The Traitor's Kiss Page 9

  And so the lesson began. He sped things along by pretending to discover he knew more letters than he realized, such as the ones in his name or that designated certain units in the army. Starling pounced on the opportunity to ask about them, and more than once he feigned a distraction with the wagon to end her line of questioning.

  “So we’ll travel an average of just over twenty miles a day,” she was saying. “How does that compare with how fast the army can travel?”

  “That all depends.” He cast his eyes around for something. “If there are roads or—look, my lady. I think I’d like to try some of what I’ve learned.” He pointed to the sign posted at a crossroad they approached.

  Sagerra frowned a little before looking where he indicated. “Go ahead.”

  He stumbled through sounding out the letters. With her patient correction, he managed to come up with “Maple Glen” and “Flaxfield.” Acting pleased with himself, he pointed to an angled sign, which became visible as they passed. “That one starts with a—”

  “Wintermead,” Sagerra said, cutting him off. “It says Wintermead.” She stared straight ahead without seeing.

  He watched her from the corner of his eye. “You do not like Wintermead,” he said cautiously.

  Her lips tightened into a thin line, and she reached up with her left hand and grabbed her upper right arm, fingers digging into the muscle. He’d seen similar actions in soldiers. When getting sutures or a bone set, they’d pinch a tender area to draw their focus away from the surgeon’s work.

  “I’d forgotten we would pass through this area.” Sagerra swallowed twice before forcing the words out. “My father died there.”

  She wrinkled her forehead and turned ghostly gray eyes to his face. The raw emotion she directed at him was so intense he couldn’t look away. “I thought I’d finally begun to get over it, but at times it feels like it was yesterday, and it’s like I’ve been gored by a wild animal.”

  Her right hand gripped the wooden bench between them, and he had the shocking urge to cover it with his own hand and offer her some comfort, but that would have been very inappropriate.

  “We don’t have to talk about him,” he said, “but it might help.”

  “How so?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe it would relieve some of the pressure that’s built up, like draining a festering wound.”

  Sagerra pursed her lips, looking slightly amused. “An apt, if somewhat disgusting, analogy.”

  He ducked his head. “Sorry. I’m a soldier. It’s what I know.”

  Her silence felt louder than the rhythmic clatter of the horses straining to pull the wagon. He could see something building up inside her.

  “His name was Peter,” she said abruptly. Her eyes glazed over, and he held his breath, waiting through a full turn of the wheel at his feet. “He had dark hair and blue eyes and would read to me by firelight while I mended his shirts. When I read now, sometimes the words in my head are in his voice.” She turned away and gazed down the road, her voice dropping so low he could barely hear her. “I worry someday I’ll forget how it sounded.”

  Now the urge to take her hand was so strong he lifted his cap and scratched his head to prevent it. “You and your mother must have been devastated.”

  Sagerra shrugged. “She died long before that. I don’t even remember her.”

  He waited, but she made no mention of a stepmother. Had her father raised her alone? He’d never heard of such a thing. Motherless girls were always passed on to female relatives, at least until fathers remarried, but it was obvious she was close to him. “How old were you?”

  “Twelve.”

  Again she said no more. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asked casually.

  “No.”

  Another curt answer. Something wasn’t right. Was he prying too much? He’d dropped quite a few “my ladys,” so maybe she was displeased over that. He was debating how to proceed when Casseck rode up alongside the wagon.

  “Carter,” the lieutenant said sharply, making him jump. “We’ll stop for a rest and meal just ahead.” Casseck gestured to a bend where the road passed near a wide stream and a grove of trees. It appeared to be a common resting place for travelers. Much of the grass was worn away, and the remnants of fires could be seen. “When you’re finished tending the horses, Captain Quinn wants a word with you.” He nodded to Sagerra. “My lady.” She half smiled and nodded back.

  Mouse guided the cart into position, thinking more about her silence than where the wagon was going. It didn’t feel like anger he’d run up against. It felt like a wall. He knew because he had one, too.

