Lucian sat outside Evelyn’s tent as if the guards had delivered him there.
They had not.
Her knife cleared its sheath before he rose.
“Where are they?”
Lucian glanced toward the dark western edge of camp.
“Still at their post, I imagine.”
“Your post is forty yards from mine.”
“Then they have misunderstood the arrangement.”
Evelyn stepped sideways, keeping the tent wall away from her injured shoulder and the standard wagons inside her peripheral vision.
Lucian wore no coat despite the cold. His black shirt had been left open at the throat, but nothing about him suggested haste. No torn cloth. No blood. No sign that he had fought four armed men.
That made the situation worse.
“How did you pass the guards?”
“I walked.”
Her grip tightened around the knife.
“Try again.”
Lucian’s
