He wore plain clothes, mostly clean but heavily worn. He was taller than she was, maybe a couple of years older. His eyes widened as he scanned her face. His callused hand stretched over the lower half of her face, silencing her, and his thumb pressed into the tender skin under her chin.
“Easy,” he said in an anxious whisper. “I’m not going to hurt you. Fates, Serene told me I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, but I was so sure it was her. Your likeness is incredible. Even the way you speak.”
Shock and confusion mixed with the fear flooding her veins, making her heart hammer in her chest.
His features pinched. “Please don’t call for the guards. I know you have no reason to trust me, but I swear I mean you no harm. Serene told me you might help me, Clare.”
She jerked, her breath quickening. He knew her name. Serene had told him—told him about the decoy.
Why?
Her wide eyes took in every detail of his face. He was tanned, as if he spent most of his days in the sun. A farmer, perhaps? That would explain the roughness of his hand. But why would Serene be in close contact with a commoner? And why would he use the princess’s given name with such quiet confidence? How would he dare to touch her?
“We don’t have much time.” He shot a glance at the closed door, his throat working. “I’m sorry if I startled you. Just, please—please don’t call the guards. Nod, and I’ll release you.”
Clare’s first urge was to bite his hand, kick him between the legs, and yell until Bennick shoved into the room. But curiosity beat back her fear, at least for the moment.
She nodded, and the man eased his hand away.
Her heart still beat too fast as she quietly demanded, “Who are you?”
“My name is James.” He winced. “I’m sorry for any alarm I caused. I was just so confident you were her.”
She folded her arms over her chest, her cheeks suddenly burning. “How long have you been in here?”
The flush that washed over his face rivaled her own. He threw up his hands. “Fates, I didn’t—I turned my back!”
Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know Serene?”
“That’s not important right now.”
“I disagree.”
He shifted on his feet, clearly nervous. “Serene said we could trust you.”
“Trust me with what?”
He tugged a small square of paper from his pocket. It was folded and sealed with a small circle of red wax. “Will you give this to her when you see her next? Please. It’s important.”
“Who are you?”
His grip on the note tightened, his brown eyes pleading. “We’ll both be indebted to you; that’s all I can say. Please.”
Suddenly, Clare held the small missive. Had he shoved it into her hand? Surely she hadn’t taken it. She was too frazzled to have made such a decision.
“Don’t open it,” James begged, anxiety edging the words. “And don’t share it with anyone, or tell them I was here.”
Before she could open her mouth, he was at the small window set high in the wall. She never would have thought he could fit through it, but he grasped the sill and slid out in seconds.
For some reason, she didn’t stop him or call out.
The small letter seemed heavy in her hands. She eyed the simple seal, thoughts slowly piercing the confusion that still gripped her.
Serene had told James about the decoy. She’d even shared Clare’s name. And the princess had been very upset when Newlan had refused her wish to make this particular appointment. In fact, she’d been upset when Newlan had canceled many dress fittings along the way . . . Those rare moments she could arrange to be alone, without even her guards.
Clare’s jaw loosened.
James was undeniably handsome, in a rough-hewn way, with a strong build, dark hair, and high cheekbones.
Oh, fates.
The door opened behind her, Sylvie and Vera chatting as they returned.
Keeping her back turned, Clare stepped closer to the dress she’d worn to the shop, which lay draped over a chair. She slipped the small letter into the pocket, hiding it from view.
But even if she could no longer see the letter, it burned through her thoughts.
Serene—who was set to marry the future ruler of Mortise in perhaps the most desperate and highly fragile bid for peace in Devendra’s history—was possibly in love with a Devendran commoner.
And Clare was hiding a piece of paper that had the potential to ruin them all.
Chapter 3
Grayson
A shout ripped through Grayson’s throat, tearing him from sleep. He clawed at the blankets that tangled his legs and pinned him to the mattress, his shirt plastered to his back with sweat. His entire body shook and his heart exploded in his chest as his lungs heaved.
