Outside the coach, Nikolai’s behavior was getting more and more unnerving. He knew better than to renew his marriage proposal, but it was clear that he wanted people to think there was something between us. With every stop, he grew more bold, standing too close, kissing my hand, pushing my hair back over my ear when it was caught by a breeze.

In Tashta, Nikolai waved to the massive crowd of villagers and pilgrims that had formed by a statue of the town’s founder. As he was helping me back into the coach, he slipped his arm around my waist.

“Please don’t punch me,” he whispered. Then he yanked me hard against his chest and pressed his lips to mine.

The crowd exploded into wild cheers, their voices crashing over us in an exultant roar. Before I could even react, Nikolai shoved me into the shadowy interior of the coach and slipped in after. He slammed the door behind him, but I could still hear the townspeople cheering outside. Mixed in with the cries of “Nikolai!” and “Sankta Alina!” was a new chant: Sol Koroleva, they shouted. Sun Queen.

I could just see Mal through the coach’s window. He was on horseback, working the edge of the crowd, making sure they stayed out of the road. It was clear from his stormy expression that he’d seen everything.

I turned on Nikolai and kicked him hard in the shin. He yelped, but that wasn’t nearly satisfying enough. I kicked him again.

“Feel better?” he asked.

“Next time you try something like that, I won’t kick you,” I said angrily. “I’ll cut you in half.”

He brushed a speck of lint from his trousers. “Not sure that would be wise. I’m afraid the people rather frown on regicide.”

“You’re not king yet, Sobachka,” I said sharply. “So don’t tempt me.”

“I don’t see why you’re upset. The crowd loved it.”

“I didn’t love it.”

He raised a brow. “You didn’t hate it.”

I kicked him again. This time his hand snaked out like a flash and captured my ankle. If it had been winter, I would have been wearing boots, but I was in summer slippers and his fingers closed over my bare leg. My cheeks blazed red.

“Promise not to kick me again, and I’ll promise not to kiss you again,” he said.

“I only kicked you because you kissed me!”

I tried to pull my leg back, but he kept a hard grip.

“Promise,” he said.

“All right,” I bit out. “I promise.”

“Then we have a deal.”

He dropped my foot, and I drew it back beneath my kefta, hoping he couldn’t see my idiotic blush.

“Great,” I said. “Now get out.”

“It’s my coach.”

“The deal was only for kicking. It did not prohibit slapping, punching, biting, or cutting you in half.”

He grinned. “Afraid Oretsev will wonder what we’ve gotten up to?”

That was exactly what I was worried about. “I’m concerned that if I’m forced to spend another minute with you, I may vomit on my kefta.”