Page 36 of Reign

“Smith, are you all right?” Bash asked, his voice trembling.

“I-I’m c-c-cold—I think I might die,” I stuttered, shivering so violently my limbs ached.

Bash shuffled closer, his teeth chattering as he rubbed his hand up and down my arm. “Do you want to sleep back-to-back? We can share each other’s heat,” he offered, desperation lacing his voice.

I nodded before he could finish speaking. Bash flipped over, and I followed, pressing my back firmly against his. Around us, soldiers huddled to share heat—even Arthur and Fletcher shivered side by side most nights.

After a while, my teeth finally stopped chattering, gradually finding warmth, before slumber found me.

A loud snore snapped me awake. As I stirred, I realized Bash was cradling me from behind, his deep breaths blowing against the back of my neck, telling me he was still asleep. His arm lay across my torso, his hand dangerously close to my breast. I concaved my chest, shifting my womanly curves out of his reach. Part of me wanted to slip free, while another part wanted him to hold me; I felt safe in his embrace. When his hand slid down to rest on my stomach, I held my breath. If I weren’t harboring a life-threatening secret, I might have welcomed the gentle touch of a kind man. Yet I was certain he was lost in a dream—perhaps imagining I was a woman he knew from the Headlands. Though I should have moved away, I chose to stay in Bash’s soothing hold and drifted back to sleep.

The wax-slicked tents rattled in the wind, awakening me once more. My frigid fingertips searched for Bash between the sheets, but he was gone. I sat upright, squinting into the lightless night.

“Bash,” I whispered.

“Shut your gob,” a sleepy soldier mumbled in reply.

As quietly as possible, I rolled off my straw bedding and pulled on my boots. I carefully stepped over the quivering bodies sprawled across the floor, avoiding any limbs as I went.

Outside, moonlit leaves shimmered on the shaking trees as I crept through the silvery light.

Fog had begun to settle, wisping around my ankles like ghostly hands trying to warn me not to tread farther.

It was almost silent—the only sound was the gentle rattling of guy ropes in the wind.

“Bash?” I called softly, parting the mist with my breath.

While searching for my missing bed warmer, I spotted an orange glow bleeding from an opening in the royal tent. The sound of shattering glass splintered the quiet.

“Pick up the quill,” a voice seeped from the gap, carried on the wind. “Write to my father and tell him that his cuckquean can shove her gods and morals up her cu—”

“I’m not sure you should call the Queen that, my liege,” interrupted another voice.

I sidestepped closer and peered into the tent.

There was Fitzroy.

His strong features were showcased by the candlelight as he paced the length of his quarters. For a dazed moment, I watched him do nothing of note—yet remained ensnared by his beauty—until I noticed a less remarkable man hunched over a table, diligently scribbling on parchment.

Abruptly, Fitzroy slammed his fist onto the tabletop, mere inches from the scribe. “My father sent you here to be at my beck and call. Do what’s asked of you or face the consequences,” he snarled.

“The King personally asked me to keep an eye on you,” the man replied, standing upright.

I recognized the fluttering feather bobbing on his hat as he spoke.

“And to report back to him if you’re being difficult. This is a great honor His Grace has bestowed upon you—don’t fumble this opportunity.”

Fitzroy laughed obnoxiously. The man turned away, revealing himself to me as the King’s esquire—the same large-nosed man with the feathered hat man who’d stood with the royal family on their balcony during the rally speech.

“He’s sent me to fight in a war with an army of untrained villagers against magical creatures no strategy could ever defeat,” Fitzroy declared, snatching the inkpot and tossing it to the ground. Ink splattered upward, freckling both his and the esquire’s breeches with black stains. “My father’s bestowed nothing more than a premature death upon me.”

The esquire bowed his head. “I didn’t mean to upset you, my Prince.”

“I’m not a prince,” Fitzroy roared, slamming his fists into anything within reach.

The esquire watched unmoved, neither displeased nor concerned, as if desensitized to the bastard’s outburst. I was surprised the entire encampment didn’t wake to the sound of smashing and shouting, but the wind muffled his tantrum.

When Fitzroy’s frenzy finally ceased, his tunic was streaked with blood. Before I laid eyes upon the prince, I never imagined it possible to find someone so physically captivating while despising every part of who they were.