Nomi twisted to see a slick sailboat approaching. Several men lined its deck.

Malachi swore under his breath.

“Can we outrun them?” Nomi asked, panic bringing beads of sweat to the back of her neck.

“They’re too fast,” Malachi said. “Bigger sail, better skill. And trying to run would make us even more intriguing. We’re going to have to bluff it out.” With a sigh, he slackened the ropes, letting the sail flap. The boat slowed.

“What if they recognize you?” Nomi asked, her pulse racing. If these men figured out Malachi was the rightful Heir, surely word would get back to the palazzo. And then Malachi would lose the advantage of Asa thinking he was dead.

Malachi rubbed a hand over the short black whiskers on his chin. “Would you recognize me?”

Nomi studied him. The stubble hadn’t quite grown into a beard yet, but it masked the unexpected fullness of his mouth and softened the sharpness of his jaw. Dark circles beneath his eyes spoke of a recent illness and his normally short, orderly hair was spiky and disheveled. His eyes, bright as polished wood, she would recognize, but she’d spent a lot of time staring into them.

“You’re right,” she said slowly, taking in his hand-me-down guard uniform and ill-fitting shoes. “You don’t look like yourself.”

Malachi quirked a little grin. “I’m a ruffian now. The Heir died, remember?”

As he took the tiller from her and directed her to the bow, Nomi wondered at the strange spark in his eyes as he’d said this last.

“What do we say?” she asked as the small sailboat approached. “What if they ask what we’re doing out here? I don’t look—my clothes…” She gestured to the worn blue pants and shirt of her prison clothes.

Malachi glanced at her again; she hadn’t seen this look, the intense, frightening one, in days. “You don’t say anything.”

Nomi’s throat closed.

“Sailboat ahoy!” the sailors shouted. The boat slowed, drawing up alongside. It was larger but not by much. Four men, all with heavy beards and sun-weathered skin, lashed the boats together without asking permission first.

One man, obviously the leader, hopped between decks, his leather boots landing with a thud. He was a big man about Nomi’s father’s age, shirtless and scorched deep brown by the sun.

Nomi lowered her gaze, a new fear bursting to life in her chest. What if these men wanted their boat? What if they stole it? Would they throw her and Malachi overboard? How long would it take to drown?

A shiver sluiced down her back, as chilling as a splash of seawater.