Page 26 of The Rebel's Prize

She noticed Lucien grimacing slightly as he dismounted, so she possibly wasn't the only one feeling their journey.

But the wince had vanished from his face by the time he held out a hand to take the reins of her horse. She handed them over, and he led the horses off, leaving her in the company of one of the guards, who offered to take her back to the wagon and then show her where she could wash.

Sadly, the long hot bath that may have helped ease her muscles was something the camp didn't offer. It was a permanent site, complete with some wooden huts equipped with basic washing facilities. There were basins for washing hands and faucets set high on the wall to sluice under, but no bathtubs.

But the water was sun warmed, and the lingering heat of the day made it comfortable to rinse the sweat from her skin and dry off. If they ended up reaching the far north, she'd have to hope there would be ways to warm the water at the sites or get used to using warming charms to finish her toilette.

She didn't bother trying to wash her hair. Wearing it braided out of the way in between towns seemed the easiest option. If they hit a longer stretch of travel, she would have to wash it on the road eventually, but for now, it was fine. They were supposed to reach Fallea, the next large town, in a few more days. Her hair could wait until then.

By the time she emerged from her hut, the camp was well on its way to being settled for the night. Tents had sprung up in organized rows, and the horses and oxen were penned into the yards bordering the site. As she waited for Silya to appear from the hut next to hers, she watched the bustle, feeling somewhat guilty that she wasn't helping. It might be Lucien's caravan, but she didn't want to behave like a useless aristo.

She knew well enough how to light a fire, and it couldn't be that difficult to groom a horse or help raise a tent or chop vegetables or find wood or do whatever else would be useful, even if she wasn't as fast as the caravan workers to begin with.

The smoky scent of grilling meats began to tease her nose, and her stomach rumbled in response just as Silya stepped out of the bathing hut next to hers.

Corporal Chartres had clearly been keeping an eye out for them, because he appeared from behind the huts almost before Silya had finished closing the door on hers and escorted them to the dining area. Another dirt clearing, this time square rather than a circle. The far side was bordered by a row of firepits, and the rest of the space was taken up with rough-hewn wooden benches. There were a few tables, but they were given over to the food being cooked rather than having room for people to sit at them.

She sat on a log bench with Silya and ate grilled chicken with more of the ubiquitous flatbreads, and vegetables, followed by sliced apples drizzled with spiced honey. And hot tea this time.

Lucien was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Mali. Perhaps discussing caravan business elsewhere. Well, no one would let either of them go hungry, and if he didn't choose to join them for dinner, that made things easier.

The caravan workers wasted no more time eating than they had setting up camp. All bar one of the fires were extinguished as soon as everyone had been served. That one was banked carefully and kettles of water placed nearby, ready for fast tea to fortify those on night watch and to assist in cooking whatever breakfast was going to be.

But the night was hardly cold, so the fires weren't needed for warmth. Miseneia, being dryer than Illvya, had fewer forests. She'd learned that they were careful with wood. Some parts of the country were desert, and she understood the nights there grew cold quickly, but here on the plains, it was comfortable enough even once the sun had set.

By the time she was starting to wonder where they would be sleeping, Corporal Chartres, who had positioned himself on the bench next to theirs, put down his mug. "I can show you to your tents, my ladies," he offered.

They walked toward the center of the rows of tents, and the corporal stopped in front of the biggest one. Lucien’s standard hung from the canvas beside the flap. A second more modestly sized tent stood beside it.

"That is your tent, Sejerin," he said somewhat unnecessarily, indicating the smaller one. "And yours, my lady." He nodded toward the larger. "Lord Castaigne is already inside."

Damn it, she hadn't thought about sleeping arrangements. Of course she and Lucien would be expected to share the larger tent. Her jaw tightened, but she managed not to frown. The corporal wasn't to blame for the fact that she didn't want to sleep with Lucien, nor were the sleeping arrangements his decision.

"Thank you, Corporal." She didn't move toward the tent, turning back to Silya, who looked somewhat amused.

The corporal took a step closer to the seer, gesturing toward her tent. "The tent has a cooling charm, Sejerin. And there are blankets if you get too cold in the night. We'll be keeping watch, so you can ask someone if you need anything else."

"I am sure I will manage," Silya said. She nodded at the corporal and then at Chloe. "Sleep well, Lady Castaigne." She disappeared into the tent, pulling the flap down firmly behind her.

Chloe turned to face her own tent, studying the sturdy sand-colored canvas. Light flickered within, the glimpses of it through the half-open flap warm and golden. Lanterns or earth lights, perhaps. Cozy. Intimate. Precisely what she didn't want, knowing Lucien was inside.

What would happen when they were alone? They hadn't spoken anymore about the kiss, but she wasn't sure she trusted herself alone with the man.

She needed to keep her wits about her, not let him steal her senses with his stupidly handsome face.

She had a sudden wild impulse to declare that she'd sleep in the wagon, but the corporal would probably just think she'd lost her mind.

He smiled at her and gestured at the open flap. "Good night, Lady Castaigne."

Right. She was keeping him from whatever else he was supposed to be doing. Like getting some sleep if he was going to spend part of the night standing guard.

She sighed and ducked her head to step through the flap, pausing just inside to let her eyes adjust to the light.

The flap dropped shut behind her, and she heard the chime of a ward, but she couldn't focus on what Corporal Chartres was doing when she had to focus on her husband.

Lucien sat behind some sort of small portable table set near the right-hand wall of the tent, writing in a ledger under the light of a lantern. He looked up as she hovered by the door.

"Good evening," he said carefully, as though not sure of her mood.

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