Ever the Hunted (Clash of Kingdoms #1)(52)

“Come, I’ll help you draw water to fill your bath.” Enat’s as stubborn as me and also oddly caring. Which I don’t mind.

I follow her to the well. The moon cuts through clouds and forest, dimly lighting our way. The canopy of branches and leaves is thick enough to keep the rain to a trickle.

At the well, we sit on the edge of the rocky circle and draw two buckets of water. Steam wafts up from each bucket. I dip my hand into the first, wanting to test the warmth.

“Is it magic?” I ask, slack-jawed at the temperature.

She chuckles. “Only one of nature’s mysteries. It’s why I put my cottage here. Not many people know about the water.”

I study her for a moment, waiting to feel the touch of truth in her words. And once again, no impression comes.

“What’s that look for?”

“Oh, nothing,” I mutter, cursing inwardly. My face always gives too much away.

She takes the bucket and the lantern and leads the way back toward the cottage. After dumping my bucket in the wash bin, I return to the well, noticing Cohen’s absence beside the fireplace. The low murmur of voices sounds in the darkness. I’m nearly to the well when I see Cohen reaching for the two buckets Enat has pulled up.

He starts toward me. “I thought you could use a hand.”

“Oh?”

“So you can get to washing all that dirt and crust off.” He repeats Enat’s words with a crooked smile. Right.

“You didn’t have to,” I mutter.

He doesn’t respond as he passes, his scent, soap and woods, trailing behind. The strangest desire kicks through me to follow him, to draw in a lungful of air and hold it.

I shake my head clear and consider smacking myself.

Wait until Enat passes me.

Then wait another fifty breaths.



I’m immersed in the steaming hot bath when a knock sounds at the door before it cracks open. “Britta?”

Even though it is only Enat, I jerk my arms protectively over my body and sink lower so only my knobby knees show in the candle’s glow.

“I forgot to leave a drying cloth for you,” she says as she slips inside.

My eyes bug out. Never in all my days has someone walked in on me bathing.

“And these were my daughter’s belongings.” Enat holds up the bundle in her arms, oblivious to my discomfort.

She shuffles to the pile of rags a few feet from the tub and wrinkles her nose. “Yours are filthy and need repair.”

There’s no arguing with that; still—?

“Mine are fine,” I protest. “I don’t need anything more.”

“I know you’re likely a girl who doesn’t take things from others, but the dress is no good to me. It would please me if you took it.” Her voice trembles as she shuffles closer to the tub. Enat wrinkles her nose at my trip-worn clothes. “It is a better disguise than the tunic you’ve been wearing. You’ll look like one of the kinswomen. I’d appreciate it if you took it off my hands.”

She doesn’t give me a chance to turn down her offer. She leaves with my stolen sailor clothes in her arms.

I wash the dirt and blood away. The well water seeps into my skin and warms me to the bones. Even in the dim lighting, my fresh-scrubbed skin shines freckled-pink when I step out of the tub.

Hesitantly, I touch the dress’s fine cloth and groan to myself. I cannot walk out wearing this. If the cinched waist weren’t off-putting, the skirts alone pose too much of a tripping threat. It’ll fit strangely, and surely the fabric, all soft and shiny, will irritate. In Malam, only a person of nobility would dress in something so finely stitched.

I scan the room, hoping for another option. Unfortunately, besides the towel, there’s nothing else to wear. The horrible, badly blue, trimmed and trilled dress that’s staring me down like an animal on the hunt is my only option. Resigned, I grab the garment and shove my arms through the sleeves that smell faintly of lilacs. My nose itches. The collar rubs against my skin, and the thin shift beneath the floor-length skirt scratches my legs.

When I finally leave the room, I’m afraid to meet Cohen’s gaze. Afraid he’ll think me silly and laugh at my appearance.

“Ah, I knew it would fit.” Enat stops chopping carrots and smiles. “You’re just about my daughter’s size. You look lovely.”

Cohen turns from where he is sharpening his knife beside the fireplace. His eyes sweep over the length of my damp hair lying across my shoulders and darkening the ocean-blue dress with each drop.

“Dove.” His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows.

I shift my weight, forcing myself not to tug at the ridiculous dress. My hands go to my waist, where the dress clings to my form, only Cohen’s eyes track the movement, making me cringe inwardly when his attention lingers. I fold my arms, and his gaze jumps to meet mine.

“When did your hair get so long?” His voice is tree-bark rough.

My fingers run through the tangled ends. I’m overcome with the oddest conflicting desires—?that he would quit looking at me and that he would never stop.

“I, uh, don’t know . . . I didn’t have a brush and haven’t cut it in a while. It’s so long.” I huff my annoyance when my hand catches in a snag. “I should just cut it. It’d be easier to travel as a boy.”