Page 9

Deprived of her chemise, Ophele lay beneath her new husband and for the first time felt the naked skin of a man’s body against her own.

She had never seen such a man.

Well, she had never seen a man of any description without his clothes on, but the duke was a uniquely imposing specimen.

The nuptial bed had been prepared for the wedding night with the blankets folded back and a fresh linen sheet spread out, scattered with rose petals and scented with amber, but Ophele noticed none of this.

Her eyes were riveted on her husband as he undressed, revealing a body that was so unlike her own, it was hard to believe they were the same species.

His chest and shoulders were massive, heavy muscle working in his arms as he stripped off his doublet and breeches.

A rigid belly, with a trail of coarse dark hair leading to something she definitely did not have, springing upright from his clothing to pulse against his belly.

Her mouth fell open.

“Stop staring,”

he said flatly, moving over her on the bed so she couldn’t see it anymore.

“You’ll make me embarrassed.”

“But I’ve never—why doesn’t it show through your clothes?”

she wanted to know, trying to sneak another peek.

Curiosity had not only conquered timidity, it was busily drowning it in a nearby river.

“How do you hide it?”

“It’s not always like that.”

The corner of his mouth twitched again, and he turned his eyes to her, his fingers moving between her legs.

“Just as you’re not always like this. Are you?”

“Noooo…”

The word ended in a quavering gasp as he stroked her, slow caresses that proved she was very wet indeed, touching places even she had never dreamed existed, as if he knew secrets of her body unknown to her.

Maybe he did.

The firelight burnished his back and shoulders as he moved over her, fluid as a beast.

His body was covered in old scars, jagged and snarling lines in pink and silver-white, gouges where chunks of flesh had been torn away.

He was so warm, like a stone that had been baking in the sun all day, and everywhere he touched her, her skin shivered against his.

“Your Grace—”

she mewed, hardly knowing what she meant to say.

His fingers moved inside her, pushing and wiggling as if he were looking for something.

“Your Grace, Your Grace.”

His fingers curled up, stroking inside, and she cried out.

“I think we can dispense with titles when we’re naked, wife.

What’s my name?”

“R-Remin,”

she whispered.

Her tawny eyes shone as she looked up at him, so guileless that he doubted himself all over again.

She was either a consummate liar or no liar at all, and it was hard to believe that any maid so young could pretend so well, or that a creature of the Emperor could place herself so trustingly in his hands.

“Again,”

he whispered back.

His fingers circled and dived into her.

Now he understood what it meant, that she must be wet, and her hips undulated with him, filled with innocent sensuality.

He nipped the tip of her ear and wondered if he was falling into a trap. “Ophele…”

She moved under him, whimpering.

“Remin…”

“Again.”

His breath felt hot and thick in his throat, and he bit her neck.

Her skin was littered with the marks of his desire.

“Re—Remin!”

His name cracked in two as he found it at last, the rough spot inside her that Miche had told him to look for.

There was a sudden flood of wetness as he rubbed her and she writhed in response, her heels digging into the mattress.

“Does it feel good?”

he asked, panting with excitement.

“I—it…I feel, strange—ohhhhh!”

The cry burst from her as she jerked beneath him, her face twisted in beautiful agony.

White flashed in waves behind her eyes.

Ophele saw his face above her as if through a haze, his black eyes heated and intent as a hunter, his firm lips eagerly parted.

The sight of her climaxing sent such a rush of lust through him, it was all he could do to keep from shoving himself into her immediately.

Stars, the way she sounded, crying his name! Remin sucked in a breath, his hips bucking involuntarily.

What black magic was she working, the daughter of his enemy?

He hadn’t had any idea how intimate this would be.

How impossible it would be to keep her at arm’s length when she was naked beneath him, her voice crying out with pleasure.

He had checked her for weapons when he undressed her, but what defense had he against that look on her face? Those soft, trembling lips? Was it possible that she might be his, in truth? House Hurrell had been bannermen to his father; could it be that she was not the Emperor’s creature at all? Could she be as innocent as she seemed?

What would it mean, if she was?

“Hold onto me,”

he said, his voice deepening with desire.

Her eyes were blurred and soft, weaving up to his face as he pushed her legs apart and moved himself between them, angling into the small cleft between her thighs.

The first inch of penetration felt so good, he had to swallow a gasp.

“Oh…”

A crease appeared between her eyebrows.

Her hands gripped the boulders of his biceps, very white against his brown hide.

“Don’t…move,”

he warned, struggling to restrain himself.

