With a leisurely motion, Charissa brushed the leaves from her cloak, settled its silver-fox collar more comfortably around her neck. As the muffled crackling of underbrush finally announced the predicted caller, a faint breeze stirred the lady’s silken veil. One of Yousef’s horses nickered softly, shuffled its feet, was quickly silenced by the tall Moor.

The rider entered the clearing and drew rein, and the Moors dropped their protective stance, for the newcomer was well-known to them. He, too, wore a cape of gray, though it showed a lining of deepest golden-yellow as he shook back his hood and swung the cloak to the horse’s near side. Beneath, a jeweled tunic of gray and gold glittered coldly as he smoothed a windblown lock of chestnut hair with one gray-gloved hand.

Tall, slim, almost ascetic of face and feature, Lord Ian Howell viewed the world through a pair of eyes even deeper brown than his hair. A meticulously tended beard and moustache framed a rather thin mouth, accentuated the high cheekbones, the slight cant of the round eyes—eyes that outshone the dark jewels that glittered coldly at his throat and ears.

Those eyes darted briefly over the Moor, who reached up for his horse’s bridle, then came casually to rest on the gray-shrouded form of the woman.

“You’re late, Ian,” the woman said. There was challenge in her voice, as well as statement of fact, and she met his gaze aloofly through the heavy veil. When Ian made no further move to dismount, she reached slowly to her veil, raised the front, and let it cascade back over the pale, coiled hair. Her gaze sharpened, but she said nothing more.

Ian smiled lazily, dismounted with a flourish, crossed lightly to Charissa. He nodded curtly to Mustafa, standing slightly behind her, then swirled his cloak around himself in a sweeping bow.

“Well?” Charissa demanded.

“No trouble at all, my dear,” Ian replied silkily. “The king drank the wine, Colin suspects nothing, and the hunt is now on the false scent. They should be here within the hour.”

“Excellent. And Prince Kelson?”

“Oh, he’s safe enough,” the young lord replied, tugging on the cuff of one gray glove with a studied nonchalance. “But it does seem like a great deal of bother to spare the boy today simply so he can be killed later. It’s not at all like you, Charissa—to show mercy to your enemies.” Brown eyes met blue ones, slightly mocking.

“Mercy?” Charissa repeated, measuring the challenge.

She broke eye contact and began strolling casually across the clearing. Ian followed.

“You needn’t worry,” she continued. “I have plans for our young prince. But I can’t lure Morgan to his death without the proper bait, now, can I? And why do you think I’ve been so carefully planting those rumors for the past months?”