HEIR | The Cursed Monarchy | Book 1

Treachery: Part III, Chapter 15

Be forewarned: This chapter contains mature content.

The next evening, leaves dripped from the trees and the chilly breath of fall was imminent as the sun set over the horizon. The first of three nights of festivities would be starting soon.

With her hair still damp from her bath, Cecily lit the candles in her chamber one by one, and remembered, to her dismay, she had nothing to wear to the feast other than her cloak and armor from Bráithre Delve. She examined her worn, muddy undergarments. Threadbare in some spots, they resembled dingy rags. In spite of that, she started slipping them on when something caught her eye.

A lovely satin gown with a plunging décolleté hung over her wardrobe door. She ran her hand down it; the texture felt soft and luxurious against her rough skin. She fingered the delicately trimmed neckline and the two dainty strips down the bodice to the waist, defining her bust line. It was rich, subtle, and absolutely perfect.

Cecily took the lovely garment down, held it against herself, and glanced into the looking glass. She'd never worn a garment so fine in her life, and could never have imagined a more beautiful tone of dark, dark red, like blood.

Where had it come from? And why was it hanging there?

Suddenly, she understood. Daire.

When she was ready, Cecily slipped on a pair of matching lace gloves and went downstairs. Striding confidently along an avenue of roses leading to the gardens, her dark hair hung in loose waves around both shoulders, reaching down past her waist; her smile was wide and engaging, yet her expression remained enigmatic. The effect was one of mystery and experience, a woman of the realms.

Swirling around her, courtiers inspected her with the round-eyed wonder of children watching a fire dancer. She thought her performance was rather finely drawn, playacting as an ambassador at its most convincing, and perfectly suited to the occasion. There was a sense of pretense about the ball, making it appear as the center stage of pomp and circumstance.

For a time, Cecily followed closely behind a group of attendees until they reached a darker part of the forest. Although she could see nothing, she was very much aware of the flourishing life around her, not in the trees, but in the shadows between them: rustlings, and cracking; the sound of breath. The mist was thicker there, and the presence of smoke strong enough to make her eyes water. Then she saw an amber glow through the trees ahead, and could hear a low drumming sound.

The hand suddenly covering her mouth from behind and the arm sliding around her waist startled her so that her heart seemed to skip a beat. At once, she recognized the laughter from behind her and wiggled from his grasp. She turned, slapping Daire on the arm in reprimand.

"You are so very lucky that I'm unarmed," she scolded.

Daire's smirk grew, but he said nothing. The look in his eyes, however, was all too familiar.

She actually stepped back from him. "What are you up to now?" she asked. Clearly, he was up to no good; she knew it from his expression.

"Just a bit of unfinished business," he muttered as he reached out, letting his arm go around her waist once more, lifted her off the ground and carried her behind a nearby tree and into complete seclusion.

Keeping his other hand over her mouth, he tilted her head to one side, and she nearly fainted from the euphoria of his kiss on her neck. "You look ravishing," he mumbled against her neck. Her flesh tingled from the delightful sensation. He reached out a forefinger and touched a small wave at her temple. "So courtly and proper. I like it."