She was so tight inside, he couldn’t see how he would fit, and the sight of his shaft sinking into her was making it very hard to think.

“Oh…oh, oh, ow,”

she whimpered, reminding him that this might not feel good to her.

Miche had said it depended.

Slow, slow, he had to go slow, but Remin had never done this before either and she was throbbing on him, delightful spasms that ricocheted all the way from his balls to the back of his skull.

Something gave way inside her and she yelped as he slid suddenly deeper, a white wave of pleasure that hit him like a hammer to the face.

“Oh! Oh, Your Grace, it hurts!”

“I know, I know,”

he gasped, kissing her lips, her eyes, half out of his mind.

“Shhh, shhh…”

He was trying to go slow.

Trying to be gentle.

Trying to give her time to get used to him, crooning to her, soothing her, but he could barely think past the exquisite, blinding pleasure of being inside her, feeling her tightness clinging to him.

It felt incredible.

“Deep…deep breath, ahhh…”

A moan escaped him and he bowed his head, his shoulders bunching with the effort not to thrust directly into her, all at once.

“Breathe…with me…”

Wet eyes met his as she obeyed, breathing with him as he pushed steadily into her.

She was so hot inside.

Remin’s shoulders jerked and shivers raced the length of his body.

Even when he wasn’t doing anything, even when he was perfectly still, he could feel her body quivering on him, waves of sensation rolling over and over him and there was a big one cresting, crushing, irresistible.

“Ahhh…”

The noise burst from his chest, a deep groan as he went over the edge.

“Ah…ah, ah, stars…”

Miche had warned him that this might happen.

It’s your first time too, he had said.

But don’t you move a fucking inch if it does, even if it kills you.

Hold still, let it happen, then continue.

Remin thought he might be dying.

He understood now why it was imperative that he not do what his body wanted to do, which was pound into her as hard and fast as he could.

His huge body rattled and his hips flexed, quivering with eagerness.

But no.

Even as his voice rose and he gasped and panted and spent himself inside her, even as he gripped and crushed the sheets in his hands, he must not crush her.

Stars.

Stars. He was seeing stars. Static filled his brain, fizzing against the inside of his skull.

When he finally came back to himself, she was looking at him with big, sad eyes.

“It feels good?”

she asked tearfully.

“Stars. Yes,”

he said, and kissed her.

“You feel so good, wife.

That’s the hard part, I promise…”

Technically, they were finished.

Marriage consummated; virginity taken.

But though he could have rolled over and gone to sleep right there, Miche had said that on no account should she be crying when he was done.

Propping himself on his elbows, Remin kissed her again, careful not to withdraw from her.

It would only be harder to get back inside her again, and with patience and persistence, her pained whimpers turned into soft cries as he stroked slowly into her, her body rocking beneath his.

Her climax was not quite as loud as the first one, but her arms still went about his neck as she shuddered again, and he filled her a few moments later.

“Good?”

he asked, winning a breathless nod, her head lolling on her neck.

She didn’t look unhappy, and he drew back carefully, feeling a curious tenderness as he saw the droplets of red spattered between her thighs.

They had been each other’s first.

Now he understood why men made fools of themselves over women.

Lying beside her, he had all the time he wanted to look at her, her delicate profile limned with gold from the fire.

A smooth, rounded forehead, little snub nose, and curving pink lips, like some exotic species of flower.

Thick lashes curved over her cheeks, and his huge fist lay beside her upturned hand, the silver of her wedding band shining.

She was small, and soft, and dangerous in ways he couldn’t begin to articulate.

Remin sat up.

“Stay here,”

he murmured as her eyes blinked open.

Padding over to the washstand, he rinsed their shared fluids from his body, enduring the cold without flinching.

“It’s cold,”

he told her as he set a shallow basin of water on the table beside the bed.

“You must bear it.”

It was another new intimacy between them, but he was very gentle as he washed her body.

Ophele had to turn her face away as he washed her between her legs, wondering if this was really happening.

Remin Grimjaw, the greatest hero in the Empire, was washing her.

She had read extensively on the habits of ladies, hoping to educate herself, but no book she had ever read prescribed etiquette for this scenario.

She had a lunatic urge to giggle and covered her mouth with her hand.

“Did I hurt you?”

The duke paused in his washing.

“Oh, no,”

she said, guilty and embarrassed.

“Good.”

He set the basin aside and surveyed her through narrowed eyes, as if she were a puzzle he had not yet solved to his satisfaction.

“I can do better,”

he said abruptly, and his long fingers trailed suggestively up her side.

