard's professions were all conceit. Sometimes he seemed…genuine. In those times, she thought perhaps there was a person beneath the smart clothes and suave manners she might come to like—or if not like then tolerate.

The charm was on full display today, though, as he threw smiles her way and at her father.

"Has something happened, to bring you back so soon after the council meeting?" Aislinn asked. She doubted it, but it warranted asking since Bayard would be the type to bring up the plight of his commonfolk last.

"The harvests have begun, and I opened the cellars just yesterday." He waved forward his manservant, bearing a green glass bottle of wine, the cork sealed with black wax. "This was a particularly good year, and I thought we might celebrate."

Aislinn exchanged looks with her father.

Merrick extended his hand, and the manservant dutifully presented the wine. Her father made the necessary sounds of pleasure, holding it up to the light to see how none passed through the deep red.

"Nine years?"

"Ten," Bayard said, pride oozing from him. "I thought it would be a fine addition to your table and wanted to present it myself."

"Then you must join us for dinner," said Merrick, handing back the bottle and giving Bayard exactly what he'd come for.

Aislinn held in her sigh. "I will have Brenna arrange accommodations. Your usual room will do, I trust?" Although he was their nearest neighbor, Bayard never came for a short visit.

"If you would be so kind," he said. "That room has the loveliest view."

Bobbing her head again, Aislinn made her retreat, despite her father's obvious don't you dare leave me with him expression. Brenna already knew Bayard was here, as she'd sent Fia to look for her, and therefore also likely had his accommodations well underway.

Still, Aislinn took the excuse, escaping for the time being.

When she rejoined her father for dinner in the dining hall that evening, she was prepared for recompense. Perhaps Merrick crying off early or inviting someone else to round out their numbers at the high table.

Instead, she found her father alone. A third place had been set for Bayard, but the baron had yet to arrive. A bottle of wine sat unopened on the table.

Slipping into her seat, Aislinn was relieved at least that their meal hadn't been moved into the smaller, more intimate dining room that adjoined her father's study. She preferred, as her father did, to take meals in the dining hall, surrounded by their people.

When she dared look up at him, she found her father's gaze faraway and contemplative. The laugh lines around his eyes and mouth sat downturned, again reminding her of his age.

He didn't seem morose, which was something.

Aislinn gave him time as she poured herself a goblet of her preferred mead.

She was just bringing it to her mouth when her father asked, "Are you still determined not to marry, kit?"

Just stopping the mead from sliding into her lungs, Aislinn coughed into her napkin and replaced her goblet. She gaped at her father.

"Why do you ask?"

Sighing heavily, Merrick leaned forward, folding his hands on the table.

"Things are…different now. You are heiress. You'll be expected to marry."

"You didn't."

Merrick looked up at her chilly words, only to frown in affront. "No, no, kit, I wouldn't do that. You know what I think of him—and I know what you think of him. I only meant that as heiress, you'll be expected to take a spouse."

"Must I?" she whispered.

His face went almost haggard when he looked at her to answer. "Yes. The king is looking for ways to consolidate his power in the country. That's why he's sending an architect for a mere country bridge project. When he hears the heiress isn't married, not even betrothed…"

Silence and Aislinn's dread filled the void left by his implication.

She'd never considered…hadn't even thought…

She'd met King Marius exactly once, had exchanged the required pleasantries for a total of twenty-three words spoken between them. She found him to be a regal man, handsome in the way some older men were, with gray around his temples. He hadn't paid her much mind, more interested in Jerrod at the time.

That this man she'd met once would presume to dictate a marriage— her marriage…

Her vision narrowed, her breathing growing labored.

The possibility that she'd be traded like meat, forced into a union with one of the king's cousins, hand over her people, her home, her body to a stranger—

A warm hand enveloped hers and squeezed.

"Breathe, kit. Damnit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you."

Aislinn clutched her father's hand and breathed through it. After a few moments and deep breaths, her stomach stopped revolting.

