Claimed & Seduced (3 page)

Oh they were clear. The security guard had done his duty and warned her away from the prince. He’d picked up on her fascination, and was now doing his best to make sure she knew her place.

Done. Message received.

The trees of the forest thinned and the outer farm buildings came into view. Keira hurried ahead to open the gate leading to her house, a sense of pride filling her as she studied the surroundings through the eyes of strangers. Freshly white-washed buildings, lush paddocks full of malpacks—a distant cousin of the cambeest—and everything tidy and in good repair. She might be an outcast but she knew how to run a profitable farm.

“You can leave the cart here. I don’t want to make you late for an official function. Thank you for helping me to pick berries.” There. She’d said all that was proper. She sketched a curtsey, a nicety she should have thought of earlier.

“I had fun,” the prince said. “Maybe we can do it again.”

Keira cast a quick glance at Ellard and blanched at his stony expression. “Maybe,” she said but knew it unlikely. She was a farmer, and he was a prince.

No, she wouldn’t attend the ball tonight. She’d remain home and bake pies and stay far, far from trouble.

That would be best for all concerned.

Chapter Two

T
he ball, held in the city assembly rooms was tedious and not one woman grabbed Jarlath’s attention. An enormous chandelier, made from the finest rose stone, cast delicate pink light over the scene. The perfume from urns of flowers filled the air while an orchestra, famed for their stringed musicians, played the latest songs. According to his mother, the head composer had even written a special score dedicated to him and his search for a wife—the debut to occur right before supper. Single women—those of suitable blood—chattered and tittered and flocked around him, each trying to outdo the other. Their obvious attentions, the avarice glittering in their countenances, made his head ache and his stomach roil.

He was a person, not a commodity.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” his mother asked, her almond-shaped eyes burning him with expectation, impatience. Dressed in a slim-fitting gown the same pale green as her eyes, her chocolate-brown hair swept up and jeweled tiara glittering, she was the epitome of royal. “Lady Asha is over there. Go and ask her to dance and pray your eye doesn’t scare her off. She would make an excellent queen, if she can get past your clumsiness.”

“Mother, it was an accident.”

“The beest is dangerous. Stick to your palace duties. Now, ask Lady Asha to dance.”

Jarlath sighed, knowing better than to argue with his mother, and made his way to an urn of greenery and white flowers where Lady Asha stood with her chaperone. He forced a stiff smile and made a formal bow. “May I have this dance?”

“It would be my honor, Prince Jarlath.” Lady Asha’s delicate hand trembled when she placed it in his, and she scanned his eye briefly before averting her gaze to his chest. Her nerves contrasted with Keira’s reaction to his presence. His status hadn’t bothered her in the slightest. She’d looked at him, and he’d wager, she saw
him
rather than a status symbol, despite Ellard’s opinion to the contrary.

His feet fell into rhythm with the music while his mind settled on Keira. So different with her exotic looks and feisty attitude. The casual way she’d worn her blaster weapon showed her ability to defend herself, and she managed her farm with minimal help, plus she baked pies.

During their interaction, he’d felt alive and even more miraculously, his feline had awakened. Alone in his chamber, he’d attempted a shift—to no avail. His feline hadn’t stirred or uttered a single grunt. The meaning eluded him, although he intended to experiment. Losing his shifting ability…
grata
, it pushed him off-balance, made him feel half a Virosian.

“Are you attending the traveling circus performance tomorrow night?” Lady Asha asked.

Captive animals and strange aliens of freakish appearance. Jarlath suppressed a shudder. None of the performers appeared happy to display their skills. “No,” he said, hiding his true feelings behind his
prince
mask. “I’m afraid I have another engagement.”

“All my friends are going.”

Another reason to avoid the spectacle.

The rest of the evening passed in a similar vein—dancing, the unveiling of the betrothal song. Supper taken with Lady Asha and more dancing, more eligible single women. His feet became increasingly sore. Sheer willpower stopped him from limping across the ballroom during his departure. All the dancing had given him a blister on the heel of his right foot and the sore spot throbbed in tandem with the ache at his temples.

