Free Iloria by Moira Rogers

her haste to reach the High Lord before he served himself from the wrong tureen. “Not that punch,” she said quickly, steering his arm toward the other offering. “This one.”
    Ciar let out an exasperated noise as he slipped an arm around her waist. “You promised your husband you’d sit , Iloria. He’ll roar at me if he discovers you rushed over here to save me from whatever’s in the punch. Surely it isn’t so dire.”
    “You say that because you haven’t tasted it. You’re welcome for that, by the way.”
    The High Lord guided her away from the table, and the crowd melted away in front of him. He took it for granted, coaxing her toward the well-padded bench Farran had insisted on when she’d indicated she would not be missing the spring planting festival. “Now you’ve made me curious. What is in that tureen?”
    The blacksmith’s son made the liquor in a barrel in the stables—and not a particularly clean barrel, at that. She changed the subject. “Where is my husband, by the way?”
    “Sabine lured him away to look at birthing day gifts for you.” Ciar lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “A ruse, I’m sure, to give you a few moments peace from the overly solicitous father-to-be.”
    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.