“Do you want to try?”

A shiver ran through her.

Ophele was quite sure that whatever her virginity was, he had taken it very thoroughly, but there didn’t seem any harm in letting him make sure.

“All right,”

she whispered, little dreaming of the night that would follow.

* * *

When Ophele slid out of bed the next morning, she kept going straight down to the floor.

“Ow,”

she rasped, squinting up at the unfamiliar ceiling and wondering where she was and why her legs wouldn’t work.

With the irregularity of life in Aldeburke, she hadn’t kept a normal sleep schedule since she was a little girl, and she was never at her most intelligent first thing in the morning.

Gripping the side of the mattress, she pulled herself upright.

The sight of rose petals scattered on the floor tickled her memory, and she sat down on the edge of a bed that felt strangely large and empty.

Ah.

That was it.

Her husband had elected not to stay until morning.

Memories of the night before made her blush so hard she was nearly dizzy, and she looked down at her body, feeling so strange in her own skin, she hardly knew herself.

The giggling of the Aldeburke maids made a great deal more sense now.

She felt stained with the memory of his hands, his voice, his mouth, confused by the man she thought she had neatly categorized into mean, comma, very large.

Burying her face in her hands, she flipped through a mental catalogue of books, searching for some applicable wisdom.

The best she could come up with was the observation that life was suffering.

And she had been fortunate that Rem…the duke…had been kind.

The thought stuttered through her mental machinery, a set of new parts that had no place in the current design.

She didn’t know what it meant or what she felt about it and all of it made her feel tired and overwhelmed.

A knock came at the door and she jumped, lunging for her blankets.

“Your Highness?”

came the voice of Mistress Goel.

“His Grace sent me to check on you.

May I enter?”

Casting hastily about, Ophele found her crumpled chemise on the floor and grunted with pain as she reached for it and slid it over her head.

The low neck did nothing to hide the red marks all over her chest.

But The Habits of a Lady said a lady should be poised no matter how uncomfortable she was, to avoid making others feel uncomfortable, so she made herself answer and tried not to blush.

“Come in.”

“Rosset will draw you a bath.”

The mistress didn’t bat an eye, briskly going to open the curtains.

The sun was already well up, streaming through the counterpanes in watery light.

Turning to face Ophele, she clasped her hands and bobbed a curtsy, a tidy woman in a navy silk gown and a vast white cap on her head.

“If you like, we will serve you breakfast afterward.

Is there anything else you require, Your Highness?”

It was delicately put; the woman was tiptoeing around intimate knowledge that by rights belonged only to the princess’s personal maids and closest family.

And she was taking a risk with her offer, which could be regarded as impertinent.

“A bath will be good.”

Ophele took an incautious step toward the tub in the corner of the room and had to bite her lip to stifle a yelp.

The pain between her legs was a dull, twisting ache when she held still, but that single step had felt like pulling open a wound.

“Perhaps some willow bark tea as well.”

Mistress Goel hurried over to offer an arm.

“Please sit until the bath is filled, Your Highness.

The hot water will help, and His Grace sent you a lovely new gown.”

The bath was excruciatingly embarrassing.

A lady might be poised in all circumstances, but Ophele was not yet made of stern enough stuff to endure the eyes of strangers with the red marks of the duke’s mouth all over her body.

It took her a moment to realize that the stripes on her thighs were marks from his hands: those could be nothing else but fingers, punctuated by a gripping thumb.

It was as if she had been branded for a crime.

Sinking down into the steaming water, she tried to pretend that she was being washed by invisible spirits, and a friendly visitor from the aether was bringing her tea.

As might be expected from the finest inn in Celderline, they were sensitive to her mood and did their job quietly, washing her with the same care as before, lotioning, careful of all the sore places.

The tea and the bath took the sharpest edge off the pain, and she hardly yelped at all as they wrapped her in towels and helped her to her dressing table.

But when she rose to dress, Ophele was horrified to realize she was bleeding.

She looked up at Mistress Goel, her face stricken.

“Could you send someone to find my valise, please?”

she asked, crimson with shame.

“Maybe one of the knights will know where it is.

I’m so sorry, I didn’t know, I will pay—”

“Sebire, go and see if you can find Sir Miche and inquire after Her Highness’s things,”

Mistress Goel said promptly.

“Please don’t concern yourself, Your Highness, a spot or two never harmed anything.”

“Is it normal?”

Ophele made herself ask.

“Yes, dear, perfectly natural.

I assume you have some bundles of cotton among your things?”

