Chapter 10
Cuan had been worried about leaving Tamsin to fend for herself amidst Maeve’s court while he fought the duel. Now, however, it was clear that he should have been more concerned for the high sidhe.
It was a mark of nobility and good breeding to maintain an aloof, jaded attitude at all times. Thus, most of Maeve’s court were still seated at table, sipping wine and pretending that they had not even noticed that they were covered in squashed fruit. Still, from the red faces and clenched teeth, etiquette was being sorely tested.
Well, they always claim to crave novelty. Cuan pressed his lips together, fighting to maintain a straight face as he circled the hall. They cannot complain when a guest surprises them, even if it is with a ripe plum to the face.
He had never in his life so badly regretted his lack of refined accomplishments. The whole scene deserved to be immortalized in song. Tamsin’s Triumph, or The Ballad of the Bananas.
But he was no poet, sadly. As Tamsin hurried to meet him, he could only express his appreciation and astonishment by offering her another deep, heart-felt bow.
“I have never,” he murmured for her ears alone, “before realized quite how much I longed to see Sir Eogan hit over the head with a pineapple.”
“I’m just glad it worked.” Tamsin cast a quick glance over her shoulder at the high table, where Maeve sat on her silver throne. She raised her voice a little. “You’re hurt. We need to get you to the healer.”
“There is no need. They are but scratches.” That was a bit of a stretch of the truth. His high sidhe blood compelled him to add, “At least, compared to the cuts I took yesterday.”
She took his hands, turning them palm up. He’d fashioned impromptu bandages from strips of napkin, but the white linen was already spotted with crimson stains.
“This isn’t nothing, Cuan.” She brushed a thumb over the bruises blooming on his wrists, and heat shot through him despite the throb of pain. “You need to see Aodhan.”
“I could not trouble Aodhan for such a minor matter.” He drew his hands out of her grip, tucking them out of sight behind his back. “And in any event, I do not wish for you to miss the rest of the meal.”
That was the real reason for not wasting time tending to his injuries, of course. If he was to have any hope of persuading Tamsin to accept the mate bond, he had to show her the wonders of the fae court. Surely once she had experienced all the delight and magic of the high sidhe, she would no longer wish to return to the ugly human world.
Of course, this was the woman who had elected to turn the first course of the feast into impromptu weaponry. It might prove more difficult to impress her than he’d thought.
He gestured at the procession of servants who were carrying in the second course. “See, they are setting out the honey-pastries. You will never have tasted such light and delicate sweetness. And after that there shall be baked snow-custards with fresh cream, and then you must sample—”
Tamsin put a hand on his arm, silencing him. Her eyes bored into his with odd intensity.
“I’m not hungry. And you’re bleeding.” She still spoke overloud, in tones that even Maeve at the high table could not help but overhear. “Let’s get you to Aodhan. Right now.”
Understanding finally hit him, like a flung banana. He caught Lady Maeve’s eye and gestured at the doorway in silent request for permission to leave. She fluttered a gracious hand, dismissing them both.
As he escorted Tamsin away from the dining hall, the back of his neck prickled. If he’d been in wolf form, his hackles would have risen. He didn’t look round, but he was certain that Maeve was staring after them.
Tamsin maintained a wary silence all the way back to his room. Her tiny orange beast—Cuan was still having a hard time thinking of it as a dog—bounded up to his mistress the moment she entered, tail wagging furiously.
“Hi baby.” Tamsin scratched her pet behind the ears. “Were you a good boy?”
“Good friend. Good company.” Motley unfolded himself from a crouch. “Told me a lot. And we played tug.”
“My gratitude to you for keeping him entertained.” Cuan cast a pained look at the well-chewed leather strip dangling from Motley’s hand. “But did you have to use my finest belt to do so?”
“Yes,” Motley said serenely. “Best use for it. Told you before. Bad memories.”
“It was a personal gift from Lady Maeve herself.”
“Exactly.” Motley flipped the ruined object into Angus’s waiting jaws. “Bad.”
Cuan held back a sigh. It was in a raven’s nature to steal treasures, after all. He just wished that Motley had the usual compulsion to hoard shiny things. Sometimes it seemed that the lesser fae was on a personal quest to destroy everything Cuan owned.
Which may be why he had apparently made fast friends with Tamsin’s animal. From the look of the torn furs scattered around his bed and the fresh tooth-marks in his armor-stand, the two had bonded over a shared interest in ruining Cuan’s possessions.
Still, Cuan owed the lesser fae his life. And, more importantly, Tamsin’s life. If Motley hadn’t fetched Aodhan last night, Tamsin would even now be a plaything of Maeve’s court. For that, Cuan would eternally be in the raven shifter’s debt. The total destruction of all his worldly goods was a small price to pay.
“Thank you for looking after Angus for me,” Tamsin said to Motley. “But I need to ask another favor, if that’s okay?”