I swallowed uneasily, realizing he must be the High Clifter. But when I scanned his features, I paused. He didn’t have a mark on his temple. Not like the queen and her hus—aw, shit.
I’d had it backward. The High Cliff bodyguard must be the man the queen had dragged into the market by the arm, and her husband—the prince consort—must be this second guy I hadn’t noticed on her other side.
Returning my gaze to the troubled man—the High Clifter—I fell back a step when I realized he was motioning distractedly in my direction. The queen and her husband immediately whirled and scanned the market until they too were looking at me.
Yeah, this really wasn’t good.
Why in God’s name was a High Clifter talking about me?
Growing agitated, I checked my surroundings for the closest escape. Because it was past time to go. I seized loaves of bread by the armfuls and blindly shoved them back into my sack.
Breathe, I ordered myself. Just slow down and breathe. I was supposed to be a decrepit old man here; I couldn’t move too quickly. I couldn’t ruin the disguise. Couldn’t let anyone find out what I was.
My hands were slippery with nervous sweat as they clutched the handgrips of the trolley, and I shoved the bumbling contraption into gear, nearly tripping and falling flat on my face when I pushed one way and the crooked wheel tried to make the cart go another. Stupid fucking wheel. I was going to have a word with Melaina about such a shoddy purchase. If this barrow got me killed, I was so haunting her ass for the rest of eternity, and not in a nice way.
Refusing to look over my shoulder and reveal just how spooked the three royals had me, I corrected my steering and shuffled along, forcing myself to go as slow as was speedily possible.
That’s when I heard it.
“Sir?” someone shouted from behind me.
No! No, no, no, no, no.
It was him. The High Cliff killer. I couldn’t tell you how I knew, but I knew. He was calling to me—no, he was chasing me down.
His voice was definitely closer when he added, “Sir, wait!”
Fucking hell.
I plowed forward, ignoring him, and bumped into a couple who’d been innocently meandering down the street right into my path. Dammit, I was never going to get through this crowd with a freaking pushcart without being caught by him.
Mumbling an apology, I bullied my way past and then startled more people into diving out of my way as I charged forward. And all the while, the hairs on the back of my neck heated with intensity, telling me the High Clifter was gaining ground.
That’s it. This trolley sucked anyway. Abandoning it and the bag of bread with it, I darted to the right, going faster than I should. Someone had left a green scarf draped over a stool I was passing by, so I snagged it up, flipping it around as I ran—I mean, as I hobbled—and I pulled it over my head like a cloak.
Hiding my face, I stopped worrying so much after that about how fast I was walking, and I seemed to make space between me and my pursuer.
Something told me he was still back there, though, and when I glanced over my shoulder, I caught sight of him again, confirming my fears.
“Jesus.” Was he some kind of bloodhound? The scarf should’ve lost him from my trail.
When I spotted someone remove their straw hat up ahead and set it down on a fence post beside them, I lost the scarf and veered that way, nicking the hat next.
That didn’t help either. The man behind me seemed to know my next move before I even made it. He followed me around buildings, through people, and caught on whenever I doubled back again.
He always found me.
There was just no way to escape him.
I was going to need assistance.
Melaina would no doubt skin my hide for ruining what hopefully wouldn’t be her only chance to meet with the jeweler, but it couldn’t be helped. I raced full speed ahead toward the narrow alley where our horses were tied and waiting.
Glancing over my shoulder as the opening of the backstreet approached, I hissed a curse when I spotted the High Clifter still back there and coming this way. His tracking skills and persistence were eerie as hell.
I waited until the last second to dart into the alley, painfully bashing my shoulder on the corner of a building as I went, and I nearly wept joyous, relieved tears when I saw Melaina still there, waiting outside for an audience with the jeweler. Thank God.
She jumped up from the broken wagon when she saw me, gasping with immediate indignation.
“What the hell did you do this time?” she demanded, already accusing me of causing whatever problem had befallen me. “You had one job! Jesus, stop breaking character. Old men don’t run that nimbly.”
“High Cliff soldier,” was all I could gasp as I fled right past her, racing toward my horse that was still saddled and ready for any kind of hasty departure we might encounter—exactly like this one, in fact. “Hot on my trail.”
“Holy fuck. Go, then!” Melaina ordered, shooing me along before glancing around the alley, only to snag up a discarded cast iron skillet that had been lying among strewn trash. Clutching it to her chest with both hands like a weapon, she ducked into the shadows of a recessed doorway and called, “I’ll take care of him and meet you at our spot.”
I didn’t even glance her way as I called, “Deal,” and grasped the reins of my horse before flinging myself into the saddle.
“Hey!” a voice yelled from the opening of the alley.
It was him.
My heart lurched into my throat as I wheeled the horse around and charged toward the opposite opening, and we took off, galloping to freedom.
Which left the High Clifter far behind.
And me safe from execution or capture one day longer.
Chapter 3
Indigo
Damn.
With a pounding headache, I opened my eyes to a steaming pile of horse dung that had landed about a foot from my face. A handful of flies buzzed around it, and from the smell of things, it was pretty fresh.
“What the—?” I jerked upright from where I’d been lying face-first in the dirt, only to wince and clasp the back of my head as a shock of pain spiked through my scalp. “Motherfucker.” That really hurt.
Finding the source of the annoying throb with my fingers, I gently prodded the tender flesh before pulling my hand back around to the front so I could see the blood I’d just touched.
Someone had clobbered me good.
But who?
Still dazed and disoriented and wondering where the hell I was, I glanced around to find myself in a narrow passage between wood-built structures. Nothing occupied the alleyway with me except for a broken wagon without any wheels, an empty wicker basket lying on its side among other random odds and ends scattered about, and a mangy black cat curled up and napping against one wall. The cat opened one eye as if to check on me, only to close it again when it found me alive and sitting up.
“I don’t suppose you saw who hit me, hmm?” I asked.
The cat kept sleeping.
“Yeah, I didn’t figure. Unless you’re the culprit who bashed my skull in, are you, kitten?” I’d only been joking, of course. But when the cat’s eyes sprang open, and it lifted its head as if appalled by the accusation, I paused.
But had it just understood me?
No. Certainly not.