Chapter 15

She still wasn't sure how she had managed it. Her stomach lurched constantly during her first few hours in the saddle. Poisoned, powerless, prey .

All afternoon she had kept her mind busy by thinking up words that started with the same letter to keep her thoughts from even darker places. Bruised, battered, betrayed .

The exercise had not been much of a success.

They kept up a hard pace throughout the day until they reached the outskirts of a small village late in the afternoon. A signal from Sir Percival… Dante …sent Armand along a fork in the road that led into the town while the rest of them slowed their horses to an ambling gait and continued toward London.

Not that she had much control of her horse's gait. Rami had removed her reins and a long tether now stretched from Bodkin's halter to Dante's saddle. Her horse simply followed the lead of Dante's horse. She supposed they were worried that she would try to escape.

Enemy, evil, escape .

The notion of escape had crossed her mind several hours ago but she quickly dismissed it. There was nowhere to run. Her family had no idea how to find her. Sir Brunor and his men would never guess that she was headed toward London. Faulke Segrave and his soldiers were too far behind them. She would never break free of Dante Chiavari and his men long enough to reach either the Segraves or Coleway Castle. Definitely not long enough to reach her father at Weston. She needed a miracle, and they were in very short supply for her these days.

If Dante Chiavari had his way, she would never be allowed to marry Faulke Segrave. She would not even be allowed to marry a man as odious as Coleway's steward. She would be locked away in some dark, dank cell of a prison.

The thought of living in a small, windowless room for the remainder of her life was as intolerable as it was unimaginable. Such could not be her fate. Of course, every other unjustly imprisoned person before her had likely thought the same thing.

Marriage to a traitorous and possibly murderous Marcher baron was no longer the worst fate that could befall her. More likely, Faulke had been her only hope for any sort of freedom. Now that hope was gone, too. She glanced over her shoulder as she had done many times throughout the day, certain she would see nothing unusual, but still searching the road behind them just the same.

"They will not catch up with us before we reach London," Dante said. "You might as well stop watching for them."

She turned around in the saddle and stared at a point between her horse's ears, refusing to look at him, although she was uncertain if he even cared. He had ignored her all day, riding a few paces ahead of her even when the road was wide enough to ride abreast. His actions made it clear that he wanted nothing more from her than cooperation and silence. She had provided both.

Another ripple of pain reminded her that her heart was still being stubborn. The pain would fade eventually, as it had after her mother's death, and then again when her father had sent her to Coleway. It was foolish to compare this pain to the loss of a parent, but the years had obviously dulled her memory, for this felt much the same as that remembered misery. Possibly worse.

Or perhaps it was the addition of humiliation that made the wound feel deeper. She had played the part of the fool. Her mind had been trying to warn her of a bad outcome the entire time Dante had been lying to her. Instead her heart had blithely ignored the warnings and taken up residence on her sleeve, bared for his ridicule and abuse. Now that the charade had ended he seemed content to ignore her, to pretend that nothing had ever happened between them. It had taken her most of the day to realize that this was the greatest kindness he could show her.

"My lord," Oliver called out from in front of them. He reined in his horse near the side of the road. As they rode closer, she noticed a narrow path that wound its way up the side of the hill to their left. "Do you want me to wait here for Armand?"

Dante shook his head. "Rami can stay behind and then brush over our tracks. I will need your help getting camp set up for the night."

Oh, joy, jubilation , and… justice . She had survived the longest day of her life. Her reward would be an entire night to rest her weary bones. A roof over her head and a warm, dry bed would be true justice, but she would settle for any bed that did not move. Why had she ever thought horseback riding was a pleasurable pursuit? Still, she could hardly complain when the thought of what awaited her at the end of this journey made her throat close up with fear. She was no longer in any hurry to reach London.

They followed the path upward and a few minutes later they were in a small meadow, well hidden from anyone who might pass by on the road below. The grass was so tall that it brushed against her boots and fluttered against the edges of her cloak, a sea of green. They finally halted in a wide expanse where flattened grass marked what she recognized as a deer lay, the place where a herd of deer had recently bedded down. It was an ideal spot to make camp for the night.

