Hello, lovelies! This week I’m teasing you with another snippet from the third book in my Two Thrones series, Lady of Thorns. Please note that this story will NOT be about Danaë and Matthias (their parallel adventure will be in Book 4), but it does feature Lady Amelie le Clerq, the young, prickly Terra magistra and heiress to the Lady of Lierdhe, and the eminently sneaky Counselor Alain LaPorte from Palace of Scoundrels. The best way I can describe it is, imagine Lady Mary Crawley from Season 1 Downton Abbey and Alan Shore from Boston Legal going head to head.

So to speak. Ahem. And while I know I promised some hanky panky this week, I thought I’d give you a peek at the other half of the romantic equation. Next week, naughty business for sure!

Many thanks to Angelica Dawson for hosting us, and make sure to hit the list after the teaser to see other great Mid Week Teases!

Alain LaPorte studied the business contract, lips pursed in thought. “You were right to bring this to me,” he said to the man seated on the other side of the desk. “It’s a sweet bit of legal chicanery.”

“I was afraid of that,” Ser Olaoye Jogimo said. The glassblower was known throughout Mons for his elegant work, particularly in mirrors, and supposedly had the ear of the king himself. “The terms were just this side of too reasonable, and Ser Rorche made it clear that he wanted it signed as soon as possible before he left on a trip to one of his lavender fields. He’s too good a businessman to offer a contract like this so quickly unless it benefits himself, but I couldn’t see where the trap was.”

“Unsurprising.” Alain tapped the offending clause. “He’s using a very old business law called familia onus, where a failure on an artisan’s part to fulfill a contract could be passed on as a debt to a family member, if that family member was wealthier than the artisan. Enough well-to-do businessmen and noblemen alike were stung by it that they reached a rare agreement and had the law changed so that none of them could be held to account for the poor business decisions of their relatives.”

The glassblower’s eyes narrowed. “There’s a but in that statement.”

Alain nodded. “The revised law only applies to guild members and businessmen. Ser Rorche, however, must believe that you have a relative who is quite wealthy in his own right but is not a nobleman nor a guild member. If you have any issues fulfilling this contract, Ser Rorche could have demanded restitution from that relative.”

Jogimo let out a slow, hissing breath through his nose. “That would have been extremely foolish on his part.”

“Mm. I assume that you do have a rich relative?”

“You could say that. My mother is an Aqua mage, and she’s done quite well for herself over the years.”

Alain winced. “Oh, dear. Yes, she would definitely be affected by the familia onus rule. And of course Ser Rorche could elect to have the debt discharged in non-financial ways.” Meaning Ser Jogimo’s magistra mother could be required to work magic, most likely expensive magic, at Rorche’s request. As Jogimo had already pointed out, that would have been foolish in the extreme, but most businessmen didn’t know the many ways a mage could make their irritation known.

Alain, on the other hand, did. He still remembered the former client who had tried to legally force an Aqua mage into creating a freshwater spring for him on his estate. The mage had finally acquiesced, and the client triumphantly took the first drink of water from the spring. And the last. Alain wondered if the man was still celibate due to the now-unfortunate color and consistency of his semen.

“However, we’re assuming that I wouldn’t be able to fulfill the contract,” Jogimo continued. “I’m confident that I can produce the number of jars Ser Rorche needs.” He toyed with a silvered glass pendant hanging around his neck. “The thing is, counselor, I’m in the middle of expanding my shop. This particular deal would help fund that greatly. I don’t want to pass it up if I don’t have to.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t. Rorche is a well-respected perfumier and purveyor of fine toiletries. He was just trying to be clever, as any self-respecting businessman would. You can be clever right back at him.” Alain plucked a sharpened quill from a cup and dipped it in ink, then struck out the offending clause in the contract, writing something in the margin. “This removes the familia onus clause and offers a cash guarantee of 25 per cent of the full amount of the contract in case you cannot supply enough jars for Rorche’s creams and unguents. That being said, don’t offer this unless you’re sure you can produce the goods or the cash guarantee.”

Jogimo’s mouth curled in a thin, determined smile. “I can do both. Any other traps I should be aware of?”

“Not that I can see.”