  * * *

  The officers ate their midday meal in a tight circle out of view and earshot of the ladies while soldiers moved about, tending horses and passing out food. Charlie waited on the officers, holding a pitcher of water off to the side. A soldier nearby started telling a rude joke but caught the captain’s sharp glance and lowered his voice. Quinn looked back to his lieutenants. “I saw smoke. Our left picket has something to tell us.”

  Casseck nodded. “Corporal Mason will be patrolling on that side. Is there anything he should tell him, sir?”

  Quinn shook his head. “Not at the moment. Anyone see a signal on the right?” Three negative answers. “Keep an eye out, we should hear from him soon. Gram, how’s the road ahead?”

  “Clear, sir,” Gramwell replied around his mouthful. “Manor House Darrow is ready to receive us. I told them we’d arrive in time for supper and left two men to scout around.”

  Quinn nodded curtly and held up his cup for Charlie to refill with water. “Good. Anything else that needs reporting?”

  Casseck cleared his throat. “How’s our mouse doing?”

  “Fine, if a little uneasy. Starling asks a lot of questions.”

  Casseck glanced at a nearby group of soldiers. “He didn’t look uneasy.”

  Quinn sighed. “He’s just playing the part; let him do it.” He sipped his water, trying to put what wasn’t right into words. “There’s something off, though. Has anyone learned more about her?”

  Robert waved his hand for attention. “Overheard some ladies talking. Lots of spite. Jealousy over Cass speaking to her earlier.” He gave Casseck a wink. “Once, they said ‘her kind,’ like she’s not ‘their kind.’ Whatever the hell that means.”

  Quinn rubbed his lower lip with his thumb. “Apparently both her parents are dead. Maybe she came from a convent orphanage.”

  Gramwell cleared his throat. “There’s a Broadmoor Manor and village northwest of Galarick; I passed by it coming from Reyan. Lord Broadmoor is well regarded, but I don’t know anything more.”

  “Clear as mud,” grumbled Quinn, ripping apart a piece of dried beef. “Nothing truly conflicts, but nothing quite matches, either. She could be someone’s hidden bastard, a high noble girl who came down in the world when her parents died, or something else entirely.”

  Across the circle, Casseck leaned back and folded his arms. “Sounds like Mouse has his work cut out for him.”

  18

  IN THE EVENING the group stopped at the home of Lord Darrow, the first of several estates the matchmaker had arranged to receive them. After dinner with the lord, Sage buried herself in their host’s library, recording what she’d learned that day in her ledger and reading whatever caught her interest. To her surprise, Ash Carter appeared once his duties were complete and shyly asked if he could practice writing letters. By the time she went to bed, Clare, who’d volunteered to be her roommate, was asleep, so Sage was spared dealing with her.

  The second day of travel went as the first, and after another reading lesson and late night, this time in Lord Ellison’s library, Sage returned to her room to find Clare sitting in a dressing gown by the fire, her burnished curls framing her creamy face. “There you are,” she said. “I made us some tea.”

  Sage eyed Clare as she dropped her ledger on the lid of her trunk. The other ladies had barely acknowledged her in two days, so the ki
ndness must be designed to curry favor. Clare shouldn’t have worried, though; she was the most valuable match they had.

  Clare held up a cup and saucer. “I was wondering if you’d be back before it got cold.”

  The scent of spearmint with a hint of orange drew Sage to her side. The library had been chilly, and she couldn’t resist the promise of warmth from both hearth and tea. She sat with her legs folded beneath her on the sheepskin rug and accepted with a thank-you.

  “You stayed so late,” said Clare.

  No sense in being rude. “There was a book I’ve never seen before—and not likely to again.” Few households had books written in Kimisar, even harmless geology tomes. “And Private Carter came by for a reading lesson.”

