By the time she got back on land, and rushed as quickly as her sodden clothing and bare foot would allow, the king’s cortege had reached the bridge. Crowds of people surged toward the carriage, and she could hear frantic shouts from the center of the procession.
“Keep close! Keep close, by God!”
She recognized the king’s voice ordering his guards. He was known to be leery of large crowds, especially ones that verged on moblike behavior, for he didn’t want a repeat of the kinds of horror toward royalty that occurred during the French Revolution. She couldn’t blame him in this case, for the entire environment of close, looming buildings shadowing a narrow bridge, and the thronging crowds, would have made anyone nervous— especially someone like herself, who knew there were more than mortals to be leery of.
Victoria hurried toward the crowd, stones and sharp-edged bricks cutting into her foot. She saw that the king’s carriage was broaching the bridge, ready to cross. The mob was pushed away and the coach started over the span. Even from her vantage point, Victoria could hear the creaks and groans of the wooden trestles as the royal vehicle rumbled across.
But she couldn’t see any gleam of red eyes, either above or below the bridge. The back of her neck was no longer chilled, and despite the fact that she was soaking, nor was the rest of her body. It was a warm night, and the sludgy, rank mud had already begun to dry on her skin.
About the time the carriage reached the other side of the bridge, Victoria felt a presence behind her, and heard the long, deep breaths of someone who’d been working hard. She turned to see a dripping Max standing there, also watching the coach traverse the canal.
“Safe,” he murmured.
“I can swim,” she said tartly. “Even in a gown. I didn’t need your help.”
“I was speaking of the king, Victoria. He’s safe. We can go home now.”
Pressing her lips together in annoyance, she looked at the bridge. Now that the king had crossed, the crowd was beginning to disperse. The threat did appear to be over, for the remainder of the route to Carleton House was through safer, more well-lit areas. And it wasn’t more than a short ride.
Then she recognized a familiar silhouette as he hurried toward her. He was not wet.
“All right, then, Victoria?” asked Sebastian as he approached. “They’re gone. The ones we didn’t get have run off.” He looked at Max. “Get a bit wet, Pesaro?”
“Felt good,” Max replied. Then, with a curt nod, he walked away.
Victoria turned to Sebastian, fully conscious of the smell emanating from her person and the press of stones against her bare foot. “I have to return the horse Barth borrowed for me.”
He looked down at her. “Will you bite my head off if I suggest that you go home with Barth in the carriage so you can divest yourself of those wet clothes? The horses are Brodebaugh’s; Kritanu and I will take them back. Much as I’d like to be there to assist you with your toilette . . .” His head tipped to the side, blocking out the moon behind him. It had waxed into a new quarter in the last week, and it shone bright and bold, casting a silver gilt over his curls. “ . . . I think I shall pass on the opportunity this evening.”
“I do smell rather rank,” Victoria agreed. “I daresay the canal water isn’t much cleaner than that of the sewers.”
“I daresay you are right.” They both chuckled, and Sebastian moved toward her for a kiss. Then he thought better of it and straightened. A wry smile ticked at the corner of his mouth. “Good night, then, Victoria,” he said, something like regret tingeing his voice.
She felt him watching her as she walked away.
The dried sludge from the canal made Victoria’s skin itch, and had saturated her hair, which had fallen in smelly, dripping strands about her shoulders. The special frock with the split skirt would have to be burned, and her remaining slipper was so stained that it no longer showed a hint of pink.
By the time Verbena had finished bathing her mistress and washing the stench from her thick mass of hair, it was past midnight. She toweled the hip-length curls as dry as possible, then coiled them into a loose, sagging knot at the back of her neck so that it would be able to dry without tangling too much. Victoria dressed, not in a night rail, but in the loose trousers and tunic she wore when training, along with soft slipperlike shoes. She had a suspicion that Sebastian might come to the house with Kritanu after they brought the horses back, and she thought it might be best if she weren’t in her bedchamber if and when they did.
After dismissing her yawning maid for the night, Victoria went down to return the kadhara knife to the cabinet in the kalari training room. She was surprised to find it lit by a lamp that cast a golden glow over the area, and thought she might find Wayren within. But it was Max.
He was standing at one of the cupboards, apparently also returning a weapon to its rightful place. At first he didn’t hear her enter, and she noticed that he was garbed in clean clothes similar to her own—trousers and a tunic in undyed linen, bare of foot, his dark hair loose and making damp marks on the back of his shirt.
Victoria felt short of breath, and realized that her stomach was coiling and loosening with nauseating speed. She stepped into the room, letting the door close silently behind her.
Max turned. She saw his attention flicker past her. “Where is Vioget? And Wayren?”
“So you cannot deign to speak to me if no one else is present?” Victoria countered, stepping into the room. For some reason, she felt as though she was in control . . . despite the fact that his face still bore that flat, empty expression.
But the rest of him . . . Her mouth went dry and, suddenly, her heart was thumping so hard she was certain it was audible. The sleeves of his hip-length tunic were rolled halfway up his arms, showing an expanse of swarthy skin and muscle that would never be revealed in polite dress. And the loose neck of the shirt made a vee below the hollow of his throat, exposing the same dark hair that grew on his legs and scattered over the tops of his long, elegant feet. He was still wearing the leather thong and silver cross she’d noticed around his ankle before, but no other adornment. Except, perhaps, a vis bulla—her vis bulla—beneath the shirt. Her lungs tightened.
“I was just leaving.” He started toward the door, and she remained in place. He’d have to brush past her to go.
“I want to talk to you.”
“I have nothing to say to you.” Anger darkened his eyes and for a moment she was almost afraid of his expression. It was so cold . . . she’d never seen such blatant loathing.