Free Silver Eve by Sandra Waugh Page A

enough for me to wriggle free. He swore and flinched, but it seemed Riders were well trained to withstand, for he grabbed one of my hands and then the other, yanking them out of the way, pressing me down with his full weight.
    And all of this took but an instant. He growled, “Who…?” then his eyes widened; he pulled abruptly away. I scrambled back and faced him, breathing hard, wary as his expression went from battle-ready to surprise, then almost—almost—to humor as he took in the spread cloak, and his own bared torso.
    But then the humor fell away and he turned his gaze back on me. “Lady,” he murmured with a respectful nod. He brushed his hair back from his eyes.
    Lady
was ridiculous. “My name is Evie Carew.” But then I wished my name back. Wished I’d called myself Eve again to sound older.
    The Rider nodded, then turned quick to look for his sword, disturbed that I’d placed it just out of his reach. He leaned, caught it up and stood in one fluid movement, testing its weight—or maybe his own tired strength—by sweeping the blade through the air. And then he looked about; I wondered if he expected the swarm to return.
    “You said that I was difficult to find,” I blurted, watching him. “Why were you looking for me?”
    The Rider’s brow creased, as if the question made no sense, or else the sword—or something—felt wrong. So I added, “My cousin, Lark, might have asked it of you. Please let her know that I am fine.”
There.
I considered us done. I brushed my wet skirts to look busy, hoping he would find something to do—tend to his horse, inspect everything that I’d unpacked for him.
    He sheathed the sword. “Nay, my lady, I do not return. I am here to protect you.”
    “Why?” It came out something like a gasp. I was forgetting my vow of no questions—not to ask, not to learn anything that might make it difficult to leave this Rider. I shook my head to clear it and found a firmer, harder voice: “I journey alone, and there is no reason to protect. I need no help.”
    “We all need help,” he said pleasantly.
    “
You
might.”
    There was a flash of a grin at my bluntness, but then the Rider asked quite seriously, “You did not fear that attack before?”
    “I have no fear of death.”
    “There are worse things than death.” He raised a brow, implying how curt my response was and his own impulse to remark in kind. But then came something else: recognition and sympathy and regret, as if he suddenly remembered Raif’s body in the market square and that maybe I’d already faced worse things. The brow dropped; the grin faded. Silence expanded the space between us and yet the moment was suddenly too intimate.
    I said quickly, “Your wounds are not deep. You will heal. Your horse as well.” I tipped my chin in the direction of the steed. “What’s his name?”
No questions, Evie!
    “Arro.”
    “Arro,” I repeated, then rose to my feet, picked up my cloak and satchel, and turned, realizing suddenly I had no direction. The marsh had lost any appeal, my poisons were gone, and I’d never retrace my steps home. ’Twas a hasty choice: there was some shadowing to the west beyond the pond, a forest maybe. So I started off, then stopped and turned back—too aware that he watched. “Thank you,” I said as evenly as I could, and rounded once more, heading away from sun.
    “My lady,” he called after me. I bit my lip and kept walking. “What of you? Will you heal as quickly?”
    That stopped me. What did he know of my wound, my loss and anguish? I paused and whipped around. ’Twas on the tip of my tongue to say something harsh to end such nosy concern. The Rider was standing, a figure brilliantly lit by moonlight.
    “Your injuries,” he said, gesturing. “Look at them.”
    I looked down at my arms, where my sodden cloak hung away from them. They were covered in long, fine scratches, rivulets of dried blood. I reached my hands to my face, my neck, and drew away smears of red.