Clare was beautiful. Bennick had known that the first moment he saw her, even with her stained apron and loose braid. She was soft and kind, strong and resilient. The love she had for her family burned in her eyes and her dedication to them staggered him. She remained undaunted despite the long days and challenging lessons, withstanding even the danger with a quiet confidence that astounded him. The more time he spent with her, the more fascinated he became, and what he felt for her . . . that was growing, too, becoming more than mere attraction and treading deeper than friendship.
Gavril stood outside the princess’s open door and Bennick tried to bury the rush of regret. Clare was already gone, or else Wilf would have been at the door.
He greeted Gavril and glanced into the open room. A page stood at a low table in the sitting room, his back to the door.
“Clare received letters from home,” Gavril explained. “When they left, Clare mentioned she’d finished her replies, so I sent for a page.”
“Sir?” The young boy edged forward, holding the folded letters. “They’re not sealed, but the wax is out, like she just forgot. The one I opened looks finished.”
“You read her letter?” Bennick asked, arching a brow.
The boy’s ears reddened. “Not really. I just saw it was signed. Should I seal them?”
“And have you manage to read the rest?” Bennick shook his head and stretched out a hand.
The page passed the letters over and Bennick entered the room. He perched on the edge of the settee and lifted the stick of wax, holding it over a flickering flame to warm it. He sealed the letters, and while the wax finished drying he flipped one over. Clare’s handwriting was small and precise. Not the artistic curls the ladies at court practiced, but elegant in its simplicity. It suited her. His mouth tugged into a smile. Then he noticed the name those careful letters formed and his smile fell.
Eliot Slaton
Tension coiled his shoulders as he scanned the address. The barracks was correct, and the rank. Fates. How did Clare know Eliot Slaton?
“Sir?” Bennick’s eyes cut to the page, who shuffled his feet impatiently. “It’s probably dry now.”
Bennick’s fingers pinched the stiff paper. For a brief moment, he thought he wouldn’t give it up. Then he handed the letters to the page. The boy turned to leave, but before he could reach the door, the question leapt free. “Which letter did you read?”
The page twisted around. “I didn’t read it, Captain. Honest.”
Bennick forced his expression to loosen. “You’re not in any trouble, but do you remember which one?”
Obviously fearing a reprimand, the boy moved slowly as he lifted Slaton’s letter.
Bennick’s heart thumped a little faster. “Did you see how she began the letter?”
“Just the man’s name. Eliot.”
She called him Eliot. They were familiar, then.
Bennick swallowed, though his voice remained a little too tight. “Did you see how her signature went? You mentioned she signed it.”
“She did, sir. Just with her name.” He paused. “Well, she said, ‘Much love, Clare’.”
Bennick dug in his pocket and tossed a coin to the boy, and as he dashed off, Bennick raked a hand through his hair. The image of Slaton’s name written in Clare’s hand was seared into his mind. Why would she be corresponding with him?
Much love, Clare.
The obvious reason soured his stomach.
Chapter 20
Grayson
Grayson steered his horse up the narrow mountain path, soldiers riding in front and behind him. Steep inclines were edged with drifts of crusted snow and dead leaves sprang up on both sides of the trail. Tree branches hung over the road, a mix of skeletal oaks and heavy pine boughs. White, gray, and dark green were the prominent colors in the winter-locked mountains, but the weeds along the ice-edged river bled with muted red, dull gold, and brittle brown. Breath misted in the sharp morning air from both man and beast. Hooves clopped, leather creaked, and soldiers talked and laughed with each other.
They should reach the next village by nightfall, where Grayson would once again enforce his father’s tax. It was a never-ending cycle and he was beyond ready to return to Lenzen—to Mia.
During these long rides his thoughts drifted to the small family he’d saved in Gevell. He remembered the tears of gratitude welling in the mother’s tired eyes. The eight-year-old boy’s quirk of a smile, his insistence that he would be like Grayson someday. Fates willing, they’d made it to Kevid and the mother had found a physician for herself and the littlest boy.
Sometimes when Grayson squeezed his fist, he could still feel the small ball in his hand. It made the corner of his mouth lift. What he’d done didn’t make up for all the wrongs he committed in his father’s name, but it was a piece of rebellion he could always hold.
Reeve nudged his horse beside Grayson’s. “I’d hoped we’d turn a higher profit for His Majesty.” Reeve had grown more hot-tempered since losing the Hogan family in Gevell. He was quick to snap at the soldiers and Grayson had felt the man’s glare more than once when he thought Grayson wasn’t looking. “I pray the king will be understanding,” the captain continued. “I won’t have this held against me.”
Grayson sighed. “I’m sure the promotion you crave will be yours soon.” His father had a habit of rewarding evil.
“It can’t come soon enough.” Reeve shifted on his horse, the sunlight coming through the pine boughs catching the emerald in his
