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It left him wondering though, who was behind the assassination attempt. Had it been the queen of Kaloma? He worked out the moves of that possibility and others in his mind, some with her as the mastermind, but he couldn’t get it to make sense. No matter which way he flipped the scenario, he knew Kaloma couldn’t afford a war. As he pondered the possibilities, the growing warmth of the tent lulled Lachlan to sleep.

He dreamed of Goldie. Of the river. Of playing human-sized chess. Of Tarley leaning over him whispering indecipherable words with a coy smile. When he opened his eyes, it was to the sound of someone else in the space with him.

He tensed, alarmed for a moment because he forgot where he was, then blinked to reorient.

The tent.

The Whitling Woods.

Tarley and her hard-won smile.

“You’re awake?” she whispered from somewhere near him.

Lachlan cleared his throat. “Yes.” He lifted his head to look at her. The sight that met him grabbed hold of his throat and squeezed. He’d suspected she was lovely underneath the grime, but he wasn’t prepared. Had he thought she wasn’t remarkable? What a stupid fucking thought.

She held out a tin of steaming liquid. “I brought you some broth with wild rice. It’s important to start back slowly.”

She’d bathed.

Stars, she smelled good. Something herby and spicy.

The soot that had coated her face and clothing was gone. The mess of her braided hair, gone. Fuck. Before him was a beautiful woman. Her face was tinted with healthy color from being outdoors in the woods. She was a wood sprite, her brown hair damp, loose, and wavy as it dried. She still wore boys’ clothing–clean now—but even that couldn’t disguise the way her beauty stole his fucking breath. “For star’s sake,” he muttered.

She scowled at him.

Yes. Her irritation was good.

“Ollie. Are you okay?” she asked.

He coughed and tried to choke out words, but nothing came out, so he nodded. “Fine. I’m fine,” he was eventually able to say as he watched her set down the steaming soup and move around toward his head.

“I’ll help you sit up.”

He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as she helped him.

Then he forced himself to ignore how close she was, her hand still pressed against his back, as she used bedding and cushions to make him a seat, so he was propped up.

He tried to ignore what she’d said about royalty reminding her of her place.

He tracked her movement when she walked back around to face him, when she picked up the soup, and when she held it out once more to him. No smile, because she didn’t offer them freely.

He thanked her and took the offered cup from her, keeping his eyes on the cup. When his fingertips brushed hers, sparks flew up his arm, lighting all the nerve endings until they exploded between his shoulder blades, making everything worse. He kept his eyes on the liquid sloshing in the cup. Trying to untangle all the strange ways his thoughts were scrambled was disconcerting. He found himself frowning at the soup.

“Eat, first, then I’ll help you bathe. I have water heating for you, now.”

He nodded and chanced a glance at her again, unsure where his normal ability to tease and cajole went—this wasn’t like him—and watched her leave the tent. She didn’t look back.

He glanced at the cup of steaming soup, and sipped the watery broth, which was tasty. Tarley’s entrance a few moments ago was repeating like a loop in his mind. Round and round, and his shocked response irritated him, of how wrong he’d been about her appeal. She wasn’t just appealing as a person who made him curious—something a courtesan had never done.

He couldn’t get his thoughts under control because he was anticipating her return. His breathing strangely erratic, his pulse racing. Maybe she’d drugged him. He looked at the soup, then set it aside. Irritation gave way to frustration, which led to anger at his circumstances, at the inconvenience of it all, the isolation, the pain of his ribs making him unruly, so by the time she returned, he wasn’t fit for company.

She held a stack of folded clothing, her refreshing scent preceding her. “These are your clothes. I washed them for you. They’re dry.”

“That doesn’t look like a bath,” he replied and hated the sourness of his attitude—not just his scent—making the air bitter around him.

“It’s too difficult to cart you to the river, and I obviously can’t bring the river to you.”

He growled. What the fuck? Who growled?