When she could finally look up at her father, his expression was contrite. Acidic shame burned the back of her throat to think he might see her as unable to handle the difficult realities of their situations. She valued that he spoke so freely with her, that he trusted her enough to tell her the truth.

With another squeeze of her hand, Merrick said quietly, "As heiress, it'd be wise for you to marry, yes. Before the king pushes a choice on you. That's why I bring it up now—to give you time. I'm sure you can find someone you like. Someone who will be a good husband, a good partner."

Aislinn nodded shakily, giving her father the reassurance he needed that she was all right.

Except she wasn't.

She hardly heard the dining hall around her, hardly noticed when Bayard finally joined them, richly adorned in a velvet doublet. She dutifully sipped the wine he'd brought, hardly tasting it.

She managed to keep minimal conversation, just enough not to seem rude, but her mind was far afield.

A husband. A partner.

Her soul didn't cry out against the idea as it might have when she was younger, but her reluctance was still firm.

Where to even begin?

Her gaze, affixed to the table during the meal and chatter, rose to look out upon the dining hall. Without issue, she found the big green form of the new blacksmith, sitting with his peers, Wülf lounging at his side.

Pitter-patter went her heart inside the fist of despair clutching it tight.

Just because Sorcha got a storybook love affair with a halfling doesn't mean you'll get one too, she told herself.

And yet…

And yet.

H akon and the rest of the staff looked up from their meals when the visiting lord entered the hall, dripping in finery and smiling beatifically ear to ear. Baron Bayard was exactly what Hakon imagined of a nobleman—refined, clad in his riches, and easy with his smiles and compliments.

Hakon hated him on sight.

"Do I enjoy having to make up that monstrosity of a bed in the room he prefers? No," said Claire, one of the chambermaids, as she refilled her goblet with more of the expensive wine Bayard had brought. "But at least this time he came bearing gifts."

"And even better that milord and milady don't care for wine," added Owen, a potter sitting on Orek's left. He held out his cup for Clarie to fill.

"He comes often?" Hakon asked.

His beast snarled and snapped at the sight of the nobleman sitting at the high table, but Hakon thought he kept his tone even, not letting on to the searing curiosity that'd consumed him since Fia came to fetch Lady Aislinn.

Fia herself snickered into her napkin. "Too often." She rolled her pretty brown eyes, smiling wide at him. Fia had a pretty mouth, with lush lips that spread wide. Hakon liked her mouth—it was easy to read.

"He's been after the lady for years now," said Brigitt, another maid. She leaned forward conspiratorially, her bright eyes dancing with mirth. "She's denied him already, but he can't seem to give up the game."

"Can't truly blame him," said Liam, another potter on the other side of Owen. "Prize has only gotten bigger."

The three maids booed and hissed at his remark.

"Milady isn't a prize broodmare," grumbled Claire.

"She can do far better than him," agreed Fia. " Especially now."

Brigitt nodded imperiously. "She can have any man she wants." And as she raised her cup to her lips, she winked at Hakon over the rim.

His ears heated, and his instinct was to drop his gaze—but he couldn't afford to, not when the conversation darted faster than hummingbirds between flowers.

The maids and the potters began to debate better marital options, Fia arguing that none but a prince of the realm would do for Lady Aislinn. Hakon listened on, his chest tightening with every name they suggested and a growl building. Finally, it slipped past his lips.

He patted Wülf's head, pretending it was him who made the sound when those nearest him looked up.

Hakon swallowed his growls and grumbles, shoving them deep down where he was trying to contain his ever-growing interest in the Darrow heiress.

She isn't for you, he reminded himself. Not for the first time that day.

Still, he couldn't help it when the conversation lulled and, without a mouth to watch, his gaze strayed to the high table.

Hakon's heart kicked against his ribs when he found Lady Aislinn looking out across the hall—at him. She was as far away as she could be within the hall, all the way at the high table with her father and Baron Bayard, and yet, Hakon clearly saw the unhappy strain in her gaze.