She crouched beside Ophele, patting her knees in a motherly sort of way.

“I remember when all my friends were getting married, some of them said it happened to them.”

“My sister said she bled for two days afterward, Your Highness,”

offered Rosset, the lanky hairdresser.

“But you’ll recover quickly,”

the mistress assured her.

“I’m afraid marriage isn’t always a bed of roses,”

she added, glancing humorously at the petals littering the floor on the other side of the room.

Ophele nodded, dumbly grateful.

Everything to do with…everything was so embarrassing.

She could hardly stand to look them in the eyes, but once she was wearing a fresh chemise and had another cup of willow tea, she could at least pretend some normalcy.

She breakfasted lightly as they dressed her, and her new gown was both pretty and practical, fine violet wool over a black kirtle that would endure travel well and was deliciously soft and warm.

Rosset was just plaiting her hair into a single thick braid down her back when there was a knock at the door.

“Princess.”

The duke ducked inside before she could reply, and Ophele rose immediately to her feet, flushing hot and then cold at the sight of him.

He was back in plain wool and leather again, as if yesterday had never been, and spoke with his customary briskness.

“Hurry up and pack your things.

We’re leaving now.”

“Now?”

she echoed.

“Yes, now.

Mistress Goel, please let my man know how much all these things—”

he gave a vague wave in the direction of the dressing table “—cost.

We’ll buy all of them. Hurry.”

The memory of a man who had promised he wouldn’t hurt her gave Ophele the courage to protest, her voice emerging timorously.

“Your Grace, could we not—”

“What? Speak up,”

he said, glowering down at her.

He looked impatient, as if she were keeping him from important business, and her fingers knotted together anxiously.

“Nothing,”

she whispered, looking at the floor.

She couldn’t possibly tell him something so embarrassing.

The door closed.

She avoided the eyes of Mistress Goel and Rosset as she swept everything into her much-battered valise.

She didn’t know what had become of her wedding dress or diamond jewelry; the maids had taken them away after they undressed her the night before.

All that remained were the cosmetics, brush, comb, and assorted sanitary items, creature comforts that were nothing compared to the parcel of willow tea Mistress Goel pressed into her hands.

“It was an honor to serve you, Your Highness,”

she said, her eyes flashing displeasure in the duke’s direction.

It had taken both her and Rosset’s efforts to get Ophele down the stairs, and they bid farewell in the same place that they had met, with Ophele clutching her valise and feeling more than ever like a stray no one wanted.

But she was glad she had held her tongue.

All the knights were hurrying about the stable yard, swinging their saddles onto their horses and securing the supply wagon.

The idea of asking the Knights of the Brede to wait until she felt better was unthinkable.

“Princess,”

the duke said, riding up to her on his big black horse and extending a hand.

“Come, up you get.”

He lifted her into her usual position, resting in the crook of his chest and arm, so large and solid it was like sitting in a chair.

But the first bouncing step of the horse stabbed into her belly like a spear.

Stifling a gasp, she clutched the arm wrapped around her waist, the steel of his vambrace cold under her fingers.

“All right, Princess?”

She nodded, pale.

Her backside fit neatly between his thighs and rested on the saddle, and the jolting of the horse spanked painfully into all the places he had explored so thoroughly the night before.

A few townspeople turned out to see off His Grace and the knights, waving and shouting so loudly, there was no chance for conversation until they passed through the city gates.

“We received word this morning that there are bandits near Tresingale,”

he explained as the horse settled into a brisk, ground-devouring walk that rolled like a small boat over an endless series of waves.

“There are still a lot of deserters from both armies in the valley and we’ve just begun bringing in supplies and livestock, we can’t afford to lose them.”

That sounded important.

She bit her lip and tried to find a less painful position, her head resting on his chest.

“Where is Tresingale?”

she asked.

It was the first time that he had spoken so many words to her at once.

“It’s on a bend of the Brede near Drieze Watch, in Firkane,”

he answered willingly.

“The nearest bridge is thirty miles upriver, but I’ve ridden the length of the Andelin and there’s no better place.

The grazing is good and there’s a natural ridgeline for defense…”

It seemed she had found a subject the normally taciturn duke was willing to discuss at length.

Ophele tried to focus on his voice.

Adventurers in stories had to endure far worse than this on their quests; Beacon the Voyager had cut his own foot off to escape prison and make his way back to his ship before it sailed.

Surely, the duke must have endured worse; wasn’t that why they called him Remin Grimjaw? She had seen all the scars on his body with her own eyes.

