Two days of restless preparation had turned the castle into a hive of industry, but Aragon's mind often wandered back to the scent of Kaitlyna—or Katelyn, as she had always insisted on being called in formal circles, though he had ruined her formality along with her cunt. The memory of her surrender was a persistent itch, one he hadn't had the leisure to scratch since Beltar's return and the frantic mobilization for the Northern Enclave.
The summons came in the late afternoon, delivered by a breathless page boy.
She wore a gown of deep emerald silk, high-collared and severe, yet her eyes were wild, darting to the archway as if expecting an ambush. When she saw him, she stopped dead, her chest heaving.
"My lord," she managed, her voice trembling slightly.
Aragon leaned against a stone pillar, crossing his arms. "Katelyn. It's a risk for you to be here. The court talks, and I have no patience for gossip."