  He’d also frustrated her attempts to learn about the officers. Both yesterday and today, she’d tried to get him to open up by showing interest in his life, which wasn’t hard—the army was fascinating. Usually it was easy to get a man talking, but whenever the conversation wandered, he brought her back to a reading lesson. It was nice to have such a willing student, though. He especially liked to watch her write, probably because his attempts were so clumsy.

  Clare shifted her silky blue robe. “Mistress Rodelle told me you tutored your cousins and also orphans in the village.” There was none of the disdain Sage expected. “She said you’re never happy unless you’re teaching or learning.”

  Sage pursed her lips, uncomfortable at how close to home that statement was. “I think…” She hesitated. “I think it goes back to my father. We didn’t have a home, but we always had books he traded and borrowed. He schooled me himself.”

  The thought of Father usually brought a terrible, soul-ripping emptiness, but this time there was only a dull ache. To her surprise, she almost missed the pain.

  Sage changed the subject before Clare could say anything. “It’s also a side effect of being stuck in bed for over six months.” Uncle William had pulled her from the ravine and packed her mangled ankle in snow until it could be set once they got home. Then pneumonia had set in, made harder to battle by her grief and depression. “My two youngest cousins would creep in with me, and I’d read to them. I taught them letters, and the next thing I knew, Uncle William sent their tutor packing.”

  Clare’s brown eyes widened. “How old were you?”

  “By then? Thirteen. The younger ones preferred me, but Jonathan resented it. I’m only a few years older than him, and a girl besides.”

  “I’ve never met anyone your age—boy or girl—who knows so much,” Clare said shyly, her voice ringing with honest admiration. Sage looked down at the liquid in her cup, unsure how to respond. “I always enjoyed lessons more than my brothers,” Clare continued. “I wish I could’ve learned more.”

  Was Clare asking her to teach her?

  Sage cleared her throat. “How far did you go in your studies?”

  “Mostly just what I needed to know: sums, reading, and poetry. Botany, too, but that was limited to mostly edible plants. History was my favorite, though. I used to steal my brothers’ books to read at night.” The last was said with a naughty grin.

  Sage felt herself smiling. “You know, we’ll be at Underwood in two days. I imagine there’s a sizable library there.”

  “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  “You will if I help you.”

  Clare’s face lit up. “I’d love that.” They fell into silence as they sipped their tea. After a while Clare said, “May I ask you a question?”

  Sage grimaced. Now Clare would ask about matching. The conversation had been designed to make Sage to open up. Maybe she should let Clare try to get Ash Carter talking. Sage nodded warily and set her cup down by the hearth.

  “Why don’t you want to be friends with any of us?”

  Sage’s mouth dropped open, and she quickly snapped it shut. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but no one wants to be my friend.”

  “I do.”

  Sage pulled her knees up under her skirt and hugged them against her chest. “I’ve never had friends.”

  “Never?”

  Sage shrugged. “Too low for noble friends, too high for common ones when I lived with the Broadmoors.”

  “What about when you lived with your father?”

  “We traveled a lot. Most other girls thought I was a boy, since I always wore breeches. So not really, no.”

  Clare looked at her with pity. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I had Father. He was all I needed.”

  That was plainly a strange concept for Clare. “I rarely saw my father. He probably would’ve married me off years ago if it weren’t for the law.”

  “You know how that law came about, right?” Clare shook her head, but she looked genuinely interested. Sage lowered her knees and reached for the kettle to pour a fresh cup, falling into her schoolmistress tone. “Young noble girls were dying by the score in childbirth, and King Pascal the Third commissioned a study that found pregnancy was much safer for a girl after the age of seventeen. He wanted to craft the law according to that, but his nobles revolted, and they compromised. Since then, anyone properly matched must be at least sixteen.”

  Clare shifted her eyes away and bit her lower lip. “My sister was married at sixteen, two years ago. And now it’s my turn.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  Clare shrugged, her face blank. “Does it matter?”

  Sage didn’t know how to answer. Often she felt it better to accept what couldn’t be changed, but she’d rejected what had seemed to be her fate. She snorted. Maybe it was fate that rejected her.