Oliver set about hobbling the horses while Dante hauled his saddle and gear along a path that led out from the main deer lay to a smaller, more isolated area of flattened grass. She dismounted and clung to her saddle for a few moments until she was certain her legs would hold her, and then she made her way to the growing pile of supplies that Oliver had removed from the packhorses for the night. She found a seat on an overturned cook pot and refused to offer her captors any assistance as she watched the men set up camp. Her thoughts wandered back to escape.

They were far enough from the village that she would have a long trek if she thought to go there for help, and the surrounding woods and thickets meant she would have to stay on the road where she would be easy to overtake. Still, she wondered what lord held the small manor house near the village, and if there was any possibility of help from that quarter.

Thoughts of the village were pushed aside when Rami and Armand rejoined them. Armand dismounted and placed a bucket on the ground, and then he took a folded cloth from the top of the bucket and spread it out on the ground. Next he began to unpack the contents onto the cloth. The delicious aromas of hot food filled the air and she found herself standing in front of the spread before she was even aware of her feet moving her forward.

"Meat pies and fresh bread," he announced unnecessarily, and then he motioned toward a stoneware jug that Rami placed next to the feast. "Orrick had fresh cider as well."

Orrick? She wondered if that was the name of the village, or someone they knew in the village, or even the local lord. She supposed the only relevant fact was that they knew someone there well enough to have a meal prepared for them in short order, which meant their word would be believed more readily than her own. Her fleeting thoughts of escape were extinguished. Orrick would offer no safe haven for her.

Still, the prospect of hot food took the sting from her disappointment. She had eaten gruel and porridge for so many days that she had almost forgotten the scents of fresh baked pastry and bread. It smelled like heaven.

Armand took a dagger from his belt and sliced one of the small loaves of bread in half, and then placed a meat pie on each slab. Rami carefully cradled one of the slabs and then carried it over to her. He tilted his head to one side when she simply stared at the food. "Avete fame, la mia signora?"

"Sì." She was indeed hungry, but she eyed the food with the same suspicion that she had when Dante offered her the willow tea. Would they poison her again to keep her quiet for the night?

"Take the food," Dante said from beside her. "There is no poison in it."

It annoyed her that he could still read her thoughts so easily.

Rami gestured toward the cooking pot she had recently vacated. " Si prega di essere seduti ."

Something about taking a seat. She complied and Rami settled onto the ground next to her. Dante joined them a few minutes later, and then tilted his head toward Oliver and Armand. Rami took the hint and left to join the two men on the other side of camp.

They did not speak while they ate their meal, but she was well aware of his presence beside her. No matter how much logic her head applied to the situation, her heart needed more time to recover. It caused a physical pain to be this close to him and know that he would never again touch her as he once had, to recall his false words and gentleness as he drew his fingertips down the line of her cheek, or nuzzled his lips against her neck. She let herself catalog a few more remembered touches before she reined in her imagination, disgusted with herself.

The obsession that drew a moth to its death in a flame must feel very much the same, she decided. And just like a moth that had already scorched its wings, she couldn't seem to stop herself from turning toward the fire. But she was not a mindless insect. She could resist destruction. She had to, if she wanted to survive this torture.

Eventually she began to relax a little and even found herself captivated by the sounds of delight and exaggerated faces of rapture that Rami made as he polished off his food. She had never met a child who took such delight in his meals. She managed to catch his eye and held up the remainder of her dinner in offering. The boy glanced at Dante, obviously received some silent sign of consent, and then he practically skipped over to her.

"I have had my fill," she told Rami, as she placed the food in his hands.

"Grazie, la mia signora."

She brushed the crumbs off her hands as she watched the boy all but dance back to his seat. Oh, to be so innocent, so easily satisfied.

"I assumed you would have more questions," Dante said, breaking into her thoughts. "Have you decided not to speak to me, or is there some other reason for your silence?"