“Good. Then I’ll have this rewritten by my clerk and sent back.” The glassblower got to his feet, straightening his elegant Ghobian robes. “As for your fee, counselor.”

He pulled a small wash leather bag from an inner pocket and handed it over. Alain noted the bag’s weight and peered inside to confirm his suspicions. “That’s more than half again of what I charge for this type of consultation, Ser Jogimo,” he said mildly.

There was a hint of amusement in Jogimo’s expression. “Consider the extra a retainer fee. I suspect I’ll be returning to you for more consultations, if you find that acceptable.”

“I do.” Alain stood and gave the glassblower his hand. “In which case, consider me at your service.”

Another of those thin smiles, and Jogimo left with his revised contract and an idea of what he could expect from his new business partner. Alain took his seat again in satisfaction, opening a drawer in his desk and dropping the clinking wash bag into it. Behind him, he could hear the clock tower that stood at the center of the Law Court striking the hour. Just enough time to get back to his rooms, have a wash, change into clean clothes, and meet Lauranne for dinner at her townhouse. If business kept up like this, he would have to think about buying something nice for her, assuming he could find something that her husband wouldn’t notice—

A knock at the door sounded, and a weathered face topped with a mop of greying hair peered around the edge. Under normal circumstances Petyr Colombe had the sangfroid of a professional gambler, but today the law clerk’s eyes seemed a bit wild. “My apologies, counselor, but you have a visitor,” he said, his customary rumble low and whispered.

Frowning, Alain checked the ledger that served as his desk calendar. Jogimo had been the last scheduled client of the day. “If it’s a new client, ask him to come back tomorrow.”

Colombe shook his head as minutely as possible. “It’s the king, counselor.”

“Oh.” Alain tugged his robe straight. Lauranne would simply have to wait. “By all means, show him in.”

Colombe nodded and disappeared. A moment later the door swung open and King Matthias IV of Ypres entered. Alain got to his feet, giving the monarch a respectful bow. “Your majesty.”

The king held up a hand. “I apologize for showing up unannounced, counselor. I had planned on coming earlier but the day got away from me.”

Everyone in Mons knew that the king was preparing for his annual visit to Hellas to see his wife Queen Danaë. Now that the queen was six months’ gone with child, it was no surprise that the king’s thoughts were focused on crossing the Apennines and reuniting with his wife and incipient heir. “I’m at your service, sire,” Alain said gallantly. “Before we get down to business, however, let me take this opportunity to congratulate both you and the queen on your happy news.”

The king’s expression changed, becoming ever so slightly awed. “Thank you, LaPorte. Sometimes it’s hard to believe it myself. I’m not sure what I’ll do with a brace of babes. Dandle one on each knee, I suppose.”

Alain’s attention perked at that. City gossip had it that Queen Danäe was expecting two babies. “So the queen is having twins, then?”

“Oh, yes, and a most active pair they are, as well,” King Matthias said, then coughed. “At least, that’s what I understand from the queen’s reports. I’m looking forward to seeing her in person.”

Alain tried to imagine the tall, slender queen of Hellas with a belly full of twins. The image was unnerving. “Completely understandable, sire. Now, as to the purpose of your visit?”

“Yes. I was wondering when you planned on heading to Lierdhe?”

Oho. Alain suspected he knew where this was going. “I was leaving tomorrow, sire.”

“I see. And how long do you think it’ll take for you to finish negotiations on the countess’s new irrigation system?”

Of course the king knew about the plans in Lierdhe. “I shouldn’t think more than a week, with a few days travel time on either side.” In truth Alain hoped to cut it down to five days, but even his brief contact with the Lady of Lierdhe was enough to illustrate the force of her will. If she came to loggerheads with the Earl of Bertram on any point, the negotiations would almost undoubtedly run long.

King Matthias nodded. “And you will keep me apprised of your progress, of course.”

And there was the crux of the matter. Lierdhe, the most prosperous farming province in Ypres, had been used by the countess as a bargaining chip to settle her debts. If things had gone according to plan, the province would have become part of the Earl of Leuven’s holdings, making him an extremely powerful man and a possible threat to the throne. Clearly the king didn’t want to risk something similar happening again. “I would be happy to keep the palace updated on my progress, sire. But I thought you yourself started out for Hellas tomorrow.”