The darkness of his bedroom pressed in but he still drove the heels of his hands into his eyes, though it didn’t stop the images from his nightmare. He still saw the old man he’d killed. A defenseless prisoner.
A test of Grayson’s obedience.
He had slit the man’s throat five days ago, and he had relived the horrifying moment every night since. But tonight, the nightmare had twisted. As Grayson had dealt the killing blow, it hadn’t been the old man who had choked on blood.
It had been Mia.
He ducked his head, his fingers curling into his scalp, digging in with painful pressure as his pulse thundered in his ears.
He would never hurt Mia. He would cut his own throat first. But he still saw that nightmarish memory of the light leaving her eyes, the terror carved on her face; the wet slide of her blood on his hands as he’d held the wound and tried to save her.
His stomach rolled. He was going to be sick.
Not real. Just a dream.
Fear still knifed his gut.
It was the middle of the night. He should try to go back to sleep; fates knew his brother Liam would have another full day of training for him. But adrenaline pumped through his veins, leaving him tense and raw. He needed to see Mia. He wouldn’t settle until he confirmed she was all right.
He shoved off the bed, bare feet hitting the cold rug. He padded over to the washstand in the corner, yanking off his shirt as he moved. He washed the sweat from his face and neck, then snagged a clean shirt from a drawer and tugged it on before turning to his weapons. He took three daggers of various sizes before stepping out of his room.
The hallway was deserted, with only a third of the torches lit. Shadows stretched long and deep in the corridors, and the castle was glaringly silent. Grayson moved quickly and soundlessly, almost wraithlike. The walk to the dungeon was one he knew well. Occasionally he spotted guards or servants, but they all bowed their heads and shrank back, eager for him to pass.
His hands twitched at his sides and he realized he’d forgotten his black gloves. He preferred to keep his scarred hands covered, though he hadn’t felt the need to hide from Mia. Not anymore.
He’d found Mia when he was nine years old. She’d been a year younger, and a prisoner in the castle dungeon. Eight years had passed since then, and she meant more to him than the air in his lungs. He was still staggered by the fact she loved him.
And in three days, he would have to leave her.
His father had ordered him and Liam to travel to Mortise. They were expected to play the part of peacemakers, until Grayson could assassinate Princess Serene Aren Demoi and spark a war between Mortise and Devendra.
Mia didn’t know that part, though she clearly knew King Henri would never send Grayson on a mission of peace.
When he reached her cell, Grayson was surprised to see Fletcher, the quiet day guard, standing outside her door, rather than the usual night guard.
“What are you doing here?” Grayson asked, his low voice sounding loud in the shadowy hall.
Surprise flared in the old man’s eyes, but he offered an abbreviated bow. “The night guard is ill, so I took his shift.” Fletcher’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing her
e?”
Grayson wasn’t one to normally explain himself, but he appreciated the man’s fiercely protective tone. “I wanted to check on her.”
The old guard grunted. “She hasn’t been sleeping well. Not since Prince Tyrell came.”
Grayson’s hands rolled to fists. Five days ago, Tyrell had been sent by King Henri to punish Mia as a way to teach Grayson a lesson. When he’d burst into the cell and seen his brother wielding a belt against Mia, Grayson had nearly killed his brother in retribution.
Would have, if Mia hadn’t begged him not to.
“Has she said anything to you?” Grayson asked.
“No. I just pay attention.” Fletcher’s gray hair caught in the torchlight as he sifted through his keys, a muscle thrumming in his clenched jaw. “I’m sorry I couldn’t step in,” he finally whispered. “When the prince came, I had no choice but to let him in.”
The words were unexpected. He knew Fletcher wasn’t heartless, that he had demonstrated kindness to Mia in the past, but his regret that he hadn’t been able to stand up to Tyrell revealed the depth of his care for Mia. It gave Grayson the smallest bit of comfort, knowing she would have at least one ally while he was gone.
