He eyed the sun, which burned at its zenith. “Let’s take a break.”
Clare took a step back, turning away from him as she fought to regulate her breathing. Training was exhausting. Her body was bruised from the mock fighting and sore from repeatedly taking up the different positions Bennick showed her. Her legs ached from all the lunges and kicks, and new blisters kept finding their way onto her hands. Yet this hour of the day remained her favorite.
“Here.”
Clare spun, arm swinging on instinct.
Bennick jerked back with a curse and water sloshed over his hand from the tin cup he held. The cup he’d filled for her.
She slapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry!”
His lips twitched as he passed the cup to his other hand so he could shake out his wet fingers. “My own fault. I should know better than to sneak up on you now.”
There were moments in training when Clare felt attuned to Bennick, able to mirror his movements and act in perfect unison with him. Then there were these moments. Clare had never considered herself clumsy, but when he caught her off-guard with his nearness, or a sudden half-grin . . . She’d stumbled into him, tread on his foot, and now she’d almost hit him across the face.
Bennick held out the cup, no longer fighting his smile. “Would you like what’s left?”
She took the cup, grateful for something to do. “Thank you.” The water was tepid, but gloriously wet. It soothed the dryness in her mouth and throat.
Bennick looked toward the gray stone castle that towered over the training yard. She took advantage of his distraction. Her eyes swept his face, noting the slightly crooked nose and stubbled jaw. She glimpsed a hint of sweat gathered along his hairline, but his scent hadn’t changed—sunshine, leather, and spice. It wasn’t fair; her dress was sticking to her back, her breathing was still fighting to slow, and all the lilac oil in Serene’s rooms couldn’t have helped her. His blue eyes were much more impressive than the commander’s, his hair lighter, but she could see the resemblance now that she knew to look. It was still hard to reconcile the fact that he was the commander’s son. Her brief conversation with Venn this morning had only whet her curiosity to learn more about their relationship.
Bennick took the empty cup from her and took it back to the water barrel. After gulping down a drink of his own, he returned and waved for her to sit.
She sank gratefully to the ground and braced her arms behind her, the strands of sparse grass at the edge of the field tickling her palms. Soreness radiated from her shoulders, legs, and arms, but it wasn’t as painful as the first few days had been. Her body was adapting.
She tilted her head back, relishing the cool spring breeze. She appreciated the braided crown that kept all but several loose tendrils of hair off her neck. She closed her eyes and felt the flush slowly leave her skin.
Bennick sat nearby and when Clare opened her eyes she caught him rubbing his wrist, his focus on the other fights progressing across the field.
“Did I hurt you?” she asked.
He glanced at her. “Is that pride I hear?”
Her lips curved. “Maybe a little.”
Bennick chuckled. “It’s well-deserved.”
A dozen paces away, a soldier knocked his opponent to the ground with a cheer.
When Clare looked back at Bennick, he was examining his wrist.
She straightened sharply. “You’re bleeding!”
“Your nails are sharp.”
She grabbed his hand, eyeing the crescent-shaped incisions and the crimson blood smearing his skin. “I’m so sorry!” She balanced the back of his hand on her palm while her free fingers tugged a handkerchief from her pocket.
“Don’t—ruin it,” he sighed the last part, since she’d already pressed the cloth against his bleeding wrist.
“I didn’t realize I’d hurt you.”
“I can claim worse injuries, you know. Wilf nearly broke a rib yesterday.”
She peeked up at him. “Wilf is quite . . .” Terrifying was the word, but she didn’t want to say it.
Bennick seemed to hear what she hadn’t voiced. He winced. “Wilf isn’t always like that.”
Clare propped his arm against her leg, still holding the cloth to his skin. “I heard some of the soldiers talking.”
He scowled. “Soldiers gossip more than old women.” His fingers flexed and a muscle in his cheek jumped. “Wilf has served as a royal bodyguard for almost thirty years. He’s saved my life and the lives of each member of the royal family multiple times. He trained me when I was just a boy. I wouldn’t be who I am today without him.”
Holding Bennick’s hand and sitting close to him under the warm sun made her bold. “He sounds almost like a father to you.”
His jaw firmed, but her words didn’t coax out any answers about the commander. “He was, in many ways.” He used his free hand to rub his forehead, effectively blocking her view of his face. “Wilf caught the pox five years ago. All the physicians agreed he was a dead man but his wife, Rachel, took care of him for days with barely any rest. Sometimes I think her determination alone saved him.” He lowered his hand and his voice. “Lady Rachel wasn’t so blessed when the illness claimed her. Wilf was inconsolable when she died.”
Pity swelled in Clare’s chest. Even if the man frightened her, she knew the pain of losing a loved one. It wasn’t an agony she’d wish on anyone.
“He drank and gambled away his earnings. He never endangered the royal family, but he became less dependable. He was Prince Grandeur’s lead bodyguard at the time, and the men who served under him grew impatient with his grief; they demanded his replacement. This was two years ago; I’d just been appointed to the position I have now, and I was looking for a fifth man I could trust. I asked for Wilf, and the king consented.” He shook his head. “Yesterday was
