REMY
Icrossed my arms over my chest, extended my legs, and leaned back in my chair.
The tavern was emptying as its patrons headed home to their beds.
Haven laughed, and I found myself staring. When I’d first seen her in the clearing, I thought she was too gorgeous to possess any substance, a woman ready to trade her beauty for wealth or titles. Pushing her away had been easy.
But I’d been wrong. Dead wrong. Her looks weren’t what got to me anymore—it was everything else. She was hard and soft and smart and naive, all at the same damned time. Whatever motivated Haven, it wasn’t the desire to wear a diadem. She was a woman of substance. And pushing her away became harder.
Haven refused to take my shit. I pondered that for a second. We’d ridden together, fought together, and buried a town together, and she’d never flirted or traded on her looks or touched me unless absolutely necessary. She didn’t want me.
Good. No, great. I didn’t want her either.
She and Mary, who’d been talking nonstop about baking, giggled. Baking. I imagined Haven in an apron, dusted with flour, and my thoughts turned filthy.
Zane, who sat next to me, cleared his throat and whispered, “Still resisting?”
“Yes.” She wasn’t grasping or cruel; that didn’t mean I wanted to claim her as mine.
He chuckled as if I’d said something amusing. “Look at her. She’s perfect.”
Haven’s dark-blonde hair was held back in a loose braid, and pink tinted her high cheekbones. She wore a gray tunic, and gray was not her color; it washed her out. I’d have to buy her new clothes before we rode for Talin—blue. She’d look beautiful in blue. I shook my head, annoyed at the wayward thought. “She’s tolerable.”
Zane’s sudden burst of laughter drew all eyes to us.
William approached the table, carrying another pitcher of ale. “Would anyone care for dessert? My wife makes a wonderful butter cake. Or if you prefer, your rooms are ready.”
A dreamy look settled on Haven’s face. “Is there a bathtub?”
“Yes, miss. Cake, Your Highness?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” I didn’t care what I ate. I was too busy imagining Haven naked in a steaming tub. “Haven?”
She’d caught her lower lip between her teeth. She looked torn. Her gaze landed on Grace, and her expression softened. Ah. Not torn about cake versus a bath. She didn’t want to leave Grace.
A problem easily solved. I fixed my gaze on Clive. “We’d like to see Grace before we leave in the morning.”
“Of course, Your Highness.” Clive gave a nod. “Mary?” He held out his hand to his wife.
She rose from her chair, clutching Grace as if she expected us to change our minds and take her back.
We wouldn’t. Clive and Mary were good people. Grace would be happy with them.
And I’d pay others to keep an eye on her well-being. I’d sworn she’d never want for anything. And I’d meant it. If ever Clive and Mary couldn’t take care of their new daughter, I’d be there to help.
Haven rose and dropped a kiss on the top of Grace’s downy head. “I’ll see you in the morning, little one.”
Grace reached out with her tiny hand and closed her fingers around a loose strand of Haven’s hair.
The woman who’d ruthlessly killed dozens of nians wiped a sentimental tear from her eye.
“We’ll take good care of her,” Mary promised.
“I know you will.” Haven offered her a watery smile and watched until they disappeared through the tavern door, before saying, “I’m going to see about that bath.”
Only Zane and I remained at the table. “What did Sanderson say?” I asked.
“There have been rumors of Legacian raiding parties.”
