Page 3 of Stolen

Creatures that shouldn’t exist. Beings that hadn’t been seen in more than five hundred years. They’d taken Varick. They had nearly taken me. And now I had no idea if Varick lived.

The wood basket was empty. But the chill in my bones persisted. Teeth chattering, I wrapped the robe more tightly around me and left my room. I crept through the darkened fortress, my bare feet silent as I followed the wood-paneled corridor to the Great Hall.

When I entered, I immediately stopped short.

Rhys the Fair sat before the massive stone hearth, his big form looking entirely at ease in the chieftain’s chair. Which made sense, considering he was the chieftain of Wesyfedd. The “bandit king,” as the Sithistrans and Nor Doruvians called him. The name wasn’t a compliment. It referenced the Wesyfeddans’ penchant for smuggling and highway robbery—and perhaps disdain for the unconventional way the Wesyfeddans chose their leader. The chieftain didn’t pass down power to his sons. Instead, the people elected their leader. He was supposed to serve one ten-year term, but Rhys was several years into his second.

It wasn’t hard to guess why. Tall and broad-shouldered, he exuded strength. Dark-brown hair waved back from a high forehead. His eyes were the same color, and crinkled at the corners as if he spent much of his time laughing. It was unusual for such a young person to have crow’s feet, but the lines didn’t detract from his looks.

On the contrary, they added something compelling to his features, which were among the most handsome I’d seen. “Bandit king” might be an insult, but the “fair” tacked onto his name was simply honest truth. It was difficult not to stare at him.

But I was staring, I realized—and he was staring back.

“Given?” He rose, a look of concern on his face. “Is everything all right?” His lilting accent reminded me of Jordan. But Rhys’s brogue was far thicker than the ex-brother’s. Vaguely, I wondered if I’d ever seen Jordan of Twyl again. But I pushed the thought away. The only Wesyfeddan I needed to worry about right now was the chieftain.

“I’m sorry,” I told Rhys. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” I folded my arms, suddenly aware of my bare toes peeking out from under the hem of my nightdress and robe. Rhys’s court was nowhere near as formal as Castle Beldurn or the Midnight Palace, and the wooden fortress was far more primitive than what I was used to, but the people of Aberwas still followed basic social norms. And appearing before the chieftain in my nightclothes would definitely raise eyebrows. He was probably wondering what possessed me to wander into his hall half-dressed in the middle of the night.

I cleared my throat. “I, um, ran out of firewood.”

“Ah.” His face split in a grin that displayed white, even teeth. He gestured to the smaller chair set at an angle to his. “Come warm yourself by the fire.”

“I should really get back to my bedchamber…” I trailed off as I noticed the paper in his hand. The red seal of Nor Doru dangled from a black ribbon attached to the parchment.

Laurent’s seal. My heart thumped faster. My husband had sent a missive to Wesyfedd.

Rhys noticed me looking. He tipped his head toward the chair. “Sit. No one will disturb us.”

Even if I’d been inclined to push back against the order, I didn’t want to. I needed to know what was in that missive.

Rhys waited until I was settled before resuming his seat. He stretched his long legs before him, his leather boots hugging his muscular legs all the way up to his knees. I’d seldom seen him wear a jacket in the two days I’d spent in Aberwas. He removed it as soon as he came indoors, and he spent most of his time in leather trousers, a black linen shirt open at the neck, and a dagger strapped to his hip. I suspected he had other weapons hidden here and there on his person.

I also suspected I’d never know just how many he concealed. It hadn’t taken me long to realize the bandit king of Wesyfedd was a formidable warrior. He didn’t wear armor like a knight, and he didn’t need to. His strength was evident in his thick shoulders and sword-callused hands. He’d rolled his sleeves up, displaying tanned, muscular forearms.

He’d been kind to me over the past two days, but I hadn’t seen much of him. He appeared to be in great demand, always surrounded by fighting men and townspeople from Aberwas. He seemed to understand I was reluctant to face the curious stares of his subjects, because he’d assigned me servants and had meals delivered to my chamber. But the privacy meant I’d spent two days in isolation, with no idea what was happening in the outside world.

He lifted the parchment, setting the ribbon swinging. “This arrived while I was hunting today. I’ve just now had a chance to read it.”

I followed the arc of the dangling ribbon for a moment before meeting his gaze. My throat was so dry I had to swallow before I could speak. “What does it say?”

He handed it over.

The message was brief. Laurent knew I was in Aberwas. He demanded Rhys return me to my “rightful lord under the law.” If Rhys refused, Laurent was prepared to invade.

“He won’t,” Rhys said quietly. When I looked up, his brown eyes held a hint of amusement. “Not even the priest-king of Nor Doru can force knights through the Deadworm.”

At the mention of the Deadworm, a tremor passed through me. The Thicket was terrifying, but the caves that ran from the Wesyfeddan forest to the heart of Aberwas had left a lasting impression I preferred to forget.

“You didn’t like your trip through the caves,” Rhys said, watching me.

“I don’t enjoy enclosed spaces.” Or dampness. Or pitch-black tunnels that seemed to go on forever. By the time Rhys and his men had finally led me to the surface, I’d worried I might never see the light of day again. The dark, close spaces had played tricks with my mind, making me feel like I was being smothered. Or buried.

Rhys drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I’m not overly fond of them myself, to be honest. But the Deadworm keeps Wesyfedd free. My people value their independence.”

I looked at the missive I still held. “I don’t blame them.”

For a long moment, the crackling fire was the only sound. Then his expression changed, all traces of humor vanishing from his eyes. “Are you afraid of your husband?”

I opened my mouth to answer—then immediately shut it. Was I afraid of Laurent? He’d never hurt me, at least not physically. With that thought, a past conversation rose hot and swift in my mind.

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