“Let me be clear.” Rozaria’s voice lowered to a deadly tone. “There is no going back from this camp. Those who get this far know too much. Your family either proves their loyalty to this noble cause or you choose to die. Your death would be an unnecessary shame.” Chun began to visibly shake as she continued. “Imagine that this man has a knife at your daughter’s throat. He would if he could. He would kill her.”
Chun’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard and his hand rose an inch, then fell, rose two inches, then faltered. No . . . Rozaria’s lips began to tighten.
Raging seas.
“I’ll do it,” Paxton said in a rush. All eyes turned to him. Every pulse point on his body banged as his eyes fastened on Rozaria’s. “Let me be the first to prove myself.”
It seemed as if the entire camp drew in a breath and held it. A feminine chuckle rose from Rozaria, and she pulled her hair over her shoulder, twisting it as she pondered him. The glee on her face was enough to make him ill, but he held his ground and composure.
“Surely you’ll have another opportunity for Chun,” Paxton said, stepping between Chun and the prisoner. “He’s a chef, you know. He’ll be good to have around when you get tired of Martone’s subpar roasting skills.”
At this, Rozaria’s face lit up, and a delighted peal of laughter rang out as she clasped her hands under her chin. Her attention was all for Paxton.
Please let this work, he begged the seas.
He gave Rozaria an imploring look, as if to ask May I?
She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, and Paxton forced a conspiratorial grin to his face.
Rozaria held out an arm as if waving him forward. “If you feel so inclined.”
Relief rippled through him, and he met the prisoner’s wild eyes. He raised both hands and took the man’s face in his.
“Please, sir,” the Lochlan rasped.
“Sh . . . I think you’ve said enough in your day.”
Paxton’s heart thrummed wildly.
The man frantically looked deeper into Paxton’s eyes, and when he found no sympathy there, the prisoner’s look of panic morphed into hardened hatred. He rasped out one word as his eyes bulged: “Monster.”
Behind the man, Rozaria sucked in a breath. Paxton’s stomach turned over. He held the foolish man’s head harder, willing him to be silent, and began to concentrate. Rather than pushing his magic down to the man’s heart to stop it as Rozaria wanted, Paxton pushed it upward into the man’s mind. He’d never done anything like this—never tampered with a person’s consciousness. He pressed the magic harder than absolutely necessary and the man whimpered.
Sleep, Paxton thought. He felt his energy inexplicably searching, probing, surging, then a burst of heat flamed from his wrists down to his fingertips. The prisoner shuddered violently, then he became heavy until Paxton felt his magic bumping up against something, as if it were as far as it could go. The man slumped forward, and Paxton caught him. He looked up at Rozaria.
“Where do you dispose of bodies?”
Her eyes—the way she was gazing at him—he’d only seen that kind of passion in women he’d bedded. It pulsed through him, along with the buzzing of magic within his blood.
“Martone will take him,” she said in a husky voice.
Paxton shook his head. Then he bent and lugged the man’s limp body over his shoulder, feeling the desperate need to go before the prisoner awoke from his magical slumber. “He’s my kill. I want to finish it myself.”
“Spoken like a true hunter.” Rozaria pointed at Lake Rainiard where the moon reflected off its dark, glassy surface. “Take him into the woods for the animals on the other side of the lake.”
He began to walk away when he heard her say, “And when you return, see me in my tent.”
Oh, bloody seas. He cursed himself for using his wiles to distract her from the truth. Still, he forced himself to look at her and say, “Of course, Rozaria.”
As he turned to leave he caught the eye of Chun and was hit with the full force of the man’s gratitude. Paxton left the camp, glad he’d “proven” himself enough to have some time away from them all.
While a strong part of him wanted to take this chance to flee and never return, he knew he needed to see this thing through to the end. He would earn Rozaria’s complete trust, find out exactly where her army was located, along with its numbers and any other strategic information. He would find a way to return to his home and warn the monarch of everything he’d learned before they were blindsided by an attack. He couldn’t allow that to happen to Aerity or his family. Perhaps in this way he could prove to the king and his people that Lashed could be good and worthy.
