“Wash up,” Sainte grunted, shoving the bed in front of the door. He collapsed onto it, muddy boots and all, groaning as his body slowly relaxed.
He went still for so long, I thought he had fallenasleep.
“Time’s wasting,” he said, voice raspy with fatigue. “This is your only chance to bathe before tomorrow.”
Tomorrow—when he presented me at the palace, to my brother, to the high court.
At the brass mirror, I worked my hands free of the rope. Growing up in the slums left little opportunity to study my reflection.
Despite the lack of familiarity, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the person staring back at me. Deep circles hung over sunken cheeks, a sharp contrast to the dark lashes framing my peridot-green irises. Short black hair, matted and oily, stuck out at odd angles. My features, though plain, were a bit more striking than others I’d seen on the road. Aside from my eyes, I resembled nothing close to a princess.
Heaving a sigh, I shed the cloak and dipped my hands in the basin, grimacing when the crisp water immediately darkened. I washed up as best I could, submerging my hair and swishing it around to rid it of grime. With a nearby rag, I scrubbed the sweat and dirt from my skin, mindful of the male presence in the room.
As soon as I finished, Sainte took a deep breath, drawing my attention. His features scrunched into a grimace before he threw his legs over the bedside. Without glancing my way, he traded places with me.
I cringed as he reached for that nasty, used rag. “Oh—that water is vile.”
He paused, peering into the basin where dirt and particles of who knows what floated within. “Aye, it is.”
As he dunked the rag and dragged it over his face and neck, my nose wrinkled. That water would make a decent fertilizer.
He patted dry with the front of his tunic, then faced me. “Ready?”
“Not at all.”
I pushed to my feet as he shoved at the bed, moving it back into place.
“You would’ve had more time…” The accusation fell away with a one-armed shrug, then he reached for my wrist, rope in hand.
“If only I hadn’t tried for my freedom.” Sarcasm drenched my tone.
He snorted, shaking his head as if he found it somewhat amusing. “If only.”
He tied my wrists gently, his calloused fingers brushing along my skin in a way that made my heart pump too fast.
Curse the blasted organ.
He kept the rope loose, granting me just enough slack to slip it off if necessary. I watched his blue eyes, hoping for a hint, a fraction of reprieve. I hoped against hope that he’d change his mind, take back everything he said thus far and tell me I was free to go.
When his gaze caught mine, he hesitated. His lips pressed into a thin line and his jaw worked, his silent remorse evident.
Please, don’t make me do this.
He jerked my hood up, pulling the brim low enough to cut off our contact. Brushing past, he grabbed my arm and hauled me out–
To the fresh gray horse.
To Wynterborne.
He pushed the sturdy gelding at a horrible speed. We leaned over the horse’s sweat-soaked neck, Sainte pressed against my back. Everything ached because of the position. My arse felt as if it was one enormous bruise and my stomach rumbled, but there was no rest for either of us.
As morning broke, the horse stumbled, barely catching itself as it panted and snorted. Sainte blew out a hiss of impatience, then pulled into an alley. The beast trembled as he dismounted and helped me down. I bit out a curse as my knees gave out, and he grunted, holding me up. I clutched onto the front of his armor, forcing my legs to take my weight.
“When we mount again, we will not stop until we reach the castle.”
“You’ll kill the horse.” There was no accusation in my tone, just a flat statement.
“What is a single horse for a kingdom’s future?” he asked. His voice was rough with lack of sleep and several days of fast travel. His lips were pressed together in a frown as his blue eyes danced over my face.
