hesaw a maidservant laden with towels. Turning his head, he tried to look inconspicuous. Why should she imagine that a prince would appear in rumpled clothes at this hour of the morning? In any case, she did not look at him twice.
George had little trouble finding his way to the kitchen and out to the yard beyond. He walked for several yards, to make sure that no one would think he was running away. Then he let himself go. He felt his blood pumping freely, the ground pounding against his bare feet, and the stretch of muscles that had been too long kept tightly fettered.
He stopped short at the sight of a woman with streaming red hair coming toward the castle with a wild hound at her side. If George was not mistaken, it was the same wild hound he had dreamed about the night before.
But who was the woman? Her face wore a strangely distant expression. There was some old hurt in her, but from the way she held her head, she seemed used to pride. Her clothing was as rumpled as George’s. The dress was cut with feminine frills that seemed entirely out of place on her. Yet she was beautiful, in a sharp and startling way.
He stared at her as she came closer.
She stopped when she came to him, then stared back unabashedly. “Prince George,” she said. There was no warmth in her voice.
How had she guessed who he was?
Then it came to him, and he flushed with embarrassment.
“Princess Beatrice,” he said with a nod. How could it have taken him so long to recognize her? The hound should have been a giveaway from the first moment. But the dream had confused him. The wolfish hound in his dream had been no pet.
The woman looked down at her hound, as if to see herself in those deep brown eyes. Then she nodded and said, “Yes. I am Princess Beatrice.”
She was as tall as George, long and lean and muscular, with a regal neck and calloused tapering fingers. Her skin was badly freckled, but it complemented her flame red hair perfectly, and her hazel eyes shone up at him.
She spoke baldly. “You are not what I expected.”
What had she been told of him? Not likely flattering, considering the accommodations in his bedchamber.
But then again, had the descriptions he had heard of her been any better?
They stared at each other some more. The hound came forward and sniffed at George’s leg, then circled it gently, testing.
George bent down and offered his hand. The hound rubbed her nose over it, then licked at the places between George’s fingers. When she was done, she stepped back to her place at her mistress’s side.
George could not help staring at the hound for a moment, as long as he had looked at Beatrice—or longer. She had a look of wildness that was unmistakable. Her eyes were dark and deep. Her nose was long and sharp; her jaw was sharply cut underneath. Her hair was short and so black it seemed to glow in the snatches of sunlight that hit her. Her legs were long and lean, agile and steady. George wished right then that he could go running a race with her.
The headache that had been with him since the night before dulled a bit just at the sight of her, and he itched to try out the language he had learned from his pup. But of course he could not.
How was it possible for Princess Beatrice to keep a hound so close to her yet never tame it?
Or was he wrong? Was the hound no more than any other hound?
He turned his eyes back to the princess, suddenly realizing she would likely be offended by his long perusal of her hound instead of herself. But he could see no sign of disapproval or envy in her eyes. Another surprise in her, that lack of vanity. She was as captivated by her hound’s beauty as George was, it seemed.
Yet she did not have the animal magic. For some reason, George was instantly sure of that. She was too open about her bond to her hound. No one who truly feared discovery could be like that, in either Kendel or Sarrey. And there was something else, something in the air thatGeorge was sure he would have
George had little trouble finding his way to the kitchen and out to the yard beyond. He walked for several yards, to make sure that no one would think he was running away. Then he let himself go. He felt his blood pumping freely, the ground pounding against his bare feet, and the stretch of muscles that had been too long kept tightly fettered.
He stopped short at the sight of a woman with streaming red hair coming toward the castle with a wild hound at her side. If George was not mistaken, it was the same wild hound he had dreamed about the night before.
But who was the woman? Her face wore a strangely distant expression. There was some old hurt in her, but from the way she held her head, she seemed used to pride. Her clothing was as rumpled as George’s. The dress was cut with feminine frills that seemed entirely out of place on her. Yet she was beautiful, in a sharp and startling way.
He stared at her as she came closer.
She stopped when she came to him, then stared back unabashedly. “Prince George,” she said. There was no warmth in her voice.
How had she guessed who he was?
Then it came to him, and he flushed with embarrassment.
“Princess Beatrice,” he said with a nod. How could it have taken him so long to recognize her? The hound should have been a giveaway from the first moment. But the dream had confused him. The wolfish hound in his dream had been no pet.
The woman looked down at her hound, as if to see herself in those deep brown eyes. Then she nodded and said, “Yes. I am Princess Beatrice.”
She was as tall as George, long and lean and muscular, with a regal neck and calloused tapering fingers. Her skin was badly freckled, but it complemented her flame red hair perfectly, and her hazel eyes shone up at him.
She spoke baldly. “You are not what I expected.”
What had she been told of him? Not likely flattering, considering the accommodations in his bedchamber.
But then again, had the descriptions he had heard of her been any better?
They stared at each other some more. The hound came forward and sniffed at George’s leg, then circled it gently, testing.
George bent down and offered his hand. The hound rubbed her nose over it, then licked at the places between George’s fingers. When she was done, she stepped back to her place at her mistress’s side.
George could not help staring at the hound for a moment, as long as he had looked at Beatrice—or longer. She had a look of wildness that was unmistakable. Her eyes were dark and deep. Her nose was long and sharp; her jaw was sharply cut underneath. Her hair was short and so black it seemed to glow in the snatches of sunlight that hit her. Her legs were long and lean, agile and steady. George wished right then that he could go running a race with her.
The headache that had been with him since the night before dulled a bit just at the sight of her, and he itched to try out the language he had learned from his pup. But of course he could not.
How was it possible for Princess Beatrice to keep a hound so close to her yet never tame it?
Or was he wrong? Was the hound no more than any other hound?
He turned his eyes back to the princess, suddenly realizing she would likely be offended by his long perusal of her hound instead of herself. But he could see no sign of disapproval or envy in her eyes. Another surprise in her, that lack of vanity. She was as captivated by her hound’s beauty as George was, it seemed.
Yet she did not have the animal magic. For some reason, George was instantly sure of that. She was too open about her bond to her hound. No one who truly feared discovery could be like that, in either Kendel or Sarrey. And there was something else, something in the air thatGeorge was sure he would have
Similar Books
