Free WinterofThorns by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

ladies-in-waiting
quipped. “Look at those blue eyes!”
    Tall, handsome and with the regal bearing
of a man who knew who and what he was and that the world was his to command, he
plowed through the simpering toadies milling about the Great Hall and left them
in his wake. His broad shoulders were like a battering ram and the chiseled set
of his strong jaw gave mute evidence that he was a man with whom to reckon. The
steady glint in his pale-blue eyes warned off those who would delay him and
raked speculatively over the comely females who batted their eyelashes at him
as he passed. Those fearless orbs were like spotlights as they swept across
everyone visiting the Great Hall.
    The moment he saw her, he changed
course—causing those behind him to crash into one another—and made a beeline to
where she stood.
    “Lady Millicent. My favorite godmother,”
Vindan said, grinning broadly. He took her hands and brought each to his lips.
    “Your only godmother,” she reminded him.
    “And her dearly loved.” His eyes twinkled.
“To what do I owe the honor, milady?”
    “As if you need to ask, Vindan.”
    “Am I in trouble?” he inquired.
    When she cocked her head to one side and
lifted her eyebrows, he drew in a long breath then slowly exhaled. “Ahh.”
    She hooked her arm through his. “Let’s take
a stroll through your beautiful garden where we may have a bit of privacy,
shall we?”
    “I am at your command, milady,” he agreed.
He covered her hand with his where it rested on his arm. “You had a pleasant
journey I hope.”
    “Quite pleasant,” she replied, nodding
regally at a few courtiers and their ladies they passed.
    “Could use some rain,” he commented.
    “True, but the stormy season will soon be
upon us and we’ll wish for the rain to stop,” she countered.
    He laughed. “Aye, we will.”
    They walked into the lush gardens of
Wicklow—strolling slowly down the herringbone brick path that wound its way to
the massive fountain in the center of the garden—and spoke of the plants
growing there. After pausing to gaze at the fountain and its rainbow assortment
of koi swimming in the bubbling waters, they moved on to the far reaches where
a lovely white gazebo perched among vibrant red rose bushes. Upon gaining the gazebo,
he escorted her up the three broad steps to the interior. She walked to the
wicker swing, tucked her flowing gown carefully beneath her and took a seat in
the direct center of the swing, forcing him to stand beside her.
    “Ouch,” he said. “A silent reprimand if
ever you’ve issued one to me.” He wrapped his hand around one of the silver
chains that held up the swing.
    “Do you remember your fourth birthday,
Vindan?” she asked, smoothing her skirt, not looking at him.
    “I am afraid I don’t, milady.”
    “I do,” she stated.
    “I would imagine so, else you’d not have
brought it up,” he said with a light chuckle.
    “That was the year I gave you the replica
of the latest Fiach runabout. It was black with a red Reaper emblem on the
bow.”
    “I don’t recall it, milady,” he said, his
brows drawn together.
    “The next day I gave your friend—my son—a
Fiach, also but his was red with a black Reaper emblem.”
    “I remember that one,” he said with a fond
smile.
    “You should,” she said. “You snatched it
from Seyzon and gave him yours—which you had broken within hours of me giving
it to you.”
    The smile slipped from the prince’s face.
“I don’t remember doing that.”
    “I’m sure you don’t, Vindan, but you should
because you repeated that gesture time and again when your friend had something
you wanted. If the queen was present at Wicklow she would make you return
whatever it was you took from Seyzon but you’d always throw quite the tantrum
afterward.”
    “Your point, milady?” He was looking at the
chain in his hand and not at her, picking at the rust on a link.
    “Only that whenever you were ordered to
return something to my son that