Page 29 of The Crimson Throne
Which means either he’s uniquely perceptive, or he’s had some experience with the fae before.
And he’s going straight to Mary’s court.
Plus he’s English.
Which all means one thing:
I don’t trust the red-haired bastard one bit.
“You’re pretty when you’re suspicious,” Latimer’s secretary says, his horse plodding alongside mine as the path widens.
“I am not,” I protest.
“Not what?” He leans forward in his saddle. “Pretty or suspicious? Because I can attest to the first, and the latter is obvious.”
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye—something I keep doing, and no doubt the reason for his comment. His aura is muted. It’s almost as if he’s wearing a glamour, but no, that’s not it. He’s not got any whiff of magic around him, but his aura is…not quite right. Obscured somehow.
“How long have you been Latimer’s secretary?” I ask.
“Long enough.” He tries to catch my eye, but I ignore him.
I nudge my horse ahead of his to avoid more conversation. At least the Englishman didn’t notice me until after I’d disposed of the Red Cap weapons I’d taken, dropping both the cauldron and the needle off in the fae realm. Not into the hands of my father, obviously; why would he deign to make an appearance for me? But I was at least able to ensure the weapons are safely kept out of this world.
My eyes cut back to Samson. He smirks. I huff and jerk my head forward again.
His story holds water at least, but he’s hiding something. I’m certain of it.
Aren’t we all hiding something?The thought comes unbidden, and I push it away.
“What’s the queen like?” Samson asks, nudging his horse closer.
I shrug. “She’s the queen.”
“Yes, but you’re in her court,” he presses. “Surely you can tell me about her.”
“I could.” But I won’t.
“Come now. You can tell me,” Samson says, giving me a dashing grin.
Oh, so this arse thinks he can charm me? The lad doesn’t know thatnothingmakes me distrust a person more than fake flattery and simpering smiles. Honestly, just look at the way Mary fell for Darnley and all the mess that caused, just because the idiot man knew how to wink in ways that made the queen giggle like a fool.
And that’s the worst of it. I might never fall for someone like this ginger trifler, but Mary? She loves the flattery.
Samson may not be fae, but that doesn’t make him any less dangerous.
“You keep staring at me like that, and I’ll think you’re trying to make me call you queen,” he says.
I wasn’t staring at him; I was staring at his aura. Because for the life of me, I cannot see through to his true intentions.
But I can see that he’s tired. I am too, much as I’d like to deny it. As are the poor horses.
The evening grows long, and temperatures are dropping.
“We should stop soon,” I say.
“You don’t think we can push through? Make it to the castle?”
I shoot the Englishman a flat look. “You can lead your horse into a bog,” I say, shrugging. “But I’m finding a place to camp.”
