His voice was quiet, marked with the faint accent all the trolls had, and showed no concern for the female companion his father had just slapped. I shuddered, wishing he would turn around and, at the same time, hoping he wouldn’t.
“I’m certain Anaïs will regret dropping the game,” the King said.
The Prince laughed softly, but he didn’t sound the least bit amused to me. “Unlikely, given that she was losing. She hates to lose.”
The King frowned. “Tristan, I thought you’d want to have a look at the girl before we…” he glanced over at me, “finalized the contract.”
The Prince’s hand flexed, fingers digging ever so slightly into the upholstery. I might not even have noticed if not for the fact my eyes had been fixated on that one glimpse of flesh, trying to judge his proportion and failing mightily.
“Why?” The irritation in his voice cut across the room. “My opinion of this venture has counted for nothing up to this point.”
“Well, it matters now,” the King snapped. “Look at her. Decide.”
The Prince didn’t move. “And if I say no?”
“Then we’ll procure another.”
“And if I don’t like her,” the Prince asked, “will you procure another? Will you empty your vaults searching for a human girl who meets the criteria and whom I find tolerable? Will the river run red with the blood of my discards?” Not waiting for an answer, he said, “This one will do as well as any.”
He rose suddenly from the chair, and before I had the chance to take a breath, he turned. All my preparations were for naught, for despite the magic gagging me, I still managed to gasp aloud.
He was nothing like what I’d expected.
CHAPTER 5
CéCILE
Prince Tristan was tall and lean, and a fierce intellect gleamed in his silver troll eyes. He couldn’t have been much older than I was – that is, if trolls aged the same way humans do. Dressed impeccably, he wore a black frock coat with a single-breasted vest and fine linen shirt beneath. Black breeches were tucked into black riding boots that I doubted had ever seen the sides of a horse.
He also had the most exquisite face of any boy I’d ever seen. Inky black hair, sculpted cheekbones and jaw, and a full but unsmiling mouth. He looked like Prince Charming from the fairytales, except for one thing: Prince Charming was human, and the boy standing in front of me was decidedly not. His pale skin was too flawless, his motions too smooth and controlled. My skin prickled with a sense of wrongness.
He crossed his arms. “You know, it is exceedingly rude to stare.”
I flinched and began an intent examination of the carpet at my feet. Apparently I could scratch the charming bit as well.
“Be pleasant, Tristan,” the Duchesse said.
He sniffed. “She’s the rude one, Aunty. First she stares and now she refuses to look at me. I’m quite convinced I have greens or something worse stuck between my teeth.”
I glanced up, hoping to catch a glimpse of said teeth. He caught me and grinned. “Were you expecting them to be pointed?”
My face burned and I fixed my eyes back on the carpet, determined never to look up again. I immediately caught myself glancing through my eyelashes at him once more.
“Pointed teeth would give one an appearance of ferocity,” he said, tapping a straight white tooth. “Although that might require one to follow through with biting someone from time to time, and the thought is enough to make one feel ill. I don’t even like my meat cooked rare.”
“You bit Vincent once,” Marc said from behind me. “So you can’t be entirely opposed to the idea.”
Tristan shot a vitriolic glare in his direction. “Curse you for bringing up such vile memories, Marc, and in the presence of a girl. In my defense, lady, I was only three and Vincent was sitting on my head. I rather thought I was about to meet my end suffocated between his bum cheeks. Anyone would have done the same. Wouldn’t you agree, mademoiselle… what did you say her name was again?”
Even if I hadn’t a gag of magic in my mouth, I wouldn’t have dared spoken.
Tristan peered at me as though I were a curious insect. “She isn’t mute, is she? That would be dreadful.” He leaned back against the chair, his strange eyes fixed on me. “On second thought, perhaps it wouldn’t be dreadful at all. I hardly need another woman in my life telling me what to do, and it would mean I could do all the talking and she the listening.”
“Perhaps our mistake was in not finding you a deaf one,” Marc said. “And her name is Cécile de Troyes, which you very well know, so quit pretending otherwise.”
“Thank you, cousin. It was on the tip of my tongue. Now Mademoiselle de Troyes, tell us your thoughts. Astound us with your wit.”
“Mmmmm hmmmm,” I mumbled around the gag.
“Could you repeat that?” he said, coming closer. “Afraid I didn’t quite catch the punch line.” A slender finger caught me under the chin, lifting my face. He frowned. “Release her, Aunty.”
“She tried to run.”
A noise of exasperation passed his lips. “To where? There is nowhere for her to go, nowhere to hide. Binding her is unnecessary.”
His flippancy made my heart sink – the very idea of my escape was so improbable to him that it was little more than a jest.
I felt power brush over my skin, and I dropped to numb feet. If not for Marc taking hold of my arm, I’d have sprawled across the carpets in front of them all.