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He laughed.
Everything she did surprised him. If his heart wasn’t hardened and gnarled like ancient wood, he’d say she delighted him, but he did not know what the word meant. If he’d ever felt it, it had been a thousand years ago. It could not be recalled now.
She held the wood up and examined it by the firelight, before lowering it again. She pushed the blade down in a skillful stroke, clearing an entire section of bark in one sweep.
He pursed his lips in silent approval.
“What did my father do?” she asked abruptly.
Ah. Just so. It was time. He surely hadn’t thought she’d leave off it, had he?
He gained a moment of reprieve by finishing a tricky turn, then said quietly, “Do you truly want to know, Cassia?”
“I’m sure I already do,” she replied quickly, not sounding sure at all. “It was likely some kind of gambling.”
“Oh, it was a gamble, all right.”
Her hand stilled, then moved on.
He did not want to tell her what her father had done. For all her wealth and privilege, she seemed to have little to lose.
In truth, she seemed…forlorn. And he did not wish to rip away the one thing she did have: an unfounded faith in her father as a loyal king’s man. She would learn, eventually. But he did not want it to be right now. Not tonight. And if it could come from someone other than him, that would be good.
He told himself this was because he needed her alliance. He would do nothing to undermine that, not now, not until he had his sword.
“Better you do not know, lass.”
She made an impatient gesture with the knife, swinging it close to her face. His hand shot out protectively. “Smaller blade,” he said quickly.
She changed knives and went back to work. “Everyone thinks everything is too much for me.” Her tone was complaining. “But they are wrong. After all, I escaped from you.”
“Almost.”
She ignored him. “And survived a tent fire.”
“That you did.”
“And a boar attack.”
“Och, the tales you’ll have to tell.”
Her head tipped back on a lilting laugh that was filled with pure pleasure. Her skin glowed from river water and firelight.
So close, so curving, so perfectly woman.
She lifted her head, smiling, and held up the wood. “Look!”
He examined the wavy stump that might be…a house? Or were those ears?
“’Tis…beautiful,” he said carefully.
“It is your horse, Fury.”
“Of course it is,” he murmured. She’d whittled his horse?
“He seems to like you,” she explained. “What do you think of it?” She pushed the bl
anket up her forearms, exactly as she had pushed up the sleeves of her gown in the tent, when she was filled with exultation at throwing off the burden of care.
