The Queen's Bastard

AKILINA PANKEJEFF, DVORYANIN

14 November 1587 Lutetia There is something wrong with the guardsman.

Akilina chose him at random out of Gregori’s ranks, once the death services were attended to. She chose him for his rough-hewn good-looks and a tendency toward cleanliness that most of his brethren didn’t seem to share, and that, she realises now, is what’s wrong. His thick hair looks greasy, his brown eyes bright with fever. Sweat stands against swarthy skin and trickles into his beard, and she thinks she can smell him, even from half a room away. It’s not like him, and a combination of curiosity and disgust compels her to snap her fingers and gesture him toward her. “Lutetia doesn’t agree with you…?”

“Viktor, my lady,” he supplies without resentment, though she’s sure she’s asked before. His gaze flickers to the side, unwilling to meet hers. That would be proper, except for the skittishness she sees in him.

“Look at me, Viktor.” Command suits her voice well. Viktor draws his shoulders back, coming to full attention and bringing his eyes to hers. “Lutetia disagrees with you?” she asks again. “You’ve kept close to me since we’ve arrived, and you look ill.” It’s only as she says it that Akilina realises it’s true. In the handful of days she’s been at Sandalia’s court, of all the guards, Viktor has never been far from her side. Even when weariness must have had him wanting his rest, he’s been nearby. Delight curves her mouth and she considers him again, this time as a cat might a morsel. He needs bathing-God, he needs bathing!-but he’s broad of shoulder and if there’s a thickness to him through the hips, all the better; fragile men have never been to her taste.

That thought, inevitably, brings the pale, ginger-haired Javier to mind. He is beautifully shaped, though his slender body makes Akilina think of a boy not yet grown to a man’s form. She has little doubt of his male assets, but now isn’t the time to explore that road. Not with news of his engagement coming so quickly on the heels of Akilina’s arrival that she might think it deliberate if she didn’t know better. As it is, an alliance with the little Lanyarchan girl strikes Akilina as enormously funny, and she has every intention of remaining in the Gallic court long enough to watch the romance play out. There will, after all, be pieces to pick up afterward, and Akilina fancies herself something of an expert at puzzles.

Which brings her back to Viktor’s attentiveness. It seems a simple puzzle, to be sure, but pleasing to unravel regardless. “Are you unwell?” Heartsick? she wants to ask, but it’s far more entertaining to play it out and see if the man condemns himself with his own tongue. A guard ought not look so high as a noblewoman, though should her eye fall so low he dares not turn away. Such is the narrow path offered to the lower classes, and Akilina enjoys making a man walk its balance.

“Not ill, my lady,” Viktor replies, but he sounds uncertain of himself. Akilina cocks an eyebrow and leans forward, arching her throat as she smiles up at him. His gaze falls to her breasts and then jerks away again, more caution in him than many a man bothers to show.

“Too little sleep, then.” She traces a finger along her jaw, then down the line of her throat, watching Viktor struggle with where to put his eyes. “You’ve been near me my every waking hour, Viktor. Do you watch over me while I sleep, as well?”

“Yes, my lady.” Viktor’s voice has gone hoarse and he struggles not to watch as Akilina idly follows the curve of her own breast, mounded against corsets. The attempt is valiant, and she would admire him for it if it didn’t amuse her so much.

“And why do you watch me so closely, guardsman?” Viktor’s erection is plain to see against his pants. It’s a shame he’s so badly in need of a bath, or the afternoon might take a far more entertaining turn than Akilina had anticipated.

Viktor, thickly, says, “She told me to,” and Akilina’s hands grow chilly, ceasing their exploration of her body. The afternoon, it seems, will yet provide some entertainment.

“She?” That Sandalia would put a spy on her is to be expected. That she’d choose one of Akilina’s own people is both audacious and foolish: the strain of surveillance is a thing to be worked up to, to be taught, not dropped into the lap of an amateur. It explains Viktor’s failing health and his sharp scent; he is absolutely unprepared for this kind of work.

“Rosa,” he answers, then draws his eyebrows down heavily and passes a hand over his face. “Rosa,” he says again, but there’s uncertainty in his voice. Akilina stands, moving closer to him even though doing so causes her to hold her breath.

“Who is Rosa, Viktor?” The command is gone from her voice, leaving gentleness. He seems close to breaking, this strong Khazarian guard, and it would be a shame for him to shatter before she understands the game he’s been drawn into.

“Prince Javier’s woman,” he responds, and Akilina’s astonishment blooms into laughter.

“Javier’s woman, as you so crudely put it, is Beatrice Irvine, some ignoble gentry from Northern Aulun. She set you to spying on me?”

“Rosa told me to,” Viktor says stubbornly, and something in his gaze clears, fever pitch fading as he turns a glower on Akilina. It’s a moment before he seems to realise whom he’s scowling at, and then he shakes himself and drops his gaze. “I’m sorry, my lady.”

“Viktor.” Akilina puts a fingertip beneath his chin and forces his head up again. “Lady Irvine reminds you of a Rosa?” This is fine stuff: a guardsman in lust with a lady. Better yet, the prince’s woman. Akilina could have his head for it, and make it a gift to Gallin.

Viktor, it seems, ceases to care that Akilina is his mistress, and turns the full force of frustrated anger on her, black eyebrows drawn low over dark eyes. There’s desperation in him, a broken understanding that bleeds from his gaze. The fever is back, burning in him. “I’ve swivved the bitch, my lady,” he snaps, and even as he speaks it’s clear he doesn’t know how what he says can be, but that he believes it with every fibre of his being. “She more than reminds me. I’d swear on my own grave that she’s the same bit that warmed my bed and Count Gregori’s in the days before he died.”

Heat and cold slip over Akilina’s body like a lover, raising queasiness instead of passion. It fades in seconds, leaving heart-palpitating excitement in its place. “Viktor, Viktor, Viktor.” Akilina covers his lips with her fingertip and steps closer still, risking staining her gown with his sweat. “If you are not right, darling Viktor, it will indeed be your grave you swear on. Now tell me,” she breathes. “Tell me everything.”