Page 50 of Twin Crowns

“Not like that it doesn’t,” said Wren. “Alarik Felsing is psychotic.”

Tor stiffened, and Wren sensed she had gone too far.Oops.“Vicious as we might be in battle, a Gevran always takes care of their own. To the bloody end.” He gestured north to Wishbone Bay and all that lay beyond it. “You will learn that soon enough, Your Highness.”

Wren frowned. Now why did he have to go and ruin her fun by bringing up the wedding?

“I wonder what fearsome beasts dear Ansel will slay for me,” she said idly.

Tor’s smile softened at the mention of Ansel. “The prince possesses a bravery of spirit, but I’m afraid he is no swordsman.”

“Didn’t he ever learn?”

“Prince Ansel has always preferred the company of books to soldiers. He’s certainly more of a daydreamer than his brother.” Tor’s voice was warm, and Wren sensed in him a protectiveness that extended beyond duty, a kind of brotherliness that made her like Ansel more. “Ansel would tell you himself he’d prefer to be remembered as a wordsmith rather than a fighter. For as long as I’ve known him, he has never been able to stand the sight of blood. The wounds of others wound him, too.”

Wren considered the prince in a new light. Somehow, he had survived a childhood in the icy maw of Gevra, not with brute force but with empathy and kindness. Yes, Ansel was hapless, but he was unashamedly himself, and for that, Wren could respect him. “Very well,” she said. “Youcan slay my enemies, and Ansel will read me poetry.”

“Perhaps you can play for us on your pianoforte.”

Wren’s smile faded. She had hoped he’d forgotten about that.

Tor stuck his hands in his pockets as they wandered on. “Tell me, Your Highness. Do you often sneak into Eshlinn alone, or is it just when you need to visit the apothecary?”

Wren stopped walking. Suddenly, she felt very sober. The soldier hadn’t let his guard down at all. While she had been flirting, he had been waiting to catch her out. “So, you were following me.”

Tor pinned her with his gaze. “The vial in your bodice. What is it?”

“Valerian root,” said Wren, thinking on her feet. “Not that it’s any ofyour business, but I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

“May I see it?”

She raised her hands. “On my honor as Rose Valhart, Princess of Eana, what’s in my cloak is nothing for you to be concerned about.”

Tor reached for her wrist, and Wren, like a fool, let him take it. He held it in place, tracing the pad of his thumb over her calluses. “These are not the hands of a princess.”

She leaned toward him, until a muscle feathered in his jaw. “How many princesses have you been this close to?”

Tor released her hand and stepped away from her.

“That’s what I thought.” Wren turned swiftly, but his foot came down, catching the end of her dress. She tripped, the vial tumbling out of her bodice before she could grab it. She scrabbled toward it on her hands and knees. Her fingers curled around the poison just as Tor lunged for it. In a blind panic, Wren spun onto her back and kicked his ankles out from under him. He collapsed on top of her, bracing himself on his elbows to keep from crushing her.

Wren’s breath left her in a gasp. Suddenly, she was trapped beneath him, with her arms pinned above her head.

The soldier’s breath bulleted out of him as he stared down at her, both of them stunned into momentary silence. His leg was warm between hers, his hips pressing her gently into the earth. Wren could feel his heartbeat hammering against her own, and she watched the heat of his desire gently coloring his cheeks.

The storm in his eyes darkened. “You tripped me,” he said in a low voice.

Wren smirked. “You fell.”

His chest moved against hers as he reached toward her closed fist.

Wren tipped her chin up, until their noses brushed. Tor froze. “How far are you willing to go for it?” she said against his lips. “You already have me compromised.”

Tor blinked as the reality of their entanglement settled in. He reared back from Wren as if she were on fire and leaped to his feet. He raked his hands through his hair, a look of such bewilderment on his face, Wren almost laughed. “I would never...”

Wren propped herself on her elbows. “Never what? Risk your honor?”

“Riskyours,” he said, half breathless.

“Good,” said Wren, though deep down, she felt a prickle of disappointment. She had quite enjoyed the feeling of the soldier’s body pressed against hers, even if it was entirely reckless.

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