“That’s her,” the prince concluded. “Am I to deduce from your story that she was alone? Perhaps fearful enough to attack any man to cross her path after what she endured at the hands of her vile captor?”
Again, Serville coughed.
The injured man tucked the pouch of gold into his old belt but didn’t seem moved by Renard’s apparent elation. “She was alone but headed away from both Pyrenee and Ardenia.”
Renard rushed in to turn the tide of conversation from this one of skepticism. “After such an ordeal, it is no surprise that she would have been confused. Do you know which way she went?”
The man nodded. “She was confused enough to think she was looking for four riders on three horses. I see seven of you.”
Another person urged her horse forward—this one a girl, no older than Renard. Maybe of Basilica—blue eyes, dark hair, clothes in tatters, nice sword strapped to her back in a hasty scabbard.“I saw four riders on three horses watering themselves and their horses at the Cardenas Scar two days ago. A Torrentian boy was bound and loudly insisting his princess would come for him. It sounds like your princess could have been looking for that group.”
Renard drew another pouch of gold from his belt and tossed it at the girl before she could say more so publicly. She’d ripped the rug out from under his repeated assumption of the stableboy’s misdeeds but she’d also hinted at what they really needed: actual direction. It was time to leave.
“You two come.” He gestured warmly, regally, to the rest of the caravan. “Four men of strength and talent, join us and your own gold awaits. We must not squander these leads.”
CHAPTER
27
AMARANDEand Luca ran until the sun was strong. Thirst gripped them with the dryness and the heat that had found them in their rush away from the kidnappers—due west, with the forest close enough that they could duck in for cover if needed.
Soon enough, the light tinkling of a thin stream was too much to resist. The water trickled out from under a thick stand of low brush and continued a short way. It was impossible to tell where it had started from, but the water was moving along, not stagnant, and therefore as safe for consumption as they were likely going to get.
Amarande pulled Mira to a trot, and she and Luca both took a long look behind them. No one. Not yet.
Wordlessly, they slid off the filly’s slick back and tied Mira to a strong bloom of bush downstream for her own fulfillment. Then they sat and drank and then drank some more, filling over and over the two waterskins they’d found in their stolen saddlebags. They’d found other things, too—food, clothing, a dagger, and, to the princess’s interest, a small drawstring pouch perfect for her diamonds.
And when their bellies were full with cool water and the sweat was beginning to dry to their skin rather than continue flowing, Amarande grabbed Luca’s hand and pulled him under a rock shelf that shielded them partly from the sun.
They’d run so far and so fast, they’d yet to say much at all.
“Let me have a look at you,” the princess said, her tongue curling in an almost embarrassed way as she met his eyes. She usually could be so unguarded with him, but at that moment, with the weight of what she’d done to get him back hanging between them, she found herself suddenly sheepish under his gaze.
He’d ridden at her back for the last two hours, his chest pressed to her spine as Mira navigated through the shifting sand and brush. But feeling his heart slow from frantic to relieved as it thumped against her backbone was completely different from seeing for herself that he hadn’t been harmed.
Luca’s cheeks were flushed with heat. Sweat shimmered in the usual places—his brow, the dip below his lower eyelashes, the ridges of his cheekbones. There was evidence of what he’d been through—a large knot at his temple, obviously red and angry even beneath the curling ends of his hair. His wrists were bruised and raw where his hands had been bound.
There wasn’t more that she could see, though he held himself carefully, as if his back ached, or maybe it was his ribs. Amarande’s attention again settled on his temple.
“Does your head hurt?”
“Not anymore.” He shook his head for emphasis, but then he thought better of it, a wince sharpening his handsome features. Even if he hadn’t given himself away with that reaction or the obvious bump, she wouldn’t have believed him.
Luca was honest and earnest, yes, but he never wanted her to worry either. She’d find out about the other injuries only if she asked, though the way he fought the Myrcellian and the Eritrian gave her confidence that nothing was broken, only bruised.
The threat of a fight still coursed through Amarande’s hands, her fingers still tense, blunt. She used every inch of her concentration to cast them gently toward his face, pressing her palms softly into his cheeks, fingers trailing into his hair. That feeling in herheart was back, as if it were made of wax, melting into nothing within her chest.
Her Luca.
Amarande kissed him then—forehead first, then the bridge of his nose, the tops of his cheeks.
She’d never kissed him before.
And yet her lips found dust and sweat and fear andhim.
The princess immediately wanted more, and took. The kisses were slow and spread out, like raindrops in the Torrent desert. Luca sat still, oh so still, as though if he so much as breathed, it would stop.
As long as he consented, she wouldn’t.
