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“I came to tell you of the attack. And I’ve done so.” He bows to Cettina, surprising me. “I will take my leave.”

Pulling up his hood, Father Aiken turns to leave. But I have too many unanswered questions to let him do so. Following him, I fall in step beside him as he makes his way toward the exit. Since the hall has been cleared, not even a single servant remaining, we each pull open one of the two massive doors at its entrance, startling Cettina’s guards.

“Why do you warn us?” I ask as we slip back into the darkness, the corridor leading outside as good a place as any for such a private discussion away from the guards.

“My reasons are my own,” he says.

So I try again. “You are a Shadow Warrior.”

Father Aiken does not deny it.

“Sworn to protect and defend the Prima. A man who attempts to overthrow a king, killing innocents to accomplish such a thing. What has Lord Hinton promised him?”

Nothing.

“How did you find us?” Before he refuses to respond, I add, “I would know if our position is already compromised.”

The faintest hint of a frown is his only reaction.

“It is not,” he says finally.

Then, just like the day in the woods, he stalks off silently, the quiet left behind him the only reason I can hear his muttered words.

“My loyalty is to the church. Not the Prima.”

Then he is gone. And we’ve a battle, or an ambush, to prepare for. But my instincts, which I’ve doubted since the Hilla affair and must learn to trust again, tell me it is the former we are walking into, not the latter.

For his own reasons, this priest, this trained assassin, has chosen to help us once again. And though it seems Rawlins may have slipped through our fingers for the time being, Lord Whitley will not. He will pay for his role in Saitford. For his cruelty toward Lady Hilla.

For his treason against my queen.

30

Reyne

My eyes close against their will.

Erik told me not to wait for him, that the new information delivered by Father Aiken would require them to plan well into the night. The last of the scouts arrived just after supper, marking an early end to our meal.

As I drift into sleep, I imagine Erik and the others, including Cettina, gathered in the solar down below, and am proud not to feel even a twinge of jealousy. Though she is the same woman I met that first day, I have changed. That moment by the river transformed me, and now I feel nothing but gratitude for the queen’s friendship and love for my husband.

Perhaps tomorrow . . .

As darkness descends, I dream of the first night we slept in the same tent. I dream he is lying next to me, his hand resting on my hip, his thumb tracing circles there before gliding from my hip toward the hem of my shift. Then up, inside, simultaneously parting my legs and finding that most intimate part of me. But his hand doesn’t remain still for long. As they did at the lake, Erik’s clever fingers glide inside of me.

With his palm still cupped on me, he begins to move, and I pray this dream doesn’t end.

Only . . . is this a dream? His kiss on my neck feels so real. As does what he’s doing with his hands.

I open my eyes. Mostly darkness greets me. Darkness, a single lit candle, and . . .

I try to turn around, and as I do, his hand pulls away. I’ve no time to mourn its loss as Erik lifts my shift upward. By the time it’s discarded, he’s above me. Completely nude, his glorious body on full display.

I look down and have little time to react, or to become worried about how precisely this will happen without a considerable amount of pain based on what I just saw, because Erik wraps his hand around himself at the same time as he nudges my legs open.

“This isn’t a dream.” My voice is thick and hardly audible.

“For me it is, aye.”