She frowned at that, pursing her lips. Evidently, I’d struck a sour note. Pregnant or not, she was very pretty. “Scorron is a more beautiful land, and the Eisenschloss a finer fortress.” She didn’t seem aware that we men of Red March counted the Scorrons as our mortal enemies. No matter—I’ve long been a proponent of love, not war, though they often make close bedfellows. “But you are right, Prince Jalan, Ancrath has much to recommend it.”

“Indeed. I fear though, my queen, that I’m somewhat at a loss here. I think perhaps it would be more seemly if we discussed these matters this afternoon at court? Your beauty is talked of far and wide, and people might mistake my intentions if it were known that . . .” Normally I would be happy to cuckold any man foolish enough to leave a woman like Sareth wanting more . . . but Olidan Ancrath? No. And besides, her pregnancy and my present invalid status both helped to lessen my interest in the opportunity.

Sareth’s face crumpled in dismay, her bottom lip wobbled, and, hefting herself from her chair, she hastened across to kneel beside mine. “Forgive me, Prince Jalan!” She took my dark and callused hands in her slim white ones. “It’s just—just—we’ve all had such a shock what with the arrival of this dreadful boy.”

“Boy?” I’d had very little sleep for two nights now and none of this was making sense.

“Jorg, Olidan’s son.”

“Ah, the lost prince,” I said, enjoying her hands around mine.

“Better he had stayed lost.” And I glimpsed some steel behind her tear-stained prettiness.

Suddenly even my sleep-deprived mind couldn’t refuse to see the problem any longer. This returned prince couldn’t be Sareth’s son, she wasn’t old enough for that . . . A second wife, then, busy producing what she had thought would be an heir of her own?

“Ah.” I leaned forwards, my glance falling to her belly. “I can see his return might be a problem for you.” Her face contorted in misery again. “There, there, don’t cry, my queen.” And I pawed her a bit, the bluff hero comforting a damsel in distress, and perhaps running his hands through that wonderful hair.

“Why couldn’t the boy stay lost and wandering?” She turned those wet-lashed eyes on me.

“Boy, you say?” I’d thought the prince a grown man for some reason. “Just how old is—”

“A child! A week ago he was thirteen and forgotten. Past all care. Now he’s reached majority and . . .” Another flood of tears, her face buried against my shoulder. “Oh, the trouble he’s caused. The chaos in the throne room.”

“It’s a difficult age.” I nodded wisely and drew her closer. It’s an instinct. I can’t help it. She smelled gorgeous, of lilac and honeysuckle, and pregnancy hadn’t just filled her womb—her bodice overflowed with nature’s gifts too.

“In my homeland they call you the Devil of the Aral,” she said. “The Red Prince.”