“I trust you to know what’s best,” I say softly. “You do seem to have a knack for saving me at the last moment.”
He exhales a quiet laugh, almost rueful.
“Then I’d best not disappoint you now,” he says, urging the stallion forward.
To our right, the forest stands silent—as though it has already swallowed what it took.
* * *
The rest of the ride passes in silence. I doze off more than once, exhaustion finally overtaking me—both from the early morning and the fear that has been tugging at my heart since the first arrow sliced through the air.
I wake to someone shouting my name.
“Fastrada! What happened? Unhand her at once!”
Charles’s voice booms across the clearing, his baritone vibrating painfully in my ears. I open my eyes and see him striding toward us, still dressed in his hunting gear, boots splattered with mud.
“I heard her crying out in the forest and found her on her panicked mare,” Ashford says evenly. “She appears unharmed, aside from some lacerations to her face and hands.”
“You!” Charles snarls, pointing a finger at Ashford. “If you have harmed her in any way, I swear to God I will—”
Ashford clicks his tongue in mild disapproval. I feel him stiffen behind me.
“I suggest you help your wife down from the horse and see that she is examined by a physician, Your Majesty,” he replies, his tone almost bored. “Has the duke been returned to the estate? What is his condition?”
Charles gestures sharply to two of his men, who step forward to help me dismount. Once my feet are on solid ground, Charles takes my hand, gripping it tightly.
“I am so sorry,love, that you were made to endure this,” he says. “I was not informed of the ambush until I returned tothe estate. Are you all right?”
I look up at him. Concern wars with anger in his expression, and I cannot help but wonder why any of it seems directed at me.
“I am shaken,” I say carefully, “but not gravely injured. How is Tassilo?”
Charles straightens. His grip on my hand tightens, almost painfully.
“He was found by Lord Ashford’s men and brought to the infirmary,” he says. “He sustained severe wounds to the abdomen, but the physician managed to stop the bleeding. Whether he recovers will depend on whether infection sets in.”
His speech is clipped. He draws a deep breath before each new sentence, as though the effort of speaking costs him more than he wishes to admit.
“I would like a word with the duke,” Ashford says from behind us.
I turn slightly, but his gaze is fixed on Charles. He does not look at me, not once, as though I have already been set aside, a burden delivered and dismissed.
Charles nods. “Of course. Aynhard will take you to him. Though I must warn you, we have already questioned him. He did not see the shooter.”
Ashford inclines his head in a brief bow and walks away across the courtyard, never once turning back.
That night, I fall asleep quickly.
* * *
Wake up.
My eyes open as if on command.
Charles is beside me, snoring loudly into his pillow.
Did I imagine that voice?