The king allowed himself a small smile. “I do, but the prime minister has ways of getting in contact with me. If anything strikes you as odd, send a bird to him immediately.”

Alain bowed. “Of course, sire.”

“Good. I’ll leave you to your preparations. I have my own to complete. Save travels.”

“And to you as well, sire.”

With a brisk nod, the king left. Alain silently counted to ten. Before he reached the final number Colombe slid into the room, closing the door behind him. “I’ve never seen his majesty that close up before,” the clerk said, sounding moderately impressed. “He’s a tall man, isn’t he?”

“Quite tall.” Alain picked up a sheaf of papers and slid them into his satchel. “And he’s made a specific request of me. Once we reach Ardenhaal, you’ll need to find a public bird cote. I may need to send word back to Mons quickly.”

Bushy brows rose at that, but his law clerk was, as always, discreet. “As you wish, counselor.”

The college tower struck the quarter hour. “And on that note, I’d best leave before I have more any last minute visitors,” Alain said, grabbing his black velvet beret and donning it. “I’ll meet you at the gates of the college at first light.”

“Aye.” Colombe threw him a vague salute. “Tomorrow at first light.”

Satisfied, Alain strode out of his office. He still had to pack a few odds and ends, but first he had an appointment to keep at Lauranne’s townhouse.

****

The beautiful blonde next to him in bed stretched lazily, looking like a cat who’d just had an excellent saucer of cream and was now preening in a patch of sunlight. “That was lovely, darling,” she said throatily.

“That was rather good, wasn’t it?” Alain said, only slightly breathless as he rolled onto his back and tucked his hands behind his head. “You quite outdid yourself, my dear.”

“Yes, well.” She flipped over, her pert bottom pale and enticing in the candlelight as she traced his lips with an elegant finger. “I wanted our last hurrah in bed to be a memorable one.”

His mind thew off the post-coital fog, clicking back into its usual speed. “Last hurrah?” He kissed the tip of her finger. “I’ll only be gone for two weeks or so. Surely you can wait that long for me?”

“I would, but I’m afraid it’s not up to me.” She pulled away, sitting up and reaching for a filmy robe. “Bernard has finally been reposted to Mons, and he’s quite insistent on starting a family. And frankly, I’m not getting any younger. I’ll be stopping my childbane as soon as he gets back, and I’m afraid that continuing our little dalliance might confuse the issue.”

Alain watched her lush curves disappear under pale peach silk with a mild sense of regret. “Ah. I see.” And if he was ruthlessly honest with himself, he did. Lauranne Fontaine was the wife of a Ypresian cavalry colonel, a wealthy heiress in her own right, and one of the brightest lights of the capital’s social scene. Theirs had been a most enjoyable affair, but he knew it came with an expiration date. “The queen’s fecundity seems to be creating quite the fashion among the nobility.”

“You wouldn’t be wrong.” Lauranne finished tying the robe’s belt, toying with one end of the delicate silk. “At least six other noblewomen I know are all pregnant or trying to fall pregnant. Their majesties’ offspring will have quite the age cohort to choose from when it comes time for a betrothal.”

He imagined all those clever Ypresian noblewomen jockeying for a chance to get their children on the throne. It would be a scrum for the ages. “If she’s even half as lovely and talented as her mother, I’m sure your child will have the best chance at a royal wedding,” he said gallantly.

Lauranne gave him a flirtatious look from under her thick lashes. “You do have the most marvelous way with words, counselor,” she purred, reaching over and stroking his shoulder. “I truly am sorry about this, you know. If there was any way around it, you know I’d much rather stay with you.”

He captured her hand and kissed it. “I know. But as you said, our affair would risk confusing the issue. Best to make a clean break of it and give your husband’s seed a clear field of battle.”

She made a face. “That’s an unfortunately accurate comparison. Bernard makes love like he wages war—all sound and fury, with him as the winner in the end. Perhaps once I have the child and get my figure back, we can pick up where we left off?”

