Page 12 of The Crimson Throne (Spy and Guardian #1)

Alyth

I simply don’t know what to make of this Samson of Clan Maxwell.

His aura is innocent. Confused, curious, nervous…but he’s not fae or Leth, and he’s not got ill intentions as far as I can see.

It was odd though. He definitely didn’t recognize that the cauldron was made by fae. But he did see the man die—

He didn’t just die.

He was murdered.

By me.

—but Samson was aware the body turned to dust. I hadn’t had time to cast a glamour over the man’s death, but most humans would not have been able to process what happened.

Their brains would have made up some more believable lie.

I’ve seen humans write off fae creatures or magic as shadows or tricks of the eye, but few ever register the truth like this Samson did.

Which means either he’s uniquely perceptive, or he’s had some experience with the fae before.

And he’s going straight to Mary’s court.

Plus he’s English.

Which all means one thing:

I don’t trust the red-haired bastard one bit.

“You’re pretty when you’re suspicious,” Latimer’s secretary says, his horse plodding alongside mine as the path widens.

“I am not,” I protest.

“Not what?” He leans forward in his saddle. “Pretty or suspicious? Because I can attest to the first, and the latter is obvious.”

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye—something I keep doing, and no doubt the reason for his comment. His aura is muted. It’s almost as if he’s wearing a glamour, but no, that’s not it. He’s not got any whiff of magic around him, but his aura is…not quite right. Obscured somehow.

“How long have you been Latimer’s secretary?” I ask.

“Long enough.” He tries to catch my eye, but I ignore him.

I nudge my horse ahead of his to avoid more conversation.

At least the Englishman didn’t notice me until after I’d disposed of the Red Cap weapons I’d taken, dropping both the cauldron and the needle off in the fae realm.

Not into the hands of my father, obviously; why would he deign to make an appearance for me?

But I was at least able to ensure the weapons are safely kept out of this world.

My eyes cut back to Samson. He smirks. I huff and jerk my head forward again.

His story holds water at least, but he’s hiding something. I’m certain of it.

Aren’t we all hiding something? The thought comes unbidden, and I push it away.

“What’s the queen like?” Samson asks, nudging his horse closer.

I shrug. “She’s the queen.”

“Yes, but you’re in her court,” he presses. “Surely you can tell me about her.”

“I could.” But I won’t.

“Come now. You can tell me,” Samson says, giving me a dashing grin.

Oh, so this arse thinks he can charm me?

The lad doesn’t know that nothing makes me distrust a person more than fake flattery and simpering smiles.

Honestly, just look at the way Mary fell for Darnley and all the mess that caused, just because the idiot man knew how to wink in ways that made the queen giggle like a fool.

And that’s the worst of it. I might never fall for someone like this ginger trifler, but Mary? She loves the flattery.

Samson may not be fae, but that doesn’t make him any less dangerous.

“You keep staring at me like that, and I’ll think you’re trying to make me call you queen,” he says.

I wasn’t staring at him; I was staring at his aura. Because for the life of me, I cannot see through to his true intentions.

But I can see that he’s tired. I am too, much as I’d like to deny it. As are the poor horses.

The evening grows long, and temperatures are dropping.

“We should stop soon,” I say.

“You don’t think we can push through? Make it to the castle?”

I shoot the Englishman a flat look. “You can lead your horse into a bog,” I say, shrugging. “But I’m finding a place to camp.”

Samson’s eyes grow wider. “Camp? Why not go to an inn?”

I draw my horse up short and stand in the saddle, twisting my body with my arms spread wide. “Aye, let’s just pop into an inn for the night,” I say, gesturing to all the trees that are assuredly not warm country inns with fluffy pillows atop clean beds. “What was I thinking, truly?”

“Right, your point is made,” Samson grumbles. “Shall we just…here?”

Even my horse snorts with contempt. “You’d like to set up a camping spot in the middle of the road?”

He sputters as I jerk the reins, pointing the horse down toward a moor speckled with heather.

At least it’s been dry lately, a rare blessing, with only snow flurries that evaporate by noon.

A large boulder stands partway between the road and the open field, and I direct the horse toward it before swinging out of the saddle and feeling the solid ground beneath my feet.

It’s not much, but the rock blocks us from the road and might also help stave off some of that chilly wind.

“This is a good spot,” Samson says with the calm assurance of a man who has no idea what he’s talking about.

“How often have you left London?” I ask.

A flare of orange washes over his aura; I don’t think he particularly likes his city. “I’m glad to be out of it,” he says. Truth. Also dodging the question.