Or perhaps, more realistically, the entire thing would blow up in his face. That was a chance he had to take. It was the least he could do to show Aerity he still cared.
Paxton stayed at the outskirts of the woods that lined the lake. Kalorian wildlife was not familiar to him, and he did not trust it. He checked behind him several times to be sure he wasn’t being followed. When he felt far enough away, about a quarter of the distance around the lake, he took the man several yards into the trees and laid him down on a bed of moss.
Paxton shook his shoulders, but the man slept soundly. He felt the pulse of lifeblood at his throat, which was slow and steady. Paxton patted the man’s cheek a couple of times, and then smacked him. The man’s eyes flew open, and Paxton pressed a hand to muffle his shouts. His eyes were like a trapped, panicked animal.
“Sh, you’re safe.” Still, the man flailed and yelled, muffled by Paxton’s hand. “Shut up and be still, before they find us out!” he hissed.
The man stopped moving, his eyes darting around in the dark.
“Listen carefully,” Paxton said. “Head north, following the seastar constellation, and you will come to the path back to Lochlanach. Stay off it, but near it, or you will be found again. You must go straight to King Charles and tell him Rozaria Rocato is gathering an army of Lashed, and she might be working with Prince Vito. You saw for yourself how she is taking Lashed refugees and forcing them to work for her. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The man nodded fast. Slowly, Paxton let up his hand and the man sputtered, “They’re crazy! She’s evil! The Lashed are—”
“Be careful how you finish that sentence,” Paxton told him. He held his fingers very close to the man’s eyes. “Do you see this newest lashing here? It’s the one that saved your life. Remember that when you speak of all Lashed being evil.”
In the moonlight, the man’s eyes filled with the same hatred he’d shown at the camp. “You didn’t care about saving me. You only wanted to use me to send a message!”
Paxton took the man’s torn tunic in his hands and pulled him up a few inches, only to slam him back into the ground. He pulled his face close. “A message that will save you, your family, and the people of Lochlanach. My people. Pull your cursed head out of your arse, man!”
Paxton shoved off and stood, glaring down at him. “Seas be with you. You’re going to need it.”
“You’re leaving me out here?”
Irritation scratched at Paxton. He squinted at the floor of the forest before he found two edible things, plucked them, and squatted at the man’s side. “Look. These types of mushrooms, and these berries from that type of bush are edible. And I assume you can fish?” He pulled a rusted hook and string from his tunic pocket and handed it to the man. “If you come into sight of our camp, I will kill you this time. Keep to the forest until you are past us, and then align yourself with the path.”
Paxton stood.
“It could take me weeks to get back!” the man cried.
Paxton spared the man one final look of warning, and then walked away.
Chapter
12
Paxton had no faith that the man would do as he’d been instructed. He wished he could get his hands on his bow for protection in case the not-so-dead prisoner was caught again. Being defenseless behind enemy
lines did not suit him. What suited him even less was worrying exactly what was in store for him in Rozaria’s tent. She was beautiful, no doubt, but her wicked intentions and fanatical madness erased every ounce of that beauty for Paxton. He wasn’t certain how far he could stretch his charade, especially when it came to the attentions of Rozaria, even though he ached every day for the touch of a woman.
One in particular.
He thought of her soft lips and long silken hair as he trudged back to the camp. For a moment he even imagined he could smell the coconut and berry-scented oils that graced her lightly freckled skin. He recalled the fierce look of defiance and understanding in her eyes when she’d seen his lash marks, knowing it was his reason for keeping her at bay. He recalled how her fierceness changed to soft passion as she went up on her toes to kiss him.
Seas, he would have kissed her longer if he’d known it would be his one and only chance. He would have memorized the curve of her waist and hips, the arc of her back as she leaned into him.
