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She belonged with her men. Even if it was freezing. She shivered behind the blanket she had hung to give herself some privacy. She nearly had the binding cloth right, but her cold fingers fumbled the knot. She threw the cloth to the ground and shrieked in rage.
“Lada?” Bogdan asked. He hovered on the other side of the blanket. “Do you need help?”
“Not from you! Leave me alone!” After a few more infuriating minutes, she finally had everything in place. She pulled on a tunic—clean, which was a novelty—and rejoined her men.
“You need help,” Bogdan said, his voice low so no one would overhear.
“I do not need help.”
“You are a lady. You should not have to do these things for yourself.”
Lada gave him a flat, angry stare. “Bogdan, when have I ever been a lady?”
He returned her angry look with a soft, shy smile. “You have always been a lady to me.”
“Maybe you do not know me very well after all.”
Bogdan put one rough hand out, holding it palm up to show the scar from when they had “married” as children. “I know you.”
Before Lada could decide how to respond—or how to feel—Petru drew her attention.
The last caravan they robbed had been filled with fine clothing, pieces of which were strewn about their camp. Trousers hung from trees, shirts danced in the breeze. The bright colors on bare branches gave everything a festival air.
Petru wrestled with an intricately brocaded vest, struggling to get it across his shoulders. He spun in one direction and then the other. Nicolae watched, lips a single straight line but eyes dancing with mirth.
“That would fit better if it were designed for a man,” Matei said as he walked by. Matei’s purse was full now, but he still looked hungry.
Petru stopped spinning and ripped off the vest in horror. Nicolae burst into laughter. “You could have told me!” Petru said.
“But it set off the color of your eyes so nicely.”
Petru glared murderously. Then he looked over at Lada and held the vest out. She raised a single eyebrow at the delicate colors and needlework. Muttering to himself, Petru threw the vest at Nicolae’s head and walked away.
Lada wore a long tunic over trousers, all black except for a red sash tied at her waist. A thick black cloak, lined with glorious fur, kept her warmer than she had been in months. Her boots—finely tooled leather decorated with delicate patterns—were the only women’s clothing she wore. She had grown accustomed to wearing her hair tied in cloth, but instead of Janissary white, she used black. Over that, she wore a fur cap.
They had all ceased wearing the Janissary caps and uniforms long ago. But some kept a few reminders of their lives as slaves: a sash here, a knife there. Bogdan used the white cloth from his cap to clean his weapons. Many of the men used theirs for much less savory cleaning.
“Has Stefan returned?”
Nicolae finished buttoning his vest, then drew his cloak closed. “Not yet. Must we wait for him before having any fun? We have plenty of men.”
“Tonight is not a night for plenty. Tonight is a night for speed and secrecy.”
Bogdan shifted closer to Lada. “I will come.”
“Not you.”
His face fell. Gritting her teeth, Lada continued, “I need to leave you in charge of the camp.”
He shrugged and stomped away. She did not know if he stomped because he was angry, or simply because he was large. The truth was, she could not bring Bogdan tonight because he would object to what she had in mind. Nicolae might as well. Petru, she did not know. But Matei…
“Matei, just the two of us.”
“What are you going to do?” Nicolae asked.
Lada sheathed her knives. One at either wrist, one at her right ankle. A large container of lamp oil hung from a strap slung over her shoulder. “I am going to visit the governor of Brasov.”
“Is that really necessary?”
