Knight Avenged (18 page)

Or to be noticed by Saul.

Nairobi huffed. Good luck with that. ’Twas far too late to change course and go unnoticed. Her designs ensured his attention. Her skill at the loom cinched it. More fool her. She never should’ve shown her true color
s . . .
or revealed the extent of her talent. Now she couldn’t move without drawing notice.

Guarded by day. Watched at night. Followed everywhere.

A steep price to pay for the skills she possessed.

Brows drawn together, Nairobi shifted on the low stool. Wooden legs scraped over greying floorboards. The ragged sound echoed inside the empty chamber, knotting the muscles between her shoulder blades as she fingered the wool threads, testing her loom for tension. Taut. Strong. Evenly spaced. Sheer perfection to a master weaver with a love of design and an eye for detail. Half-done, the Persian rug took shape and form, individual knots, each color, the repetitive motion of her hands carrying the one-of-a-kind motif ever upward, toward the wooden rail anchoring the whole. Another month and she would finish. Would lay the enormous carpet flat and see it in its entirety for the first time. After weeks of planning. After months of toiling. After years spent dreaming.

Her creation would be called a masterpiece.

Those who called Ismal—the marketplace nestled at the foot of the Carpathian Mountain Range—home would gather, hoping for a chance to see it. Wealthy merchants and celebrated noblemen would bid for the privilege of taking it home. The other weavers would sneer behind her back while Saul boasted of her talen
t . . .
then locked her away. Put her under heavy guard. Again. Like always. For fear another silk house would view her work and attempt to steal her.

Just like the last time.

Which meant the Persian would never see completion.

Regret invaded her heart. As it tugged at her artist’s soul, Nairobi sighed and paused mid-knot. Hands hovering above the weft, she debated a moment, then gave in, and traced the colorful pattern with her fingertip. Soft wool brushed against her calloused skin. An ache bloomed in the center of her chest. ’Twas a crying shame. A terrible tragedy to leave something so beautiful unfinished. But no matter how difficult, she would leave the rug behind and never look back.

The Goddess of All Things commanded it.

Aye, she’d heard the call. The cosmic thread held on hard, tugging at her heart, collecting in her soul, relaying the messag
e . . .
loud and clear. Now all she wanted to do was go home to White Temple. Tears stung the corners of her eyes. Goddess, she could hardly believe it. She’d prayed every day for so long—from the moment she’d been forced to flee the holy city. Two years spent struggling. Two years of uncertainty, of not knowing who to trust or where to turn. Two years adrift in the wilds of mankind, awaiting the day the goddess recalled the Blessed and reclaimed her own.

Two years.

And now—finally, after all this time—’twas safe to return home.

The mark between her shoulder blades tingled. Burned into her skin, the moon-star gave her strength. Enough to believe she could do it. Gods, she had done it. Or at least, started down the path to freedom.

Along with the rope, she’d spent an hour sneaking from room to room, gathering what she needed, preparing her getaway bag one item at a time. Her gaze cut to the wooden box beside her loom. Piled high with yarn, no one would ever guess her satchel lay hidden beneath the colorful wool. Tying another knot, she wove another line of thread and took inventory of her supplies. Two knives. A tin cup. Wire for setting rabbit snarls. A flint for starting a fire. Enough food for three day
s . . .
if she rationed and was careful. A warm cloak, good boots, and fur-lined gloves. Nairobi frowned. It wasn’t enough. Five days’ worth of food would’ve been better. But with time ticking down, she couldn’t delay to gather more.

She must leave. Now. Tonight.

Before the buyers arrived to view her design. Before Saul locked her behind closed doors. Before she lost all hope of escape and—

Floorboards creaked in the hallway.

Nairobi flinched, then forced herself to settle down. ’Twas all right. She needed the guard to show up. Her plan hinged on her catch and release. All knew she loved to work late, when the night grew quiet and the other weavers slept. Even though Saul forbade it, Nairobi still slipped out of bed to sneak into the weaving room after hours. The guards had caught her often enough to know ’twas a running theme with her.

All part of her plan. Familiarity, after all, lessened vigilance.