She felt like a deer startled in the field by a hunter, frozen in place by the unexpected question. Fight or flight. Retort or silence. She could not decide.

"Not that I am complaining," he continued, as she silently debated. "Most women cannot hold a thought private when they feel wronged. I have actually enjoyed the peace and quiet all day. In fact, forget I made mention of the matter. The silence is most pleasing."

She tried to ignore the ripple of pain his words caused. The way he jested with her was another trait she had once found absurdly appealing. What an even crueler jest that he was now her enemy, making jests at her expense. Oh, why couldn't he simply be Sir Percival?

He gave an impatient sigh. "If you have no questions for me, then will you answer one of mine?"

She finally allowed herself to look at him, to meet his gaze. His face was expressionless and yet there was an intensity in his eyes that she found unsettling. "What is your question?"

"I know you were afraid of me when you first awoke from the poison," he began. "What happened to your fear?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"'Tis obvious you are angry," he said, "and yet 'tis just as obvious that you are no longer afraid of me. Why?"

He was right. She wasn't afraid of him. Angry and mortified by his deceit, fearful and desperately worried about her future, absolutely. Afraid of him? That was probably the only emotion he left mostly untouched in her.

She thought about lying but could see no real harm in telling the truth. "You said yourself that I would already be dead if that was your intent. What else is there to fear?"

His eyes darkened. "Me."

"Why should I fear you?" she asked, genuinely curious. Did he intend to harm her after all?

A flicker of surprise crossed his features. "You know who I am. What I am. An assassin. The King's Assassin."

"I know all too well who and what you are." Was he trying to impress her with his reputation? She had not thought him so vain. "You are the man who tricked me to steal me away from Coleway, who fed me poison to take me away from the man I am likely betrothed to marry, and now you intend to take me to London where I will be locked away for the rest of my life in the Tower. If you are wondering, those would be the reasons I am…angry with you."

She folded her arms across her chest, secretly pleased and surprised that she was managing this conversation so well. It required less effort than she had anticipated to hide her crushed heart. The years of practice with John and Lady Margaret had definitely helped. She sounded almost like her usual calm, collected self.

"But you are not afraid of me?"

What was his obsession with her lack of fear? "I am not afraid of you."

A small knife appeared in his hand and he turned it over several times in maneuvers that rolled the knife end to end over the back of his hand and then his palm, the movements smooth and practiced. There was something almost inhuman about his reflexes and coordination. What he was doing looked impossible, yet he performed the task seemingly without conscious thought, the way some people drummed their fingers on a table without realizing what they were doing. She glanced up at his face to find him watching her. "You really do not fear me."

She gave an exasperated sigh. "Why is this so surprising?"

"You do not realize how rare you are."

"Oh, not so rare, I think." She looked pointedly toward Rami and his men. "They do not seem to fear you."

"Oliver and Armand are among the few exceptions," he admitted. "However, I terrified them when we first met and they learned my true identity. It took them many months to realize their lives were safe as long as I had their loyalty. Rami still jumps whenever I say a harsh word."

"Well, there is your answer," she said. "I know that I am safe with you."

"Safe," he echoed. The word rolled off his tongue as if he were tasting a new flavor. He opened his mouth to say something more, then changed his mind and closed it again. He remained silent for a long time. "You do not care that murder is my profession?"

Her brows drew together as she realized that he was not bragging about his fearsome reputation. He seemed almost embarrassed by it. How strange.

"I have had plenty of time today to think about your profession," she mused. "Given the ferocity of the tales, you are not at all what I expected."

His gaze held hers captive, the intensity in his unusual green eyes deepening, as if he were silently willing her to tell him her secrets. She had trouble remembering how to breathe. "What did you expect?"

She wasn't exactly sure of that answer herself and said the first things that came to mind. "I expected you to be a good man who wanted to help me. Instead I discovered that you are a very bad man who intends to ruin my life. Likely you are one of the most notorious men in England. Most would call you ‘evil.' I cannot even imagine how many people you have murdered. There must be—"

He held up one hand to stop her. "I have done what was necessary and I will not apologize."

