But more torturous would be the hours until nightfall. Wondering whether the barbarian warrior would follow her.
He would not need to. The purse she’d given to him held a fortune in gold. Even if he never laid eyes upon her again, he could live like a king for the remainder of his life.
Though he did not seem the sort to flee an obligation. The serjeant had told her how the barbarian had broken his chains and opened his cell. Which probably meant he’d been biding his time within the prison, waiting for the ship to sail and for the men and women he’d freed to be out of harm’s way.
Elina lifted her head from her pillow. “Serjeant Iarthil.”
Never distant, he drew his horse closer to the window of Elina’s carriage—which was more properly a wheeled lounging bed with seats for her attendants. In early years, before the curse, she’d ridden her own horse beside his.
She missed those days.
“Your Highness calls?”
“Did you learn the warrior’s name?”
“Warrick of the Ghost Clan.”
Warrick.
Who wanted to bed her. The very thought made Elina feel meltingly hot—not the horrible smothering heat, but a warmth resembling honey, thick and sticky and sweet.
Though perhaps it was only the queen’s face that had sparked his admiration—and now that face was also melting, but into a horror. Elina prayed he would not be put off by her own features, for she rarely wore the paint.
She also prayed he hadn’t been put off by her puking.
“I wish to bathe as soon as we arrive.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” said Dara.
“And wear the lavender silk after.”
The maid exchanged a glance with Chardryn. Never had Elina worn the lavender, for it was nothing but a wisp of a gown.
“And I would share my supper with Warrick. A picnic by the water.” If he arrived in time for supper.
Chardryn frowned. “Your Highness—”
“On a blanket.” Elina countered the objections she knew would come. “With cushions. It will take no more effort to sit there than lying in this carriage does. And the attendants’ tent must be raised.”
Usually Nanny Char and the maids kept quarters in Elina’s expansive tent. Not any longer.
“What if he does not come?” Serjeant Iarthil asked.
Her heart constricted at the thought, and it hurt to pull in a breath. As if her very lungs were being crushed. “Then…onward. Do you think he will not come?”
The serjeant had spent more time with Warrick than Elina had. He’d been able to speak directly to him. His impression of the barbarian would be deeper than hers.
“I know not. His words were…eager.” A charming blush colored the older man’s face. “Yet his manner was harsh. And—”
“Menacing,” muttered Chardryn.
Dara nodded. “Savage.”
“Joyful,” Elina said. “When he looked upon my face, I saw—” What exactly had she seen in that brief widening of his eyes? “He was surprised. But also joyful.”
“What I saw was more cunning. Or careful,” the serjeant said. “At times they appear similar.”
Elina would never regret a cunning or careful husband. “Perhaps he could not trust the joy he felt, and that explains the difference in his manner afterward.”
“We waste our breath supposing and assuming. We will know what he feels if he follows,” declared Chardryn, ever practical.
Elina sighed. Nanny Char was right, of course. It did no good to debate what Warrick would do and why he would do it, when the answer would come soon.
Though it could never be soon enough. The rising of the evening star seemed an eternity away.
A call sounded from the knights ahead—not unexpected, as they were soon to halt and make camp. Yet Serjeant Iarthil frowned and nudged his horse forward.
Dara poked her head out the carriage window opposite Elina’s lounging pillows. She gasped. “He is here! The barbarian is here!”
He’d followed. Happiness surged through Elina’s limbs, more powerful than any tonic. She sat up—too quickly. Her head spun. By the time the dizziness faded, the carriage had drawn to a stop. Her attendants all tumbled out.
Out of necessity and a burning desire not to fall flat on her face, Elina gripped the supporting hands of her porters and slowly descended the steps. A small gawking crowd had formed between her and the pool, yet they parted at her approach.
Her every thought seized to a halt when she spotted the figure in the turquoise water, just beyond the clouds of mist floating at the base of the third waterfall. It was a large pool, wider across than an arrow could fly. Shallow at the edges before abruptly deepening into an underwater ravine, the change in depth was marked by a darker blue and a visible current. Warrick stood at the edge of that ravine, the crystalline surface of the pool lapping at his abdomen. Droplets of mist clung to his sunbronzed skin, glittering over every visible inch of thick, wet muscle.
“Dear gods,” breathed Nanny Char.
The corners of Serjeant Iarthil’s lips twitched. “I suggested he bathe. It seems he listened.”
Elina wished for a bath, too. Though hers would be in her tent.
But…why must it be?
Almost without thought, Elina began tugging the lacings at her waist. “Dara. Help me.”
The maid tore her gaze from Warrick. Her fingers flew over the fastenings of Elina’s robe.
The brocade dropped away. Instantly Elina’s breathing eased. “I left my crown in the carriage, serjeant.”
Chardryn belatedly realized Elina’s intention. “Your Highness, you will catch a chill—”
“I daresay the day is warm enough, Nanny Char. As is the water.” The gold underdress slithered down her legs. Dara held Elina’s hand to steady her as she stepped out of it, leaving her clad only in her sandals and a lightweight shift made of white silk.
The old nurse shook her head. “A chill is not the only danger, my queen. You cannot swim.”
“I will stay in the shallows with my betrothed husband.”
“But the snakes and river beasts—”
“What will they do? They cannot harm me with their fangs or stings.” Not while Elina wore her enchanted rings.
“What of—”
“Nurse Chardryn.” The steel in Elina’s voice sliced through the next protest. “I have not much time to live. So what little time I have left, I will seek what pleasures I can.”
The old nurse’s face softened. “Of course, my queen.”
Elina accepted the support of Serjeant Iarthil’s arm on her walk to the pool. Her heart pounded with every step, her gaze never leaving Warrick, who watched her come, his eyes narrowed against the sun. Water and muscle rippled when he lifted his arms to scrape a knife over his head, the gleaming blade cutting through thick tangles of hair.
Likely ridding himself of bloodsucking vermin—for which Elina was grateful. She did not wish to catch fleas and add itching to her daily list of pains.
She paused at the edge of the pool to remove her sandals. “I will be well on my own from here, Serjeant.”
Bowing his head, he retreated one step. Though he did not say it, Elina knew he would stand there until she returned.
Gingerly she waded in. The water sloshed around her ankles, then her calves, deliciously cool. Rounded pebbles welcomed her soft feet. She caught a wavering glimpse of her reflection and stifled the sudden need to burst into hysterical tears or hysterical giggles. Or both. Her hair was still lovely, tall and powdered, but the queen’s face had horribly melted. At least, melted everywhere that the mask hadn’t dried into cracked patches of paint. Thickened globs of gold sagged beneath her eyes, around her nose and mouth. And he’d seen her puke.