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Tressalara looked up between the trees along the riverbank as a white hawk circled overhead. “Rossmine!”

She whistled, and the bird plunged down like an arrow to land on a branch beside her. A thin message cylinder was tied to its left leg. Wondering, Tressalara removed it. The tiny scrap of paper bore a symbol like a crown, and three words in Elani’s writing: “Beware the trap!”

Relief that her friend had not suffered for helping her escape flooded through Tressalara. So Lector was planning a trap. But what, and when? And what was the meaning of the symbol? A trap for a princess, no doubt.

She must send word back that she was alive and well, and that she had received the message.

Tressalara plucked a tiny translucent pebble from the riverbank and placed it in the cylinder.

To anyone else it would be meaningless, but when Elani got the message she would understand.

In their younger days, Lady Grette used to scold that the princess’s escapades were a constant annoyance to her.

“By the heavens, highness, some days you are a sore trial to me. Like a pebble in my shoe!” she would grumble.

A sheen of tears came to Tressalara’s eyes. What she would not give to turn back time. She watched as Rossmine flew off, wishing that she herself had the power to fly away to the castle and reassure her friends.

Dashing the tears away, she returned to her tasks.

There was no shirking on her part. She was willing to do anything, no matter how menial or difficult, to prove her discipline and devotion to the cause of freedom.

She must prove to Cador and the rebels that she was capable of sharing their worst hardships—and worthy to lead them into battle.

Tressalara winced as she lifted the water bucket from the river.

Years of riding and fencing had kept her strong and supple, but every muscle in her body groaned with fatigue.

So much for the idyllic country life, she thought, grimacing again.

It was still better than sitting quietly in the solar, trying to learn embroidery—but not by much.

By Saint Ethelred’s eyes, she would be glad when Cador returned to camp and her punishment ended.

The women were working her to the bone! Dawn to dusk she was at their beck and call without a moment’s respite.

Fetch this, chop that, clean this one, empty that one, fill yet another.

By nightfall she would gulp down her portion of stew, stoke the campfires, and then drop wearily onto her bedroll at the foot of Cador’s camp bed and fall immediately asleep.

Only to toss and turn and dream of the highlander.

At times they were nightmares, where his light eyes changed to dark, his golden hair to black as he suddenly turned into Lector.

Those dreams left her shaken. Did they mean that he was as untrustworthy as the usurper—a greedy, ambitious man who wanted the throne for himself?

Or was that only the product of her unspoken fears?

Once, though, she had dreamed that Cador remained himself, and that had been more frightening; for in that dream they had been standing on the riverbank in the moonlight, and he had looked deep into her eyes, caressing her cheek lightly with a lover’s touch, pulling her to him and pressing his hot mouth to hers.

Tressalara had awakened with a pounding heart, both relieved and devastated to find his bed still empty.

She had used the opportunity of her punishment to pick up gossip and learn more of the enmity between Cador and Lector.

Two years before, Lector had led a party of raiders across the border in Kildore.

Cador’s elder brother and his pregnant wife had been killed, but not in the fighting.

They had refused to reveal whatever information Lector had sought and were executed for it.

Tressalara, only fourteen at the time, had not known of the raid.

Nor had her late father, who had been ill with a lung fever.

But the king should have discovered Lector’s perfidy later, when he recovered his health.

More proof, she thought sadly, of how her father had turned away from the duties of a ruler in his quest for spiritual answers.

That phase of his life had begun with her mother’s untimely death while delivering a stillborn son. That had been the start of his withdrawal. It was all very well to be unworldly, the princess thought sadly, but not when one was responsible for the welfare of worldly subjects.

She wished now that she had paid more attention to affairs of state, rather than her horses and fencing lessons. But then, she reminded herself, she would be Lector’s bride now and not a free woman plotting his overthrow. Or dreaming of the outlaw known as Cador of Kildore.

A flush of pink tinged her skin and set her blood tingling. Saints, but she wished he would return!