Pretending absorption in her work, Nairobi bent over the threads. Any moment now, Adam would—

Footfalls thudded to a stop on the threshold. “For the love of God, Nairobi.”

She jerked, feigning surprise as she looked his way. Dark eyes met hers. She blinked like an astonished owl. He sighed, the heavy sound full of exasperation. The urge to laugh bubbled up, tightening her chest. Nairobi quelled the inclination. Finding his expression amusing was all fine and good. Showing it, however, was not.

“Oh, good eve, Adam.”

“Good eve,” he grumbled, throwing her a look of extreme irritation. “’Tis the middle of the night, Nairobi. All are abed, and well you know it. You are not to be here at this hour.”

Uh-oh. Grumpier than usual. Not a good sign, bu
t . . .
no help for it. Time to play the innocent card. She bit down on her bottom lip and shrugged. “I know, but—”

“But naught.” His eyes narrowed on her. “Go on with ye. Back to bed.”

“Just a bit longer?”

He scowled at her.

“An hou
r . . .
not a moment more, I promise.”

“Nairobi, you cannot continue—”

“Please?” Placing her hands in a prayer position, she pleaded with her eyes. His expression softened a second before he huffed. Thank God. Both were excellent signs. Adam might be a stickler for the rules, but he wasn’t heartless. A good thing too. A soft heart would give her the added leverage she needed to get him to agree. “I won’t cause trouble. You know I won’t. ’Tis jus
t . . .
I’m almost done, so very close to finishing an
d . . .
”

As she trailed off, Adam shook his head. She made another pleading sound. He treated her to another sigh, then held up a finger. “One more round. I’ll walk one more, Nairobi. When I get back, I want you gone. Back in be
d . . .
understood?”

“Aye.” Relief made her smile at him. His lips twitched in response an
d . . .
oh bother. Just what she didn’t need: her conscience rearing its ugly head. Lord love her, it wasn’t fair. She didn’t want to get Adam in trouble, but that was exactly what would happen the instant Saul realized she was missing. Awful in every way. Especially since Adam had always been, wel
l . . .
all right. Not
kind
to her. That was stretching it a bit. The guard, after all, worked for the silk house. One of his duties included ensuring she stayed put. But that didn’t change the facts. Adam, for all his gruffness, had always been halfway decent to her. “Thank you, Adam.”

He made a rough sound, gave her another stern look, then turned into the corridor. A second before he disappeared from view, he glanced over his shoulder and wagged his finger at her. “One more round.”

“Right. Got it.”

And she did. Had
gotten
precisely what she needed—what she’d waited beside her loom in the hopes of acquiring: time. A whole quarter of an hour’s worth if Adam stuck to his usual route and his pace stayed true. Which mean
t . . .

Time to go.

Senses keen, Nairobi listened hard, tracking Adam as he walked away. The second he reached the end of the corridor, she grabbed the cloth rope and spun off her stool. The work of seconds, she unearthed her satchel from beneath the yarn pile. Leather strap in her hand, she dipped her chin, and with a quick toss, looped the bag over her shoulder. As it settled, she turned toward the closest window. Heart beating triple time, she glanced at the door one last time, then forced herself to move.

One guard distracted. A not-so-easy fifty-foot drop left to accomplish.

’Twas now or never. Do or die. Two options that offered no comfort and little choice. But as she wove the cloth rope through the ironwork next to the window and pushed the coiled bundle off the ledge, Nairobi refused to turn back. Or remain frozen in fear. No matter the risk, she must break free and leave the silk house behind. Opportunity knocked. Providence provided the key, gifting her with a narrow slice of time. Now all she needed to do was stick to the plan and stay alive long enough to disappear for good.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It was official. The whole being carried thing stun
k . . .
in serious ways.

Still slung over Henrik’s shoulder, Cosmina lifted her head and cracked her eyes open. Dense shadow expanded, then contracted, leaving naught but shades of grey. She squinted, trying to force her eyes into focus. Henrik dodged right, then pivoted around a corner. The visual grey-out lengthened into a blur. She bit back a groan. Terrific. Just her luck. Little to no improvement. So much for believing her vision was returning. Or that self-reliance rested a blink away. Goddess, she couldn’t stand it—the weakness along with the vulnerability that fostered it. Such inadequacy. So much insecurity. Way too much guilt. If she were as strong as she thought, she wouldn’t be here.

