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smelling his sweat, the smoky fire, the horses. Her face was cold but there was naught she could do for it.
    Smith never removed his mask. She didn’t even know the true face of her captor. Brandywyn felt bitter and abused.
    Silent tears dripped over her chafed cheeks and she stifled her sobs in the hood of her cloak. No rape that night, thank the gods, but who knew what was in store?

Chapter Three
     
     
    The next morning started before dawn. Brandywyn had barely slept, so upset and uncomfortable was she. Smith took her to a stream to wash her face and hands, but there was nothing she could do with her long hair, so long as her hands were tied. Judging by her reflection in the water, she looked like a dirty, wild-haired beggar. And, to top it all off, her bottom was still painful. Smith allowed her to drink water from the stream, but, once more, she had no food.
    Hunger gnawed at her belly as she watched the men eat. Someone had snared a pair of rabbits, so their hard bread was supplemented with meat. The smell was mouth-watering, and soon Brandywyn had to close her eyes and turn away from the fire and the food, or risk going mad.
    Finally, as dawn was beginning to lighten the sky, they took to horses. Smith made her ride with her skirts hitched up, forcing her bruised bottom onto the saddle blanket, where she sat behind him. At least he had untied her hands and feet and she would not have to lie belly-down across the saddle!
    They set a quick pace, so Brandywyn had to hold onto Smith tightly. He was a big man, by anyone’s standards—brawny and muscular. Brandywyn’s arms could barely go round him, and her hands would not meet at his middle. And he smelled bad, like wood smoke and strong sweat, and spilled wine. As they sat so intimately on the horse, Brandywyn tried to surreptitiously feel around his middle for his knife. Everyone had one, if only their eating knife. If she could get his knife, she might be able to stab him, push him off the horse, and gallop away into the forest. Apparently, she was not stealthy enough because he slapped her hand away, making her fingers ache. Without a word, he transferred his knife to his boot. She hated him with all her heart and vowed, once again, to escape his brutal clutches.
    The day wore on, and the men ate as they rode, stopping only to water the horses twice. It seemed like the journey was endless. Brandywyn’s bottom was raw from the rough blanket and her spankings of the day before, and she was thirsty. Smith had offered her only the smallest of sips from his water skin as they traveled.
    Misery brought unwelcome tears to Brandywyn’s eyes, but she fought them back. She tried to be stalwart. She tried to be fearless. But she was very, very afraid.
    “Where are you taking me?” she tried at a moment of strength.
    “Away from your father’s reach,” Smith replied unhelpfully.
    “Please? May I not know?”
    “No, you may not. Be quiet.”
    “I demand—”
    He reached down and squeezed her knee, hard. Brandywyn winced, but held her breath in order not to cry out.
    “I care not for your demands. Make another, Princess, and you will feel my belt again.”
    “Very well.”
    “Hmph.” He was surly, but he let go of her knee.
    Not much light penetrated the trees on either side of them, but at least they were on a cart road, and a road could be followed back as well as forward. Brandywyn thought it might be something she could use to her advantage, could she get away. She even considered throwing herself off the horse and running. But the horse was quite big—a destrier—and a fall like that would break something. She could not risk it. No, best she wait until nightfall when she might be stealthy and go before they woke—providing Smith did not tie her hand and foot again, guarding her carefully at night.
    The moon appeared in the sky, though it was not dusk yet. It was the same moon that she saw from her windows at the palace. The thought made her homesick all