She blinked, a blush overcoming her cheeks when she realized he looked back at her. Her gaze shifted away, back to the baron, who leaned nearly halfway across the table toward her, obviously trying to snare her attention.

The beast's roar inside him was so loud, Hakon couldn't hear anything else.

His eyes fixed on the baron, jealous rage incinerating his good sense. He could feel the growl rumbling in his chest, a bestial language older than words that meant but one thing—

Mate. Mine.

"Hakon?" A hand covered his.

His attention snapped like ice on a lake, disturbing his quiet, frigid focus.

He stared at the small female hand on his fist, willing away his no doubt murderous glare at the baron. By the time he looked upon Brigitt, he hoped at least he didn't resemble the beast he felt raging just beneath the surface.

The maids and potters were all looking at him expectantly—Fia stared, something too close to understanding glinting in her eyes, but it was Brigitt who'd touched him and said his name. She smiled at him, though the expression had gone tight.

"Forgive me," he hurried to say. "What did you ask?"

Brigitt smiled wider, leaning forward until her breasts pressed together atop the table.

"I just asked if orcish courtship is anything like that."

Ears burning, Hakon cleared his throat to buy time. Her hand was still on his, her smile and breasts right there.

A female's flirting with me. He'd grown a little more used to it over his weeks in the castle, although most of the women, and a few men, had soon looked elsewhere when he fell into work, leaving little time to flirt back or show anyone else any attention.

Her fingertips ran in circles over his hand, and her eyes had gone sultry. What he'd at first found thrilling, Hakon now didn't know what to do with.

Words didn't immediately come to him, and it was an awkwardly long time before he finally forced himself into an explanation of orcish customs. He told himself to look only at Brigitt, to turn his hand over so her palm would fall into his.

Explore this. Let your head be turned.

He told them of how an interested orc in Kaldebrak would often start with gifts, showing off their skill to catch the eye of their desired partner. Orcish courtship emphasized performative acts of interest; declarations were all well and good, but orcesses in particular were won over with consistent action to prove a potential mate's devotion, commitment, and passion.

These acts were meant to foster a mate-bond, to help the potential partners decide if they would carry through with the final act of intertwining their lives, their hearts, their very souls. He left this part out, though—the mate-bond was a closely kept secret amongst orcs. It was their greatest strength, yet also their greatest vulnerability. Mated orcs were highly prized as warriors, for the need to protect a mate could quickly trigger a berserker rage, the likes of which were immortalized in the sagas.

He also didn't tell them the old way of orcish courtship—when males would take their desired partner over their shoulder and disappear into the wilderness, sequestering away until a strong mate-bond formed. Partners were supposed to be willing, but the tradition fell out of favor when a few too many weren't. In Kaldebrak, such a thing would be considered barbaric now, and Hakon figured the humans would see it that way, too.

What he did say seemed to please Brigitt, as her smile only grew. "And what sorts of gifts would you give someone?" she asked.

Tooled silver quills. A gold torque the very same hue as her hair.

A whittled rose.

Fia coughed into her napkin.

Fuck.

His gaze skittered to Fia, and they exchanged a look full of understanding.

Fuck!

He hardly heard when Brigitt finally straightened, a satisfied smile on her lips despite Hakon having no answer for her.

"It sounds awfully romantic," she breathed.

"So if I show up tonight with a pot fresh out the kiln, you'll be my forever-love?" said Owen.

"We all know your pots are for Tilly," Brigitt sniped back, throwing Hakon a wink.

He managed a wan smile before retreating back into silence.

The conversation resumed around him, and he was relieved to fall back into watching mouths and listening as he pretended to eat.

Hakon didn't taste the food. He couldn't meet Fia's searching gaze. He focused solely on not seeking out Lady Aislinn across the hall.

He couldn't look upon her now. Not when another glimpse would surely have him marching across the hall, throwing her over his shoulder, and making off with her.

By the old gods, what a fucking mess.