Markon’s breath hissed between his teeth, one hand on its way to grasp his assailant’s throat before he realised that it was only Althea. Markon’s hand dropped back to the bed and then dug through his rumpled hair as he huffed his relief into the darkness of the room. “I’m beginning to think Doctor Romalier is right,” he told her. Althea, who hadn’t so much as flinched at his instinctive lunge to attack, tilted her head and said: “Really? I wouldn’t have thought it was very likely.” “He says that you’re a disrupting influence and a drain on the monarch’s resources.” Althea gave her low, delighted chuckle. “I suppose it’s true, really! A case of the cherry tart calling the raspberry red, though, isn’t it?” “I thought you didn’t like pie rhetoric,” countered Markon, pushing aside the bed covers. He’d been better prepared last night: he’d worn a pair of loose trousers and one of his old fencing shirts to bed.
