“Lucivar,” Jaenelle said quietly.
He stared at her, focused on her sapphire eyes.
She walked up to him and placed one hand against his cheek. “Lucivar.”
He closed his eyes and breathed in the physical scent of her and the dark psychic scent that was both a balm and an enticement. He didn’t want her sexually—had never wanted her that way—but the hugs and sisterly kisses kept him balanced in a way nothing else had ever done.
Hold the leash, he silently pleaded. Choke me into obedience if that’s what it takes.
She just stood there, her hand against his cheek, until those jagged edges of temper receded—and made him aware of something that brought a different edge to his temper.
“Where’s your escort?” he demanded.
“It’s been a warm afternoon,” Jaenelle replied. “Jaal is sprawled in the stream out back.”
Lucivar snarled. “He didn’t even rouse himself to find out who had entered the cottage.”
Jaenelle lifted both eyebrows to express surprise. “You wanted to be pounced on by a wet tiger?”
Being near her had restored enough of his balance that he took a moment to consider that. “No.”
“Didn’t think so. That’s why I told him to stay where he was.” She stepped back and turned toward the archway that led to the kitchen. “I have a small keg of ale.”
“I have half a steak pie, cheese, and a fresh loaf of bread.”
Jaenelle grinned at him. “In that case, you can stay for dinner.”
He waited until they’d eaten and were sitting on the porch, watching twilight smudge the land into soft shapes.
“I need help, Cat,” he said quietly, using his nickname for her to indicate he needed help from his sister, not his Queen.
“Still being overrun by helpful ladies?” Jaenelle asked.
“No. Well, yes, but . . .” He took a deep breath, knowing he was about to walk the crumbling edge of a sheer cliff. “I found Roxie in my bed when I got home today.”
“Roxie,” Jaenelle said in that midnight voice that chilled her court.
Roxie didn’t like Jaenelle, and Jaenelle didn’t like Roxie. The difference was Roxie didn’t have enough power to do anything with that feeling. Jaenelle disliking someone was out and out dangerous.
Lucivar rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. “I need a housekeeper. I need a dragon who will—”
Jaenelle cocked her head and looked at him.
“No.” His nerves jumped, making him feel like he had tiny bugs skittering all over his skin. “Not a real dragon.” Not that he didn’t like the dragons who lived in the Fyreborn Islands. He did. He enjoyed wave whomping with them whenever he and Jaenelle visited the islands. But the last thing he needed was a dragon the size of a pony—not including the tail—waiting by the door to flame anyone who crossed the threshold.
“It would solve the problem of uninvited guests,” Jaenelle pointed out.
“No.”
She got that half-puzzled look on her face that always made him think of a kitten puzzling over a large, hoppy bug. “I wonder if any of the kindred have witches with a gift for hearth-Craft. What would they use it for?”
“It doesn’t matter.” His voice sounded firm, didn’t it? Hell’s fire, he hoped it sounded firm. “I need a human with enough housekeeping skills that Helene and Merry will be satisfied that the eyrie is being tended and whose presence will keep any other females from thinking that—” He bit back the words. Best not to mention Roxie again.
Jaenelle hesitated. “There is a hearth witch who has come to Kaeleer recently.”
“Through the service fairs?” Lucivar asked, wondering about Jaenelle’s hesitation. The twice-yearly service fairs in Little Terreille had been set up to deal with the flood of Terreilleans fleeing the cruelty of the courts and Territories under the influence of Dorothea SaDiablo, the High Priestess of Hayll.
“No,” Jaenelle replied. “I brought her in.”
What in the name of Hell were you doing in Terreille? He knew better than to ask her that question. He’d just visit the Hall in the next day or two and ask his father.
“She may be . . . content . . . where she is,” Jaenelle said, “but I can ask if she’d consider being your housekeeper.”
“All right.”
Jaenelle nodded. “I can—” Her mood turned grumpy, and she rolled her eyes. “No, I can’t. I have to do Queenly things tomorrow, and there’s a formal . . . something . . . late in the evening.”