Calum meant to kill her, and not quickly.
The breath seized in her chest, not from fear but by Calum’s magic.
Rhen leaned toward his brother. “Do let me keep her. It would be terrific fun.”
“I’m free,” Nim said when her breath returned. The force of her proclamation surprised her, but she’d never felt the truth of it more. Whatever Calum did, whatever happened with the king, Nim was owned by no one. “Nothing will bind me again.”
The pair of them stared back at her, something wicked and satisfied in their grins, something that teased she was so very wrong.
“I am free,” she repeated, “and Warrick is coming.” Fates, she hoped it was true. She would have given nearly anything for his presence in that moment.
“Oh, I suspect he’ll be occupied for a bit,” Rhen said. He gave her a playful wink and glanced over his shoulder, where Nim realized the shop patrons and millers-about had begun to part.
Beside her, Maris swore. “The king’s guard.”
Rhen chuckled. “Apologies. I suppose it would have gone better for Warrick if I’d not alerted the guard of our exit.” He bumped Calum good-naturedly with an elbow.
Calum never took his eyes off of Nim. His look was a vow. It might not be that day, but he would find her again.
The pair walked on, the square resuming its bustling no more than a heartbeat before king’s men burst into the square in pursuit of the heirs to the Trust. Warrick’s guard did not bother pointing out the direction in which the two had gone. Nim let herself collapse into her maid’s embrace to be conveyed back to the carriage.
Nim was returned to Warrick’s rooms under the cover of guard, secreted passages, and the distraction of the entire king’s army on the hunt for Calum and Rhen. Maris had seen her to a warm tub, where Nim soaked and washed and pointedly did not examine her wounds. Her hair was brushed and sorted, and she was draped in a long gown that fit loosely at the waist but dipped low to bare her neck and shoulders. She sat in Warrick’s plush chair, a wrap covering her arms and an untouched plate of food on a small table nearby.
Staring across the space, Nim watched the wide, handsome desk she’d been sent to riffle through at Calum’s command what felt like ages before. All along, Calum had known her connection to his brother and that she would decide the fate of the heir to Inara.
Wesley came in with a fresh cup of tea. He lowered himself beside her, passing it over carefully, as if she might break.
Thanking him, she wrapped her hands around the cup. When she opened her mouth again, wanting to give an apology, she did break, her voice not letting her speak the words. Fates, she did not know what she had done and couldn’t know what was to become of any of them beyond that she could not tell Wesley goodbye.
He squeezed her shoulder. “All will be well, Nim. Trust in Warrick, as I trust in you.”
She drew a breath that felt like a sob then realized Wes’s expression had changed. “What is it?” she managed.
He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “You just seem… different.”
She did. She knew she did. But she did not know what it meant.
Wes gave her a gentle smile. “It will be well,” he said again. “And I will see you tomorrow.”
Nim took his hand a bit too tightly before he left. “Thank you, Wesley. I adore you. You are the bravest of us all, the most loyal and true.”
He blushed. “My lady, don’t say such things when morning will see you restored to yourself and you’ll have to face me again.”
She chuckled. “I would never deny it, Wes. Not at all.”
By the time Warrick came, she’d finished her tea. He was dressed in full regalia, the coronet of his station upon his head. He crossed to her without a single glance at the room.
Kneeling before her, arms sliding into the chair at her sides, he asked, “Are you well?”
A helpless laugh escaped her, and it, too, felt like a sob. Warrick came forward to hold her, pressing himself to her and burying his face against her gown. He was sorry, still, but he would not have changed a thing.
“What do you mean?”
He glanced up at her, seemingly caught off guard that she’d read his intimation. “I need you to be strong,” he told her, “for just a little while longer.”
“That… does not sound pleasant at all.”
His mouth shifted into an imitation of a smile. “Would that I could offer you only what was pleasant and take away all the rest.” He lifted her hand to press a soft kiss at the center of her palm. “Would that I could give you only pleasure and take away our pain.” His lips trailed upward to press against the delicate skin over her pulse. “Would that you might only feel what my love could bestow and not what it might steal away.”
“Warrick,” she whispered.
His eyes met hers again, and he drew back. “We’ve something more to take care of,” he reminded her. “And it still waits.”
She swallowed hard.
“But first”—Warrick’s fingers slid down the length of her gown, tracing her hem until he reached the bared flesh above her slippered feet. His hand wrapped gently around her ankle, warmth suffusing her as his thumb tracked over her skin. He kept his gaze on hers as his hand slid higher, blazing a slow trail of heat up her calf, brushing the sensitive skin near the back of her knee, then sliding to the top of her thigh. His other hand followed, delivering the sheathed dagger she’d left in her room. “This,” he said, strapping the weapon to her thigh, “belongs with you.”
Nim’s mouth went dry as Warrick’s fingers slid over her thigh, slipping at a torturous pace back down, again brushing the base of her knee, down her leg, and outside once more to settle the material of her skirt. He stood to stare down at her, never having taken his eyes from hers, then held out his hand. “Come, love. We will have this done.”
Chapter 23
“It will be both of us,” he’d said, “or neither.” Come what may, they would face it together. Warrick intended to solidify his threat by going through with the marriage. Whatever Stewart chose, Nim would be Warrick’s wife. The ceremony would be binding.
They would not both be hanged. Surely, no matter what the king ordered, he would have to let his son live. But Nim did not like that Warrick’s determination to stand against his father’s wishes might fracture their trust even further. Never mind that Warrick might simply have given the king his way at the start, because Stewart was right—Nim was a danger to Inara. She’d proven it only that day.
Nim had half a mind to tell him to forget it, that they should spend what time they had left concocting a plan. But Warrick had evidently devised several without her, because he seemed entirely confident that she would not die come morning. There was something dark beneath his intimations, though, something insidious that he seemed unable to look at for long, something he refused to look at with her at his side.
“What did this cost you?” she wanted to ask. But she was terrified he might turn to her, brush a thumb over her cheek, and answer “everything.”
It was a fairly specific imagining, and she had no interest in examining why. Instead, she wondered what hidden plans he and his father had in place and how she might have destroyed Stewart’s careful strategy. Maybe he’d meant to use Calum against the Trust or to claim Warrick publicly as his heir. He might mean to announce a truce, for all Nim knew. The only thing she was certain of was that Stewart did not want war, not when he would so thoroughly lose. In any case, he must have devised some way to bind the Trust so that when Warrick was revealed as heir, there would be no uprising by the citizens because of his connection to magic.