Again. Like always. Prey to circumstance and her stupid gift.

The realization pushed tears into her eyes. Cosmina blinked them away. No way. Not happening. No matter how deficient, she refused to give in and tumble into the death trap of self-pity. Feeing sorry for herself wouldn’t help. It never did, which meant she needed to buck up and hold on hard. Cosmina huffed. Such a lovely thought. An even tougher sell to her battered senses. Blind as a bat. Sick to her stomach. Hurting like the devil and—oh right, let’s not forget bottom up and head down over Henrik’s shoulder while he navigated what felt like a steep slope, feet moving at a fast clip.

The word
undignified
came to mind.

She could hardly argue the point. Thank God pragmatism saved her from it, dragging pride into the rescue effort and sending folly spinning into the background. It could be so much worse. The Druinguari could’ve killed her—aimed well and shot true, putting the arrow through her heart instead of her arm. She could’ve failed in her mission, disappointing the goddess, but had succeeded instead. Henrik could’ve left her to die—cold and alone in the place of her birth. He hadn’t, and despite everything, she was grateful. So, complain about her position? Not on her life. Whining about the rough hold and rapid pace wouldn’t change anything. Neither would throwing up, bu
t . . .

Blast and damn, that didn’t mean she wasn’t thinking about it.

Henrik swung around a tight bend. Rock crunched beneath his feet. Her stomach sloshed, throwing bile up her throat as her hips bounced on his shoulder. His grip on her legs slipped. She lurched sideways a second before he caught her, big hand settling on the curve of her bottom. Modesty murmured, but Cosmina ignored it. She didn’t care where his hands wandered. Touch her. Don’t touch her. It didn’t matter anymore. He could do whatever he wanted—strip her bare, lay her down, kiss her with as much heat as before. She wouldn’t complain, just as long as her head stopped spinning.

Wishful thinking?

Absolutely.

From their pace, she surmised the Druinguari were down, but not out. Which meant Henrik couldn’t stop. Not until he knew for certain. Not until he received the
all clear
from Tareek. Knowing it, however, brought little solace and no relief. Desperate now, trying to hang on, Cosmina sent a prayer heavenward, asking for deliverance. From everything: chilly wind gusts, the mind-torque of fatigue, an
d . . .
ah hell. Who was she kidding? She was beyond asking. Now she begged in silence, pleading to whatever god wanted to listen. But as the litany of
please make it stop
lit off inside her head, she didn’t hold out much hope.

Despite Tareek’s interference, the Druinguari wouldn’t stay down long. The second the dragon took flight, the enemy would be back on their feet—hunting, tracking, chasing them across the frozen landscape. So aye, as far as luck went, she was plum out. No reprieve in sight. No rest either. At least, not for a while. Excep
t . . .

Cosmina frowned. What was that noise?

Both hands gripping Henrik’s tunic, she squeezed her eyes closed, shutting out the chaotic throb of her heartbeat. The mental whirl settled. A familiar sound registered. Cosmina listened harder, isolating the source and—aye, definitely. Horses. What sounded like a whole herd, hooves hammering in thunderous rhythm. Relief hit her with a round of
thank you God
a second before prudence took hold. Dear goddess, she’d lost what little remained of her mind. Approaching horses didn’t mean safety. Most of the time the occurrence equaled serious trouble. The kind she avoided, usually by finding a safe place to hide until the intruders passed on whatever trail they traveled. Always the better bet out her
e . . .
in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by rough terrain and no help.

Unease licked deep, raising alarm bells.

“Henrik.”

“Quiet, Cosmina.”

The sternness of his voice startled her. Especially since he didn’t sound the least bit out of breath. Her hold on his tunic tightened. How could that be? He’d been running flat out while carrying her. He ought to be tired by now. Despite her condition, the realization raised serious questions—the who, what, and why of Henrik. All the things she’d failed to ask when she’d had the chance. The lapse in judgment wasn’t like her. Mistrust was more her style and inquiry her weapon of choice. Cautious by nature, she fed on facts. Enjoyed information the way noble ladies did sweets. Knowledge equaled power. Or, at least, the ability to protect herself and deal with whatever came her way.

