But it was there his words stalled. She was an officer in the Valcottan army. A sworn enemy of his people. And this was treason of the highest order. But if he did nothing… “In four days, when the moon has waned enough to attack by sea under the cover of darkness, they will come. And we’ve spies in your garrison, so ensure you keep this information close until the final hour.”
Silence stretched between them, the tension so thick he could hardly breathe, then she whispered, “Who are you?”
There was a part of him that wanted to answer. A part of him that believed the path they were walking down demanded there be no lies between them. Except his identity, his name, was a curse, for it tied him to his father. And the revelation of it might well burn this moment to the ground. “One step at a time, Valcotta. I’ve already bared my throat enough tonight.”
Instead of answering, she reached up, hand closing over his throat. “If you are lying to me, I’ll slit your jugular. You know that, yes?”
Keris’s heart hammered in his chest, fueled by fear and desire and anticipation, but more than that, by the sensation of being more alive than he’d ever been. He could hear the rapidness of her breathing, feel the heat of it against his face, and God help him, but he wanted her. Except he knew it would be on her terms or not at all, and he wasn’t willing to jeopardize this fragile trust between them, on which so much depended, by allowing his cock to make stupid decisions. “On my honor, those are the plans as they stand tonight. I heard them with my own ears.”
Her hand didn’t move from his throat, only tightened, her nails digging into his skin. He stared down at her, watching her lips part, watching as who she was warred with who she wanted to be. And though logic told him that he should be glad when the latter won and she lowered her hand to her side, he had to fight the urge to provoke its return.
Pulling away before his body could betray him, Keris rose to his feet. But before he jumped back across the spillway, he turned. “When will I see you again, Valcotta?”
She smiled, her teeth bright in the moonlight. “When I find out if your word is good, Maridrina.” And then she disappeared into the night.
22
ZARRAH
Four days after meeting with the Maridrinian, Zarrah crouched behind some rocks and brush overlooking one of the handful of inlets south of Nerastis’s port. On her left, Yrina watched the dark seas intently for any sign of motion, and on her right, Bermin glowered.
“Mistake to pull our eastern patrols.” His voice was a raspy whisper and would be for some time, courtesy of the blow he’d taken during the raid. That his throat hadn’t been crushed beyond repair was likely only because her cousin had a neck like a tree trunk. “If they hit one of the villages, we could have dozens of casualties in a single night with us none the wiser. This is folly.”
It was an enormous risk; Zarrah knew that. But some risks were worth the reward, and though logic said otherwise, she trusted the Maridrinian’s intent. It was impossible not to when she’d seen the naked grief on his face for those Bermin and his soldiers had slaughtered. Grief that she knew in her heart wasn’t feigned. He wanted to see an end to the raids and was willing to risk his own life by committing treason to do it.
Except for this to work, she ultimately needed to be willing to do the same. Willing to put her soldiers, many of whom were friends, at risk by betraying their raiding plans. Yet if the raids could be stymied, how many innocent lives would be saved?
“Time will tell,” she finally answered Bermin, unwilling to argue when what happened tonight would either prove the Maridrinian’s word was good or that she was a na?ve fool.
The moon above was little more than a sliver of light, but stars filled the clear night sky with brilliant silver sparks beyond counting. The only sound other than the breathing of her comrades was the roar of the waves rolling onto shore, and caught in the lulling rhythm, her mind drifted, her head filling with visions of the Maridrinian’s face.
God, but he was something to behold. The sort of beautiful that should be the domain of a woman, except there wasn’t anything feminine about him. Not the solid grip of his hands on her shoulders as he’d caught his balance against her. Not the rock-hard muscle of his chest beneath her palm. And most certainly not the masculine scent of spice and exertion that had filled her nose or the rasp of stubble that had brushed her hand when she’d caught hold of his throat.
Too close. They’d been too close. And yet her body—apparently as traitorous as her mind—had ached to move closer.
The sound of an oar slamming in a lock ripped her back into the moment, and Zarrah focused her gaze on the distant waves.
Yrina lifted a hand and pointed. “There.”
That it would be this inlet, of the six others she currently had being watched, was something of a stroke of luck. But there was no denying the faint sounds of at least two longboats coming into shore, and a heartbeat later, her ears picked up the scrape of wood over sand.
Not two longboats, but three, all of them loaded with Maridrinian soldiers. Equal numbers to her own, but Zarrah’s force had the advantage of surprise. Lifting the bow she held in one hand, she nocked an arrow, seeing all the archers in her force do the same.
“Hold.” She toed the line between the enemy force being far enough up the sand to be hit and still leaving them an opportunity to escape. She owed the Maridrinian that much. “Hold.”
The enemy force reached the midpoint of the beach, close enough to strike with good shots but only a quick sprint back to the boats if they chose to escape. “Shoot!” She loosed an arrow.
A second later, the air filled with the hiss of arrows. And she wasn’t the only one who heard it.
“Ambush!” a vaguely familiar voice shouted, and Zarrah aimed at the shadowy form.
Her arrow flew through the air, grazing the soldier’s arm. He jerked, but instead of calling for a retreat, he shouted, “Charge!”
Fool! Zarrah dropped her bow and lifted her staff, screaming, “For Valcotta!”
The two forces collided, clashes of steel and screams of pain drowning out the surf; it was difficult to discern friend from foe in the darkness. Zarrah fought back to back with Yrina, her staff whistling through the air, cracking bones even as she blocked swipes from Maridrinian swords, her arms shuddering from the impacts.
She didn’t fight to kill, leaving groaning men in her wake even as she silently pleaded, Fall back. Retreat.
But Maridrina was a kingdom built on bravery and pride, and they kept coming. Kept fighting even as her reinforcements arrived.
Zarrah’s skin prickled, and she whirled, barely managing to evade the blood-drenched blade that nearly took off her head.
“We meet again, Zarrah.”
She instantly recognized the man she’d fought during Bermin’s raid. The one who’d done his damnedest to cut off her head despite knowing she’d been trying to retreat. “That’s General Anaphora, you Maridrinian rat.”
“I’ll accord no titles to the likes of you.”