Spy's Honor

to?”

“I don’t know,” said Janto. “I think we should find out.”

He trotted after her invisibly, with Rhianne at his side. The woman ran down the snaky forest path that led to the men’s slave house. Toward Micah? Did she intend to hurt him even more? Or was something else going on? Then she headed into the trees, slowing to a walk and looking all around. She put her hands to her mouth and made a sound like a bird calling.

Through the trees came an answering call. She turned and jogged toward it, slowing to a walk when she reached a small clearing.

A man stepped out from behind a tree trunk.

Janto clutched Rhianne’s hand, instinctively stepping in front of her, though they were both invisible. But the woman they were following seemed to expect this stranger. She ran to him, and they embraced. Then the woman began to talk. Janto was too far away to hear, but from the gestures, it was clear she was describing the events that had taken place at the women’s slave house.

“Is he her lover?” Rhianne whispered beside him.

The couple embraced again, their two forms merging to one in the moonlight. Janto knew he’d passed beyond legitimate investigation into voyeurism, and he ought to turn away from watching this private moment, but the sight reminded him of own private yearnings: a homeland and a family he wanted desperately to see again, a Kjallan princess he desired but who was intended for someone else. Something ached deep in his chest. “I believe he is.”

The distant figures separated just enough to share a kiss.

“Let’s leave them alone,” said Rhianne.

Janto nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. He turned, still holding Rhianne’s hand, and began walking back the way they’d come.

“I never think about that, you know,” said Rhianne. “That the palace slaves have lives outside of fetching my supper trays. Or if they don’t, they want to.”

“They’re my people—some of them—so I think about it a lot.”

“I suppose you must. I feel we’ve done something right for these people tonight. Something good.”

“I believe we have,” agreed Janto.

Rhianne nestled against his shoulder as they walked, her warmth delicious in the cool evening air. “Janto, I have something to ask you.”

“Ask.”

“Not here. Let’s—let’s get the equipment first.”

In silence, they returned to the clearing by the women’s slave house. They packed the staves and ropes and chamber pot into the sackcloth bag, and Janto hoisted it onto his shoulder. “Where to?”

Rhianne looked about helplessly and pointed in what seemed a random direction. Janto shrugged and followed her.

16

Rhianne didn’t know the area and didn’t have anywhere specific in mind. She just wanted a private, secluded spot with enough room to spread out a blanket. She found a quiet glade that seemed adequate for the purpose and halted. Janto lowered the bag to the ground and gazed at her expectantly.

Now for the proposal. “Janto, I . . .” Her breath caught, and she trailed off and looked away.

“What is it?” he asked gently.

Her legs felt weak. She looked around for a place to sit, but there wasn’t a stump or log anywhere. She swallowed. Courage. “I was wondering if you would make love to me.”

Janto drew back, his eyes wary. “Are you certain? Is there—will there be trouble?”

She blushed furiously. “No one will know. We’re alone out here, and shrouded, and . . . Look. I don’t love Augustan, and I don’t want him to be the first or only man I ever sleep with. I want that man to be you.”

Janto’s expression softened. He held out a hand. “Come here, Princess.”

She went to him, her shoulders dropping in relief. He enfolded her in the circle of his arms and kissed her, teasing her mouth open as if testing her, ascertaining for himself whether she truly wanted this. She yielded to the invasion, softening her body against him, surprising even herself as a sound of longing purred from her throat. This was the man she wanted, the gentle scholar who’d bantered with her in the gardens and gently prodded her to a deeper understanding of both of their countries, the spy who’d played games with her at the bridge. Not Augustan, and not some random Kjallan either.

Heat pooled deep inside her body, a paradoxical mix of pleasure and warmth and dissatisfaction, an unscratched itch that had her pressing closer to Janto, kissing him and wrapping her arms around him, trying to satisfy that unsatisfied place.

“Hold a moment,” he said, restraining her. “You’ve not been with a man before?”

“I have not. You don’t mind?”

“No. Will Augustan expect a virgin on his wedding night?”

“Kjallan women seldom go virginal to the wedding bed.” She’d never intended to wait this long; she was just choosy. And with so many men away at war, there had never been a lot of options.

“Are you nervous?” he murmured in her ear.

“No.” She wanted this, and she’d chosen the right man. However, losing one’s virginity was supposed to hurt—sometimes there was even blood—and that worried her. Perhaps she ought not to bend the truth. “A little.”

“We’ll go at your pace,” said Janto. “If you don’t like anything or you change your mind, you tell me to stop, and I will.” He looked around. “I don’t think the forest floor is going to be very comfortable.”

“I brought a blanket.” She went to the bag and fished out a blue coverlet, which she spread on the ground.

“You planned this.”

Her cheeks warmed. Indeed she had. “You’re leaving the country soon, so it’s my last chance.”

Janto knelt and fingered the blanket, gauging its thickness. “This won’t be as nice as a bed. Especially the sort of bed an imperial princess is accustomed to.”

“I don’t care.” She sat beside him. “Better you and a blanket on the hard ground than Augustan and all the feather pillows in the world.”

He flashed her an affectionate smile. “Are you warded? I’ve been away from my people for a while. My own wards might have faded by now.”

She’d considered that already. “My wards were applied a few days ago. I won’t get pregnant.”

He held out his arms again. She went to him, and he bore her gently to the ground. He examined her syrtos and fingered its double belts. When the knots stymied him, he gave up on them, straddled her, and removed his slave tunic instead.

Janto didn’t look Kjallan—not remotely. His chest wasn’t pale but golden, bronzed by the tropical sun of his homeland and dusted with a smattering of light brown hair. He was watching her, she realized, drinking in her admiring gaze. He leaned down and kissed her gently. She felt nervous about touching him, but she sensed he wanted her to, so she raised her hands uncertainly and stroked the sides of his body. As her confidence grew, she let her fingers explore, outlining the muscles on his back and shoulders. He leaned into her touch, yet he looked tense.

“Are you all right?” whispered Rhianne.

“Quite all right. Being with a virgin presents certain challenges. I want you very badly, but I don’t want to hurt you.” He reached again for the dual belts of her syrtos.

Much as it tickled her to see him struggle with the oddities of Kjallan fashion, she helped him unknot the belts. Then she sat up so he could pull off her syrtos and unlace her corset. At last they were skin to skin, and the wonderful but strangely urgent sensation returned, the unscratched itch that made her want to get closer to him, always closer.