He did not tell her so now, either, and Yvenne felt his attention shift behind them, to where unfamiliar voices were in conversation with Kelir. Once beyond the ruins of Hanan’s statue, they’d more frequently passed villages and settlements—and encountered more travelers, many of whom had recently come from Drahm. Every one they met, the warriors asked for news of Syssian soldiers on the northern road. Thus far, no one had heard any such rumors.
Entranced by the sight ahead, she didn’t turn to see who spoke to Kelir now—but she did listen when the warrior rode up beside Maddek to report.
“A salt merchant,” Kelir said. “He has heard and seen nothing of soldiers . . . and he has spent the past three days trading near the northern gate.”
That pulled Yvenne’s gaze from the sea. Any soldiers who rode into Drahm on the northern road would have to enter the city through that gate—and such an event would be almost as remarkable as a group of Parsatheans. So what the merchant knew was not just rumor. “Then they have not reached the city?”
If soldiers were coming at all. But Yvenne felt certain they must be—as did the Parsatheans.
“Not before this morning, at least.” The warrior looked to Maddek. “He also gave me the name of a bargeship captain who can leave under quiet sail. Everyone will see us pass through the city, but if the soldiers know not which boat we are upon, they will waste time searching—either on the docks or on the sea.”
“Then prepare to ride,” said Maddek.
Because the other warriors were not mounted, Yvenne saw. When Maddek had stopped to allow her a view of the sea and for Kelir to speak with the merchant, they’d taken the opportunity for a short rest.
She returned her gaze to the water while they readied their horses, leaning back into Maddek’s hard chest.
The arm around her waist tightened. “Is it as you thought?”
“No,” said she. “It is far more.”
“More than I thought, too,” he admitted. “A few times I have seen the northern shore that is the boundary of the Burning Plains. But the water there is not so jewel-like.”
“That must be why the Parsatheans never raided the sea, or stole an ocean—nearer your home, the water is not a gleaming turquoise gem. So you knew not what Temra concealed beneath her robes.”
His deep laugh rumbled against her back. “Mother Temra conceals nothing. She flaunts her beauties, knowing they are too massive for any thief to carry back home. So only a fool would try to steal this gem—and likely drown in the attempt.” His big hand slipped down over Yvenne’s belly, to where her thighs were spread open over the saddle. “And I am well satisfied by the small rubies and pearl that my raids have uncovered, though the wetness here also threatens to drown me.”
His long fingers lightly caressed her silk-covered mound, and fire curled through Yvenne at that subtle touch. Not so subtle was his opposite hand fisting in her hair, angling her head and his hot mouth open at the side of her neck, sucking and licking at her skin, as if in sheer hunger for the taste of her.
Only a moment it lasted, yet she was breathless and enflamed when he drew her head back against his shoulder and flattened his hand over her stomach again.
Because his warriors approached, she realized—and Maddek never eased his need upon her where they could see. Not during the long day at Hanan’s statue, not in the long nights that followed. There could be no mistaking what he did to her, emerging naked from beneath their furs with his skin dripping with sweat and with his lips reddened and wet. Yet he always allowed her to remain concealed, even from himself, with only her nipples and cunt ever exposed to his mouth and hands.
Now nipples and cunt were still covered, yet fiercely aching when Kelir rode up alongside them. The warrior seemed not to notice that Yvenne was flushed and panting, or that behind her Maddek’s chest fell on harsh, heavy breaths, and her body hid the steel rise of her would-be husband’s erection.
Well satisfied, he was—and so was Yvenne. When Maddek eased his need upon her, he always saw to her pleasure, too. And she was glad of it, though it meant abandoning hope of disentangling her emotions and protecting her heart.
But that had been the price paid. When she’d told him to fill her with his seed, Yvenne had known the danger. Maddek had said that he would never give his heart to her, though everything he did demanded that she give him hers.
Or perhaps he made no demands. Perhaps she simply couldn’t help herself.
Yet she could help her people. And two routes to vengeance lay ahead. Maddek preferred one and she preferred the other. Her father would die either way, but only one route would not leave her stranded alone on the Burning Plains, without strength enough to take her throne. She’d made the choice that might weigh the scales in her favor—and in Syssia’s favor. So she could not regret sharing Maddek’s furs again, though her heart was well and truly entangled now, torn between sweetness and pain.
But Maddek was not torn. He was not entangled.
Well satisfied he truly seemed, and not only in their bed. And why would he not be? Her father would soon be within his reach, and Yvenne was in the role Maddek intended for her: a vessel for his seed and a tool for his vengeance.
If tender he sometimes seemed, and attentive to her needs . . . she dared not mistake that for affection. She dared not hope it meant that he was becoming entangled, too. He was a warrior who made use of what he had, and he also attended to the horses he rode and the weapons he used. But never did he kiss her, and his vow still closed his ears to her truth, and he trusted not a word she spoke.
It seemed none of her pleasures could ever simply be pleasures; always her heart was torn. A ragged and bloodied ache accompanied her every joy.
Still. It was pleasure. More than she could have imagined. And Maddek was a fine companion . . . especially when he was well satisfied. Both her mother and his mother had described to her a man of deep passions and quick laughter, and more of that Maddek she’d seen in these past days. Not the warrior ruled by anger and grief.
So perhaps Yvenne would never have his heart. But if this was to be her marriage and her future, she would be well satisfied, too.
Kelir gestured ahead. “There is Drahm.”
Again Yvenne tore her gaze from the sea. Plains and marshes were two days behind them, and they rode upon a ridge overlooking the Ageras. That broad river no longer meandered to the Boiling Sea but flowed swiftly through a wide, deep channel carved out of stone. She only had to follow that silver path to find Drahm straddling the mouth of the Ageras. Even from this distance, clearly visible was the massive bridge that spanned the river.
A bridge that legend claimed was built by the gods—or perhaps by the same sculptors who’d built Hanan’s statue.
“Should we tell them Farians can swim and paddle?” Kelir said, his voice amused.