The Decoy Princess (21 page)

“Uh,” I stammered, caught off guard. “I was bought in the streets. The only one of three decoys to survive the earliest Red Moon Prophesy assassination attempts.” I tucked the hem of my dress under my feet to keep them off the damp ground. “I’m a beggar’s child, I suppose. I didn’t know until”—I thought for a moment, surprised—“four days ago. Before that it was the usual princess tasks: reading and sums, how to draw a map, how to play a tune, how to step a dance, how to seat visiting dignitaries at dinner so no one is beside the person who snubbed them last spring.” I flicked my gaze to his and then looked away, seeing a worried confusion in his eyes.

“That’s it?” he asked. “He hasn’t taught you anything. Anything of value, I mean.”

“Who are you to know?” I snapped, but it lacked conviction. I had a feeling Jeck was right.

Kavenlow had been responsible for my schooling, and most of that had revolved around the political niceties of being a princess. Perhaps because there was always the chance I might end up on the throne if anything happened to her.
Like her royal snotship meeting the soul reaper on her way home
, I thought, almost hoping she would.

An animal screeched, the same as last night, and I edged closer to the fire. Kavenlow hadn’t taught me anything special. If he had, I wouldn’t be sitting here with my feet tied together, shivering. I would have chewed my way free when Jeck had been digging a shallow privy, whipped him into submission when he returned, then stolen the horses to run away.

“I was bought for silver, too,” Jeck said suddenly. I looked up at his quick-worded admission. His brown eyes held a hint of vulnerability, and I didn’t think he had ever told anyone before. “Before that, I lived with a childless farmer. A passing priest saw me throwing rocks at the birds to keep them off the corn. He took me right there, yanking me onto his horse and shouting for my father. I was eight.”

Shivering, I pulled my cloak tighter. Jeck must mean his surrogate father. He had said the farmer was childless.

Jeck looked tired as he gazed into the fire as if searching for his past. “I remember my father clutching my leg as I sat before the priest on his horse,” he said. “My father told him I was all he had. The priest kicked him in the mouth—broke one of his teeth—then threw a pouch of coins into the dirt.” Jeck poured the brewed tea into a metal cup. “He died three years later from too much work and not enough food. I didn’t know until he was in the ground until grass had grown over him so thick I couldn’t tell where he was. He was the only father I knew.”

“You don’t remember your real father?” I asked, feeling an odd kinship.

“He was my real father.” Jeck’s lips pressed together, all but disappearing behind his mustache. “He took care of me. We worked together to build his farm so he would have food when he was too old to work and I would have food until I was old enough to work. If he wasn’t a father, then what is one?”

I said nothing, feeling foolish. Apparently satisfied with my attitude, Jeck took a sip of his tea and brushed away the drops left on his beard. “The priest left me with the army, and I already told you the rest. God help me, I thought it was such a waste at the time.”

“You were eight?” I asked, appalled. “King Edmund puts eight-year-olds in his army?”

“No,” he said in annoyance. “I was a glorified slave to the enlisted, but I joined when I was old enough. I never saw the priest again until I made captain. That was when he—” Jeck cut his thought short and poked at the fire.

That was when he gave Jeck his first dose of venom, I guessed, and told him about players. But I wouldn’t say it. If Jeck realized how much I was gleaning from even his casual words, he would return to his stone-lipped self.

Stretching to his stack of firewood, he set a thick piece on the fire. “Do you want some tea?” he asked, clearly changing the subject. “I don’t have another cup, but you could drink it out of a bowl.”

“Do you have honey?” I asked, and when he shook his head, I gestured no. It wasn’t tea if it didn’t have honey in it.

His cup almost lost in his big hands, Jeck tilted his head and eyed me from under his hat. “I’m curious.

How old were you when you first tasted venom?”

I tucked an escaped curl behind my ear. “You admit there’s such a thing now?”

The flash of white teeth as he grinned was unexpected. “I do nothing of the kind. But you have quite a tolerance. If you don’t mind my asking, when did Kavenlow first initiate you?”

I hesitated. He was charming information from me, but if it kept him talking, I might learn something myself. “Thirteen,” I said. “An assassin found me while I was in the streets. Almost got me with a dart.” I picked at the grimy hem of my dress. It had been awful. I couldn’t blame Heather for not coming into the streets with me. I hoped she was all right.