It was never wise to burn a bridge if it wasn’t necessary. He let a polite leer cross his face. “You know where to find me.”

“Indeed I do.” She dropped the tie end and considered him. “We do have time for another glass of wine before you go, if you like. Bernard won’t be arriving until the morning.”

Her sultry meaning was clear. His penis felt enthusiastic about the idea, but his brain reminded him of all the things he still had to pack. In the end, practicality won out. “I would, but tomorrow’s journey will be long and tiring,” he said, rolling out of bed and locating his scattered clothes. “And I probably should get at least an hour or two of sleep. I’m afraid we’ll just have to wait until you’ve produced the newest blossom on the Fontaine family tree.”

She pouted endearingly, but he continued to dress. Ten minutes later he kissed her goodbye and rode back to the law college and his rooms, mind already on the trip to Lierdhe. He would miss Lauranne’s wit and sensuality, but living in the capital of Ypres meant that there were always more rich, charming women who appreciated a man of his skill and discretion.

He decided to send Lauranne a silver teething ring when the time came. We may well take up where we left off, after all. And in the meantime, I’ll just have to find some way to entertain myself…

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Hello, lovelies! This week I’m teasing you with the opening to the third book in my Two Thrones series, Lady of Thorns. Please note that this story will NOT be about Danaë and Matthias (their parallel adventure will be in Book 4), but it does feature Lady Amelie le Clerq, the young, prickly Terra magistra and heiress to the Lady of Lierdhe, and the eminently sneaky Counselor Alain LaPorte from Palace of Scoundrels. The best way I can describe it is, imagine Lady Mary Crawley from Season 1 Downton Abbey and Alan Shore from Boston Legal going head to head.

So to speak. Ahem.

And voila, hijinks ensue! Next week I’ll post a snippet of their first love scene together, so stay tuned, and make sure to hit the list after the teaser to see other great Mid Week Teases!

A crisp autumn wind blew through the village of Greatham, fluttering the leaves of the great apple tree in the square and making it look as if the tree was waving at the gathered villagers. As today was the official beginning of the Harvest Festival, everyone had been fortified with mugs of ale and hot pasties courtesy of the Duchess of Lierdhe while they waited for the day’s main event. A ragged but happy cheer rose when the duchess’s carriage finally rolled into view, the grand vehicle coming to a creaking stop next to a wooden platform where the mayor and other village officials waited for their esteemed visitor.

Lady Amelie le Clerq swallowed hard as she peered out the window of the carriage. She had tried to argue that the village was close enough to walk to from their castle, but Countess Henriette le Clerq, the Lady of Lierdhe and ruler of the province, had decreed that her heir would arrive in a dignified fashion for her first Ripening Ceremony and that was simply that.

Hence the carriage, not to mention the dress. Amelie scowled down at the diaphanous copper silk gown with its golden girdle that was the Lady’s ceremonial garb for this day. On her mother the gown looked both beautiful and dignified. On her…

I look like I’m playing dress-up. She had a woman’s curves, barely, but they weren’t balanced the way her mother’s were. Too much flesh across the hips, not enough across the breasts, and then there was the good hand’s span of exposed ankle between ground and hem. Worse, there was muscle underneath the softness, a result of her daily walks and the occasional stop to help a milkmaid or farm hand with a task. Amelie believed that a better understanding of her people’s daily lives could only aid her when it came time to govern Lierdhe, but her mother had been horrified the day she came home with one arm slimed to the pit from helping out with a difficult foaling.

Despite all that activity, she still had an exasperatingly round face with an upturned crabapple for a nose, as well as the dark eyes and hair that were a legacy from her father’s family. She couldn’t help feeling like a plump, drab wren next to her glorious cardinal of a mother. And now, wearing the Lady’s garb and about to perform her first Ripening Ceremony, she felt like an impostor as well.

Stop being ridiculous. You’re a fully qualified Terra mage and can perform this ceremony in your sleep. She studied the crowd again and tried to will her nervous stomach to calm as she stepped down from the carriage. The surprised faces in the crowd made it clear that not everyone had been informed about the change in the ceremony.

