Solveig rolled onto her other side, her back now facing him. Her breathing slowed just a bit, but he had to say one more thing.
“Solveig?”
“What?”
He pressed his lips into a firm line, trying to keep the humour out of his tone.
“Sometimes you snore when you sleep.”
She scoffed and elbowed his stomach. “Asshole.”
Westley could hear the smile in her voice and was glad he’d been able to calm her.
Soon her slow, deep breathing joined the other two and he knew she wouldn’t need to be woken again.
That sick feeling that had burrowed in his stomach all day crept back in. He’d managed to distract himself with their journey, but now, lying beside her and watching the hard lines of her face soften, he couldn’t avoid it. The guilt would keep him awake all night as he pondered hisnext move. He couldn’t see a way around it. He was most likely going to have to lie to her.
Again.
Thefourslepttherest of the day and all through the night.
When Westley woke from his restless sleep, the sun was just beginning its ascent—the white canvas tent soaked in the early morning rays, the space illuminated in a soft glow. He was warm and comfortable, curled into the warm body beside him.
Contentment settled in his bones as strong arms wrapped around him, snuggling him closer. He breathed in the smell of earthy leather. His brow furrowed at the unfamiliar scent. Even in his sleep, he’d been expecting the smell of stormy rain.
He blinked open his eyes and took in the broad expanse of bare chest he was currently draped over. The hairy arms that held him.
He reared back. “What the fuck?”
An infectious laugh came from the other side of the tent, where Solveig sat drinking steaming liquid from a mug. The smell of strong citrus tea drifted over to him, his mouth watering.
Her amused smile curled over the lip of her mug. “You two make such a cute couple.”
A still-sleeping Conalle hugged him closer before Westley shoved him off, sending the butt-ass-naked lord flying into Noren. Solveigchuckled again as the two males woke in a disoriented array of limbs and snarls.
Westley took in the sight of her dressed in black travelling clothes, her hair braided back. She was ready to go.
“How long have you been up?” he asked, surprised when she handed him a mug of tea. The lemon scent filled his nose and he drank it readily, letting it warm his insides.
“An hour or so. Breakfast is waiting by the fire and your clothes have been washed and dried. They’re laid out at the end of the bed. The horses have been readied—we must be off.”
“You did all this for me?” Westley asked skeptically.
Solveig stared, unflinching. “No, Quillon had everything prepared for us. Now get up.” Her tone brokered no argument.
“As you wish, General.” He smirked, but his humour faded when she also handed a mug of tea to Conalle.
“She’s so demanding,” Noren muttered.
“Wipe the drool off your face, Noren,” Westley said as he launched a pillow at Noren’s head.
“Did you expect anything less from a general?” Conalle asked, pulling on his pants.
Solveig left them, clearly satisfied with their ability to get ready without her supervision. They were just as anxious to leave as she was.
Westley ducked out of the tent first, quickly taking note of Solveig’s heated discussion with Latham. Aggressive hand gestures and hissed words that didn’t quite reach him hinted that the conversation was not going Latham’s way. The male stormed off in the other direction. Westley hid his smile as he approached.
“Ready, General?” he asked, hoping to open the lines of communication between them. But she wouldn’t have it. She nodded without eye contact.