A short time later, he acknowledged the doorman and entered the official residence of the House of the Cat—the castle.

“Jarlath, a word.” His mother’s crisp voice drew him to a halt at the base of the stairs that led to his accommodation wing. Her regal and slender figure retreated into a receiving room before he had a chance to respond.

He sighed and changed his direction. On entering the formal receiving room, he discovered his father present as well. Queen Bryna dropped onto the gel-duo seat at her husband’s side, presenting united resolve.

King Hazan speared him with a dignified look, his gray-streaked black hair tidy, his black-and-white eveningwear still pristine despite the late hour. “You must decide on a woman to take to wife. It is time for you to marry and produce an heir.”

“Past time,” his mother added, her will clear in her vivid green gaze. “We’ve had this discussion before.”

Straight to business. Of course. It was their duty, his duty to ensure their line lived on at the head of the House of the Cat. Jarlath remained standing instead of dropping onto the gel chair opposite his parents. He disliked this stiff, formal room with its blend of modern tech—the silent servant droid in the corner waiting in sleep mode and unable to record private discussion—and the artifacts from various universes purchased and collected by his mother to impress visitors. A jeweled looking glass from Slyvia, an ornately carved bone chair with a gel cushion pad from Mutto and a locked case of antique hair combs. The formal portraits of previous House rulers glared down from the opposite wall. Both he and Lynx had endured lectures and reprimands in this receiving room.

He took his time while trying to formulate an argument as to why he should wait. He didn’t want to argue with his parents. Lynx, his younger brother, caused enough tension, but
grata
, he was tired of duty. He’d tried to put off this moment, sidestepping each of their attempts at matchmaking. But now, with both of his parents approaching the subject as a team, he found himself trapped.

Fighting a wince and the need to limp, he strode to the window and stared out at the huge public square, which lay outside the castle outer walls. Their subjects strolled beneath colored lights and leafy trees. Others browsed the many evening market stalls that would remain open late into the night. One level down the guidance lights from chubby gray flymos cut through the sky as the vehicles zipped and zapped through the sky, jostling for airspace. The snub-nose utility vehicles with their rounded bodies were popular with the locals for shifting cargo and people around the city. Royal decree stated any pilot who took a flight path over the square or castle would receive an invitation to spend time in the dungeons. Not many accepted the offer.

“Jarlath?” his mother prompted. “What do you say?”

Struggling for patience, he inhaled and turned to face his parents. His father bore the straight carriage of a royal, his lined yet handsome face arranged in a serious mien. His light green eyes had darkened to a mossy green, as had those of his subjects who had lost access to their felines. His father was the perfect ruler, always maintained correct protocol and seemed happy with the responsibility, so why did Jarlath’s royal duties make him feel as if a chokenoose circled his neck?

His mother cocked her head, her lips firming in disapproval. His father tightened his hand around the metallic head of the cat that topped his walking cane.

They expected an answer.

One particular answer.

The idea of marriage and the boring rounds of social gatherings plus the pressure of producing an heir scared him silly. An entire lifespan of obligation and service. Once that was all he’d wanted, but he’d changed. For once, he’d like to do something for himself instead of following the rules. And didn’t that make him selfish?

“Do you have a list of suitable candidates?” His words tightened his chest, his throat until he had to tug at his formal cravat to release the tension.

“Yes, of course,” his mother said. “You can collect the list from me in the morning.”

“Was there anything else?” Jarlath had to force the words past the lump lodged in his gullet.

“I sought an audience with the head of medicine today,” his father said.

Alarm surfaced in Jarlath. “Why? Are you ill?”

“I am aging quickly now that my feline has died. My bones pain me,” his father said. “I have discussed this with your mother, and we have decided once you announce your betrothal, I shall step aside and you will take over my role. You are young. Strong. The scientists will find a cure to save our felines, and you will rule for a long time.”

“What?” That knot in his throat was growing, growing, growing until he thought his neck might explode with the pressure. He coughed to clear the obstacle. “What did you say?”

