Page 110 of The Enemy's Daughter

“We have to.”

I glance around, desperately. “What if we leave our horses and crawl through the grass? We might get through unseen.”

“Or find a place to hide here,” Henshaw offers. “We’re free. Let’s do our best to stay that way.”

Maybe. But where?

Hooves rumble down the path behind us, pinning us where we are. I spin my horse around, and Henshaw does the same. My heart sinks.

It’s Liam. He stops before us, his broad chest heaving. “Don’t do this. They’ll figure out it was you. All our plans—everything will fall apart unless you bring them back.”

I sag in exasperation. “What plans, Liam? The plan where we get married, then wait thirty years for you to become Saraf before anything can change? How is that supposed to stop a war?” Even my idea to make Liam Saraf at the wedding feels like a fool’s dream now.

Tristan’s hands slide over my hips with a steadying pressure. Liam notices, and pain gathers in his eyes. He flexes his jaw once, then seems to steel himself for what he says next. “If you choose him, you will have to tread carefully. Your father will—”

Horses—two, maybe three—race down the trail behind Liam. We have to go now. Jerking the reins, I attempt to flee but the bushes crash around us. Men come at us from all sides. Maska.

Gerald leads the charge.

My gaze sweeps the soldiers surrounding us. Seven of them. All with weapons pointed at our hearts.

Desperately, I search for an opening between them.

“Steady,” Tristan whispers into my neck while his heart thunders against my back.

I grip the reins tighter.

A sick smile blooms on Gerald’s face. “Well, isn’t this interesting. I see a couple of traitors helping the prisoners escape. That’s treason, isn’t it, boys?”

A spike of fear drives straight through my chest. My gaze snaps to Liam, and horror settles over his face. Gerald thinks Liam is in on this too.

Grunts of agreement rise from his Maska men.

“That’s not what’s happening here,” Liam shouts.

“Seize them,” Gerald commands.

My horse tosses his head as the men dismount and crowd around us. One grabs the bridle, taking control. A man with a scraggly beard and a sword strapped to his back slides his hand over my bare calf, and I kick out, striking him in the nose with my boot.

“Witch,” he spits, stumbling back. He draws his sword. “Get off your horse or I’ll chop off your leg.”

I’m so shocked I don’t move.

He winds up to swing.

“No!” I yell.

He laughs cruelly. “Then get going.”

With tense movements, I obey. We’re outnumbered, unprotected, and completely at their mercy.

This is Gerald’s revenge for spitting in his face.

I feel the war of emotions inside Tristan as we’re shoved back in the direction we just came from, the tips of their weapons inches from our backs. Although most of them are off their horses, they tow them along.

“Where are you taking us?” Liam demands.

Gerald’s lips curl up at the corners, showcasing the dark crusts blanketing some of his teeth. “To the Saraf, of course.”

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