His Princess (A Royal Romance) by Abigail Graham

and not watch.”
    I close my eyes to prove my point.
    “You’re acting like a child.”
    “Whatever, my prince. The bird has to eat. You don’t have to get your rocks off watching it eat. I’m not going to look.”
    I open my eyes when he lets out a noise that’s half groan and half growl. He barks an order at the retainer holding the damn bird and the man wheels his mount around and heads back toward the stables.
    “Fine. I grow hungry. Lunch.”
    The prince heels his mount forward and mine just sort of follows him. I hold on to the stupid sidesaddle and sit there, trying to figure out if my butt is actually slipping and I’m going to fall in the mud, or I’m just imagining it. God, this is dumb. Why can’t I just sit in a regular saddle?
    Besides the skirts, I mean.
    It’s hot out here. I’m starting to sweat. The heat doesn’t seem to touch the prince. When he stops on a rise and sits up tall in the saddle, I forget for a moment that he’s a complete monster. With the sun at his back his hair glows a little, shifting subtly in the light breeze. It would be a good pose for a painting.
    He looks back at me and heels his mount forward again. I don’t have much of a choice but to be carried along.
    At the end of the ride is a wide, low pavilion. The prince dismounts and the retainers fall back, doing the same. I start to scoot my ass off the sidesaddle but finally give up and wait for him to lower me down, again by the waist. To steady myself, I put my hands on his shoulders this time, but pull them back as if I’ve touched a hot iron as soon as my slippers touch the carpeted planks.
    God, this is so silly.
    There are servants waiting for us, which I guess shouldn’t surprise me. I sweep my skirts under the table as the prince pushes a heavy, rough-hewn chair in under me then dashes to take his own seat.
    “You can feed me all you want. I’ll just get fat. I won’t like you.”
    “You could stand to plump up a little. Working in that aid camp has made you skinny.”
    I flinch and grit my teeth.
    “I can see you bristle at that. Does it insult you to be called skinny?”
    “I’m not skinny,” I growl.
    “Slender, then,” he says, with a casual shrug, as a servant lays his plate before him.
    He didn’t have to tell me. He’s been staring at them the whole time.
    Lunch is roast beef, still steaming, roasted vegetables, and boiled potatoes that taste like onion and spices when I pop one of the little cubes in my mouth.
    I’m not going to starve myself to make a point. Arguing with this arrogant bastard is hungry work.
    After a moment I realize he’s watching me eat and force myself to slow down.
    “Better than MREs, yes?”
    “Yes, I’ll give you that. Not that you deserve the credit. One of your slaves cooked it.”
    “This again? They’re not slaves.”
    I look around. “Yeah, can they quit this job?”
    “This isn’t a job , it’s an honor. Their ancestors have served my family since…” he trails off. “Never mind. Don’t belittle my people with your ignorant assessment of their well-being. They are perfectly content.”
    “Yeah, the house slaves get treated better, is that it?”
    “You are beginning to test my patience.”
    “Good. Spending your whole life pampered and fussed over has clearly given you a fat head, my prince.”
    He slams his fist on the table, and the plates and cups jump.
    “ Enough .”
    I look down at my plate and saw at my meat, my chest fluttering. I pushed it a little too far that time.
    “You think because I have some fine things, my life is easy.”
    I take a deep breath. “I just see a country full of captive people with someone commanding their every step.”
    I pop a slice of beef in my mouth and take time to chew it slowly, savoring the flavors, and swallow before I speak again.
    “Only, who commands you?”
    “No one.”
    “Exactly my point.”
    “That makes me no more free,” he says softly.
    I stop chewing to look at him. He sets his knife