"You cannot possibly be serious!" Natasha said, her voice shriller than usual, and higher than she liked. Connor gripped her hand tightly enough to hurt; she knew without looking at him that he was giving the Seralian king a look that could have killed him. "This is a preposterous offer. To even speak the words are to squander both your breath and your time."

"Not when a potential bridegroom knows the things that I do." She could see his face reddening as it contorted into a smug smirk, and hoped he would drown in his own sweat beneath that fur-lined cape and high wool collar. "The things I've heard about your duke would make your ears shrivel."

Connor's grasp on her gloved hand tightened further, to the point that she was certain he would leave marks on her skin beneath the black satin. But she cared naught for the pain, could only feel the emotions radiating from him: guilt, remorse, and a terrible, terrible fear. She dared not look into his eyes, for fear of betraying everything to the king, betraying how much she knew of her husband's treason.

"You have heard nothing, surely, that would warrant his death," Natasha stated calmly, confidently.

"I am unsure of your laws, my queen." The way he addressed her, as though he owned her and her country, made Natasha want to hurl something at him. Like vomit, or a dagger. "But tell me, is treason a crime requiring capital punishment?"

Natasha smiled sweetly. "My husband is no traitor."

"Then who is he?" The king's voice turned falsely contemplative. He studied them, his gaze like that of a hawk circling its prey. "The duke of Winchester... due to his brother's unfortunate lineage, and his mother's infidelity. Now prince consort of Arlea... yet only due to my brother's manipulations—do not look so surprised, my queen, as my brother has been served justice and I see no reason not to expose his crimes. Everything Connor White has earned, has been due to another's faults. That makes your husband quite the vulture, does it not?"

"Coincidences have no correlation to the quality of my husband's character. I did not invite you here to be the judge, jury, and executioner of either one of us." Natasha ground out the words between gritted teeth. "Let us discuss political matters, shall we? Rather than personal attacks?"

She made her tone a cold, sharpened blade, ensuring he knew she was giving a command rather than a request. But he was either dull enough not to realize, conceited and entitled enough to completely disregard her, or a fair combination of both. "Does your husband possess no tongue, nor spine? Perhaps you cut the former from his mouth after he spoke his wedding vows to you—perhaps that is why he hates you so, for that leash you keep on him—why he chose treason, risked execution—"

"Enough!" Connor snapped. She knew he was burning with the secret they had made together, kept together, one that would counter all of the king's remarks but reveal far too much. "The subject of my loyalty was not one that we agreed to disputed in the letters sent by your envoy. If we could return to matters we had agreed on beforehand, that would please me greatly."

"I do not care a whit for what pleases a glorified diplomat, nor an Arlean traitor—both of which you seem to be." Robert's tone was disdainful. Distantly, Natasha saw her sister give the king a furtive, unreadable glance. She wanted to dismiss it as loathing or fear, yet... something told her otherwise. "My brother tells me you worked with him."

"We were in the army together." Connor's tone turned from defensive to dismissive, infused with ennui. "That must be what you are referring to, irrelevant as it is."

She felt his pulse jump, however, at the topic of his collaborating with Harold. And she may have known why, but no one else could. It would ruin her, ruin them—

"He did not speak a word of the military career you two shared. Instead, he had in mind a more interesting time: in the first few months of your marriage to the queen of Arlea. You and your lover—or is it former lover now?—were both involved with a rebel sect, apparently, which he was funding."

"That is a cruel and malicious lie." Connor interjected. "You would do well to remember who the sovereign is here—and whose palace you make such accusations in."

"I stand in the palace of a shrew of a queen, one who seeks to control a weak and pliable—laughable, even—prince consort. I stand in the palace of a queen who was barely a year ago, on the verge of being convicted of murder. I stand in the palace of—"

"You stand in the palace of a survivor of atrocious, petty schemes and countless enemies. One who has cut down her rivals, all of whom ought to be an example to you!" she shouted, standing up. Natasha released Connor's hand, stalked down the dais, and reached up to slap Robert Saunders in his unshaven, ruddy face. He recoiled, his face blanching with shock. She threw back her head and laughed. "You stand in the palace of the queen and king of Arlea. You have threatened to kill a sovereign, and there are two witnesses to prove it. The guard who let you in, and my sister. Do you wish to further speak of your plans, or would you prefer to be thrown into the dungeons sooner rather than later?"