Smells of smoke rising from the campfire dislodged him from the memory and plunged him back into the harsh reality that faced him. All eyes were on Pax as he approached, some with wonder and awe, some with respect. Their misled opinions gave him no satisfaction, though he was glad not to be under a cloud of suspicion any longer.
Paxton made his way to Rozaria’s tent, where Martone stood outside with his arms crossed. The two were the same height, but Martone’s shoulders were broader, his neck thicker. His hair was shaved on the sides, and the strip of black down the middle was knotted at the back of his skull. The man’s eyes narrowed into a smug scowl.
Paxton widened his stance and crossed his own arms. He welcomed a scuffle with the brute; perhaps it would postpone this cursed meeting.
Rozaria called out a question from inside—he recognized the word “who” in Kalorian. Then the flap opened and her dark eyes peered out, glinting in the firelight. She smiled at Pax and gave Martone an order. The man reluctantly took one step aside.
Paxton passed him and hunched through the doorway. A candle burned on a small wooden table in the middle. On both sides were thick pallets with ornate coverings of bright colors and designs. On one sat Rozaria’s guest, the mysterious young woman. Before she could pull her hood up all the way, Paxton caught sight of a jagged scar down her otherwise pretty face. The girl said something softly to Rozaria and then left them.
“Please . . .” Rozaria motioned to where the girl had been sitting. “Join me.”
Paxton sat sideways, one leg out straight and the other bent. Rozaria sat on the other side, a satisfied look of contentment on her face as she poured two cups of red wine and placed one in front of him. She raised hers and drank. Paxton took his with a fleeting thought of poison, but drank anyway. It was sweet at first, then tart. He waited to become dizzy or ill, then felt ridiculous when nothing happened. All the while Rozaria watched him, her long fingers running over the rim of her wooden cup.
“Tell me about King Charles Lochson.” Her voice carried a husky warmth that might have been alluring had she been anyone else.
Perhaps this meeting was strictly for her to obtain information. If so, he could handle that. Paxton weighed how much to say. “He’s . . . disconnected from his kingdom. For too long he’s had nothing to focus on except the joys and entertainment of his own family and the other royals. Worries of the towns and Lashed are dealt with by local authorities—I doubt most issues are even brought to his attention, as they’re considered unimportant.” He believed what he was saying, but still suffered a twinge of regrettable disloyalty to his kingdom. He took a heady gulp of wine, and Rozaria was quick to refill his cup.
She then sipped her own wine, tapping her cup thoughtfully. “As I suspected. Now tell me about you, hunter.”
Paxton cleared his throat and took another drink as well. “I’m from a village on the main bay, north of the royal lands. My father worked in sea fare as a fisherman and oysterman. My mother helped with sales. My brother and I hunted. Fairly average family on the surface.” He knew he was being clinical and vague. He hoped it wasn’t too obvious that he was trying not to give much information about his family or their whereabouts. When Rozaria gave a sly grin, he knew he wasn’t fooling her.
“I still frighten you,” she said.
Paxton hesitated, then opted for honesty. “I can’t say I’ve ever met a woman with your level of power. Few people have had the ability to intimidate me, but you, Rozaria . . . you do.”
Her low laughter filled the tent, and her smile was bright in the flickering light.
“Have you left behind a sad maiden in your village?”
“Nay.” His heart gave a pound. “I swore off love or marriage.”
“Smart man, considering the suffering thrust upon families in your land who cannot use their magic for its intended purposes.”
His heart pounded harder, and he nodded. “To save pregnancies. Aye. That was the first time I worked magic. I was seven.”
Rozaria sat up straighter, her eyes filling with interest. “Tell me.”