“There was nothing you could have done,” Grayson said, his voice quiet. “Standing against him would have cost you your position. Probably your life.”
The man’s jaw tightened. “Still. She didn’t deserve that.”
Mia didn’t deserve any of this. She had been taken by King Henri as a child and used to manipulate Grayson into obedience. Henri didn’t spare a single thought for her well-being. The only value she had for him came from what she meant to Grayson—which was everything.
Fletcher unlocked the door and Grayson slipped into the dark room, pulling the door gently closed behind him.
He could hear snores from the back room. It was probably Mama, Mia’s caretaker; she often drank herself into a deep sleep that nothing could pull her out of. King Henri had appointed the woman and her husband—who had no doubt already left for his shift in the lower dungeons—to care for Mia. They never showed her any true care, though. Just thinking of how cruel they’d been to her as a child made Grayson’s vision haze red.
In the darkened stillness of the room, he eased his way to Mia’s bed, near the stove. It glowed dimly, subtle heat wafting from it. Mia was curled on her side facing him, her hands tucked under her chin. Her face was smooth in sleep, her breaths slow and even. Her cheeks curved softly and a dark brown curl rested on her jaw, near a fading bruise from her fight with Tyrell.
She was safe. He should go. There was no reason to disturb her.
He turned for the door, but Mia’s breath caught.
Grayson froze, hating that he’d woken her. But when he turned to apologize he saw her eyes were clenched shut, her expression twisted in pained sleep. A whimper escaped her parted lips and her forehead creased.
The pangs of his own nightmare lingered, and though he didn’t know what terrors haunted her, he couldn’t watch her suffer.
Grayson moved forward and set a gentle hand on her squirming shoulder. “Mia, wake up. You’re—”
She thrashed awake.
He jumped back to avoid her swinging arms as she jolted up in the bed. She gasped raggedly, hands knotted in the blankets. She whipped her head around in the darkness, a cry pinching off before it could fully emerge as she shoved back against the stone wall. “Who’s there?” she rasped, her breath too sharp and rapid.
His heart pounded as he lifted his hands, palms out. “Mia, it’s me. You were just dreaming.”
By the yellowed glow of the stove, he could see sweat beading her forehead. Her brown eyes were wild and her entire body shook, her hands pressed tight against her heart. When her eyes latched onto him, the tension didn’t ease. It increased. Each breath rattled harshly out of her, wracking her entire body, and the pained sound clawed his insides.
He’d never seen her like this. “Mia? What’s wrong?”
She didn’t answer. She wasn’t dragging in enough air; she wasn’t truly breathing.
Fear locked every muscle for a horrible, frozen second. Then he was on the bed, grasping her shoulders. “Mia? Mia!”
The cell door banged open. Fletcher must have heard his shout. The guard rushed in, drawing up short before he reached the bed. “Fates,” he swore before Grayson could even ask for help. “Not again.” He bolted for the trunk in the corner of the room and threw open the lid. He shoved things aside.
Mia fisted Grayson’s loose shirt, her chest straining against her pale nightgown as her lungs fought for air. He clamped down on her arms, as if holding her more tightly would give her the breath she needed. He looked to Fletcher and demanded, “What’s going on?”
A lesser man would have trembled from that tone, but Fletcher didn’t even look at Grayson. “It’s one of her panics.”
“What?”
Fletcher cursed and twisted toward the bed, eyes shooting to Mia. “Where are they, girl?”
Mia couldn’t speak. Her breathing was uneven, shallow, and tight. Fear was etched into every line of her face, her fingers desperately knotted in Grayson’s shirt.
Fletcher was beside them in an instant. He snatched hold of Mia’s arm and dragged her to the edge of the bed. Grayson kept a hold on her, his gray eyes slashing to the guard. “Fates blast it, tell me what’s going on!”
Fletcher grabbed the back of Mia’s head and shoved it down between her knees. Bent double, Mia’s breathing still spiked and cut jaggedly.
