That’s nice. I can feel his stubble against my skin and his breath on my neck, a moment’s respite, a brief second where the rest of the world melts away, and it’s only the place where he touches that exists.
Then it’s over.
But I prepared for a kiss, a real kiss. I feel let down somehow. Does he not want to kiss me anymore after yesterday? Soon, he pulls his hand away, too, and doesn’t stand so close, and the moment ends. I try to blink away the strange ache in my heart.
Then his face melts into my blurry vision, his eyes soft, his lips slightly quirked. “Everything okay?” he asks.
“Totally fine.”
“You look disappointed.”
“Not a bit.”
“Not even a tiny bit? Now I’m the one who’s disappointed.”
I bite my lip. I want to put my hands around his neck and choke him, but I don’t. That’s not what a princess would do.
…
Before I know it, we’re back on the road again. Every time we stop in a new town, I take his hand, and I know what’s coming next. A kiss on the cheek. That’s all.
Still, the crowds seem satisfied with our performance.
The people cheer, and after a few more towns, we decide to put on a real show. I relax in his arms, letting him dip me lower as my hand wanders around his back to pull him closer. I’m starting to appreciate how Dietan holds me, firmly but gently. And I look forward to the way he nuzzles my neck, sending tingles up and down my spine. His lips press against my skin. Once, he even lingers and drags his lips down against my jaw, almost to my neck. I can’t help but gasp a little.
“Oops, got carried away that time,” he murmurs afterward.
I’m sure he knows exactly what he’s doing. He never tries to kiss me on the lips again, and every time he doesn’t, I die a little inside.
Do I really want to kiss him?Him?Ugh. But what if I do?
The next several days pass much the same way. The weather is the only thing that varies. One day we’re caught in a rainstorm and the carriage wheels get stuck in the mud, and it takes everyone’s effort to get it out. Dietan and I even help push, slipping and sliding in cold mud nearly up to our knees. I end up soaked to the skin, because I refuse to risk soiling my new coat.
We sit on a several daises for celebratory banquets in the larger towns and share private meals in smaller ones. Each inn is warmer and cozier than the next, every room with separate beds—always separate. Whenever possible, Dietan keeps to his own private quarters, which doesn’t go unnoticed by his guards, who keep watch in front of our rooms through the night. He never lingers to dine with his men, which I gather is unusual, and he always closes the door between our rooms when it’s time to rest.
I’ll admit that traveling with the prince has become slightly less annoying, especially since I pointed out his bad habits. He makes attempts at cleaning up after himself, and I make a point not to nag him about it.
Lydia and I grow closer, sharing my bed because I can’t imagine my bridal attendant, this young woman barely older than my sisters, sleeping in a tent like Dietan’s men.
One night between cities, we arrive in yet another small town, barely a village. There is only one inn, which has only one room, which goes to me and Lydia, leaving the rest of the traveling party to set up tents under the night sky.
At least the inn has a proper kitchen I can use, and I’m finally able to serve the truffles we picked up with roast pork and potatoes. I even have time to bake a side of garlic bread. That night, I serve up a hearty meal for everyone in the entourage around a fire in the innyard.
“That was the best damn meal I’ve ever had,” Dietan says happily when he’s finished eating.
“Hear, hear,” agrees Marcus. The soldiers raise their goblets—and some even clank their swords, which are never far from their hands—in appreciation.
“Ah, we’re all just tired of dried meat and old bread,” I dismiss with a blush.
“No, seriously, best meal ever,” says Dietan.
“You said that about breakfast at the Raven’s Beak,” I remind him.
“Because that breakfast was also the best damn meal I’ve ever had. Can you make biscuits again?” he asks.
“Maybe.” I shrug. Then I add, in a lower voice, “But I don’t think you deserve them.”
He laughs. “Don’t be harsh.”
