That would be his proposal that Raisa send her armies against King Geoff as a kind of betrothal gift to Gerard.

“I was willing to listen,” Raisa said. “But it seems that circumstances have changed.”

“Yes. They have. I am no longer in need of your army, which puts us on a different footing when it comes to marriage negotiations.”

“Does it?” Raisa said. “So. Am I to understand that you are no longer interested in an alliance by marriage?”

Montaigne shook his head. “I am very much interested in pursuing a marriage contract with you.” He paused. “Though I am not so much interested in an alliance as a consolidation of holdings.”

And I’m not interested in either one, Raisa thought.

“Your Majesty,” she said, “I had not even dreamed that we would be discussing this tonight. I expect you must have your hands full, with your new responsibilities. As I hope you can understand, there is much to do here in the Fells before I consider…external affairs.”

“On the contrary, I believe I have a certain momentum,” Montaigne said. “You have seen what I can accomplish in a short time. I see no reason to delay the inevitable. The resources in the Fells are complementary to our own, and would help restore our depleted treasury. This would be the next logical step.”

You honey-tongued romantic, you, Raisa thought, doing her best not to roll her eyes. As usual, it’s all about you and what’s best for you. She was suddenly eager to get Gerard Montaigne out of her queendom as quickly as possible.

She cast about for an excuse. “I will carefully consider what you’ve said,” she said. “But you should know that here in the Fells, it is customary to remain in mourning for a year after the death of a parent. That prevents hasty decision-making while in the throes of grief. I could not consider celebrating a marriage or negotiating changes in political structure any time soon.”

The song ended, and they came to a stop. “Good evening, Your Majesty,” Raisa said. “Safe travels home.” She curtsied a good-bye, trying to pull free, but Montaigne kept hold of her arm, dragging her toward a windowed alcove at the side of the ballroom.

“I’m not finished,” he said. “Perhaps I’ve not made myself clear to you.”

Raisa set her feet, resisting, and suddenly they were walled in—Amon Byrne, Han Alister, Cat Tyburn, and three of the Gray Wolves—with Micah close behind them.

“You take your hands off me before I have you arrested,” Raisa said, her voice like ground glass.

Montaigne let go of Raisa’s arm.

“I don’t know what customs you keep in the south,” she went on, “but I will not be manhandled in my own court. By anyone.”