The Black Prince: Part I by P. J. Fox Page A

Maeve came to me there.”
    He remembered the night well. She’d been a vision in gray, a color that lent her the illusion of innocence. He’d turned, hearing her footstep. Moonlight spilled through the arches. There was nothing but the sound of crickets, chirping in the warm and fragrance-laden air. Honeysuckle, hanging heavy on the vine. Roses. A beautiful woman, as yet young.
    Her hand, resting on his chest as her lips curved into a smile.
    “She thought herself seducing me. I was not married at that time and, I suspect, even at that time Maeve had her doubts. About Brandon. About the world. I would have been a conquest.” He paused. “I tell you this not to brag but to teach. There are women—and men—who love for pure and selfless reasons. And then there are those who do not.”
    Asher nodded.
    Asher, himself, would encounter such women. Perhaps even men. Who sought to beguile him with false promises. To ensnare him. Whose interest extended no further than his title. Tristan was wiser now, but there had been a time when he too had fallen victim to such a ploy. He never spoke of her now, but he remembered Brenna.
    For Asher to survive, he would have to guard his heart.
    Tristan had a man’s form, and a man’s needs. He’d taken Maeve and made her scream in an ecstasy that wasn’t feigned. No doubt surprising her, as there had certainly been nothing of chance in her chance arrival. He was certain that, had he been the world’s biggest boor and impotent to boot, she’d have writhed in his arms and praised him for being a superlative lover. That she’d married Brandon proved that Maeve was the sort who could put up with anything.
    He, himself, had felt nothing. He’d banished her from his room after the act, astonishing her. And he’d never spoken to her again. But he could tell Asher in total truth that yes, he had lain with Asher’s mother. And thus the parentage was possible.
    The silence returned.
    “Envy,” he said, after a long moment, “is a strange thing.”
    “But John….”
    “Has no reason to be envious of you?” Tristan arched an eyebrow. “But he does. That you might think of yourself as less is no guarantor of John’s agreement.” Or anyone else’s. “John is afraid. What his treatment of you is intended to accomplish is to make you afraid, too. So afraid that you crumble inward and cease to be a threat.”
    “A threat?” Asher’s eyes widened slightly. “To what?”
    Ah, so young. Still so young. “Child,” he said patiently, “you have all that he does not. Title or no title. You have intelligence. Skill. A handsome face. Opportunities that John, for all that he is a castellan’s son, could never dream to have. John,” he continued, “was not asked to serve as a page.” And castellans’ sons often were. John’s older brothers had both served, although in minor houses. One was now a knight.
    “You, even with a cloud over your parentage, are more.”
    “Oh.” The sound was a small one.
    “Gideon the Conqueror was his father’s natural child.”
    Something flickered in Asher’s eyes, again, and was gone.
    “But,” Tristan said, adopting a more sinister tone, “if you’re going to be the son of a duke, then you must learn to control yourself. And on that score, before I send you out to apologize to John for robbing him of his teeth, we have much to discuss.”



NINE
    I sla slid the sponge along the inside of her arm. Rivulets of warm water ran down over her skin. She dipped the sponge in the water again. The air smelled of chamomile and lavender, the herbs that had been steeped in it. Herbs used for relaxation, and the easing of pains. Pains Isla felt less frequently now, but that still plagued her at odd times.
    She lifted the sponge again, moving on to her ribcage.
    As a noblewoman, she had her own bath. She’d de facto had her own bath back at Enzie, but only because no one else there wanted to bathe. Here, however, the large wooden tub belonged exclusively