The manservant looked at him mutinously, face set in prim lines. “Master Isaac, the law is clear. The man who wins the trial by combat is in the right — if it should be Lord Argent’s champion,” he shrugged. “If you’d just put her in her rightful place instead of this messing about you wouldn’t be havin’ to fight this challenge, if you’ll forgive my speakin’ out of place.”
“I don’t care about the law — I love her! I can’t go and fight knowing that she won’t be taken care of should I die!” he refuted angrily, knowing all too well that Derek would say the same thing should he ask him the same favour. “And what do you mean by that? Her rightful place is here with me, Rafael!”
“She’s a serf, Master Isaac,” Rafael said stubbornly. “You’re a knight, my lord, and adopted brother to the prince. You should marry the princess, not throw yourself away on some fool idea of love for a serf. She’s got ideas above her station already, wearin’ the princess’ cast off dresses and sittin’ at the high table like she thinks she belongs there.”