“Oh, sorry. Did you fall on a rock?” he panted, wiping sweat from his eyebrows, which now resembled snarled skeins of wool. He was certainly missing the bespoke golden eyebrow comb she had bought for him. She treasured the memory of the jeweler laughing aloud when she explained what sort of comb she had wanted made, and what its absurd purpose would be.

“No,” she told him. “Just fell on my ass. The same spot from earlier.”

“Earlier? Oh, you mean when you fell in your bedroll like a complete fool?”

She led with her shoulder as she ran, colliding into his midsection and lifting him up so that he was slung over her back, head and feet dangling on either side of her body. She rocked back and forth so he swung like a gangly human pendulum, the tips of his fingers grazing the earth on each pass.

“Put me down! Put me—oh.”

He was staring through her legs, so she had to turn to see what had caught his attention. Both Shaes were awake. They sat up, mouths open, staring.

Without thinking she dropped her burden. He tumbled into the grass in a bundle of limbs and fabric with a muffled oof.

“Well.” Brella yawned deliberately, exposing a pink tongue and white molars. “When Vel suggested we bring you along, I wasn’t convinced. But seeing the fighting prowess of two of our nation’s best up close, well . . .” She smirked. “I’ve never felt safer.”

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

The canopy was denser today, filtering dappled sunshine that illuminated the party like scattered gold flake. James and Vel gravitated toward the front while Scratch and Brella lagged behind. James looked entirely at ease, which was hardly fair. He barely seemed bothered by Scratch’s fully formed, totally unassailable assertions of treachery. It was as though he didn’t care, which was patently absurd. He had to care. He must have been just as tangled as Scratch was over it all.

“It’s the tragedy of the centaur, you see,” he explained to Vel, waving around that damned book. “Even though he has an irrepressible sexual appetite, he can’t touch himself because his hands are all the way up front.”

“Halt!” shrieked a little voice.

At the command, all four travelers stopped in the middle of the road to watch a small figure drop from a tree directly ahead. They wore a wide smile on their youth-pudgy, dirt-smeared face. Bits of tree bark clung to their hodgepodge clothes, the thin fabric littered with mismatched patches. Their mouth was stained pink, likely from stuffing their face with wild berries.

Wow. Were all bandits this adorable?

“I’m terribly sorry, my friends,” the sweet confection of a woods rogue apologized in a chirrupy voice, “but I will be requirin’ your purses. Quick as you like now.”

Scratch opened her mouth to talk—well, to laugh and then talk—but Brella got there first.