And so, reminding herself of the misfortunes of every adventurer she had ever heard of, Ophele settled herself to endure.

* * *

It wasn’t until they paused for the noon meal that Remin realized something was amiss.

The sound the princess made when he lifted her down from the saddle was similar to some of the less pleasant noises the night before, and he glanced back sharply.

The princess was frozen in position behind him, biting her lower lip.

Her face was very pale.

“All right?”

he asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Yes.”

But when she tried to follow him, the hitching steps were nothing at all like her usual quick, bouncing gait, and he frowned.

“What’s wrong?”

he demanded.

“Don’t lie.

Are you injured?”

Her shoulders hunched and she glanced around quickly, as if frightened someone would overhear.

“It hurts,”

she confessed in a whisper, with tears of pain welling in her eyes and red to the tips of her ears.

It took him a moment to realize what specifically might be hurting.

“Still?”

“Yes,”

she said wretchedly.

“I have tea, Mistress Goel gave it to me—”

“I told you to tell me if it hurt,”

he said, lowering his voice.

“All the way from the city? Why didn’t you say something?”

“I thought—Mistress Goel said it was normal.”

She wilted under his black glare.

“And you said there were bandits…”

It took an effort to keep from cursing aloud, but Remin swallowed the words and lifted her up, trying not to be angry with her.

There was a small possibility that this was an intentional ploy to delay them on the road—she had become very friendly with Mistress Goel, and it was impossible to know what agents the Emperor might have in Celderline—but it was more likely that this was exactly what it appeared to be.

The noise she made when he set her on a handy rock made him scowl ferociously.

“I’m sorry,”

she said, as a further heaping of coals on his head.

“The tea helped before, I can keep going if—”

“Stop apologizing,”

he said shortly.

“I’ll go get it.

Do you need to relieve yourself?”

Her face turned crimson.

The blush spread all the way down her neck and chest, so dark it even disguised the livid marks of his mouth on her skin.

“Your Grace—”

“Yes or no?”

He was not easily embarrassed, but she was humiliated enough for both of them as he helped her into the bushes.

He learned a great deal about women’s clothing, anatomy, and the purpose of the bundles of cotton in her valise over the course of the next few minutes, as well as his deficiencies as a caretaker.

He knew less about women than he knew about his horse.

He should have gotten her a maid.

Settling her by the fire to wait for water to boil for the tea, he sought out Miche to demand to know if all women endured this after their first night.

“I guess some of them must,”

the blond knight said, looking startled, as if the idea had never occurred to him.

“I imagine being on horseback all day doesn’t help.

Sorry, Rem.

My expertise is in deflowering, not the bit that comes after.”

“Shut up.”

Miche’s face had never looked more punchable.

“Will she be all right?”

“I’ve never heard of a woman dying of it.

Just what did you do last ni—”

“Shut up,”

Remin said again, and stalked off to find Tounot, who often served as medic when their camp surgeon wasn’t available.

If the princess had been one of his soldiers, Remin would have had no qualms about pushing on, unless it looked likely to kill her, and she didn’t seem like she was going to die.

But for some reason the sight of her sniffing back tears was intolerable.

“Willow bark tea is probably best,”

Tounot replied, when Remin pulled him aside to discuss the trouble.

“Anything alchemical would be overkill.

Or there’s wine, if you just want to make her sleep.

Does she have a head for it?”

“No.”

Remin brightened.

Letting her sleep through the pain seemed ideal.

Retrieving a skin of wine from the supply wagon, he went to dose her.

“Wine?”

she said dubiously, when he presented the remedy.

“I know you don’t like it, but just drink it.”

Guilt made him sharper than he meant to be.

He probably could have foregone the fourth or fifth round with her last night, but at the time she had seemed to be enjoying it.

She nursed the wineskin with a sour face as they finished their meal of bread and cheese, and by the time he lifted her back onto his horse, she was already a little giddy, nestling into him like a kitten in a basket.

“S’warm,”

she said, slurring the tiniest bit.

It had been less than an hour and she had consumed about one and a half cups of wine.

“Drink a little more,”

he told her, lifting the skin to her lips.

He didn’t want to make her wine-sick, but as the horse swayed into motion, a crease appeared between her eyebrows, and she shifted uncomfortably against him.

“Does it still hurt?”

“Yes,”

she said.

Her head was resting on his chest, her hair tickling his chin. “Sorry…”

“Don’t apologize.

You have to tell me right away next time,”

he said, more gently.

