His eyes raked over her. Had Elm not noticed the dip in her throat, the swell of her breasts as she breathed—the shape of her thighs beneath her dress—he might have kept his eyes on the road. Had he kept his eyes to the road—
He might have seen the highwaymen.
They wore cloaks and masks and stood in a line, blocking the road. Elm yanked the reins, pulling his horse to a stop. The animal whickered, then reared. Ione slammed into Elm’s chest and he put an arm around her waist, holding her firmly against him.
The first highwayman bore a rapier and several knives on his aged leather belt. The next held a shortbow, the arrow aimed at Ione’s head. The third, taller and broader than the other two, carried a sword.
“Hands in the air, Prince Renelm,” called the man with the shortbow. “Reach for your Scythe and I’ll shoot you both.”
Elm’s nostrils flared. Slowly, he slid his hands off Ione and raised them into the air. “Bold of you,” he said, appraising them. “Three is a small number to take on a Prince and a party of Destriers.”
“I see no party.” The highwayman with the sword kept one hand on his hilt and stepped to Elm’s horse, taking the animal firmly by the bridle. “You look alone to me, Prince.”
Elm said a silent curse for leaving Gorse and Wicker behind at Hawthorn House.
Ione was silent, her spine pressed firmly against his chest. Elm tried to lean back, afraid she’d feel the pounding of his heart—but there was nowhere to go. Smooth as a snake, Ione’s hand glided behind her, prying along the hem of his tunic near his belt.
Elm froze.
Ione tugged at the fabric, searching, icy fingers grazing over his lower abdomen, near the pocket along his hip.
The pocket where he kept his Scythe.
“Don’t you dare, Hawthorn,” he seethed into her hair.
The threat in his voice did nothing. In one smooth maneuver, Ione’s fingers were in his pocket, grasping his Card.
Elm kept his eyes on the highwaymen and his hands in the air, his thoughts scrambled, an unwelcome vulnerability twisting in his stomach. He didn’t want Ione Hawthorn to touch his Scythe. He didn’t want anyone to touch his Scythe.
The highwaymen stalked forward.
“He’s not entirely alone,” the highwayman with the knives corrected, stepping closer. He let go of the hilt of his rapier and reached for Ione’s leg, his hands rough as he pushed the hem of her dress up. “Not with this exceptional creature.” He ran a finger down Ione’s bare calf, his muddy glove leaving a mark upon her skin. “Trees, your skin is cold.”
Ione’s entire body went still, her leg tensing in the highwayman’s grip. Elm’s voice came from the back of his throat. “Get your fucking hand off of her.”
“Then give us what we want, Prince.”
“Which is?”
“Your Cards,” said the man with the sword. He was looking at Ione’s leg. “Give us your Scythe and Black Horse. If you throw in the Maiden Card—and the woman attached to it—we’ll let you keep the horse.”
Rage burned in Elm’s mouth like bile, fingers curling to fists in the air.
“Keep those hands up, Prince,” said the highwayman with the shortbow. “Move, and I’ll send this arrow into the woman’s heart.”
Ione’s voice seeped out of her mouth. “So kill me. If you can.” Her hazel eyes lifted to the highwayman with the bow. She drew in a breath—then tapped the Scythe three times behind her back. “Let loose your arrow.”
The highwayman looked as if he’d swallowed his tongue. His bow jerked, the tip of the arrow shifting directions. With a strangled cough, he shut his eyes and released his arrow.
Elm slammed Ione forward, flattening her against the horse. But no arrow whizzed overhead. He heard a sickening sound and looked up, face-to-face with the highwayman touching Ione’s leg.
The tip of the arrowhead, crimson red, protruded from the man’s throat. The highwayman choked, blood spilling out of his mouth and neck. His fingers grasped for purchase as he dropped to the ground. He caught Ione’s dress, yanking her—and Elm—off the horse.
Elm hit the muddy road, his arms caged around Ione. She coughed, his Scythe locked in her fist, her entire body seizing as she tried to wrench herself free from the highwayman with the arrow in his throat.
Elm pushed to his feet and kicked the bastard away, and then he was running, closing the distance between himself and the second highwayman—the one with the sword. Elm wore no sword to match. Reluctant Destrier that he was, he’d left it at Stone. His only blades were two throwing knives he kept on his belt, mostly for show.
The first knife missed. The second nicked the highwayman along his inner thigh. Elm reached into his pocket. The Scythe was gone, but he carried another Card. A brutish one he almost never used, inherited when he took up the Destrier cloak.
The Black Horse.
Elm tapped it three times, harnessing an old weapon he always kept with him. He may have been less powerful without Ravyn and Jespyr—but he had enough rage for the three of them.
He dodged an arrow as it sang through the air, then the swipe of the sword. He closed the distance between himself and the highwayman, denying the blade its leverage, and sent his fist across the man’s face.
He struck again and again, his knuckles colliding with the highwayman’s cheeks and nose and jaw. The world around Elm crumbled, and suddenly he wasn’t hitting a stranger in a mask anymore, but his own brother, his father—even Ravyn.
The highwayman fell backward onto the road and did not stir. Elm stood above him, his hands screaming out in pain. He turned to look for Ione—
And came face-to-face with the shortbow.
“Acquiesce,” the highwayman said, his arrow aimed at Elm’s chest. “I don’t want to kill you. Just give me the Scythe.” He trembled. “And I will let you go.”
Elm raised his hands once more. Only this time, they were covered in blood. “Would that I could. But I don’t have it.”
Whatever boldness the highwayman possessed, it was hanging by a thread. His eyes were wild, his breath as panicked as a trapped animal’s. “Yes, you do. You made me shoot him. You forced me!”
Elm had little talent for soothing. Still, he lowered his voice, forcing his fury back down his throat. “Put the bow down,” he said. “There is no escape if you injure me. My family will hunt you. And when they find you…” He looked into the highwayman’s eyes. “Get away while you can.”
But the highwayman did not answer. He dropped the shortbow to the ground, holding only its arrow. Without blinking, he pressed the tip of the arrowhead into the soft skin below his palate.
His eyes were so empty he might as well have already been dead.
Ione came out from behind Elm’s horse, her bare feet silent as they trod across the muddy road. She did not look like a bride any longer. Her white dress was stained with blood and soil. Pink lips pressed into a thin line, Elm’s Scythe flipping between her fingers. Her hazel eyes narrowed on the highwayman.
“Go on, then,” she said without feeling.
A chill crawled up Elm’s back. He whirled on the highwayman. “Wait,” he said. “Don’t—”