"I was not asking for an apology," she said. "I was simply remarking upon the fact that my judgment of men leaves much to be desired. In the time I knew you as Sir Percival, I did not see anything in you that was evil. I still cannot reconcile the fact that you are the man in the tales I have heard about the King's Assassin. I thought evilness would somehow mark a man and make him ugly. You are so— That is to say, there is nothing in your appearance that would give the impression that you are so ill-favored."

"I assure you that I am the man you have heard tales about, and I am, indeed, a man with much blood on my hands." His head tilted slightly to one side. "Is that the reason you are not afraid of me? Because you have some misguided belief that I am not an assassin?"

She shook her head. "Even though you deceived me with the charade as Sir Percival, I believe you are who you now claim to be. I just cannot believe you are what you claim to be."

"Who and what I am are one and the same." His voice was sure, but his expression reflected his bewilderment.

She knew she was speaking in riddles, but she could not think of an explanation that would make sense to anyone but her. Why was she even trying? "I cannot explain it other than to say that you are not what you are supposed to be."

"Just what do you think I am, other than a man who has killed countless traitors?"

She had intended to change the subject, or to retreat again into silence, but his words made something in her mind click into place. "That is the answer. You just said it yourself. You have killed countless traitors ."

She nodded to herself and then stared up at the sky as she mulled over the revelation. All day it had been a minor annoyance in the back of her mind; the inexplicable reasons why it didn't particularly bother her that she was the captive of the notorious King's Assassin. Now she realized why his identity did not matter.

"Some would call it murder," she began, "but I think your profession must be little different than that of the executioner. The king has the authority to order the execution of any man or woman in his realm who breaks his laws or turns traitor. You carry out his warrants. 'Tis not entirely different from a knight riding into battle against the king's enemies, except the violence is focused upon one person rather than an entire army. I do not fear knights who have killed in battle, just as I see no reason to fear you."

He studied his hands as he used the tip of the knife to scrape under his fingernails. "And you are not the least bit afraid to be my prisoner?"

"Whatever reasons you have for my abduction, murder does not seem to be a part of them. And if you truly are an agent of the king…" She lifted her shoulders. "'Tis my duty to obey my sovereign's wishes, and yet at the same time I must wonder at the manner of my summons. It does not bode well for my future."

"Hence your anger."

"Aye, hence my anger," she agreed, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.

He looked away from her and seemed suddenly intent on something across the campsite. "You are a strange woman, Avalene."

He was only just realizing this fact? She was cursed with a bloodline that made her dangerous to her own king, her father had abandoned her, her aunt and uncle had betrayed her, and she had no friends to speak of. These were hardly the hallmarks of a normal, likable person. He had deceived her into thinking he viewed her differently, into thinking he liked and understood her. She should have known better. Men like Sir Percival truly did not exist. She released a deep, heartfelt sigh and then immediately tried to cover the sound with a small cough.

"Are you really so disappointed that you will not marry Segrave?"

"Aye."

His eyes immediately took on a hard, shuttered look. "You realize that he will never touch you again." It was not a question.

"He was preferable to the Tower," she muttered.

He made a sound that might have been agreement, and then he seemed to relax a little. "Is that really all he is to you, a means of escaping a different fate?"

"Of course." She could see that he didn't understand and wondered why the explanation mattered to him, or, for that matter, why she bothered to provide it. On the other hand, she had nothing better to do and what did it really matter? "He would not be my choice if I had any other. However, I would do almost anything to protect my family and avoid becoming a prisoner for the rest of my life. Who wouldn't?"

"Who indeed," he murmured. "So, you do not feel the same sort of attraction toward Segrave that you felt toward me?"

Her jaw locked shut. She lifted her chin and looked pointedly away from him. The pain was no longer a ripple but now came in crushing waves. Her gaze went to Rami who lay on the ground, rubbing his swollen stomach with all the satisfaction of a well-fed cat. She kept her gaze focused on the boy and tried to keep her mind focused there as well—anything to keep her thoughts away from Dante, away from the pain in her chest and the burning sensation in her eyes. She would never give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

"Avalene?"

