The Queen’s Resistance. Rebecca Ross
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It will take some time.”
I did not know what to say, but her words reassured me. I took her hands in mine—our palms aligned; our fingers linked. I noticed the ink stains on her right hand.
“You’ve been busy writing, I see.”
She smiled wanly. “Yes. Jourdain asked me to begin gathering grievances.”
That took me somewhat by surprise. It felt too soon to be gathering up that darkness; we had just arrived back home, becoming reacquainted with what our lives were supposed to be. But then I reminded myself that the trial was in a matter of days. Of course, I should be gathering up my people’s grievances, as well. I should begin penning my own. Which meant I needed to fully confront what had happened in detail that night. Because while I knew some truth, I did not know the whole of it. I did not know who had given the killing blow to my sister, or the full extent of violence that was done to the Morgane people.
And then there was my mother’s letter, which I continued to carry around in my pocket, uncertain what to make of it. I had Lannon blood in my veins; did I need to acknowledge this truth or conceal it?
I broke from those thoughts to see Brienna was watching me.
“Have you written many grievances down?” I asked.
“Luc has collected quite a tome.”
“And why haven’t you?”
She glanced away from me, and a dark suspicion began to cloud my mind.
“Brienna … tell me.”
“What is there to tell, Cartier?” And she gave me a false smile, one that did not reach her eyes.
“You were never a good dramatic,” I reminded her.
“It is truly nothing.” She tried to slip her hands from mine, but I tightened my hold on her.
If she would not speak it, then I would. “Jourdain’s people have not been welcoming to you.”
I knew it was the truth, because there was a flicker of pain in her gaze before she covered it up with irritation.
“What have they said to you, Brienna?” I pressed on, my anger rising at the thought. “Have they been unkind?”
“No. It’s what I should have expected,” she countered, as if defending them, as if it was her fault, that she could control who she had descended from.
“Does Jourdain know?”
“No. And I would ask you not to tell him, Cartier.”
“Don’t you think your father should know his people are slighting you? That his people are slighting his daughter?”
“They aren’t slighting me. And if they were, I would not want Jourdain to know.” She freed her hands from mine and rose, turning to face the window. “He has enough on his mind as it is. And I would think you would understand that.”
I did understand it. And yet more than anything, I wanted Brienna to feel like she belonged here. It was nearly the shadow of all my other thoughts—for her to be accepted, for her to find happiness. I wanted her to claim her home in Maevana, this wild land that she and I had once spoken of in lessons. Half of her heritage was in this soil, and I did not care which territory it had risen from.
I stood, wiping the dust from my breeks. I approached her slowly, coming to stand just behind her, just as I could feel her warmth. We were quiet, our gazes to the land beyond the broken glass, the meadows and the woods and the hillocks that rose into mountains.
“They see me as Allenach’s. Not as MacQuinn’s,” she said quietly. “They believe I fooled their lord into adopting me.”
And it broke me to hear her acknowledge it. I could have said countless things to her in return, the foremost being that I never saw her as an Allenach, that I had only seen her for who she was—a daughter of Maevana and a beloved friend to the queen. But I held the words down.
She finally turned to face me, her gaze lifting to mine.
“They only need a little more time,” she whispered. “Time for my blood father’s memory to fade, for me to prove myself to them.”
She was right. We all needed time—time to settle, time to heal, time to discover who we were supposed to become.
And all I could say was her name, spoken as if in prayer.
“Brienna.”
My hand rose; my fingers traced the edge of her jaw. I wanted to memorize her, to explore her lines and her bends. And yet my fingers stopped at her chin, to tilt her face up, to watch the sunlight dance across her cheeks.
Her breath caught, and I leaned down to draw it from her. I kissed her softly once, twice, until she opened her mouth beneath mine and I discovered that she was just as hungry as I was. I suddenly found my hands in her hair, my fingers tangled in the silk of it, lost in the desire to fully surrender to her.
“Cartier.” She tried to speak my name; I drank the sound from her lips. I felt her hands move up my back and take fistfuls of my shirt, tugging. She was warning me, because I could now hear the footsteps scuffing loudly, just beyond the office door.
I struggled to break away from her, my breath shallow as I somehow recovered enough to whisper, “You taste like a stolen honey cake, Brienna MacQuinn.”
She smiled, laughter in her eyes. “Does nothing evade the lord of the Swift?”
“Not when it comes to you.” I dared to kiss her again, before whoever it was reached the office, but something sharp pressed into my leg. Surprised, I leaned back and traced my hand down to her skirts, to her thigh. There was the hard shape of a dirk beneath the fabric, and I met her gaze, speechless yet deeply pleased she was wearing a concealed blade.
“Yes, well,” she all but stammered, her cheeks flushing. “We women can’t hide everything in our pockets, now, can we?”
Lord MacQuinn’s Territory, Castle Fionn
Brienna
I planned to skip dinner in the hall that night, to prepare for Neeve’s first reading lessons. I was carrying a tray of soup and bread to my chambers, reflecting on how nice the afternoon had been visiting Cartier and his people, when Jourdain loomed before me out of the shadows.
“Saints, Father!” I almost spilled dinner down the front of my dress. “You should know better than to sneak up on me!”
“Where are you going?” he asked, frowning at my tray of food.
“My room,” I drawled. “Where else?”
Jourdain took the tray from my hands and passed it to a servant who just so happened to walk by at that moment.
“I was going to eat that.”
Jourdain, though, did not seem to hear my exasperation. He waited until the servant disappeared around the bend, and then he took my hand and pulled me along to my bedchamber, shutting the door behind us.
“There’s a problem,” he finally said, his voice hoarse.
“What sort of problem, Father?” I tried to read the lines in his brow, to prepare myself for anything.
“Tell me all that you know of the House of Halloran, Brienna.”
I stood frozen before him. “The Hallorans?” I cleared my throat, still caught off guard by Jourdain’s request and trying to remember everything Cartier had taught me. “Queen Liadan gave them the blessing of the Upright. They are known for their orchards and their steel goods—they