Squaring her shoulders, she headed for the mayor, a stocky man whose bushy eyebrows and red nose gave him a fatherly attitude. He bowed at her approach. “Lady Amelie, welcome,” he boomed. “It’s an honor for our village to host your first Ripening Ceremony.”

Her answering smile felt stiff, but she had no time to come up with something better. “And it is my pleasure to perform this ceremony for Greatham, mayor,” she announced, hoping no one could hear the tremor in her voice. “Shall we begin?”

“Of course.” He snapped his fingers and an official handed him a carved wooden cup full of spring water. “So that our lands may always be nourished and fruitful,” he announced, handing the cup to her.

Amelie had watched her mother perform this ceremony since she was a toddler. At the center of the square, a doubled circle of children ringed the gnarled apple tree. The children would part and pass the Lady through into the center, then begin dancing in a circle while singing a hymn praising Lierdhe’s autumn bounty. The Lady would pour the water onto the roots of the apple tree, symbolically nurturing it, and release the binding spell placed on it after it had bloomed in the spring. Using her Terra magic, she would then coax the tree into bearing fruit within minutes, a visual representation of the province’s fruitfulness.

This year, however, her mother had decreed that Amelie should take on the Ripening Ceremony in Greatham, the village closest to their home of Ardenhaal and the traditional site for opening the Harvest Festival. “You’ll have to do it eventually, and it’s best that you get some experience,” Henriette had said blithely. “Besides, it will be good to let the people see you performing magic, don’t you agree?”

Amelie felt the barb hidden inside her mother’s offer. The Terra magic involved in releasing the binding spell wasn’t difficult. Getting the tree to produce ripe apples at an unnatural speed was more challenging, but not beyond her capabilities. It was doing all of that while wearing a ridiculous scrap of copper silk and being watched by a crowd that made her stomach cramp.

She tried to dredge up some saliva, wondering how horrified the onlookers would be if she took a sip from the cup. You can have all the water you want later. Just get through this now. The older villagers gathered closer, many of the adults holding mugs of ale in one hand and pies or pasties in the other in celebration of the holiday. Under normal circumstances she enjoyed the smell coming from the food and drink, but today it set her already cramping stomach on edge. She swallowed hard, willing herself not to throw up in front of her mother’s subjects. I can do this. I can.

Taking a deep breath, she called, “Children of Greatham, let the Lady pass.”

Two sets of girls, most likely chosen for their good behavior, dropped their linked hands on cue. Amelie stepped past them into the cool shade of the apple tree’s spreading boughs, ignoring the giggles behind her. The tree’s life force reached up to her, a rich golden stream steadying her nerves.

Tipping the cup, she poured the water over the gnarled roots while saying a silent prayer, watching the dry brown earth turn moist and black. Depositing the now-empty cup on the ground, she straightened and looked up at the knobby branches and their clusters of green leaves. Her mage senses perceived the binding spell like a sticky caul that covered the branches, holding back their bounty. The tree ached with the need to bear its fruit, and she could feel that pain deep in her own belly.

Raising her arms, she murmured the releasing spell under her breath. Slowly, the caul began to peel back from the tip of each branch, gathering speed as it reached the trunk and unraveled towards the ground. She took in a deep lungful of air as she waited, noting all the scents; the moist dirt at the bottom of the apple tree’s roots, the dry spice of healthy wood, the odor of sugarplums, milk, and a hint of urine from the children, clean sweat, pasties, and ale from the adults, the pungency of manure and other odors that came from living together in a village, and above it all the smell of plants that knew it was time to give up their gifts and bow to the farmer’s scythe.

Within a minute the tree was free from its binding, a light breeze ruffling the leaves and making it seem like the branches was stretching in relief. Amelie allowed herself a sympathetic sigh. The first part was done. Now came the fiddly bit.

She let her hands drop to her sides, spreading her fingers wide, and lowered her mental shields to the ground under her feet. For her, every contact with the earth felt like a low, thrumming note that ran over her long bones, singing to the part of her soul that connected with her element. Today the earth welcomed her, cradling her in its slow, unstoppable immensity.