“It’s never my intention to hurt you.”

“Really?”

There was a plaintive note in her voice that made him look down at her, surprised and a little insulted.

“Yes, really.

I took an oath to protect you, remember?”

“Those aren’t real,”

she said with unexpected cynicism, and sipped from the skin again without being told.

“The lord and lady took n’oath, too.”

“Lord and Lady Hurrell?”

“Mmm.”

She sighed, rubbing her cheek against the fur trim of his cloak.

Her eyelashes were very long and thick, curling over her flushed cheeks, and Remin shifted in the saddle, trying not to picture certain memorable interludes from the previous night.

“Why did they lie and say you were sick?”

he asked, partly to satisfy his curiosity and partly to take his mind off the feel of her body against him.

“Lisabe,”

she said, as if it were obvious.

“House Hurrell fell with House…Your Grace’s house.

They always said you owed.

Because they were loyal.”

“Why did you go along with it?”

His mouth tightened.

He had suspected something of the sort, but it was something else to hear it stated so baldly.

She was silent for so long, he thought she was going to refuse to answer.

Or maybe she had already fallen asleep.

Lifting her chin with his fingers, he found himself looking into troubled eyes, a warm and tawny shade like sunlight on the velvety hide of a doe.

“Tell me the truth.

I won’t be angry.”

“Remin Grimjaw.”

Her eyes closed as his finger stroked the dainty length of her jaw.

“You…you were so mad, ’member? And Lady Hurrell said she would tell…tell…she said, if you were my husband, and I made you mad, then you could do…anything…”

Her voice fell to a whisper and she burrowed against him as if she were trying to hide from that terrible anything.

And he had lied.

He was angry that anyone would insinuate he would abuse his wife, especially in front of that wife, for the despicable purpose of making her afraid of him.

“I have never harmed a woman in my life,”

he told her, stiff with offense.

Assassins did not count.

But this was the wrong thing to say, or at least the wrong tone in which to say it, because she lowered her eyes and nodded, clearly placating.

“I haven’t,”

he repeated with less heat.

“I won’t.

I promise, Princess.”

With his men nearby, he couldn’t bring himself to reassure her more thoroughly.

He had to satisfy himself with squeezing her briefly against him, her face pressed into his chest.

She hiccupped.

“That’s nice,”

she whispered, her chin tilting up to look at him.

Her eyes were hazy and her lips parted, pink and tender.

“Remin Grimjaw said he promised.

You smell nice.”

He took the wineskin away.

“You,”

he said, trying to ignore a certain anatomical stiffening, “are drunk, Princess.”

“Am not.”

“I assure you, you are,”

he said, amused.

She was bolder with a little wine in her veins.

“Not a princess,”

she enunciated, sounding aggrieved.

“But don’ tell.

S’a secret. Shh.”

Remin frowned.

He had all the paperwork to prove she most definitely was a princess.

“Your father is the Emperor,”

he said, looking down at her through narrowed eyes.

He hadn’t anticipated this when he gave her the wine, but he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity.

“Aren’t you a good and filial daughter to him?”

“How? Never…never seen’n Emp’rer.”

Her eyes were closing.

“What about a messenger from the Emperor?”

he asked, giving her a little nudge to keep her awake.

“Right before I came to Aldeburke.”

“Messjer?”

“Yes.

Where did you meet him?”

“Never metta messjer,”

she said sleepily.

“Not even’on my birthday…”

Her head sank against his chest, and she was asleep.

Remin looked down at her thoughtfully.

A sweet face could conceal sinister intentions.

He had already learned that the hard way.

It wasn’t impossible that she was faking her intoxication, or at least pretending to be drunker than she actually was.

He had known masters of deceit, spies and killers sent by the Emperor who must have been raised from birth to their calling. Child assassins.

Could she be one of them? Her lips moved, soft lips, innocent-looking lips, her head rocking gently from side to side with the sway of the horse, her delicate body as boneless as a doll’s.

Seventeen.

He had never been so innocent; he had killed his first assassin when he was fourteen, and took command of an army three years later.

Years of war and intrigue sometimes made him feel old and tired, as if he had already lived a lifetime.

But if she was innocent…

“She out?”

Miche drew his horse over, surveying the sleeping girl.

“Dead drunk,”

Remin replied, looking down at her ruefully.

“You still haven’t introduced her to us formally,”

Miche noted.

“We owe her our oaths too, Rem.

She’s our lady now.”

“She is.”

Again, he wondered if it really might be true.

“We’ll do it properly tomorrow.”