Henrik included.

“Here we go,” Shay said from behind her on the path.

“Andrei.” Henrik slowed the pace and sidestepped. Cheek resting against his spine, Cosmina opened her eyes. An indistinct shadow wavered just inches away. Frigid air burned across her cheeks. Pain pressed against her temples, throbbing into a full-blown headache as she reached out. Rough bark scraped her chilled fingertips. She exhaled in a rush. Trees. The thunder of horses’ hooves. Both meant one thing. Henrik stood at the bottom of the ravine, just feet from the main road. “Got an angle?”

“All clear,” Andrei said, voice playing in wind gusts. Boots whispered over snow, coming from above and behind her. A whistle rushed through the air. A second later, Andrei landed beside Henrik. “Kazim with the horses.”

“About time,” Shay said.

“Sha
y . . .
flag him down.” Shifting his hold, Henrik pulled Cosmina off his shoulder.

Her feet touched the ground. Nausea threw bile up her throat as agony clawed her shoulder. Desperate to stay upright, Cosmina locked her knees. With a quick dip, Henrik swung her back into his arms. The jarring movement made her wince.

“Sorry,” Henrik said, regret in his tone. “I know you’re hurting. I don’t mean to be rough.”

“’Tis nothing,” she said, even though it wasn’t true. “Naught to worry about.”

Cradling her close, Henrik skirted the trees and followed his friends. “Liar.”

“Better than the alternative.”

“Which is?”

“Crying.”

He grinned against the top of her head. “Just a bit longer,
mica vrăjitoare
.”

“Nice try.” Understanding his game, she ignored the provocation and pressed her cheek to his chest. Heat radiated off him in waves, curling around her. So nice. His strength. His warmth. His willingness to share them both. Unable to resist, she snuggled closer, taking all he gave her. “But I’m too tired to care what you call me.”

“You’ll get me back later, though, right?”

She snorted. Score one for Henrik. The man never said quit. “Hammer you, for sure.”

“I’m relieved.”

“You’re an idiot.” He chuckled. Her mouth curved in appreciation. For some reason, his teasing revived her, helping her change tack.
Tough as nails, remember?
She needed to hold on to the truth of who and what she was an
d . . .
remember
. Despite her injuries, she wasn’t a weakling. Never had been. Never would be either. “You forget how good I am with a blade.”

“Not for a moment. I’m looking forward to sparring with you.”

“Like I sai
d . . .
an idiot.”

He laughed again, then dipped his chin and kissed the top of her head. He lingered a moment, mouth pressed to her hair, making surprise rise and confusion surface. Cosmina frowned. He shouldn’t be doing that—kissing her. The show of affection seemed misplaced and yet somehow, it felt right too.

Meant to be
.

The phrase whispered inside her head, stirring her Seer’s instinct, unearthing questions best left unasked. Cosmina knew it marrow deep. Allowing curiosity free reign—becoming entangled with Henrik—was a bad idea. ’Twould be better to ignore the tug of attraction. Safer still to turn away. Some things, after all, were meant to stay buried. But even as her senses prickled, warning her to stand down and stay clear, she couldn’t deny the truth. He intrigued her. A hardened warrior one moment, gentle the next. The ability to kill without conscience coupled with a need to protect. Polar opposites tucked inside one man. A complete mystery, one far too alluring for the sleuth in her to pass up. Which meant she couldn’t back away. Not yet. She wanted to explore a little further. Needed to know mor
e . . .
about everything, all he hid from the world.

Even if she grew to regret it in the end.

A shout went up. The thundering echo of hooves slowed on the trail. Henrik strode out from beneath the sway of tree limbs. The wind picked up, telling her he’d walked into an open space. Cosmina titled her head, pressing her forehead to Henrik’s collarbone, gathering sound, gauging distance, plotting the trajectory of approach. Horses snorted, blowing hard somewhere to her right. Seconds lengthened into more as multiple harnesses jangled. Ten feet away, mayhap a bit less. Henrik tensed. Muscles flexed around her an
d . . .
oh gods. She knew what his shift in tension signaled. He planned to—

“Get ready.”

