Anne Bishop - Tangled Webs

“I’m not sure what Marian is working on today, but we were strongly encouraged to leave home,” Lucivar said. “So here we are.”

«We can take him up to the playroom,» Daemon said on an Ebon-gray spear thread.

«You’ve got plenty of shields there and nothing breakable?» Lucivar asked.

«Oh, yes.»

“Well, you’re just in time,” Jaenelle said, beaming at her brother and nephew. “Listen to this.”

“Bwaa ha ha.”

Daemonar squealed and struggled to get free. “Granpapa! Granpapa!”

Not daring to look at anyone, Daemon stared at his shoes and began to understand his father’s fascination with footwear.

Jaenelle sighed. “All right. I’ll work on it.”

Lucivar studied both of them and began backing away. “We’ll just wait in the hall.”

“Ba ha! Ba ha!” Daemonar shouted. “Granpapa, ba ha!”

Once Lucivar and Daemonar were safely on the other side of the door, Jaenelle said, “Do you think Daemonar will forget?”

Not a chance. “Of course he will. He’s little.”

She gave him a kiss that tasted of a promise for a very interesting evening, then said ruefully, “Thank you for lying.”

He rested his hands on her waist. “You’re welcome.” He hesitated, but a nagging curiosity made him ask. “What were you going to do if he’d refused?”

Jaenelle looked at him and smiled.

Butterflies filled his stomach and tickled unmercifully before turning into heavy, sinking stones.

“Well,” his darling said, “you have a wonderful deep voice too. So if Papa refused, I was going to ask you.”

Saetan walked into the sitting room where he’d asked Geoffrey and Draca, the Keep’s Seneschal, to meet him.

“My friends, this bottle of wine arrived this evening, compliments of Prince Sadi. Since it came from the wine cellar at the Hall, I can assure you it is a very fine vintage, one best enjoyed when shared.”

He called in three glasses and opened the wine.

Draca said nothing until he handed her a glass. “What iss the occassion?”

Saetan grinned. “My son has just realized how much his father loves him.”

Daemon walked out of the bathroom in the Consort’s suite, noticed the look of apprehension on his valet’s face, and approached the clothes laid out on the bed with a heightened sense of wariness. He studied the gold-checked shirt and dark green trousers, which were not his usual white silk shirt and black jacket and trousers. Then he looked at his valet.

“What are those?” he asked.

“Casual attire,” Jazen replied. “You said you were walking down to the village. For exercise.”

“I said I was going to walk to the village instead of taking a carriage because I could use the exercise.” Which, in his mind, wasn’t saying the same thing. “But I’m going down to the village to talk to Sylvia. The Queen of Halaway. At her request.”

“But you’re walking. So you’ll need these.” Jazen held up a pair of shoes that were not Daemon’s usual black, polished-to-a-gleam footwear. “They go with the casual attire.”

Daemon lightly scratched his chin with one black-tinted nail. “I’ve been an adult for quite some time and have handled all kinds of personal details all by myself. I am now the ruler of a whole Territory, which means I make decisions that affect the lives of thousands of people. So why am I no longer capable of choosing my own clothes?”

“You got married.”

He studied Jazen’s face. “That wasn’t a smart-ass remark, was it?”

“No, Prince. The Lady thinks you look stunning in your usual attire, but she felt a change of pace once in a while would be good for you.”

“I see.”

While Jazen went into the bathroom to “tidy up,” Daemon shucked off the bathrobe and got dressed. There wasn’t much to tidy, but he didn’t need an audience when he dressed or undressed—unless it was Jaenelle—and Jazen, who had been viciously castrated when he’d lived in Hayll, didn’t need to see a whole male and be reminded of what he had lost.

By the time Jazen came back into the Consort’s bedroom, Daemon was dressed and inspecting a cloth bag full of broken biscuits that had been left beside the clothes.

“No!” Jazen said a moment before Daemon popped a piece into his mouth.

His gold eyes narrowed. “Since they were here with my walking attire, I assumed these were treats for the walk.”

“They are,” Jazen assured him. “But not for you,” he finished, hunching his shoulders.

Ah, Hell’s fire.

Daemon opened the bedroom door and stood in the doorway, not ready to commit himself by stepping out of the room.

Five furry little bodies waited in the corridor. Five little tails wagged happy greetings. Five little Sceltie minds yapped at him just outside his inner barriers.

«Walkies?» «Walkies!» «We go with you!»

He got bumped into the corridor when Jazen shut the door behind his back.

“Fine,” he said, vanishing the sack of treats. “Let’s go for walkies.”

The first challenge came when he reached the bottom of the stairs and was stopped by the wails and arooo s coming from the top of the stairs. Apparently the puppies could get up the stairs by themselves but couldn’t get back down.

So it was up the stairs, gather a pup in each hand, down the stairs, set the pups on the floor. He could have used Craft to float all five Scelties and bring them down at one time, but…

Exercise, Sadi. You were taking this walk for the exercise.

Two more trips, and they were all heading for the great hall and the front door.

Where Beale was waiting for him, holding a water dish and a pitcher of water. A footman opened the door, and five bundles of fuzzy scampered outside, yipping for him to hurry up.

Daemon vanished the bowl and pitcher. “Thank you, Beale.”

“Enjoy your walk, Prince. I have asked Tarl to bring around one of the small gardening wagons.”

Daemon just raised an eyebrow and waited.

“It is a long walk for short legs,” Beale said. His expression didn’t change, but there was a definite twinkle in his eyes. “I think you will find the wagon more convenient for the walk home.”

When he’d be pulling that wagon full of five snoozing puppies.

“I am a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince and the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. I haven’t imagined being those things, have I?”

“No, Prince,” Beale replied. “You have not imagined those things. You are the most powerful male in Dhemlan.”

Nodding, Daemon walked to the door.

“However…”

He stopped. Twisted at the waist to look back at Beale.

“After the Lady came to live with him here at the Hall, the High Lord quite often asked the same question.”

Sylvia looked at the puppies. She looked at her younger son, Mikal. Then she pointed at the door. “Outside in the yard. And stay in the yard. That is not only a request from your mother; it is an order from your Queen.”

Boy and puppies scampered outside.

“Does that work?” Daemon asked. “Using both titles?”

“It usually gives me an extra fifteen minutes before I have to check on him and stop whatever mischief he was about to get into.” She brushed at her hair and seemed surprised when it came to an abrupt end.

“New haircut?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral. It was short and sassy and made her look more…athletic…than the longer, more elegant style he was accustomed to seeing on Lady Sylvia.

“New clothes?” she countered.

“I got married,” he replied dryly.

“We did notice.”

Shadows in her eyes behind the amusement.

“Why?” he asked softly, looking at her hair. But he knew.