Page 12

Though Court never looked down, his hand moved toward his side protectively. By all the saints, how could she steal it back if he kept it there? Her first failed escape attempt had not gone well, but this time Marion had to get it right. Once at Camburg, the stone would be lost to her forever.

“I cannot give it to you.”

She’d expected him to say as much.

“But don’t you see—”

“I see only what you tell me, Marion. Your version of the legend.”

A shiver ran down her arms. Her name had never sounded so . . .

“It will aid my cause,” he blurted out. Court tossed the bones of his meal into the fire. He looked at her, as if awaiting confirmation. The revelation seemed to surprise him even as he said it.

She’d said too much. Belatedly, Marion realized if Court had not known of the stone’s importance, he may have been more inclined to give it to her. “Think first, speak later,” her tutor had often said.

So much for that lesson.

“If your cause is to start a war along the border,” she said, preparing to stand, “then, aye. The stone may prove useful.”

“Sit,” he asked. Only the softness of his tone stayed her. “We are at an impasse, it seems. But can we not put aside our differences—”

“Differences?” She shook her head, astounded. “We are enemies, Court. You aim to hurt my people—”

“Who refuse the call for peace. The border has become unstable—you know it as well as I do. Those who remember how it was before the Days of Truce say it will only get worse. Blackmail, increasing raids—”

“On both sides,” she spat back.

“It would be foolish not to prepare for the worst.”

She disagreed. “Surely you don’t ask me to condone an attack against my own country?”

“Surely you don’t ask me to disobey orders from my king?”

Marion opened her mouth and then closed it again.

What would I do in his position?

They glared at one another, Marion wanting nothing more than to reach over, grab the stone, and get away from here.

Away from him.

Not true.

She pushed away the thought, stood, and marched over to the bedroll. A thin linen blanket and makeshift pillow made from grass and leaves were to be her only protection for the night. Trying to ignore the sound of her companion moving around camp, Marion closed her eyes and breathed deeply, taking in the smell of moss and . . .

Court?

He lay behind her, pushing her over and nearly off the bedroll. Without turning, she asked, “What are you doing?”

He shifted against her, pulling the blanket over his body. It was just large enough to cover them both, but . . . did he really think to sleep this way?

“Attempting to get some rest,” his deep voice answered.

“Surely not like this?” She shoved him with her backside, attempting to regain some of the space she’d lost when he lay down.

“Surely not,” he answered.

Marion turned from her side to her back in order to see him. With two hands propped behind his head—at least he’d given her the pillow—he appeared quite comfortable. A man who would steal the stone, attack her country, and cause Marion to fail at her purpose in life . . . and she was drawn to him like a starving man would eye a banquet. A dangerous, virile, and attractive man. “This is not . . . proper.”