She was regarding him. He thought of saying something risky and flirtatious, that she should not be alone with him, thinking of the scandal and excitement of it. But she wasn’t alone. Her Vaskian pet was alongside her, stern-faced and decked out in heavy gold.
Vannes spoke. ‘You and Berenger are utterly mismatched. And you’re clearly ambitious. I hope you won’t hurt him too badly when you move on.’
Ancel pushed himself away from the garden railing and dipped his lashes prettily. ‘I wouldn’t be a very good pet if I didn’t break at least a few hearts.’
She seemed to like this reply. ‘Perhaps your next conquest will know what to do with you.’
A small party of courtiers was approaching. Ancel frowned. Berenger was still with Lord Droet’s pet. At least no one knew that Berenger was the one dissolving his contract. Everyone would think what Vannes thought, that Berenger couldn’t hold Ancel and Ancel was moving on to someone better.
His whole purpose in coming here had been to secure a brilliant contract. Now he needed to do that.
Ancel thought of the impossible. For pets, it was epitomised by one man. The Prince. The Prince, who had never taken a pet. The Prince, who had never taken anyone, or been taken, so they said. They said he was frigid, that he had ice in his veins, that pets failed to interest him.
But there was one person who had the Prince’s complete attention.
Ancel’s gaze swung around the gardens, and in the bower on the corner, he saw the Prince’s slave.
He was kneeling, muscles rippling, tied to the post with the flimsiest chain, the dark curls of his head bent. Someone had chained him up and left him alone, with no handlers.
By the time Berenger and the others arrived, Ancel knew exactly what he was going to do.
‘Let’s take a turn around the garden,’ said Ancel, smiling sweetly at Berenger, taking his arm in place of Lord Droet’s pet.
He led the group, let their path wind slowly down the paths towards the bower where there were fewer lamps, and the sounds were less. They strolled with the others, Vannes, Lord Droet, Berenger and their pets, a party of six, until they came to the bower that held the Prince’s slave.
The slave was more frightening close up, and bigger. Physically imposing, and dripping with disdainful pride, he looked as though he could break any handlers in half. He was nothing like a court pet: it was as if the other courtiers were playing with kittens while the Prince had brought in a lion.
Ancel halted in front of the bower deliberately.
The Prince’s slave wasn’t alone. There was another slave with him, a blond, slender, wide-eyed young man, also from Akielos. The two slaves were caught up in one another, conversing quietly amid the dimly lit greenery. As Ancel watched, the blond slave lifted his hand gently to the face of the Prince’s slave, tipping it up.
‘Don’t stop on our account,’ said Ancel.
They sprang apart. The younger blond slave pressed his forehead submissively to the floor, a pose that seemed designed to make you want to step on his head. Ancel found himself unaccountably irritated by the passivity. The Prince’s slave moved back on his knees only far enough to rake them all with a scathing look. Ancel looked down at him coolly.
‘Another minute or two, and we might have caught them kissing.’
Berenger was frowning. The Prince’s slave stayed where he was, with the air of one tolerating an intrusion that would be gone soon. He looked scornful and unimpressed when his eyes passed briefly over Ancel, Berenger and Vannes. His only movement was to shift slightly, a rearrangement of muscle.
He was chained to the metalwork of the bower with a delicate gold chain. Ancel remembered that this slave had knocked a fighter unconscious in the ring, that he had put hands on the Prince in the baths, then attacked him in the great hall. If he stood up, that tiny chain wouldn’t hold.
‘I think it’s more exciting now that we know he’s really dangerous,’ said Ancel.
‘Councillor Guion suggested that he wasn’t trained to perform as a pleasure slave,’ said Lady Vannes. ‘But training isn’t everything. He might have natural talent.’
‘Natural talent?’ said the Prince.
He strolled up, coolly. Ancel had to force himself not to turn, his heart racing wildly as he bowed with the others. When he looked up, the Prince was right there, the closest Ancel had been to royalty.
Arriving in the bower, the Prince of Vere was instantly commanding, with nothing soft or yielding in him. A young man with golden hair, cold blue eyes and an arresting profile, he had a pet’s looks and a Prince’s bearing, laced up tighter than Berenger, in dark, severe clothing. He looked capable of mastering the slave through force of will, as though the slave’s discomfort was his pleasure.
‘I’d happily perform with him,’ Ancel announced. The Prince didn’t react, his eyes on the slave.
‘Ancel, no. He could hurt you.’ Ancel ignored Berenger, and spoke to the shoulders and back of the Prince.
‘Would you like that?’
Berenger frowned. ‘No. I wouldn’t.’