It was time. Sinking her mental reach deep into the earth, she drew upon its power, letting it stream up through the soles of her feet, filling her to overflowing. The spell she held in her mind would flow outward onto the dusty grey-brown bark, spreading over the trunk and branches, finding the tiny fertilized buds and prompting them to swell and ripen into red-gold apples. All she had to do was let it go—

An outraged squeal startled her, breaking her concentration. Annoyed, she turned towards the source of the interruption and spotted a tiny girl who was trying to tug her long russet braids out of the grasp of a boy in the outer ring.

He dropped the braids when he saw Amelie’s glare, giving her his best innocent smile. She remembered her male cousins doing the same thing before her Terra power manifested, thinking it was great sport to try and make her cry.

Locking gazes with the boy, she crooked her finger. After a quick check to make sure she wasn’t summoning one of the other children, he came over, hands clasped in front of his holiday smock.

“Yes, Lady Amelie?” he piped, eyes wide and ingenuous.

She leaned over so that they were nose to nose. “If you ever pull a girl’s braid again,” she said quietly, “I’ll turn you into a tree and have you chopped up for firewood. Do you understand?”

She didn’t mean it, of course. For one thing, she wasn’t even sure if it was possible. But the threat was effective. “Y-yes, my lady,” the boy gulped, ingenuousness vaporizing into fear.

“Good. Now get back into the circle.”

He dashed back to his place, and the scent of urine intensified. Drat. She tried to smile at the now-quiet children, but they stared at her as if she was about to turn into a monster and eat them. Double drat and damn for good measure.

With no other option, she turned back to the waiting apple tree and quickly rebuilt the spell. It wasn’t as easy this time and she had to make an effort to smooth the rough edges of the magic. Taking a deep breath, she gestured towards the tree as she released the spell, waiting to see the buds swell into ripe apples.

Nothing happened.

A soft murmur built behind her, and a creaky old man’s voice muttered, “Aye, what’d you expect from t’ Lady of Thorns?”

Amelie’s cheeks prickled in embarrassment at the old nickname. Gritting her teeth, she did her best to ignore the waiting crowd and went through the steps of the spell again, finding the word she’d left out.

The murmuring behind her increased as she rebuilt the spell a third time, casting it at the tree harder than she meant to. The gnarled branches swayed under the impact, their nubs exploding under the force of the magic into apples.

In some cases quite literally exploding, showering the ground with sprays of juice and pulped fruit. The children squealed at the arboreal attack, breaking formation and dashing back to the safety of their parents. A startled Amelie wiped a smear of apple from her cheek before she turned around to face her people.

The expressions on their faces were … memorable. “May Greatham have a fruitful harvest,” she called, wishing she could crawl into a hole and pull it shut behind her.

#

“Well, it could have been worse, milady,” Jeanette said judiciously, holding up the stained copper silk and studying it. “At least you didn’t make the entire tree blow up.”

“That’s not nearly as helpful as you think it is,” Amelie muttered, getting the last bit of sticky juice out of her hair. She slid under the water in the tub to rinse, shaking her head from side to side to sluice out the suds, then resurfaced. “You should have seen their faces.”

Her maid made a noncommittal noise. “But the apples ripened.”

“Yes, the apples ripened, which means the Harvest Festival is officially underway. Hopefully that will keep Mother satisfied.” Amelie stood up, accepting a bath sheet and wrapping it around herself. “And I can get back to my real work.”

Jeanette helped her out of the tub and shooed her over to the vanity table. “Excuse me for being blunt, milady, but these will be your duties someday. You can’t stay in your office forever.”

Amelie wished she was still young enough to stamp a foot, petulant as that would be. Instead she dropped onto the padded stool, allowing the maid to work on her hair with a drying cloth. “Perhaps Mother should have made Sibeal her heir after all. She could have blown up the entire square and everyone would have congratulated her.”

“Mayhap, but Lady Sibeal isn’t a Terra magistra,” Jeanette reminded her, pulling out a comb and running it through Amelie’s damp locks. “You are. And frankly you have the better mind for governing a province.”

“So you say. Mother says I’m too cold and analytical.”

The maid sighed. “Her ladyship has a different view from yours on what makes a good countess. It doesn’t meant that hers is the only correct way.”

“Oh, isn’t it?”

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