Page 32

I hand the wagon reins to Bartholomew so I can survey the pit.

Clover follows me, walking Bartholomew’s horse by my side. I glance at her, frowning, but she only smiles when she catches me. “What does a troll look like, soldier? Have you ever seen one?”

I press my lips into a thin line, irritated with her for no reason I can pinpoint. “I have.”

“Well?” she asks.

“They’re a little larger than a tomcat, with a riot of scruffy black fur that protrudes from their bodies in all directions, making them look like a round, mangy ball. Their short muzzles, and their razor teeth, hide in all that hair, so if you get a glimpse of them, you’ll likely only spot their black, beady eyes.”

“Do you think they’ll attack us while we’re stuck here?”

Most women would look nervous while saying something like that, but Clover almost looks eager for a fight.

“Trolls are nocturnal.” My frown deepens. “They don’t come out until dusk.”

Seeming satisfied with that, she nods. “How do they dig such a large hole if they’re so small?”

“They have long claws on their front feet, and it’s usually a group affair.”

“Have you ever fallen into one of their pits?”

I choose not to answer, instead focusing on the guards who are removing pine boughs from the pit ahead. As Simon said, it’s in a difficult spot. The road narrows around it, and there are short, rocky inclines on either side.

Perhaps we could go around the hill, but runoff has created a deep ditch on the left side of the road, making it impossible to get the wagons over, and the other side is blocked with trees.

We have no choice but to fill the blasted hole.

“Get shovels, men,” I command. “We have to bury it.”

Hector eyes the sky. “It will be evening before we’re finished.”

The sun is overhead now, but it will take a good while to fill the pit.

“Then we best hurry.”

12

Clover

I’ve beenaround plenty of authority figures in my life, but Henrik is an anomaly.

Absently nibbling my lip, I watch as the soldier shovels dirt with the guards even though he’s ranked so much higher than they. Like the rest of the men, Henrik pulled off his leather brigandine, so he works in only his shirt. Even that he’s rolled up above his elbows. My eyes stray to his emerald arm pennant and the golden medallion that proclaims he’s reached the highest rank in the Soldier Class.

From there, my eyes absently wander down his arms. The muscles in his forearms tense as he works the shovel, and when sweat rolls down his brow, he wipes it away with his shoulder.

Perhaps sensing my attention, he suddenly glances my way. Our eyes meet, and my mouth goes dry.

Henrik lifts his brows as if to ask me why I’m staring at him, and, heaven help me, I cannot seem to look away.

“The sun is hot today, isn’t it?” Bartholomew says from my side. “Are you very warm, Lady Clover?”

“Mmm,” I answer absently—and then I come to my senses. I rip my eyes from Henrik and turn to the young duke. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

Bartholomew studies me, looking concerned. “You look flushed, my lady. Perhaps you should sit under the shade of a tree—I will fetch cool water for you from the nearby stream.”

My gaze nervously darts back to Henrik. I expect to find his attention has gone back to his task, but instead, he casually rakes his eyes over me in question.

“Flushed?” I respond, my voice a little too high, resisting the urge to fan my face. “Certainly not.”