“I … I thought maybe that man was an assassin, and I wanted you to be quiet.” It was a terrible lie, and badly told.
Asherton looked dubious. He squared his shoulders and tilted up his chin. “I’m unarmed, as you can see, so make it quick and clean if you don’t mind.”
“I’m not trying to kill you,” Magdala said loudly and slowly, like she was explaining something to an obstinate child.
“Then what was all that with the knife?” he replied, mimicking her tone.
“Even if I was, which I wasn’t”—she crossed her arms over her chest—“you should at least fight back.”
He ran his thumb over his bottom lip. “I should, shouldn’t I? A sensible suggestion.” The breeze ruffled his tousled curls, and he looked rakish and detestably handsome. Magdala wanted to vomit. “But I’m tired tonight and don’t feel like it.”
A mumbling voice carried down the steps, and Asherton’s valet rounded the corner. He was a tall, handsome man of about thirty-five, with neatly combed black hair, a square jaw, and arms like tree trunks. The Allageshan military uniform gracing his muscular body was at least a hundred years out of date.
“What are you doing here with this girl?” the man asked. “She’s working! Leave her be.”
“Oh yes, she’s working very hard,” Asherton said with a cold look at Magdala.
The man reached for Asherton’s arm. “Come on, let’s … where the hell are your shoes?”
Asherton let out a trembling laugh. “I don’t recall.”
With the air of an exasperated parent with a toddler, the man pulled the prince toward the stairs. “Did you see him? Did he hurt you?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
The man clenched his teeth. “You look a mess.”
“You look like you stumbled out of a museum.”
As Asherton’s valet tried to compel him down the stairs, Asherton glanced over his shoulder at Magdala. “Goodnight, lovely Magdala,” he said with a grin. Slipping free of his valet’s grasp, he hurried into the garden. The valet swore and pursued him, his rusty saber clanking at his side.
Chapter 6
Magdala stared at the knife still clutched in her hand, glimmering in the pale pink light from the stained-glass window. One heartbeat, one twitch, one slight tension of her wrist, and she could have gone to bed that night a murderer. Sweat trickled down the back of Magdala’s neck, her hands shook.
If the prince had fought back, resisted her, she would have done it. She would have slashed his throat, then told herself in the endless stretch of sleepless nights that followed, that she did it in self-defense. Magdala dropped the knife as if it were a spider and pressed the back of her hand against her mouth.
She really was losing her mind, morphing into a zealot worse than the madmen in her father’s cottage who had tried to cave in her ribs at the riot.
Pushing away from the wall, Magdala started up the stairs, but before she reached the crest, Julian appeared above her, descending two steps at a time. His cheeks were white, his brow sweaty. He was holding a small shotfire in his hand, but he shoved it into his belt as he reached her.
“What are you doing out here?” he demanded, catching her arm.
“This grabby habit of yours is going to lose you a finger,” Magdala snarled.
“Was that the prince with you just now?”
Magdala’s eyes slipped to the shotfire in his belt. An instant ago, she’d very nearly severed Prince Asherton’s carotid, so she didn’t know why she replied, “No.”
“Yes, it was, you little minx. Now tell me where he went, or I’ll tell Huxley it was you who broke into the prince’s coach.”
“Go ahead,” Magdala said coolly. “And I’ll be sure to mention your little slip at the riot on my way out the door.”
Julian’s fingers tightened on her arm and, before she could react, he shoved her. With a shriek of anger and horror, Magdala lurched backward over the sharp steps. On instinct, she twisted her body and curled her arms over her head as she slammed down. The stone bit into her shoulder, her arm, her hip and thigh as she rolled, then sprawled on the gravel path. The wind knocked from her lungs, Magdala could only lie on her back, gasping. Her mouth tasted of copper, and her body ached.
“How …” she stammered, easing onto her knees. She knew she should be afraid, but she was so angry, her fear dissolved like snow on a stovetop. “How dare you, you little skat-brained son of a …”
“Don’t cross me, Magdala,” Julian said. His hands trembled, his lips so tight he could barely speak. “Don’t ever cross me again.”