“Henrik, wait. Don’t—”

He heaved her upward. She landed with a bump. Cosmina moaned. The horse shied, sidestepping beneath her. She reached out with her good hand, latching onto the soft strands of the long mane a moment before Henrik swung into the saddle behind her. Strong arms closed around her. With a quick tug, he pulled her against his chest and put his heels to his steed’s sides. The horse lunged forward. Others followed, hooves hammering in Henrik’s wake as he took the lead.

“Tuck in, Cosmina,” Henrik said, voice rising above the howl of winter wind. “Hold tight. ’Tis going to be a rough ride.”

Heart beating triple time, Cosmina didn’t argue. She did what he asked instead, hooking both legs over one of his thighs. One shoulder nestled beneath his arm, she hung on hard, moving with him, watching dense shadows flash past from her position in his lap. Deft hands on the reins, Henrik galloped around a bend on the trail. A burst of light perforated her periphery, slicing through her mind before splintering into imagery.

Her breath caught.

Gods. ’Twasn’t much. Barely anything at all, but the flash gifted her with a brief glimpse of the terrain. Now she knew what trail they traveled. She’d spotted the marker—the jagged boulder signaling the last turn—amid the soaring trunks and leafless tree limbs. Add that to the rumble of water and—aye, no question—she neared River’s Bend. Was naught more than half a mile from the edge of the Limwoods.

Which meant she needed to warn Henrik.

Ritual must be followed and etiquette observed. Otherwise the ancient forest would reac
t . . .
and not in welcoming ways. Most people scoffed, mocking the magic even as they gave the woodlands a wide berth. But she’d seen it at work and respected its power, feeling privileged enough to call the mystical force friend most days. At first, she’d thought it odd the forest spirit liked her—had opened its borders and invited her in, allowing her to make a home under its watchful eye. Now she knew the truth. The goddess had ensured her welcome, sending a protector to see to her in exile. Praise be. Without the Limwoods, she might’ve died. Instead she’d found friendship, one that would last a lifetime. But as much as she loved the forest spirit—and it her—Cosmina understood its limitations.

The forest’s benevolence didn’t extend to anyone else.

A problem. Particularly right now.

If Henrik crossed the river before she introduced him and asked for safe passage, violence would ensue. The kind no one—least of all her—wanted to see.

“Henrik,” she said, her voice a low rasp. Drat and damn, she sounded awful, like an old woman on her deathbed, so frail her words didn’t carry. Which wouldn’t do. She needed him to stop. Otherwise she wouldn’t be able to explain. A circumstance that would get Henrik and his friends killed. “Slow down. Wait before—”

“Later.”

“Nay. Now.” Fighting her injury, Cosmina pushed herself upright. He tightened his grip, keeping her flush against him. She thumped on his chest with the side of her fist. “You don’t understand. The Limwoods won’t—”

The horse’s front hooves left the ground.

With a growl, Henrik locked her down, keeping her contained in his arms. Thigh muscles flexing, he controlled the jump and landed on the other side of the embankment. Water roared, flowing along the banks of the Mureş River. Smooth stones tumbled, cracking into the next as Henrik raced for the river’s edge. The stallion’s hooves kicked high, spraying cold water into her face. Panic struck. Cosmina shoved at Henrik, desperate to stall his forward progress.

“Henrik, stop! Turn around—stop!”

Her desperate shout rang out. Too little, too late.

The scent of hollyhocks rose as the Limwoods awakened. She heard the lethal hiss. Sensed the ancient presence coil and powerful magic rise. Throwing both hands out in front of her, she yelled the forest spirit’s name, hoping to stave off the attack. To no effect. Already on the defensive, the woodlands sent thick creepers slithering toward them like snakes. Under. Over. A writhing symphony of sound driven by deadly intent. Cosmina cringed. Henrik cursed and hauled hard on the reins. The warriors behind him shouted. Horses screamed, water arcing as each reared, hooves clawing thin air. Venomous vines struck, reached out like tentacles, then yanked hard, plucking her from the saddle, breaking Henrik’s hold, dragging her along with the others deep into the recesses of the forbidden forest.