Kelsea nodded, but the nod was reflexive. She didn’t love Pen, did she? She no longer knew. Sex had welded them, made them something far more than they were intended to be at the outset. Something moved over Pen’s shoulder, and Kelsea thought she saw, again, a dark figure standing down at the end of the hall. Another blink and it was gone.
She returned her attention to Pen. Her pride was wounded; of course it was. But if she gave in to that impulse, she would lose not just a bed partner but a friend as well. She firmed her jaw, doing her best to conceal her disappointment.
“Do you mean to remain on the Guard?” she asked.
“Yes, Lady. But I will not be your close guard. And you will have to treat me as you treat the rest, or I can’t stay.”
She nodded slowly, feeling something like sorrow break inside her. They had not had many nights, the two of them, but they had been good nights, somewhere halfway between love and friendship, an oasis of sweetness in the harsh desert that comprised Kelsea’s life since leaving the cottage. She would miss that side of Pen, but deep within the pain was a kernel of respect for him, growing larger every second.
We’re alike, she thought, staring at Pen’s face. Behind her eyes, she suddenly saw her city, its rolling hillsides aflame, and she realized that this work, the great work of her life, outweighed anything that she would ever want for herself. There might be more men, many of them, but none of them would ever get in the way of the work. She would not allow it.
Taking a deep breath, she reached out, offering her hand for Pen to shake. Pen smiled, his eyes bright and unguarded, and Kelsea realized that she would never see him this way again. They would talk, and laugh, and give each other hell, just as Kelsea did with the rest of her guards . . . but it would never again be like this. They shook hands, and Pen held on to her hand for a moment before he dropped it, swallowing. When he looked up again, Pen the man was gone, and he was now Pen the guard, his eyes flicking over her, distant and analytical.
“You don’t look well, Lady.”
“I just woke up.” But he was right. She had been awakened by Mace. Katie’s voice beat insistently against her mind, refusing to leave her alone.
“Levieux is here, yes? I need to speak to him.” She needed to speak to him, all right, grab his shirt and shake him until he coughed up some answers about what had happened to Jonathan Tear. There was no need to wait for the slow pace of Katie’s vision, not when she could demand the whole story from someone who had actually been there.
“You’ll have to wait, Lady.” Mace had reappeared behind her, with Elston in tow. Kelsea could not get her bearings in this place; there was something odd about the corridors, some proportion that was off. “Levieux left several hours ago, and said he won’t be back until late. But there’s dinner downstairs. Pen, go.”
Pen left. Kelsea watched him go, feeling one last pang of sorrow, and then she turned back to Mace and Elston, her mouth hardening.
The work!
“This corridor moves, sir,” Elston muttered. “I keep catching things around corners.”
Mace looked over his shoulder, his face tightening. “I don’t trust the mistress of the house. The sooner we’re out of here, the better.”
“Is this agreeable to you, Lady?” Elston asked. “Me as your close guard?”
She nodded, smiling up at him, though her heart ached.
“Let’s get some dinner, then.”
She followed them down the hall.
Kelsea came awake in darkness. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was—it seemed every night was a new place to sleep these days—but then a torch snapped in its bracket and she remembered: she was in Lady Chilton’s house, in the chamber Mace had assigned her. Elston was just outside the door.
Something was in the room.
Kelsea had heard the softest of movements behind her, little more than a whisper of air, somewhere near the door. She debated rolling over, but when she tried, she found her muscles frozen. She didn’t want to see. Unbidden, her mind conjured up an image of the little girl in the dungeon, and Kelsea felt her entire body break out in gooseflesh. She could shout for help; Elston was just outside. But the child in the dungeon had been very quick.
Another soft sound, closer now, the soft rasp of leather against the floor. A footstep, perhaps, but Kelsea’s imagination said differently. She pictured the child two feet from her, poised to leap.
Not like Brenna, her mind whispered, and Kelsea felt her nerves suddenly galvanized. No, she would not be taken as she had been by Brenna, overpowered, lying helpless. Keeping still, she flexed all of her muscles, preparing them for motion. Her knife was beneath her head, tucked into its scabbard under the pillow; there was no way to grab it without giving warning. But she thought she could have it out half a second after she began to move.
One last step, right beside Kelsea now. She whipped into motion, rolling toward the sound, and connected solidly, tumbling out of bed to land on top of her attacker. For a moment she saw a dark silhouette beneath her, and then the figure emitted a low, ratlike squeal as it fell backward. Kelsea jerked her knife from its scabbard and scrambled on top of the thing, looking for its neck. Then she drew back, horrified.