The linen was returned to the tray, and then he pulled his tunic over his head, his bare torso illuminated by the afternoonsun. His body had been honed by exercise and training. Smooth tanned skin, arms corded with strength, taut abdomen ridged with muscle that disappeared into the top of his leggings. He might have been a sculpture, each curve of his body released from its imprisoning stone by a crafter with the gods’ own skill.
The shape of his body was none of my business, but I couldn’t look away. I didn’t want to look away. Whatever haze remained from the dream burned away at the sight of him, beautiful and strong. I wondered what it might be like to touch that muscle, to trail fingertips down his abdomen…and watch his reaction. Would it be the same wicked smile he’d worn in the carriage while returning to the stronghold, or the dark-eyed stare he’d given me in the caravanserai, when a dance had felt like something much more intimate…
And then he turned away to take a clean tunic from the tray, revealing a back that narrowed from the broad sweep of his shoulders to his waist and the curve at the bottom of his spine…and the dozens of scars that marked it.
Long, straight scars, much too regular to have come from training or a battle. Even from up here it was clear they’d been made intentionally. Someone had wanted to hurt him. Someonehadhurt him.
That shook me from my reverie, and had pity and concern welling up. The scars weren’t new; they hadn’t been suffered recently. Had it happened when he was in the army? Or at the hands of one of his brothers?
Pitying a Lys’Careth didn’t feel comfortable. Pitying a man who—I had to admit—had been kind to me felt even worse.
“Hey!”
The voice rang out behind me, and I hadn’t even heardanyone approach. That was how absorbed I’d been in staring at the prince.
I cursed silently, put on my most naïve expression, and glanced back to find the tallest man I’d ever seen. He would have been head and shoulders over Wren. His hair was the orange-red of a good sunset, long enough to wave across his forehead. A day’s growth of auburn whiskers lined his jaw. The skin beneath it was pale. He wore a blue tunic belted over leggings, and his eyebrows were arched and suspicious.
“Who are you?”
“A guest of the prince.”
“What are you doing here?”
“What areyoudoing here?” I challenged, narrowing my gaze.
He didn’t so much as blink at the question. He had the shoulders of a soldier, and I didn’t think he’d be swayed much by the question, but it was worth a try.
“I heard the sound of fighting.”
I heard the footsteps behind me now, the soft tread of boots on grass proof that the now-shirted prince and Galen were strolling up the hill. The latter looked irritated. The former looked amused and satisfied.
I made my face completely blank. He couldn’t know what I’d been thinking.
The prince glanced at me, then the redhead. “Trouble?”
“I’m not sure, Your Highness,” the man said. “I found this girl. She said she’s one of your guests.”
“Did she?” the prince asked, with no sign of recognition on his face.
“I heard fighting, and thought I should ensure it wasn’t…assassins.”
“Ah.” His eyes sparkled. “And did you see any…assassins?”
“I saw nothing,” I said, all innocence.
I think we both knew this was another kind of battle. Combat between fighters skilled at pretending.
“Thank you for minding our security. This is Red, our training master.”
I smiled at him. “I can’t imagine where you got your name,” I said, and his grin was broad and friendly.
“Red,” the prince said, “meet Fox.”
“Fox,” the man said in a way that made it sound like he’d heard the name before. “You’re the thief.”
I looked at the prince, brows raised.
“Red has saved my life several times,” the prince said. “I trust him.”