Leave me alone! "What?"

"Do you care for Segrave?"

Anger burned through her. She spoke in a low, tight voice, her gaze still fastened on Rami. "As you said, he blackmailed my father into the betrothal and it seems likely he intends to incite a rebellion in Wales. I am nothing more to him than a means to secure the support of the Welsh natives. He is nothing more to me than a means to protect my father's lands and avoid imprisonment. So, no, I do not care for him in the way that you mean."

She breathed a sigh of relief that she had made it through that speech without her voice breaking. She refused to add that she despised Segrave for what he wanted from her and what he had done to get his way. However, she would marry a three-headed goat if it meant she could avoid the fate that Segrave threatened for her father or the fate that the king threatened for her.

"Forgive me," he said in a much gentler voice. "I misunderstood."

"Why do you even care?" she demanded, turning to face him again. "You have already assured me that I will never see Faulke Segrave again, much less marry him. What is the point of knowing my feelings about him? Why ask all of these questions?"

"I am curious about you." His expression looked almost apologetic. "The way your mind works intrigues me."

She pressed her lips together and returned her attention to Rami. "How nice that you find my predicament so entertaining."

"Not entertaining," he countered. "Never that. 'Tis you I find fascinating. You said that I am not what you expected. Well, I find you to be just as unexpected. No fear. No hysterics. No pleading or complaints. I am at a loss as to what to make of you."

Wonderful. He found her fascinating. Only because she was not a cowering, sobbing female. He did not know that she never cried, never pleaded, never showed her fears, at least, never where anyone could see or hear her. Lady Margaret had cured her of those weaknesses long ago. ‘Stop that bawling or I will give you something to cry about' was a phrase she had heard often during her first few months at Coleway, usually followed by actions that made her realize the words were not an idle threat but a solid promise. Her aunt could not abide anyone moping about over problems that did not concern her.

And then there was John, of course. The steward was always quick to exploit any vulnerability. She had been careful to keep her emotions firmly in check no matter how mercilessly he provoked her. He delighted in the confrontation when anyone rose to his bait. Her cool disdain had always infuriated him. So she had learned to keep her true thoughts carefully hidden and eventually became so adept at the practice that it had become second nature. Had all the years of hiding her feelings somehow changed her? Dante certainly seemed to think she was abnormal.

Ah, the irony. He was the only person with whom she had ever felt comfortable enough to show her weaknesses, to hold out her heart to him like some silly cow-eyed maiden. She deserved to have it handed back to her in pieces for behaving like such an idiot in the first place.

"Come," he said. He bent down to pick up something from the grass, and then he was on his feet in one fluid movement. He held out his hand to her. "There is a spring near the horses where you can get a drink of fresh water and rinse your hands."

She blinked once at the sudden change of subject.

"Aye, that would be welcome."

She followed him past the horses toward a line of trees that marked the path to the spring. He gave her a few moments of privacy, and then seemed in no hurry when she took her time. The water was cold and bracing enough to wash away the melancholy brought on by their conversation. Why had she spoken to him so candidly? There was no harm done that she could imagine, but she should not be sharing any of her private thoughts with him. They were no longer…friends, and yet he had effortlessly drawn her out, somehow lulled her into that same deceptive sense of being safe in his company, all while she babbled away about her innermost feelings. Oh, he was good. She pressed her lips together, determined anew to treat him to silence.

After they performed their ablutions, he took her back to the camp and then down the path she had watched him follow earlier where she found their saddles and saddlebags, and a makeshift bed. One bed.

"Where are you going to sleep?" she blurted out. So much for her resolve on the silence issue. But how could she let this go unchallenged? It had to be a mistake. There was no possible way she could sleep with him.

"I am not going to let you out of my sight again," he said. "The only question is whether you will sleep next to me voluntarily, or if I need to tie you to me."