“Kavenlow wanted to give me a better weapon of defense,” I continued, “suggesting the very thing that almost reached me. He said I had the ability to become immune to it, that it wouldn’t kill me.”

Stomach clenching, I remembered my first dose of venom. I hadn’t died—though at the time, I wished I had. The convulsions had left me weak and in tears. “He said I’d never see the outside of the palace again if I didn’t. It was outright blackmail, even to keeping it from—from my parents. They never knew the cause for my occasional lethargy.”

Jeck made an understanding noise. His eyes, when I met them, were very intent. I shut my mouth. I was talking too much. He reached for a stick, his cape pulling against his broad shoulders. Stirring the coals, he left it to burn. “Do you like him?” he asked, shocking me.

“Kavenlow?” I said, affronted. “He’s like a second father to me.”

His eyes fixed to mine. “Why?” he asked, the word making me uneasy. “He poisoned you countless times, made you go through the hell of building your tolerance. For what? To protect someone you never met? To force you to suffer the weight of a prophesy that wasn’t yours to bear? He has lied to you your entire life. And you trust him?”

“Kavenlow saved my life more times than I have fingers,” I said hotly. “He sat with me every time I took the venom. And he always had something nice planned for the next day to make up for it. A rare outing into the hills or—” I abruptly went silent, thinking. “Or a good game of hide-and-seek,” I breathed as I pondered Kavenlow’s diversions with a new outlook. I had never guessed they were more than games. What had Kavenlow made me into? My eyes flicked to Jeck’s. I had to stop talking.

“At thirteen?” Jeck’s voice overflowed with disbelief. “You were playing
games at thirteen
! I was learning how to kill a man at fifteen paces with a knife when I was thirteen.”

“How splendid for you,” I said dryly. “But I didn’t have to kill anyone to get past the palace walls.

Could you have done the same?”

Jeck grunted at that, seeming pleased rather than annoyed as I would have expected.

“Stop talking to me,” I said in a huff. “I’m going to sleep.”

“You do that. We leave before sunup.”

I shifted my shoulders to show I had heard him, pushing the dirt smooth where I was going to have to sleep. Leaves and dirt clung to my palms, and I looked at the filth on them in disgust. I’d be leaving tonight if I could sneak away with the horses.

He wadded up his blanket and threw it at me over the fire. “Sleep on that,” he said.

Relief filled me as the coarse wool rasped across my fingertips. “Thank you.”

“Take this, too,” he said as he undid the clasp of his cloak and carefully handed it to me.

I accepted it with some surprise, my eyebrows rising as I found the black wool lined with an even blacker silk. It was beautiful, and I wondered that he had something this exquisite. “What will you use?” I asked, seeing nothing left to him but his coat.

“I’m staying awake for obvious reasons.” He took a sip of tea. “And before you get any ideas, I’m bigger than you, I’m stronger than you, and if you try anything…”

I made a face as I remembered the shriek of the dying squirrel. His eyes were on me while I struggled to arrange the blanket with my ankles hobbled. Finally giving up, I covered myself in his cloak, pulling the hood up over my head as I lay down.

The smell of horse and woodsmoke filled my senses—it seemed to warm my chill as much as the added weight of the cloak—but the masculine smell of Jeck mixing with them stirred me back to vigilance. I took a shallow breath, then a deeper one, pulling in his scent and studying it as I might a new concoction from the kitchen. Much to my disgust I decided it was nice. Manly nice, as Heather would say. I sighed, wishing I was of a strong enough mind to convince myself it stank.

I could see Jeck across the fire, his image distorted from the flames. He was… He was taking his shirt off! My pulse hammered, and I sat up.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Princess,” Jeck said, his brow furrowing as his shirt stuck to his back. “Not every man is trying to get under your skirts.” His shirt pulled away with a sharp suddenness accompanied by a tight grimace. My stomach clenched as I remembered his whipping. He dropped his shirt, leaving him bare to the waist. Pulling the hood of his cloak over my face, I settled down, propping my head on my folded arms so I could watch the bunching smoothness of his muscles. I had a feeling he knew it.

Jeck took a rag and dipped it into the water left from making tea. Twisting awkwardly, he tried to sponge the dried blood from his back. It didn’t take long to realize he couldn’t manage it. “I’ll do that,” I said, not knowing why I offered.

