The Heiress Queen (Season Series Prequel)

Chapter 11

"I'm so happy you're here," Isabelle muttered to Sam as she tucked her napkin into her lap. Cora had immediately pounced on the prince, batting her lashes at him as she conversed about whatever monotony she thought might interest him. Henrietta Barclay repeatedly attempted to interject, while Byron Fletcher swirled his wine glass moodily.

"Likewise," Sam said, the jovial mask dropped as he turned to her. "Do you have any idea what you're doing?"

Isabelle looked over at him in surprise.

"What do you mean? It's not as if I asked to be here," she said.

"Yes, I assumed as much when I received my own summons to court," Sam replied. "But I, unlike you, am not betrothed."

"Leopold knows, though he isn't pleased," Isabelle said, shooting a glare towards the head table where the king sat surrounded by his cronies, his hag of a queen beside him.

"I wouldn't be either, if my bride-to-be was off in my enemy's court, spending every waking hour with its prince," Sam said. When Isabelle whirled back around to gape at him, incredulous, he lifted an eyebrow.

"It's not like I'm trying, Sam!" Isabelle hissed, leaning towards him so Graham wouldn't overhear. "I didn't want to be his choice of dance partner, nor did I want him to escort me to dinner tonight!"

Sam opened his mouth to reply, only to draw himself back as the first course was deposited before them.

"My, this soup smells delectable. I've always enjoyed soup so very much. Do you enjoy soup, your Highness?" Cora asked. Isabelle stared flatly at her once-friend, wondering whether she really thought the prince would find such idiocy attractive.

"How does that saying go? Simple things amuse simple minds?" Graham asked no one in particular. Isabelle bit her lip to keep from laughing aloud as Cora nearly choked on her soup, horrified.

"I think the soup is wonderful," Sam replied evenly. Isabelle looked around at him with a frown, only to get a shrug in response as he eyed Cora.

"You would, wouldn't you?" Graham chuckled. "You know, Sam, you're quite the gentleman for a highland brute."

"That's how I was raised, your Highness," Sam replied, that easy smile on his face while something flinty sparked in his grey eyes. Isabelle swallowed a spoonful of her own soup, longing to stop on Graham's foot for insulting Sam so blatantly. Across the table, a smile had cracked Byron Fletcher's surly face.

"You mean they have manners all the way up there?" Byron put in, taunting Sam. "I heard that they'd only just discovered the flame in your backwoods of a lordship."

At that, Isabelle touched Sam's forearm, watching Byron warily as Sam's fingers edged towards his knife. The Winters men were known for their quick tempers and tendency to brawl away their arguments, something which wasn't unheard of up north in Sam's lands, but which would be highly frowned upon in Highcastle Palace's dining room.

"Tsk tsk, Byron," Graham said, his green eyes sliding away from Isabelle's hand, where Leopold's diamond still glittered. "Your family isn't much more than a passel of jumped-up sailors. If they hadn't crashed a ship into the New World, you'd be hauling cargo on the docks like your dear old great-granddad."

The tension at the table thickened into mud, Cora and Henrietta exchanging horrified glances as Byron bared his teeth in a grimace. Graham, however, was decidedly unperturbed, returning his focus to his soup. Beside Isabelle, irritation was rolling off Sam in waves, his hand sliding even closer to his knife.

"How fortunate, then, that we did crash said ship," Byron managed, naked hatred in his eyes as a dangerous smile lit his face. "Especially for you, your Highness. I daresay Highcastle has greatly benefitted from us jumped up sailors, as you call us."