Page 24

Clover groans as if just waking, and I roll over to face her, startled when I find her so close. I could reach out and touch her if I wanted. She wasn’t there when we retired for the evening. Did she move in the middle of the night? Does being near me make her feel safe?

I frown at the dangerous thoughts.

The lady-in-waiting has burrowed into her bedroll, with only part of her face visible. She’s likely cozy thanks to the heat charm Bartholomew gave her several weeks ago while we were in the Dorian Mountains.

Her eyelashes are striking against her delicate skin, a contrast of dark and light. In the warmth of her cocoon, her cheeks are lightly flushed, and as she stretches, she presses her lips together.

Clover captivates me—she makes me question all the decisions that have led me to this point and mull over ones I may make in the future. She’s turned everything upside down.

As I’m studying her, she opens her eyes. Before I can look away, she murmurs, “Why are you staring at me?”

Her light green gaze is sleepy and warm—too satisfied, too appealing. It reminds me of the day after we weathered the snowstorm, when we found our lips pressed together, and she unknowingly lit that icy morning on fire.

Instead of answering, I ask, “Did you sleep all right?”

“No.” She stretches, temporarily disappearing into her bedroll as she shifts.

“Bad dreams?” I’m careful to keep my voice low to avoid waking the others so I can have more time with her.

Clover reappears again and draws her hand under her cheek as she studies me. “Frustrating dreams.”

“Is there a difference?”

“A bad dream is just bad. A frustrating dream could become a verygooddream if I didn’t keep waking up too soon.”

“You make it sound as if you’ve had this dream more than once.”

She looks at me through half-closed eyes, and then a grim smile passes over her face. “I have.”

I shift in my bedroll, trying to remember what she said during the night. Clover talks in her sleep, and the occasional murmurs are punctuated with quiet grumbles and enough sighs to drive me mad.

But I don’t remember her saying anything in particular last night. Maybe I’ve grown used to her nighttime chatter.

Perhaps I even missed it the night before, when I slept in my own lonely room in the castle barracks. All night, when I should have been worrying over Camellia’s situation, Clover was on my mind.

Proving her innocence has become my top priority—it fuels my desire to find Camellia. I must learn the truth, clear Clover’s name, and put my mind at ease.

“Have you ever been to Ferradelle?” she asks, drawing me away from my thoughts.

“No.”

“Do you think it’s as awful as it sounds?”

“Probably. Having second thoughts?”

She shakes her head, looking even more determined. Then she smiles. “Besides, who will protect you if I’m not there?”

I shouldn’t give in, but it’s difficult when she’s looking at me like that. I rest my weight on my elbow and lean toward her. “I thought our verbal contract ended when we left Doria.”

She wriggles closer, moving her bedroll like a caterpillar, making me nearly laugh out loud until my lungs seize because she’s suddenly close enough to kiss.

Meeting my eyes, she says, “That depends. Do you still want me?”

My willpower is only so strong. Clover lets out a soft exclamation when my eyes drop to her mouth. She draws the side of her bottom lip between her teeth—a nervous habit that’s entirely too tempting.

If we were alone…

But we’re not, which Lawrence makes abundantly clear when he throws a pillow at my head. “Would you two shut up? It’s the crack of dawn, and you’re jabbering like jays.”