Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(15)

It was one of the garments he wore when he moonlit as a highwayman. “Here,” Ione said, tossing a fresh shirt and a velvet doublet of the same bottomless black color at Elm. “It suits you.”

Hair tousling, Elm slid the shirt over his head, dropping the Scythe in a side pocket. He shrugged on the doublet. But when he tried to tighten the lacing, the corded silk slipped through his swollen fingers.

He swore under his breath.

“My turn.” Ione stepped forward, reached for the laces—then pulled her hands back. “That is, if you’d like my help.”

Elm glared down his nose. “And to think, I didn’t even have to kill anyone for you to owe me a favor.”

The corners of Ione’s lips twitched. She wove her fingers through the laces, threading the doublet with precision. Once woven into place, she took the tails of the strings and yanked, jerking Elm forward as she closed the doublet’s seam.

“Gently does it,” he grunted. “I’m delicate.”

Ione’s eyelashes grazed her cheeks as she lowered her eyes, looping the remaining string into a tight knot just above Elm’s navel. She smelled of outside—of rain and fields. A heady, wistful smell. It made Elm feel hazy.

He pulled away. As he did, salt bit his nose, as if someone had splashed icy seawater in his face. It filled his ears—his eyes—his nostrils. He coughed, the sound of his cousin’s voice filling the dark corners of his mind.

Elm, Ravyn called. Where are you?

He took a shaky breath and turned his back to Ione. ME? What about you—you’ve been gone an age. I had bloody Destrier duty without you.

I’ll explain everything. Are you in your room?

Yes, but—wait, Ravyn, I’m—

He was already gone. Salt retreated from Elm’s senses like an ebbing wave. When he turned back to Ione, she was watching him.

He lunged for the chest of clothes, digging through it. “Take these,” he said, throwing a pair of wool socks toward her head. “It’s cold where you’re going.”

Ione caught them just before they hit her face. She held them up to the light, brow furrowing. “These are sized for a man.”

“Which I happen to be.” Elm found a pair of dry boots under his bed and shoved his foot into one, the leather stiff from disuse. “When I said you didn’t know a thing about me, Hawthorn, I assumed there was some level of comprehension—”

“I’m surprised, is all. There are no garments for women in your room.”

“Why on earth would there be?”

“I saw several pairs of stockings tossed around Hauth’s chamber when I visited it.” Ione closed the lid to the chest and perched upon it, pointing her toes as she slid the socks on one at a time. “I assumed all Princes kept women.”

Elm glowered at his boots, his swollen fingers too clumsy to lace them. “Would that I had the time.” He stood, searching his messy floor. “You’ll need a cloak.”

“I’m fine as I am.”

“You’ll lose your toes, then your fingers. Maybe the tip of your nose. Or that wicked mouth.”

“What’s my mouth to you?”

“Nothing.” Elm’s exhale shot out of him, disturbing the hair above his brow. “But it might be difficult holding up my end of our bargain if you’re in pieces.”

Ione didn’t seem to hear him. She turned her head, her back straightening, eyes on the door. Elm heard it too—the sound of heavy footfall. But before he could speak—before he could move—the latch lifted.

The hickory chair fell with a bang and Elm’s chamber door swung open.

When Ravyn stepped into the room, shoulders tight, his gaze froze on Ione. He took her in with sharp eyes that jumped from her wet hair to the black tunic she wore, then to the heap of her bloodstained dress upon the floor.

“Ione Hawthorn,” he said, his gaze finally moving to Elm. “I’m surprised to find you here.”





Chapter Eight

Ravyn





Ravyn’s words tasted like ash in his mouth. He stared at Ione Hawthorn and she stared back, her hazel eyes masked by indifference. The knot in Ravyn’s chest tightened. Elspeth’s cousin. Her favorite cousin. Ione was meant to be far away from Stone. And now that she was here—

She would surely die.

He didn’t know where to look. Ione Hawthorn—hair soaked, eyes cold, wearing one of Elm’s tunics. Or his cousin, who looked half-drowned.

“She was at Hawthorn House,” Elm said, already defensive. “Gorse and Wicker saw her. They’ll be here soon. I had no choice but to bring her.”

Ravyn’s attention returned to the dress on the floor. Even in the dimly lit room, the bloodstains were unmistakable. His eyes flew back to Elm, then his right hand, the knuckles swollen and dark with bruises. “What happened?”

“Highwaymen attacked us on the forest road. Three of them.”

When Ione spoke, her tone was hollow, fringing on bored. “Rest easy, Captain. The bloodstains aren’t ours.”

Ravyn kept his gaze on Elm. “You’re all right, then?”

His cousin’s face was drawn. “Never better. Where the hell have you been?”

“At Castle Yew.”