Irving gives my shoulder a squeeze, and then he releases me.
We set off again for Glendon’s border, but this time Galinor stays ahead of me, speaking with Bran and Irving. I stay close to Marigold and Dristan. As we travel, Marigold shares tidbits of information about the flora and fauna we pass. Dristan, for the most part, keeps up both his and my end of the conversation, so I don’t have to add much.
Instead, I watch Galinor’s back—he now seemscontent to pretend I don’t exist—and listen for signs of Pika. There are no more mews, and I have yet to see a flash of black in the trees.
I sigh and concentrate on the dusty road in front of me.
Chapter 8
Four tankards of cider slosh on the table as the tavern maid distributes them to the men. She bats her pretty blue eyes and tosses her long, blonde hair as she simpers over the four princes.
She has yet to ask Marigold or me if we would like something to drink.
The woman perches on the edge of the round table, right between Dristan and Galinor’s chairs, and leans over to take a closer look at Galinor’s swollen eye. “I would hate to see the man who could do that to you.”
I look away, trying to focus on something else in the room—anything else. The fireplace is nice.
“I can fix that up for you.” She practically purrs the words.
I have the strangest urge to gag, but I believe I do an adequate job of keeping my expression even.
Galinor shakes his head. “I’m fine, thank you. I’m sure the ladies would like cider or tea.”
I look over to see what the tavern maid will think ofhis cool dismissal. She glances at Marigold and me as if she hadn’t noticed us—that’s what she wants it to look like, anyway. The briefest flash of irritation flickers across her face before she acknowledges us.
“Tea is fine,” Marigold says.
I nod in agreement.
The tavern maid saunters off, her hips swaying as she leaves. Irving stares after her, and I elbow him in the ribs.
He rubs his side. “What was that for?”
“For asking me to marry you this morning,” I say, leaning close and speaking softly so only he can hear. “And then looking at that woman like that.”
“Thatwoman?” Irving’s lips quirk up in an ornery smirk. “Is it my imagination, or do you sound a little jealous ofthatwoman?” I open my mouth to protest, but he continues, “I do believe I will wear you down yet.”
Jealous? I’m not jealous of her.
She’s a trollop.
Galinor watches our interaction, frowning. His eye has darkened to a nasty shade of blue and purple, and the swelling is horrible. He certainly doesn’t look too perfect now.
If I had thought it would dissuade the opposite sex from ogling at him, though, I would be wrong. The tavern maid, the barmaid behind the counter, and many of the younger women—and some of the older women as well—watch Galinor. I’m sure it’s worse now that we’re in Glendon. Here, Galinor isn’t just a prince—he’stheirprince.
The woman returns with our tea and then perchesnext to Galinor once again. I sip my drink and then cringe. It’s lukewarm at best and as weak as wash water.
The day has been long, and as I watch the woman flirt with Galinor, I realize I’m too exhausted to eat. I take another sip of the tepid tea and then stand.
“I’m going to retire for the night,” I say, addressing no one in particular.
Galinor rises with me. “You haven’t eaten yet.”
The tavern maid glares at me, her lips softening to a pout when Galinor glances back.
I ignore her and scoot the chair in. “I’m fine.”
Irving stands. “I’ll walk you to your room.”
