Afterwards, exhaustion overwhelmed her, and she fell asleep in his arms. He lay there for more than an hour, just holding her and watching her sleep, and he realized that Valik might just be right to fear that Wynter’s Summerlea bride was working some sort of enchantment on him. The fiery, passionate, willful Khamsin drew him like a moth to flame and brought those frozen parts of him back to life. But this Khamsin, the wounded, needing Khamsin who couldn’t hide her pain, she seeped into the cracks in his icy armor, penetrating much deeper than was comfortable or safe.

He wasn’t ready for that, so he left her in the middle of the night.

She wasn’t the only one who hid her vulnerabilities.

CHAPTER 13

Passions, Purloiners, and Purgatives

Khamsin was both bereft and grateful when she woke up alone the next morning. Bereft because she was becoming used to the feel of Wynter lying beside her, and grateful because his absence excused her from any awkwardness over last night’s embarrassing show of weakness.

She took a sip of her morning tea, only to grimace and set it aside. Bitter again. Tildy had always brewed the perfect cup of tea, but Bella clearly needed more instruction. She was either using too many leaves or steeping the tea too long.

The door to her wardrobe room opened, and Bella whisked in.

“Bella, about the tea,” Kham began, only to break off with a scowl when she saw Bella carrying a frosted taupe outfit trimmed with white fur. “What’s that? I told you to lay out my red dress.” After yesterday’s humiliating debacle, she was determined to gird herself in her brightest, most defiant Summerlea armor before facing the Wintercraig court.

“Mistress Narsk delivered this this morning along with a note from the king. You’re to meet Lord Valik in the upper bailey no later than ten o’clock to receive your first riding lesson.”

“Riding lesson?” Every bruised and wilted part of Khamsin’s soul suddenly perked up. “I’m to have a riding lesson?”

“Apparently so, ma’am. But you’d best hurry. It’s already a quarter ’til nine.”

Kham leapt to her feet. Bella had already drawn her bath, but rather than enjoying a leisurely morning soak as she’d intended, Khamsin washed in record time. There wasn’t time to dry her hair before the fire, so she toweled it off and secured the damp, unruly curls with a brown bow. Then she threw on her new split riding skirt and fur-lined coat from Mistress Narsk, wolfed down the last half of her now-cold meat pie, washed it down with a few sips of the too-bitter jasmine tea, and bolted for the door.

She reached the courtyard just as Gildenheim’s clock tower began to toll ten o’clock.

Valik was already there, and he greeted her with the cold eyes and stony expression she’d come to expect from him.

“This way,” he said in a clipped voice. He led her across the courtyard, through the portcullis, and down into the larger, lower bailey that was bustling with industry. Here, a blacksmith’s forge, farrier, saddler, and hay barn had all been built along the northern wall to serve the enormous stables carved into the side of the mountain.

A broad-shouldered man with a weathered face and thick queue of ash blond hair met them just inside the building. Valik introduced him as Bron, the stable master.

Bron smelled of horses, hay, and snow, and his eyes were deep, vivid green rather than the typical Wintercraig blue. “I’ll bring you Kori to start with,” he said. His voice was low and deep and musical—and filled with more warmth than any Winterfolk save Lady Melle had shown her so far. It set Kham instantly at ease. “She’s a kind lass, with gentle ways. She’ll teach you what you need to know and be patient until you learn it. Later, when you’ve found your seat, you may want to choose another mount, one with a bit more fire in her soul.”

He marched down the corridor, returning a few minutes later with a large, black horse in tow. The mare had a thick, winter coat and a long, striking white mane and tail.

“This is Kori,” he said. “Hold out your hand to greet her.”

Kham stared at the horse with trepidation. Big as a Summerlea shire horse, with thick powerful muscles and hooves like great, iron-shod rocks, Kori was intimidating. The top of Kham’s head barely reached the mare’s withers. And that mouthful of very large teeth seemed quite capable of taking off Kham’s hand with a single chomp.

Bron smiled slightly and whispered something into the horse’s ear. The horse gave a whinnying neigh that sounded like laughter, then tossed her head, sending the long strands of her snowy mane dancing.

“It’s a fine compliment that you find Kori impressive enough to fear,” Bron said, “but there’s no need. She’ll not harm you.”

“I’m not afraid,” Kham lied quickly, then blushed at Bron’s steady look. “Well, not much.” At least trying not to be. Determined not to look like a coward, Kham sucked in a breath and held out her hand, palm up. The animal’s nose nudged Kham’s hand experimentally, snuffling at her, then the thick, velvety lips nuzzled her palm. It tickled. Kham fought the urge to snatch back her hand.

“She likes you,” Bron murmured. “Reach out now, and rub her cheek.”

She followed the stable master’s instructions, running her hands across the animal’s warm, heavy body, learning where and how to touch her and where not to. He showed her how to approach the mare’s hindquarters, how to curry her thick hide, how to inspect her legs and hooves and use a hoof pick to scrape the mare’s hooves free of collected matter. By the time he was done, Kori was saddled and bridled, and Khamsin had lost a good bit of her fear.