This time he did not hesitate or hold back. He told her every detail about his grandmother and the pregnant woman who’d come seeking her help, only to be healed by young Paxton instead. It came rushing out as it had when he spoke to Mrs. Rathbrook, the Lashed healer at the castle. Caught up in the story and the feelings that emerged, for one moment Paxton locked eyes with Rozaria and sensed her understanding. He felt a kinship he longed for. Then he remembered who she was, and his babbling stopped. He gave a rueful shake of his head and finished his second cup of wine in a big gulp, immediately wishing he’d opted for just another sip. He had to keep his wits about him.
Rozaria moved closer, her gaze too intense. “You have no one you can trust with these things of your past. I can hear it in your voice—you are not accustomed to speaking openly of your magic. However, I assure you, hunter, you are safe with me.”
Only if he didn’t dare defy her or speak out against her methods.
Her hand reached out for his face, and though his entire body tensed, he did not flinch. His heart kept a steady drumming as her warm hand cupped his jaw, her thumb grazing the stubble of growth on the hollow of his cheek. Paxton’s instincts rapidly fired warnings, but he didn’t move. He realized with a pang that part of why it felt so wrong had nothing to do with who she was—the madwoman who terrorized the lands—and everything to do with who she was not. Aerity.
He didn’t want another woman, but he had to set that feeling aside, probably forever. His heart might always be with Aerity, the first woman to know his secret and want him anyway, though the seas and stars had not aligned for them. He would likely never see her again, but perhaps he could still keep her safe in this way.
Right now, right here, with Rozaria . . . this had nothing to do with his heart. This was strategy, and he hoped it would be worth it in the long run. Still, scheming or not, he could not bring himself to move. Instead he watched her eyes with great care. He watched as she grazed his messy hair and stubble, the angles of his face, down his throat to his chest and back up to his eyes.
That familiar hunger was in her gaze again—the unmistakable concentration of a woman who has laid claim. She didn’t simply want him as an ally or a servant; she wanted him as a man, and to deny her would ruin any chance he had of gaining information and possibly escaping. Rozaria stepped closer. His stomach clenched in dreaded anticipation.
Rozaria was the type of woman to take what she wanted. So, he waited. Her hand moved into his hair, her nails scratching along his scalp.
He had to make himself want this. He had to make his actions believable. He forced himself to focus on the way this woman understood the torment he’d been hiding since childhood, the way she wanted to empower him and all Lashed. But it was impossible to feel softness toward Rozaria, knowing what she had caused.
She pulled his face down as she leaned in, lifting her chin. And in that moment just before their lips me
t he thought only one thing: She could kill me now.
Instead of the softness he’d tried to force, what roared to life inside of Paxton was a great anger. A rage he’d long ago caged within himself. For the first time in his life he gave himself permission to unlatch the door to that pent-up fury, and it tore through him like the beast he’d hunted—bitterness at having to run from his home and family, indignation at being an outcast, resentment that he felt a kinship with this madwoman, and worst of all a vile sense of wrongness that he was here in this woman’s arms while another man would lay his hands upon Aerity Lochson.
When her lips took his, colder than he expected, he kissed her back hard. His arm went around her waist, yanking her closer, his mouth and hands rough. Rozaria groaned and both of them were pulling, scratching, mouths punishing. Paxton was surprised by the surge of temper that fueled him forward, moving on top of her with harsh force. Rozaria gave a feminine groan as her back hit the pallet, her hands in his hair again, her legs twining around him, welcoming his anger in a way that made him forget everything but the release of these grueling emotions.
Half a second later Paxton heard a shout and felt his hair grabbed by a much bigger, stronger hand. His head was yanked up, sharp pain searing his skull. A punch in his mouth threw him sideways. Then he lost all breath as a boot kicked his abdomen. He looked up blearily into the raging face of Martone. Rozaria was on her feet, screaming in Kalorian, and smacking Martone across the side of his head. He backed away, lifting an arm to block her hits. He snapped at her in Kalorian, and she yelled back, raising her arms. Great seas, the man thought Paxton had been forcing himself on her.
Martone turned to Paxton with a snarl.