Damien stripped off his travel-stained clothes and tossed them on the bench at the foot of his oversized bed. The room they’d provided was every bit as luxurious as The Golden Stag. White silk sheets covered the bed and a glow-stone lamp of blown glass rested beside it on the far nightstand. A jug of water and a basin sat on the nightstand beside him.

If this was how the barons lived he couldn’t see they had any room to complain about taxes. He’d pictured hard men living in rough forts surrounded by enemies. This place was every bit as nice as Uncle Andy’s castle back at the capital.

Damien filled the basin and cleaned up. The cool, clear water felt wonderful on his dust-caked skin. A soft towel hung from the drawer pull and he used it to dry off before tossing it in the pile with his dirty clothes.

Now the question was, had his change of clothes stayed clean in his rucksack? He dumped it out on the bed and sighed his relief at finding the black cloth free of dirt. Behind him the door creaked. He spun to find Lane standing in the doorway that connected their rooms, her face bright red. She was staring at him, mouth partway open.

He slung the tunic over his head. “Didn’t anyone teach you to knock? Some diplomat.”

“Sorry. I just wanted to make sure you had something clean to wear. I see you do.” She closed the door.

Damien shook his head, pulled on his pants, and buckled his sword on his back. Lane’s reaction was typical of people seeing his scars for the first time. He should be used to it by now, but it gnawed at him all the same. At least they didn’t bother Lizzy. Her being a demon, he suspected she’d seen a lot worse over the centuries.

Now all he had to do was wait for Lane to finish. He didn’t know how long that would take, but he suspected from the stories he’d heard from some of the masters about their wives that he should get comfortable.