  “What about you?” Clare asked. “Will Mistress Rodelle find you a good match while we’re in the capital?”

  Sage nearly spat out her tea. “What in the world gave you that idea?”

  “That’s what Jacqueline’s been saying. Everyone thinks it’s how Darnessa will pay you.”

  “Well, it’s not.” Sage tapped her finger on her teacup. “What else does she say?”

  Clare tucked her feet under her nightdress. “She says I lower myself by associating with you.”

  Sage grinned. “How do you like it, down here in the dirt with us common folk?”

  Her friend smiled back. “I like it very much.”

  19

  QUINN FROWNED AT the messages they’d collected from the picket scouts in the three days since leaving Galarick with the ladies. Just before the group reached Lord Darrow’s manor on the first day, one of the four scouts reported coming across a Kimisar squad. They’d stopped the next night at Lord Ellison’s, where a message arrived from another scout, saying he, too, found a traveling group of Kimisar. Knowing he couldn’t go after them and still guard the women he was supposed to be protecting, Quinn instructed the scouts to shadow the squads for now.

  Then, this afternoon, two more squads were reported. They were all traveling east, same as the escort. With ten in each, Quinn’s men were now officially outnumbered.

  But it was the forward scout’s report that disturbed him most. He’d pushed ahead and passed their fourth stop, Baron Underwood’s castle, and entered the Tasmet province. Instead of Kimisar squads, he saw traveling groups of Cresceran men, supposedly headed to work in the mines south of Tegann. It wouldn’t have caused concern except in questioning local taverns on the increase in business, the numbers didn’t make sense, so the picket had left his assigned area and followed some of them. Disregarding his primary mission risked a hanging, but Quinn trusted this scout above all others.

  Right before they arrived at their evening stop, the scout’s coded message arrived:

  Paid soldiers, not miners. 3,000 strong.

  Camping 40 miles south of Tegann. Waiting.

  Returning to post. —C

  An entire regiment was gathering in Tasmet. Quinn kept expecting one of his father’s couriers to catch up to them, though, so he hadn’t reported it yet. If there wasn’t a messenger waiting at Underwood tomorrow, Quinn would send one of hi
s own.

  And Starling—Lady Sagerra—kept asking questions every day and on evenings Mouse found her for extra lessons. Innocent questions that always led to deeper ones. Questions that, when added up, could be very valuable information to their enemies. How was the army organized? How could Ash Carter advance through the ranks? What weapons had he trained with, and who did he report to? What kind of food did soldiers eat? Were even the cooks and pages trained in combat?

  Every night she wrote in that ledger.

  Every day he saw more signs that the ladies did not consider her one of their own.

  Every instinct he had screamed one thing.

  Lady Sagerra was a spy.

  20

  THE FOURTH MORNING dawned gray and drizzly, but Sage intended to ride with Ash Carter again anyway, so she dressed warmly, and gladly put on her hat for once. The ladies bustled about excitedly; their next stop would last three full days at Baron Underwood’s castle. A banquet was planned for the second evening, and they tittered over the prospect of dancing with the army officers and other noble guests. At one point Sage overheard Jacqueline whisper loudly that “Sagerra can dance with the kitchen staff,” and her audience burst into giggles.

  Sage was too absorbed in her own concerns to care. If Darnessa realized just how little information Sage had gained after so much time with Carter, there would be hell to pay. She’d stayed up all last night debating how to confront him about his strange silence.

  He already sat on the driver’s seat, staring at the low-hanging clouds with a frustrated expression. She had to call his name twice to get his attention.

  He looked down and removed his cap. “Good morning, my lady. I’m afraid today it would be better for you to ride in the back of the wagon.”

  Sage opened her mouth to protest that she wouldn’t melt, but then she noticed a crossbow on the bench beside him and a sword belted at his waist. She glanced around at the other soldiers. They were all armed with twice as many weapons as usual. Did they expect trouble?