Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(54)

“It’s already been drafted. Find Baldwyn to sign.”

“Hold on. I have a price.”

The King coughed. “Trees, Renelm.”

“This issue of these ridiculous feasts. Of a wife.”

“No,” the King said. “I will not bend. The heir will marry.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t marry,” Elm bit back. “But I’d like your word that you will honor any contract I strike.”

“Did you have someone in mind?”

“No one to whom you have not already given your seal of approval.”

The King searched the great hall, as if he were looking for a loophole. But everyone in attendance had come by his invitation—selected for their property and wealth and all the things a sovereign might want for his heir.

The King ran a gnarled hand over his brow. “Very well.”

Elm hid his smile in his wine cup. “You look relieved. I imagine you expected I’d give you more trouble.”

“You always have.”

Elm opened his mouth, a drop of venom on his tongue, but the gong rang, and he snapped it shut. Nine tolls. Nine—and still no Ione. It dawned on him that maybe she would not come. He should have told her he’d be absent at Castle Yew—that he hadn’t resigned their search for her Maiden Card just because she’d left him panting in the cellar.

He stood, his bow to the King barely a nod, and was out of the great hall in less than a minute. He took the stairs two at a time. When he got to the fourth landing, he heard a man’s voice, echoing from above. It almost sounded like Hauth’s.

Linden.

He quickened his pace and reached the fifth landing—the royal corridor. Royce Linden had Ione’s arm in his fist and was pulling her down the hallway. Ione said something Elm could not hear, and Linden’s shoulders went taut. His reached over and gripped her cheeks, fingers digging into her skin—shouted into her face. “Traitor.”

Elm’s finger was on his Scythe in less than a breath. “Stand still, Destrier.”

Linden went rigid. When he saw Elm coming, a flinch crossed his face.

It made Elm feel powerful, watching the brute cower. It made him feel like Ravyn.

“She should not be wandering the castle without a guard,” Linden gritted out. “Had I not caught her creeping toward the gardens, she might have easily gone outside and disappeared into the mist.” His jaw was rigid. “Though I suppose it is no wonder, with you as her watchman, that she was able to slip away.”

“Take your hand off of her.”

Linden’s fingers on Ione’s face went white with strain. Play strength—the worst kind of pageantry—for there was no disobeying a Scythe. His hand went limp, and Ione pulled away, her gaze unreadable.

Flames licked up Elm’s middle. But his voice remained calm. “You’re not to go near her again.”

“I take my orders from—”

“One more word, Destrier, and I’ll finish what began on Market Day and rip your face so far open not even the Spirit will recognize you. If you touch Miss Hawthorn again, by the fucking trees, I’ll end you.” He ran his gaze over Linden’s scars. “Do you understand?”

Hate boiled behind Linden’s eyes. It greeted Elm like a brother. “Yes,” he said through tight lips.

“Yes, Highness.”

“Yes, Highness.”

Elm’s anger wasn’t spent. Not by a fraction. But, with a lazy wave of his hand, he released the Scythe. Linden stepped away, quickly disappearing down the stairs.

Only then did Elm dare to glance at Ione. “Hey, Hawthorn.”

She was watching him, her face without expression. “That was excessive.”

“Sorry.” He rocked back on his heels, feeling wide open beneath her stare. “Why were you headed for the garden?”

“Why do you think, clever Prince?”

The pinprick of her voice found Elm’s chest. She was angry, though the Maiden masked it well. It felt strange to Elm, liking that she was angry at him. Anger was better than nothing at all. “I’m sorry I haven’t helped you search. I was away. Heir business.”

As quickly as it came, the prick in Ione’s voice was gone, her tone flattening. “I assumed you were avoiding me.”

“Not at all. I spent the night at Castle Yew.”

“And that had nothing to do with me?”

To say no would be a lie. It had been about her. Just not for the reason she thought. “You think very highly of yourself, Hawthorn, if you imagine all my comings and goings concern you.”

A noise hummed in her throat. “Maybe not your goings.”

Elm smiled—ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “That wicked mouth is going to get you into trouble.”

Ione turned away, her gray dress spilling behind her as she headed down the corridor. “If you say so.”

Elm followed her to a door with a hare carved into the frame. “I’m not inviting you in,” she said at the threshold.

“I didn’t expect you to. I merely wished to note,” he said, tapping a finger over the hare, “what door to knock on in the morning.”

“What for?”

“We keep up the search.” Their eyes caught. Elm shoved his hands into his pockets, strangling the desire to touch her. “The Chalice didn’t work. But there are other Cards that may help us find your Maiden.”