Sunset turned the sky above the trees to a canopy of flame as Cador and Brand returned to the rebel camp. Though he had intended to be away a day or two at most, almost five had passed. The sentry greeted them with word that all was well.

“A hundred more men from the north have rallied to our cause, bringing arms and goods. More are due to arrive tomorrow.”

“Excellent news, for Lector has brought in foreign mercenaries.”

He rode down the wide central area between the tents and makeshift shelters. The scene was peaceful, the place orderly. A fat boar roasted over the main fire, and vast kettles of snowroot and wild verris cooked nearby.

Cador’s sharp gaze went toward his tent, set off a little from the others.

He was disappointed to see that no one was about.

Until that moment he hadn’t acknowledged that he was eager to see the disguised princess and learn how she had fared in his absence.

He hadn’t intended to be away so long, and she was a young woman used to silks and satins and many servants, not the hardships of a warrior’s camp.

“I wonder how Trev has fared at his labors,” he remarked to Brand as they dismounted.

The rebel leader glanced at him. “You seem much taken with the lad. That’s the third time you’ve mentioned him this day.”

Cador was grateful that the lurid sunset hid his flush. “It’s only that I feel guilty for saddling him with the women’s chores so long, when I didn’t intend for it to go more than a day or two: I’m sure they’ve worked him long and hard. And the brawl was mainly Nidd’s doing.”

His intention had been only to hasten the moment that the princess would confide her identity to him.

He had been certain that she would crumble under the unaccustomed work and reveal the truth rather than continue at such menial chores.

Perhaps she’d found some ruse to get out of them. She was a most resourceful young woman.

And, underneath the dirt and unkempt garments, a very pretty one.

Cador pushed the unwelcome thought out of his mind. Under the circumstances, he couldn’t afford any entanglements. But his thoughts had been full of her during the long nights away from camp. Yes, dirty and disheveled as she was, she had managed to get under his skin.

He made a point not to look for Tressalara until after he had taken his evening meal and the campfires burned low.

He didn’t refuse when Brand pulled out a bottle of the best Kildoran brandy, which he’d bought as a surprise on their travels.

Finally, when he could put it off no longer, Cador decided it was time to turn in.

Pulling the curtained opening aside, he had to admit to a good deal of anticipation at seeing the princess.

The tent was dark. She must have retired early.

Sparking a flint, he touched it to the lantern that hung from the center pole.

Everything was in good military order, polished till it shone, and in its proper place.

Except for Tressalara. Frowning, Cador set out to find her. One of the women walked past the tent as he was exiting. “Where is young Trev? Playing the truant?”

“Not that one! More likely worked to death, the way Kegi has kept the lad hopping from morn till midnight.”

“The devil you say!”

“You might find him down at the river. He usually bathes after his chores, although the other lads tease him for it.”

Thanking the woman, Cador set off toward the river in the rapidly failing light. He would talk to Kegi later.

There was no sound except the pleasant rushing of water over the rocks upstream, and the sigh of a gentle wind through the treetops.

Overhead, a silvery moon sailed on a cloud-tossed sea.

Cador stepped down to the edge of the river, where the mossy ground was soft underfoot, muffling his footsteps.

There was no sign of the errant princess.

Then his eyes adjusted to the deeper gloom of the heavy tree cover.

A pale form glided beneath the moon-spangled waters, like a mermaid from some ancient legend.

Then the sleek shape broke the surface, and he saw Tressalara, her bare shoulders white as pearl beneath the velvety cloak of her wet hair. His pulse quickened.

She tipped back her head to wring the water from her hair and began to plait it.

Her arms were graceful, her hands quick and sure.

Thoughts of water nymphs and magic spells drifted through Cador’s head.

He was bewitched by her beauty, unable to move as she finished her task and splashed toward the shallows.

With great effort he wrenched himself free of her enchantment just in time to step into the blacker shadows of an ancient pine and avoid being seen.

He was still standing there when she finished dressing and came around the clump of trees.

Her disreputable cap was pulled down over her hair, but the clothes clung to her damp body, showing its lush curves.