Iloria (9 page)

Iloria laid her hand over the pronounced curve of her belly. Farran had been a dedicated soldier, a determined husband, and he’d thrown himself head-first into preparing for impending fatherhood. “He’s been wonderful, Ciar. There aren’t words, truly.”

“A shock to all of us who know him well.” When they reached the bench, Ciar helped her settle before taking a seat at her side. “Not that I find him changed. Mellowed, perhaps? Happy, I dare say.”

“As am I.” And now, sitting beside him, she could finally admit the truth. “Not a day goes by that I’m not grateful you didn’t want me, you know. I feel we’re well enough acquainted now for you not to take offense at that.”

“My heart was already spoken for.” Ciar’s golden hair fell over his eyes as he leveled his famously charming smile at her. “I’m nothing but relieved to learn that my friend’s heart has been just as surely claimed.”

She looked around, taking in the hustle of the festival. The laughter, the color and activity, all of it fascinated her. There was a humbling honesty about village life she’d never seen at court—at least, not before Ciar and Sabine had taken their thrones. “I was meant to be here.”

“Then things truly worked out for the best.” He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “It means a great deal to me, you know, that you welcome us so readily into your home. Sabine enjoys the respite from court life.”

“Yes, she does.” Sabine leaned over the back of the bench and kissed her husband’s temple. “I tried to keep him away for longer, love, but he just said he would buy her one of everything and headed back here.”

Ciar sighed. “And here I thought you were an expert at managing unmanageable wolves.”

“Only her own.” Farran slid strong hands over Iloria’s shoulders, his touch gentle and possessive at the same time. “Shame on you, Ciar, for using your mate against me.”

Iloria patted her husband’s hand. “Don’t fret. I kept your oldest friend from drinking the Wallace boy’s punch, and he made me sit down for a rest. Everyone wins.”

Farran’s bark of laughter drew startled glances, but he only shook his head. “She did you a favor, Ciar. Even the lions couldn’t brew liquor that foolhardy, and you know how they feel about reckless living.”

“Then your lady deserves my thanks.” Ciar rose and held out a hand to Sabine. “Shall we shock the town by showing them how much we enjoy a good country reel?”

The High Lady tossed her head with a laugh. “If we can find a lively, obliging fiddle player who can keep up with us.”

When they were gone, Farran settled into the spot Ciar had abandoned and wrapped an arm around her waist. “You promised me you’d take it easy this afternoon, love.”

“Mmm, and I have.” He looked adorably put out, and she had to kiss him, so she dropped a peck to his cheek. “Relax. Everything is fine. Better than fine.”

Farran dropped a protective hand to her belly. “Everything is perfect.”

She wound her fingers together with his. “But you’re still worried about passing on the curse.”

“I used to dread it,” he admitted quietly. “I used to swear I would never inflict such a life on a son. Now I realize it isn’t so terrible.”

It was a gift beyond measure, the knowledge that she’d brought him peace enough to live his life instead of simply enduring it. Tears pricked her eyes, and she smiled through them. “We can show him happiness. Love.”

He kissed her cheek, and his beard rasped over her skin as he moved his lips to her ear. “Enough of both to last a lifetime.”

“Or more.”

Story One:
Sabine

Story Two:
Kisri

Story Three:
Iloria

Sneak Peek:
Shira

Enjoy this excerpt from the fourth and final
And the Beast
story. For an exclusive look at the cover and an extended excerpt, visit
MoiraRogers.com
.

#

Once, she’d been a lioness, proud and fierce.

Once she’d been a woman. Not of great wealth, nor of unspeakable beauty. But one man desired her body, a man of considerable means. A lion who did not care for
proud
and
fierce
.

A curse took her will to resist him, made her exotic in all the ways he treasured, all the ways a lioness should not be. Obedient. Submissive.

One, she’d been a lioness. Now she was a mouse.

#

“I’m sorry,
who
is she?”

The valet looked embarrassed, as if he’d rather be anywhere else than dealing with this particular issue. “Your uncle’s mistress, my lord. The only one he kept on his estate.”

Evidently, Malrion had been unaware of a good many of his uncle’s affairs, but a
mistress
... “Did he make provisions for her?”

Ammon’s lips twitched into a disapproving frown. “No. Do I have your leave to speak bluntly?”

“Your—” Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. Mal braced both hands on the window sill and stared down into the garden below, where the raven-haired woman sat. “Speak, man.”

“Your uncle preferred his women pliable, but could command neither their respect nor their fear. He bound his mistress to him with magic to ensure her submission.”

Mal’s blood ran cold. Such things were the province of evil men, not decent ones. “Was she willing before he had her bound? Did she know what he’d planned for her?”

“They say she loved him, in the beginning. That he wooed her, and she was willing.” The valet’s voice sounded tired. “Only she knows the truth. The curse that bound her to obedience died with your uncle, but she is...”

A shadow. Mal could see it even from his vantage point high above. “Is she human?” Perhaps she had family.

But Ammon shook his head. “A lioness. Before I sent for you, I inquired after her family. She had only a brother, who died in the first year of the war.”

If Mal turned her out, she would have nowhere, no one. “I shall make her a ward of the royal household, then. We’ll find her a position.” He turned to Ammon. “Have her brought to me.”

The man sketched a clumsy bow, already backing toward the door in his haste. “As you wish, my lord.”

“Yes,” Mal muttered when he’d gone. “As I wish.”

How do you make a Moira Rogers? Take a former forensic science and nursing student obsessed with paranormal romance and add a computer programmer with a passion for gritty urban fantasy. Toss in a dash of whimsy and a lot of caffeine, and enjoy with a side of chocolate by the light of the full moon.

By day, Bree and Donna are mild-mannered ladies who reside in the Deep South. At night, when their husbands and children are asleep, they combine forces to unleash the product of their fevered imaginations upon the page. To learn more about this romance writing, crime fighting duo, visit their webpage at http://www.moirarogers.com. (Disclaimer: crime fighting abilities may appear only in the aforementioned fevered imaginations.)