Jeck’s attention flicked over the fire to me and away.

“You got them because I escaped,” I prodded, sitting back up and letting his cloak fall from me. “I’ll clean them for you.”

He wrung out his rag in the water and stretched to reach the center of his back, coming short. “Why would you help me?”

“Why would you bother to feed me and give me your blanket and cloak?” I answered.

Jeck sighed, his entire chest moving. “No. Soothe your conscience some other way. Like not annoying me with trying to escape.”

“They’ll get infected,” I said. “And what can I do to you? It’s not as if I can hurt you. You took all my darts and tied my feet as if I was an errant goat.”

Jeck’s jaw clenched. “True. But I might have to hurt you. And it’s harder if—”

I felt the blood drain from my face. He wouldn’t hurt me. He couldn’t.

He scowled as he took in my expression. “Hell and damnation,” he swore. He rose, and while my pulse hammered, he brought his pot of hot water and tin of paste to my side of the fire. Feeling ill and unreal, I slid down the blanket to make room for him. He sank down beside me, stiffly showing me his back. “Behave yourself, or I’ll knock you so hard you won’t wake up,” he threatened. “Don’t think I won’t.”

I swallowed hard. “I know.” His back was very broad and smooth, the skin dark from long hours in the sun. The five brands looked raw, rimmed with red and their edges swollen. With the right ointment, they’d heal. Garrett’s marks were faint welts, nothing more.

The water was hot on my chilled fingers as I wrung out the cloth. I reached forward, then hesitated.

Angel’s Spit, I’d never done anything like this before. Taking a breath, I decided I’d pretend I was Heather.
She‘d
know how to wash a man’s back. God help me, I was pathetic.

Steeling myself, I dabbed hesitantly at the highest bloody mark and worked my way carefully down.

His shoulders were different from those I’d seen at the docks, bunching with strength gained from swinging a blade rather than pulling a rope. He smelled like horse, same as his cloak. Scattered between the whip marks were a sprinkling of old white scars.

I continued to work, running the cloth carefully over each rise and fall of muscle, feeling the difference in each of them. I’d never had this opportunity to unhurriedly touch a man, this soft exploration that was made right and proper by way of an offer of help. It was heady, and the cool detachment I touched him with seemed to make it all the more intense.

Jeck started as I touched the small of his back to catch a rivulet. I suddenly realized I had gone over his entire back and had needlessly started over again.
What the chu-pits am I doing
? Embarrassed, I draped the rag over the edge of the pot and opened the tin.

I risked a sniff at the white ointment, recoiling at the stench. Garlic and horseradish, with a healthy dose of thyme to try to counteract the smell, mixed in what looked like wax and fat. It was a nasty concoction, undoubtedly guaranteed to remove infection. I hesitantly dipped my fingers. I looked at his back, thinking it was beautiful with power, even marred as it was.

A grunt slipped from Jeck as the cold ointment hit his back. “Sorry,” I said, shifting to kneel behind him. His skin was warm where I smoothed the paste over the brands. The muscles in his neck turned to cords, and his shoulders tensed. “I’m not going to try to escape,” I said, trying to get my mind off how my fingers felt sliding over the smoothness of him.

“I’ll believe that when I have you in the palace,” he replied, his voice strained.

“Well,” I admitted, a finger tracing a brand from his shoulder to the small of his back. “I didn’t mean I wouldn’t try to escape. Just not while tending your back.”

“Oh-h-h-h-h. A noble-minded prisoner. I’ll rest easy tonight.”

“I’m not a prisoner,” I said quickly. “Prisoners are helpless.”

“No?” he said with a strained-sounding laugh. “What are you, then?”

“All right. I’m a prisoner, but I’m not helpless.” My fingers were humming, almost hurting, really, and I looked at them. “What’s in this ointment? It’s making my fingers hurt.” Annoyed at how easily his back could distract me, I roughly smeared the paste across a red line.

Jeck’s breath hissed in over his teeth. Turning where he sat, he snatched my wrist.

“Hey!” I shouted, surging to my knees and trying to tug away. His grip was like sun-warmed metal, hard and unyielding. I lurched back, the length of my arm stretched between us. “Let go,” I demanded, frightened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push that hard.” But it was the look on his bearded face that shocked me to stillness. Wonder, fear, and—speculation?