All that time she’d spent with the flatlander, and she couldn’t help thinking she should have looked harder, and closer, and memorized every tiny detail. Some, she could recall vividly—those eyes the color of the gray-green ferns on the north side of the mountain. The stick-straight black hair that flopped down over his forehead when he’d been in the field too long. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, a muscled ass that made even uniform breeches look good.
But his nose—what did that look like? She had totally neglected his nose. Did he have any tattoos? She’d never had a thorough look.
She loved the way he moved. He was at home in his body, and it showed. He covered ground like somebody who knew where he was going and would find a way to get there without leaving anyone behind. His lovemaking (what she’d known of it) was much the same.
It never took her long to move from those fine physical assets to who he was. The way he took care of his men in the field, leading by example, playing the hand he was given without complaint. Fierce, determined, there.
He had much to learn about northern women. Still, even when they disagreed, he was teachable, weighing her arguments before he countered.
That was what took this beyond a wartime crush. She might be building a house around a single brick, but this brick was all she had.
It was evidence of how deeply into daydreaming she was that the first she knew she had company was when somebody said, “So this is where you go every night,” practically in her ear.
She scrambled to her feet, her sword in her hand, her body acting before her mind returned to earth.
It was Bosley, dressed in his desert warrior garb, his curved blade at his side, an arrogant smile on his face. It didn’t look good on him.
Dreams to nightmares.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“You first,” Bosley said.
“I came up here to be alone,” Lyss said, returning her sword to its scabbard. “Obviously, you didn’t, if you followed me up here.”
“I was actually asking a . . . broader question,” Bosley said. “Why is the heir to the Gray Wolf throne serving the empress in the east?”
“I’m here for the same reason you are,” Lyss said, ignoring the title, doing her best to control her temper. “I am a prisoner of war who has been ganged into the Carthian army. Given the alternative, I agreed.”
“But you’re not just another prisoner, are you.” Bosley took a step toward her.
“Lieutenant Bosley.” Emphasis on Lieutenant. “I am here as a captain in the Highlander army and a prisoner of war. Although we are prisoners, it is in our best interest to maintain discipline and the chain of command. If we play our cards right, we may survive this.”
“But you are training the enemy,” Bosley said. “Some would call that treason.”
Why, oh why didn’t I throw you off a cliff when I had the chance?
“I am also learning more about the bloodsworn every day.”
“So.” Bosley took another step toward her. “Then you are actually working against the empress?”
“I am actually trying to survive, and protect my officers if I can,” Lyss said, unwilling to hand Bosley any kind of weapon. “Now. As I said. I came here to be alone. I did not come here to discuss strategy with a subordinate. You are dismissed.”
“You can’t have it both ways,” Bosley said. “If we are both soldiers, as you say, is that any way to treat a comrade? I would have expected a warmer welcome.”
Lyss’s always-brittle temper snapped. “What don’t you understand about go away?”
The arrogant expression dissolved into anger. “Let me make myself clear, Princess,” Bosley snarled. “You may be valuable to the empress as a capable commander, but you are even more valuable as the heir to the throne of the Fells—the only surviving heir, I might add. You are in no position to look down your nose at me. I would suggest that you think before you speak.”
“Is that a threat?” Lyss said, her voice a low growl. “Because that would be treason.”
“There need be no unpleasantness if you do as I say,” Bosley said. “In fact, you may come to enjoy collaborating with me.”
Bosley made collaborating sound like a filthy word. Lyss, speechless, stared at him.
Taking her silence as assent, Bosley moved in closer. “Don’t worry. We will maintain appearances in front of the others. In public, I will be as subordinate as any other soldier. But in private, I’ll be giving the orders. With any luck, I’ll plant a baby in your belly before we return to the Realms. Consort to the queen. I like the sound of that.”
Lyss couldn’t help herself. Despite her vow to play it smart and survive, the whole idea was so revolting that she burst out laughing. “Lieutenant, I’d rather be eaten alive by wolves,” she said.
Never underestimate the fury of an asshole when he’s crossed. Bosley barreled into her, pitching her to the ground. Her head struck a rock, the impact rendering her temporarily senseless. When she came to, Bosley was ripping at her clothing, muttering curses. Her sword was gone. She groped for her belt dagger, but that was gone, too.
She kneed him, hard, in the privates, causing him to howl and loosen his grip. She flipped him over her head and rolled to her feet, scanning the ground for her blades. Spotting the glitter of metal in the moonlight, she scrambled toward it and scooped up her dagger. Just in time, because Bosley was somehow up again and wrapping his arms around her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides so that she couldn’t reach anything