The guard’s eyes narrowed on Grayson. “Keep her head down. Rub her back. Make her feel safe. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“What—?”
Fletcher bolted from the room.
Grayson grit his teeth, his bare hand curved around the back of Mia’s head. His free hand stroked up and down her bent spine, his throat burning and his lungs compressed. Confusion, terror, helplessness—they all washed over him, drowning him.
Make her feel safe.
He ducked his head to press a kiss to her temple. “I love you, Mia. I’m here.”
Minutes dragged by. Mia’s breaths grated out of her, wheezing and sharp. Each one cut him. Her body was strained and tight beside him—stiff as stone. Grayson’s wasn’t much better.
She was still hyperventilating when Fletcher finally dashed back into the room.
Grayson’s jaw was so stiff he was surprised it hadn’t cracked. “Where have you—?” He cut himself off when another man came into the room. “Who are you?” he demanded.
The stranger ignored him, lowering to his haunches in front of Mia. His long hands settled over her shaking knees, steadying them. His voice was smooth and calm. “Mia, you’re all right. I need you to relax.” He reached into the satchel slung over his chest and drew out a glass jar of smelling salts. He uncapped it and held it under her nose, encouraging her to breathe deeply. The smell was strong—so strong, it itched Grayson’s nose. Lavender and something else—something sharper.
Fletcher lit a lamp, the additional light dispelling some of the icy panic in the room.
Grayson continued to rub Mia’s back, his thoughts chaotic and his tension high as he studied the man before him. A physician. He had to be a physician. And he knew Mia’s name. He knew what was happening—how to help her.
Not again. That’s what Fletcher had said. The words made Grayson’s blood run cold.
“That’s it,” the physician whispered to Mia, one hand still balanced on her knee. Her breaths were evening out as she breathed in the salts and, for the first time, the man glanced at Grayson. “Can you hold the jar, Your Highness?”
Grayson’s fingers wrapped around the smooth glass while the physician dug in his satchel and pulled out a thick candle. It was a pale purple color, and when he lit it, the scent of lavender grew stronger.
Grayson continued to grip the jar, holding it beneath Mia’s nose. Watching her struggle to breathe was one of the most terrifying things he had ever
experienced. Every nerve was drawn tight. And though he was relieved she was finally breathing again, tension continued to sing through him. Because it was clear this was not the first time something like this had happened.
The physician shot a glare at the closed bedroom door, his calm manner dropped in an instant. “They probably sold the salts I left for her.”
Fletcher grunted in agreement.
Grayson finally found his voice. “This has happened before?”
Eyes flickered to him and he felt like a fates-blasted idiot. Mia’s shoulder stiffened under his palm, making the silence even harder to bear.
The physician cleared his throat, his mouth offering a somewhat strained smile. “Nothing to worry over, Your Highness. Her panics are not as frequent as they used to be.”
Grayson’s fingers curled painfully tight around the jar. “I was not aware of them.”
“It’s nothing too serious,” the physician replied. “Not if the salts are on hand.”
Mia tugged the bottle from her nose. Grayson allowed it, because her breathing was less frayed. She peeked up at him, her cheeks still flushed. “I’m fine,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
Grayson’s body remained taut. “How long has this been happening?”
She swallowed, shooting a look toward the physician, who answered, “About nine years, Your Highness.”
The words struck him like a fist in his gut. This had been happening ever since her imprisonment, then.
And he had never known.
“It’s not often,” she said with a low cough. “Not anymore.”
Grayson’s left hand tensed against her back, his right strangling the jar of salts still balanced on his knee.
“Really, I’m all right,” Mia insisted. “Devon says it’s not so uncommon.”
“Indeed not,” the physician—Devon—actually smiled, the expression soft in the dim lamplight. “I treat this all the time. Most noblewomen have several fits a day. It’s the height of fashion from here to Zennor.” He patted her knee and pushed to his feet. “Keep the salts and the candle, Mia. Tell Fletcher if they go missing again.”
Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2) Page 4