Ever the Brave (A Clash of Kingdoms Novel)(4)

A small vibration unsettles the floor beneath my boots in time to the clip-clop of horses growing louder.

Gillian’s tawny skin pales to a shade closer to mine. Her wide, ebony eyes dart from the door to the window to me. “What if it’s the king? Will you greet him like that?”

Knowing it is the king makes me feel guilty. It makes me think I should take her advice. It also makes me resist moving from my chair, clench my dagger harder, and curse his name under my breath. I wish I didn’t know it was him at all. Or that he’d realize he’s putting me at risk every time he comes around. Mostly, I wish I wasn’t keeping this secret from everyone.

Especially Cohen.

Over the last month, King Aodren has visited three times. Each time filled me with certainty that the strange bond that shackles us together—drawing me toward him when he’s near—was forged when I saved his life. The link I once shared with Cohen, which ended when the king’s connection formed, was different. It was one-sided. And because it was so subtle, I’m certain Cohen wasn’t aware of it. We never spoke of it since I didn’t understand it. But there’s no ignoring the king’s connection. It’s so much stronger.

Which is why his persistence in visiting is worrisome. Each time King Aodren comes around, I fear someone will notice the way we’re tuned into each other and call me out as a Channeler. Aodren may be the king, but I doubt he’d stop an entire mob of Channeler haters if they set their sights on me.

Three distinct raps rattle the cottage door.

“Sit up. Look sharp.” Gillian’s plea is a hurried whisper. She goes to answer.

Her hands shake as if the king himself might be on the threshold. Ridiculous. That man’s hand is so weighted in jewels, servants have to knock for him.

The rusty hinges on the door cry when it opens, letting in the late fall chill. The king’s steward stands on the threshold. “A delivery for Miss Flannery.”

Gillian peeps past the steward. Her gaze sinks to the floor, followed by the rest of her body, skirts piling on wood planks in a deep curtsy. “Y-Your Highness.”

The steward retreats and is replaced by a lean servant in a royal gray-and-maroon wool coat. He carries a box past me into the cottage’s bedroom. Someone murmurs from outside, and Gillian rises and follows the servant.

I consider staying in my seat, except the pull toward the king has grown to an itch that has me white-knuckling the chair. The link to Cohen never felt so aggravatingly strong.

With a growl, I stalk to the door.

The steward stands beside a gray horse, the royal flag propped in a leather holder on the saddle. Next to him, the king sits on a wheat-colored steed.

Unlike the other three times he has come to my cottage, flanked by a half-dozen royal guards, he’s with only two men today. I figure the added protection is no longer needed now that he isn’t the slender, sickly man I saved a month ago. His shoulders and legs look broader, sturdier, stronger. His fair skin has a touch of golden coloring, which must’ve been earned under the sun. It makes the silvery scar on his neck, a gift from my blade, stand out even more.

Gillian reappears at my side. Her nails dig into my arm. She drops into another curtsy, dragging me down alongside her. “Your presence honors us greatly, Your Highness. Britta is so pleased you’ve chosen to visit her humble cottage.” Her face is so low that she speaks to the steppingstones. Her words run cold through my veins, my Spiriter senses picking out the lie. The truth—for example, if I actually had been honored by the bludger’s presence—would’ve warmed me.

“You may stand.” King Aodren’s voice grates, a hint of a rough edge beneath fine breeding. “I’m here to speak to Britta privately.”

I rise, bristling at the way his voice softened around my name. When will he leave me alone?

His golden hair, combed smooth despite the two leagues he rode from the castle to my land, rivals Gillian’s helmet head. No dirt specks his polished sable boots. When I found him in his chamber, unconscious and pulse weak from being controlled by a Spiriter, he seemed more human, more inviting, than now. Sort of wish I was facing that man again. I clench my fists, irked by every stitch of his noble perfection as he dismounts and leaves his men’s side. And irked even more by the urge to reach out and touch his hair. Just to see if it really is as smooth as it looks.

The king strides to my door and brushes past me. Gillian shoots me a saucer-eyed plea as she exits the cottage, and I harrumph under my breath, digging my toe into the moss that’s sprouted through the cracks in the cottage’s stone floor. Even the way he enters my home, authority punctuating each step, irritates.

“Welcome,” I mutter, slamming the door on the king’s men and Gillian.

He says nothing, only scans the main room of my cottage. Wooden chairs, threadbare curtains, mats made of rushes by the fireplace and table—not much to view. His gaze moves on, pausing at the blades and whetstone on my table before stopping at the open bedroom door. Papa’s old, ratty quilt is covered with dresses. Dresses?

Five fine silk dresses.

Unsuitable for hunting, tracking, or normal life.

My eyebrows squish together. Last time he brought a fancy cloak and a gold necklace. He’s lost his seeds. When would I use any of these things?

“A gift,” he says, as if reading my mind. “For the Royal Winter Feast Ball.”