Well, I can forgive him for not being too prepared to rough it in the Lowlands; this lad only knows cities.

I clear a spot and spread out my saddle blanket on the ground, and Samson copies me with his own.

I left in such a rush that I didn’t have anything really packed, but I send Samson off to gather sticks for a fire, then use magic to convince the ground beneath the blankets to be a little softer and the blankets to be warmer and larger.

It’s winter, so foraging is out. It’ll be a hungry night.

I cast glamours around the campsite; anyone from the road will simply not notice us. Any fae wandering by will, of course, not be affected by the glamour, but they tend to mind their own business anyway.

I light the fire after Samson brings me a pitiful bundle of sticks, adding in a little extra magic to keep it burning warmly and without monitoring.

At least the city boy will be oblivious when I don’t have to add more fuel.

Plus, he actually proves a little helpful—he has some dried meat and hard cheese that he shares with me.

“We’ve not got stuff like this in London.” Samson has his knees drawn up to his chest under his blanket, and he’s watching as the stars speckle the sky over the shadowed moor.

“Stuff?”

He waves his hand toward the open area.

“I suppose,” I say. I always heard the English were so eloquent.

“You ever been?”

That accent. Ugh. “Been? Where?”

“London.”

I snort. I can’t help it. But he gives me a curious look, and I know he doesn’t understand. I can’t leave. My fae blood keeps me behind this wall. Perhaps my children’s children will make it past the barrier if I ever have any, but I will remain forever here.

“No,” I tell him, a little more gently. “I’ve never left Scotland.”

“I wouldn’t either if this were my home.”

Well, that earns him some favor. He can’t help where he was born, but at least he has the sense to go somewhere better.

“But if you do ever come to London, I can show you some proper inns that come with beds, and you can get a meal for just a pence.”

“Trust me,” I say, “I’d rather sleep in the open in Scotland than sit in your queen’s own palace for a night.”

His aura darkens.

Samson just shrugs. “I wouldn’t know,” he mumbles. Then he peeks up at me. “Don’t come to London for politics. Come for the pies.”

“Pies?” I say flatly.

He nods and launches into a lengthy monologue about where best to get the flakiest, most filling pies in London. Fleet Street, apparently. I can’t help but laugh at his animated declaration of love for some cherry pastry an old woman sells by the river.

“Maybe,” he says finally, “what I need to do is convince the old widow to move north and make her pies here.”

“Then I can have some.” The words slip out, a little too close to the truth for comfort. I press my lips tight.

But Samson doesn’t notice. He just laughs. “It’s certainly not worth going south,” he says. “London always smells like shit, mostly because there’s shit everywhere.”

“Well, that sounds a bit like Edinburgh,” I say, although I hate to admit it.

Samson shakes his head. “Nah, see, I don’t believe that. There’s nowhere worse than London.” He turns back to the moor. “It’s beautiful here.”

And it is. The stars spread out forever, and the full moon has a faint ring about it. An ethereal glow pours down over the field, and it’s not magic, but it is.

This is why I’ve dedicated my life to protecting my home. Not for my father, the ungrateful arsehole. Not for Mary, too wrapped up in her own desires to think about her own duties.

But for this. For the soft hoots echoing over the field as an owl starts hunting for a mousy meal. For the long stretch of sky that reminds me of an impossible infinity. For the cold bite of winter at my nose, the air scented in a warning of snow.

That man was a part of Scotland too. My hands clench into fists, hidden by the blanket. The man I killed. He was Scottish. A Leth, presumably.

And the cauldron he held, that was a Red Cap weapon. Probably made here. Just like the needle I used to kill him.

Not everything in Scotland is beautiful.

Acid boils in my stomach. How far will I go to protect my home?

When do my actions make me as bad as the fae I’ve sworn to fight?

“I’m going to sleep,” I announce, wrapping up in the saddle blanket and lying down.

“Sweet dreams,” he mutters in a soft voice that I ignore.

I roll over, my back to the Englishman, but I can’t force my anxiety down, just as I can’t force my eyes closed. I weave protective magic around myself. And I have a dagger strapped to my thigh.

I’m no fool.

But I also can’t sleep. I stay stiffly on my side until I hear the soft breathing that indicates Samson’s drifted off. I roll over.

Red, red hair spills like fire over the blanket he’s lying on. He’s asleep. He’s got no motivation for me to read, no colorful intent I can interpret. I can see nothing with my power now.