I would rather be tied to a tree . She almost suggested it.

"I did not sleep at all last night," he said, "and very little the night before. I have no intention of ravishing you in your sleep."

"I know that," she snapped. She knew very well that ravishing was the last thing on his mind. There was no longer any need for that pretense; she was simply his prisoner and he wanted to make certain she stayed put. It was her own actions she worried about, especially after she fell asleep. She would have to do something to make certain she did not curl up next to him during the night, unconsciously seeking his heat and the myth of his protection. That horrid scenario was much more likely if she were tied to him, and the thought of having her hands and feet bound alarmed her more than the thought of sleeping next to him. She gritted her teeth. "I do not need to be trussed up like a lamb for market."

"Good. I do not want to do anything that would hurt you."

Their gazes met in an instant exchange of understanding that he had already done things that hurt her much more deeply than any rope could. He looked away first and busied himself by straightening the furs that formed the base of their bed. She bit her lip and tried to decide how best to handle this uncomfortable situation.

This was nothing new, she reminded herself. She had slept next to him before, and she was so tired that she would likely be asleep within moments. Perhaps this would not be so bad if she could put a few saddlebags between them. "Why are we so far away from the others?"

"When have you seen my men and me sleep in the same place at the same time?" he asked, even as he shook his head. "We spread out in case anyone should attack us during the night. Distance offers more time for a warning."

That explanation made sense. She knelt down on the furs and the grass rose far above her, offering them as much privacy as if they were within the walls of a chamber. It made her uneasy to be alone with him. "Maybe I should go sleep with Rami."

"He and the men will take turns standing guard tonight." He picked up the saddlebags that she had lined up in the middle of the bed and returned them to their place behind the saddles. "You will stay with me."

She gave the saddlebags a wistful look, even though she knew why he had stowed them away. They had taken up half the space on the bed. She sat down on the furs, and then carefully tucked her skirts and cloak around her legs, hoping that would restrict her movements. She made sure she was on the very edge of the furs, giving Dante as much room as possible, and then she lay back and rested her head on her saddle and closed her eyes.

The bed was surprisingly comfortable. The long grass provided a soft cushion beneath her. They had enough blankets and cloaks to ensure they stayed warm throughout the night, but those comforts were not enough to instantly lull her into sleep. Not until Dante was in his place and she could be certain that nothing untoward would happen. What if his claim that he wouldn't ravish her was another lie? He was a man, she was a woman, and everyone knew that most men were not all that particular about the women they slept with. She opened her eyes again.

The sun had sunk below the trees but there was still plenty of light to watch him prepare for bed. He unbuckled his sword belt, and then began to remove an astonishing number of weapons from an astonishing number of places: inside his sleeves, from straps around his arms, more on his legs and inside his boots, around his neck. He was a veritable fortress. At last he stacked the entire cache a good distance away from the bed.

"Are you not worried that your weapons will be too far away, should we come under an attack?"

He sat down and pulled his boots off. "I am more concerned about your proximity to my weapons."

Her eyes widened. "Do you really think I am a threat to you?"

"Anyone with a weapon is a threat," he said, as he settled next to her. He spread his cloak over both of them and then lay down. "I did not live to a ripe old age by taking chances."

He was hardly ancient, but there was no reason to challenge his opinion. Instead she tried to picture herself holding a knife to him, demanding he set her free. The idea was preposterous. He would have the weapon away from her before she could draw a breath. Then it occurred to her that he was deliberately making it more difficult for her to steal one of his weapons while he slept. Could she attack a sleeping, defenseless man if it meant a chance at freedom?

"I did not intend to give you ideas," he said, once again reading her thoughts. "However, should you ever manage to turn a weapon against me, you had best be prepared to use it without hesitation. You will never get a second chance."

She swallowed audibly and wished she had never asked about his weapons. Perhaps her life was not as safe in his hands as she had imagined. There was fear in her after all. "My father will pay a handsome reward if you take me to him in Wales."

