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Fadon felt relief when Jon, followed by a skinny brown-haired woman, entered the balcony and stood in front of the table. Now Fadon wouldn’t have to get into why Ander hadn’t traveled to meet his own bride.
“Captain, it is time to get ready. Oh, and this here is the lady’s watcher… Lucinda you said your name was?” Jon asked, his dimples on full display and smiling like a cat with cream.
The plain, young woman blushed, as predicted. “Yes, my lord. I’ve come for Lady Sierra.” She faced her charge. “Miss, it’s time.”
Jon clapped his hands together. “Ah. Finally, I get to meet the lovely bride-to-be!” Jon grabbed Sierra’s hand, startling her, and kissed it, but not before he took in her scent, Fadon saw. A prickle of jealousy ran up Fadon’s spine.
“Second, a hello will suffice,” Fadon grunted. He hadn’t meant to sound so brutish but found himself irritated by Jon’s audacity. The young woman was promised to their prince. What was he thinking? He shouldn’t be touching her. The Ongahri were very possessive of their mates, as Jon knew very well—his mother having been killed because of that very thing, Fadon thought darkly.
But then again, he knew why Jon had done it.
“Forgive me, Lady Sierra,” Jon said meekly, stepping away. “I was overcome by your beauty. I am Jon Ganias, Captain Fadon’s second in command. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Sierra blushed. Fadon had yet to meet a woman in Jon’s presence who didn’t.
“Lady Sierra Linden, likewise,” she said with perfect manners. “I remember seeing you last night at dinner.” She set down her tea. “Well, we best get this done, right? Captain, thank you for answering my questions.” She stood and inclined her head. Fadon did the same and watched as the two women left.
“Well? Will she do?” Jon asked after a beat, taking a sip from Fadon’s cup.
“Aye. By Ongar I think she will.” Fadon walked back over to the balcony, his hands wrapping around the stone banister. “Did her scent that you so blatantly captured tell you anything?” He closed his eyes, worried at what the answer might be. Whether he hoped or feared it, either way, Jon was the only one in this world he trusted.
“I did. And the answer is, I don’t know.”
Opening his eyes, Fadon turned to look at his friend. The humorous facade had been wiped away, and the Jon he knew was back in its place. “You don’t know.”
“I don’t know. What about you? Anything?”
“Something was there. Maybe. But like you… I don’t know.”
Jon rocked on his feet and shrugged. “Well, the possibility is one in a—”
“I know the odds, Jon. A part of me thought, maybe this time, the blasted Fealty and all. Well, either way, she’ll do.”
“Think Ander will like her?”
Fadon frowned. “Does it matter?”
Jon smirked. “Guess not. She’s a pretty thing, though. At least there’s that.” He rubbed his jaw and tugged on his bottom lip, then his eyes widened as he caught Fadon’s expression. “No. Fadon, don’t tell me you fancy the chit?” His laughter rang in Fadon’s ear like an echoing bell.
Annoyed at that same twinge of jealousy he’d felt earlier, Fadon crossed his arms. “She’s too young for my liking. Pretty, I’ll grant you. But she’s not mine nor will she ever be. I just hope she survives long enough to be his wife in a year’s time. Wait till Mari… Ongar.” He shook his head, picturing their meeting. “Going to be an entertaining few weeks once we’re home.”
“We can only hope. Perhaps it will help our queen get over her obsession with House Dega.”
That itch of warning was back. “Everything ready for our departure this afternoon?”
Sobering, Jon went over the plans with his captain. “There is one problem, however. Well, an issue.”
“Yes?” He motioned for Jon to join him inside, where he started dressing for the ceremony that would take place within the hour.
“The chit and her watcher have quite a bit of luggage. What with the ladies needing a coach—”
Fadon tugged on his tunic so hard the seam at the side ripped. “Dammit. I’ll need to have this mended, it’s the only clean one I have. A coach? Why would they need a coach?”
Jon gave him a look. “Fadon, she’s the daughter of the Constant of Providence, not some war maiden.”
“So? Can’t she ride?”
“I’m sure she can, but you don’t expect a girl of eighteen, pampered all her life, to ride all day on the back of a dusty horse, surely?”