“Once your betrothal is announced, I intend to step aside and you will take over as king of the House of the Cat.”

His mother beamed with approval.

Jarlath…he wasn’t sure how to react, which emotion to tag. Worry for his father’s health, respect for his father who had carried out his duties as leader with a deft hand and…and the weight of responsibility.

Jarlath found himself nodding like a wooden puppet, controlled by some outside force. “It would be my honor.”

Stars and meteors, had those words come from him? No, no! He didn’t want the kingship. He didn’t want marriage to a woman who merely desired position and prestige. He didn’t want to provide heirs and subject his children to this bloody yoke.

“You do us proud, my son,” his father said. “You will make a good king.”

Unspoken were the words of Lynx’s embarrassing exploits.

“I find myself fatigued,” Jarlath said, anxious to escape. He walked around a low table bearing a glittering black cat statue and over to the gel-duo seat where his parents sat. He stooped to press a kiss to his mother’s smooth, perfumed cheek. He kissed his father’s hand. “Good rest,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morn.”

“Take care of that eye,” his father said.

“I will. Villars has given me an ointment to treat the bruising.”

Jarlath strode from the room, praying to every goddess for his legs to get him to his private wing before he crumpled under the weight of expectation.

His valet waited for him, even though he’d told the older man not to bother. Jarlath bit back his grumpiness and gave Villars a stiff nod.

“How was the ball, Prince Jarlath?” His pale green eyes glittered with interest from a face mapped with wrinkles. “Let me help you from your jacket.”

Jarlath allowed his valet to tug the close-fitting black garment from his shoulders. Churlish to refuse when the man had waited for him. Churlish to ignore his queries when the man had looked after him since his first shift at the age of twelve cycles. Churlish, too, to unleash his temper when the man was blameless.

“I think I danced with every single woman in the kingdom and several from neighboring planets and satellites. My feet hurt.” He yanked off his wrinkled cravat.

“Ah, I did suggest you wear your other shoes.”

“You did, Villars, and next time I will follow your suggestions.” Once free of his jacket, Jarlath kicked off the offending shoes. “Why don’t you seek your bed, Villars? Don’t you have an early flight tomorrow? I can manage the rest. I thought I’d have a glass of apecot port before I retire.”

“I have set out a glass and the decanter in your sitting room, Prince Jarlath.”

“Thank you, Villars. Your ability to read my mind is uncanny. I don’t know what I’m going to do without you while you’re visiting your new grandchild.”

Villars smiled, broad and toothy. “You always have a glass of apecot after a night out.”

Flaming meteors, was he that predictable? Things were worse than he’d feared. Ellard met him at the stables every afternoon to go for a ride, even though he never called for him. Villars set out his apecot port. He’d even picked out his shoes, and Jarlath had rejected his choice, just to be contrary. The result—a nice fat blister on his heel.

“If that is all, Prince Jarlath, I’ll leave you to your apecot. You know, I can still arrange a temporary replacement until my return.”

“No, I don’t want a replacement. I’ll manage until your return. Good rest, Villars, and thank you for the eye ointment. It has helped to ease the throbbing. Enjoy your holiday and give your new grandchild a kiss for me.”

Jarlath waited until the door closed behind his valet before he prowled and paced past the room containing his entertainment center. He hesitated, taking in the screen that took up an entire wall and the holo headset he’d discarded on a float table, then shrugged irritably and continued. His restlessness took him through to his sitting room, where he paused to pour a glass of apecot. The pale golden liquid sloshed into a chill-vessel and out the rim on the other side. Jarlath cursed and snatched up the drink. He fingered the excess drops from the vessel and took a large sip. The liquid burned down his throat, melting the lump of tension so his throat began to feel more normal. With apecot in hand, Jarlath stalked the confines of the luxurious room.

King.

His destiny, and as the heir, he needed a wife. Yes, he’d choose her from a list, but in reality, his parents were picking his spouse—the woman who would stand at his side until death parted their union. It was a sobering, scary thought. Another swallow of apecot slid down as he admitted the truth.