The thought had come from nowhere, but she latched on to it like a lifeline. It was a lie, of course, one he pretended not to hear. At this point she had no idea if her father would even welcome her return, much less reward it. Baron Weston had done many things over the years to ensure her welfare, but she suffered no illusions that he would risk his position to protect her from the king, and probably not from the Segraves, either. Unless he wanted to betray his king, she was unmarriageable, which also meant she was worthless to him. A liability rather than an asset. A very dangerous liability. Baron Weston was a fair and just lord, but he would sacrifice her without hesitation for the greater good of his people.

"I am more valuable than you realize," she said, trying a different tack, pleased when that announcement got his attention.

He turned onto his side and angled his arm to prop up his head. His face was devoid of emotion, but one brow rose slightly. "Pray enlighten me, my lady."

"Do you know why Faulke Segrave wants to marry me?" she asked.

"Aye."

"An alliance with my father was only part of the reason," she said, certain he was unaware of Segrave's real reasons, yet hesitant to reveal them. Both her parents had warned against revealing her mother's heritage to anyone, but what would they expect her to do if it was no longer a secret? Segrave knew. It seemed obvious the king knew as well. Did Dante? "A marriage to me means much more than an alliance with my father."

"I know of your ties to the Welsh crown, if that is what you are trying to tell me."

"Oh." She had not expected the king to be so free with the information. "Then you know I am worth a large ransom to the Segraves or any number of Marcher barons. You could become a wealthy man."

"I am already a wealthy man."

"I did not realize assassins were paid so well that the promise of a rich reward would not prove tempting." She also did not realize how insulting the words sounded until she heard them aloud.

His brows simply rose a little higher. "I eliminate traitors to the crown. Do you truly think I would become what I hunt?"

She had not thought of him that way, as a hunter, a predator. Yet that was his role and he was extremely good at his profession, if any of the stories about him were to be believed. Still, he hardly fit the tales that said he killed only for gold and his own bloodlust.

It was just her luck to be held hostage by a man reputed to be a greedy villain with no conscience, and yet he had no interest in wealth or rewards if it meant betraying his loyalty to the king. She supposed that made him an honorable man, in his own way. "You could say I escaped."

"You are grasping at straws."

He was right. She pressed her lips together and lowered her gaze.

"The king will never allow you to marry Segrave or any other man who could pose a threat to him in Wales, now or in the future," he said. "There is nowhere in Edward's kingdom that you can run to escape who you are, Avalene."

He was right, but that did not make the truth less painful. If only—

She cut that thought off before it could form. Wishes and dreams were now beyond her grasp. What she must concentrate on was what she needed to do to get through each day, hopefully no worse off than she was the day before. She forced herself to ask the question whose answer she dreaded most. "Am I to be imprisoned in the Tower?"

He was silent for a moment, and then he said, "I do not yet know your ultimate fate, but I have endured a great deal of trouble to bring you to London alive. If you are to be…confined, I doubt you will be mistreated."

The answer was both a relief and a disappointment. She had already pieced together that much on her own. "What will happen when we reach London?"

"You will stay with me until I have a chance to meet with Mordecai, one of Edward's advisers, the one who sent me on this mission." His mouth became a hard line as he studied her face, his eyes dark with intensity. "Once your fate is decided I intend to set sail for Italy, likely within a few weeks of our arrival in London. I have no plans to return to England, and the King's Assassin will cease to exist."

"I—I see," she murmured. Her battered heart plummeted. Here was the proof that she was nothing more to him than an assignment. He intended to abandon her to an unknown fate. He would sail away and leave her behind, probably in some damp, dark cell where she would rot her life away. She would never see him again. She would never see anyone again, save her jailers. Meanwhile, he would go on with his life and forget all about her. Just as her father had done.

The sound of her heartbeats was smothered by a cold sense of calm that started at her core and spread outward until every part of her felt numb. "Thank you for telling me."

She turned onto her side to face away from him and closed her eyes, feigning sleep until it finally overtook her.