The Wrong Prince (7 page)

IT RAINED ALL EVENING. PAVOLA Ward listened to the droplets tapping against her window, unable to shake the morning’s encounter from her mind. She set down her pages. It was no use. For the first time in her young life, she couldn’t concentrate on reading.

The man imprisoned above in the tower’s keep struck her as neither rough nor imposing. In fact, he seemed rather mild and refined. Why had such a gentle soul been subjugated to the worst sort of confinement, she wondered? What could he have possibly done to earn such condemnation?

Pavi had heard rumors of King Ira’s increasing lunacy, and secretly agreed. Perhaps the ruler had taken to incarcerating innocent citizens for no reason whatever? Given what he’d committed against his subjects of late, she wouldn’t put it past him.

At any rate, the more she thought on Mit and his kindly disposition, the less threatened she felt. And his resounding claims of lethal hunger and thirst as she departed the tower that morning ate at her. How could she knowingly leave a man to starve, even if he was a prisoner?

To feed him would be treason, Pavola warned herself. And for the first time in years, the king was actually lodging at Wintersea. She knew not for how long, but betraying him right under his nose would be most unwise. Nay, the logical course of action would be to keep her hands clean, and try to forget the incident altogether.

…But a man was starving!

No one cared what she did anyway, she reasoned. That had always been the rule at Wintersea: to pretend she didn’t exist. And the king’s mind was so addled, it was likely he’d forgotten all about her. If Pavi returned to the high tower, where she’d intended to study, and brought Mit some of her dinner, who would pay her any mind?

And so, as the sun fell, she made her ascent. She hauled her books in a tote this time, with food from the kitchens wrapped in brown paper. The stairs were endless, but she was grateful for the exercise. She was not permitted outside of Wintersea’s walls to run or exert herself otherwise.

At last, she made it to the top of the tower, barely able to distinguish the man through the shadows. “Mit?” she asked, uncertain.

Rustling. A figure rose in the far corner, and the voice that echoed in her direction was soft and vulnerable: “Pavola?”

She set down the tote and relit the sagging wax candle on the iron stand. His face was revealed to her, light hair limp and parted, sapphire blue eyes wan beneath black spectacles, pronounced lines around his mouth—laughter lines. He was a laughing sort of person? Again, the girl was baffled by his presence at Wintersea.

“I’ve brought victuals.” She approached the cell. Peering in, she saw naught but a grimy floor. “Haven’t you anything to sleep on?”

He shook his head, though his gaze was fixated on the brown paper in her hands. Carefully, she handed it to him. She stepped back as he snatched it with alarming force, his breaths audible as he tore open the paper and crammed the food into his mouth before even looking to see what it was.

He moaned with zeal—a barbaric, orgasmic sound—and Pavi took another automatic step back. “Water,” he suddenly rasped.

She handed him a flask, and watched his Adam’s apple bob intently as he drank without pause until he’d drained the container. His ensuing exhalation shocked the wits out of her, so loud and forceful did it smack the stone walls, hissing all around her.

“My goodness, you are like a primate, sir,” she snapped.

Unexpectedly, he boomed with laughter, throwing his back against the wall. “Oh, Pavola,” he declared, his mirth unbridled. “You’ve no idea! That is the longest I’ve ever endured without food or drink. And you…you’ve just saved me!”

He continued to lavish delirious praise upon her, even as he shoved more food into his mouth, and Pavi fought to maintain an even expression. She turned away, her cheeks reddening.

“I’m going to study up here, if you don’t mind,” she finally informed him. She withdrew an armful of books from her bag, and placed them upon the desk.

“What are you studying for?” asked Mit through a mouthful of cheese.

“University.”

He wiped his lips. “University?”

“Aye. Soon, I shall receive correspondences regarding the applications I’ve submitted.”

“Which institution will you attend?” He seemed genuinely interested, gripping the bars of his door as he awaited her response.

Pavi shrugged. “Whichever is the most prominent one that accepts me.”

“What do you want to study?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” she pointed out.

“You have a lot of answers.” He smiled.

Pavi momentarily lost herself in that smile. She’d never before felt the odd twist in her gut, as though her stomach were wringing itself out. She shook off the confounding sensation; it was probably due to her long trek up so many stairs.

“I’m not entirely certain yet,” she admitted. “I’m partial to all of the natural philosophies: maths and sciences, astronomy, geometry….”

“What about poetry?” he interrupted.

She waved a hand, irked. “I haven’t time for poetry.”

“Why not?”

His questions were beginning to annoy her. But she looked at him again, his face earnest and hanging onto her every word, and she softened. Why, he wasn’t harassing her with rhetoric. He really wanted to know.

“Because poetry isn’t useful,” she tried to explain. “Mathematics and natural studies teach us something true of the world. There is one correct answer; all others are incorrect. In poetry and the arts, there are no wrong answers. It’s like everything is somehow valid.”

With childlike joy, Mit laughed. “I know! Isn’t it splendid?”

“No.” She frowned. “It peeves me.” She pulled out the stool and sat. “I’m going to study now,” she announced. “This is the only place where I can read in silence without overhearing the soldiers’ noisy drills, or suffering the draft in my quarters. It’s warmer up here, you know. That’s because heat rises. It’s Wheatley’s Fourth Principle of Thermodynamic Observations.”

“I believe you, Pavola.” Mit’s voice was gentle as he lowered himself onto the floor. “Let me hinder your education no longer.”

She went to work, finding her place among the tomes and unfurling her scrolls. It wasn’t long, however, before she heard a wistful exhalation behind her. She lifted her quill and began to copy notes onto blank parchment, only to be interrupted by another longing sigh.

Irate, she turned. “Yes?”

“Forgive me, but…I don’t suppose you’d loan me some paper and a writing utensil, would you?”

She humored him. With a stack of parchments and a lead rod, she approached the cell. She traded the supplies for his food wrappings and empty flask, and the man knelt down at once, scratching away at the paper.

Somewhat amused, she resumed her seat. Once she’d finished rereading a chapter on amphibious anatomy, she glanced back at Mit, who still scribbled away in consternation. Curiosity got the best of her. “What are you writing?” she asked him.

“As long as I’m stuck here,” he grunted, “I’m going to write my own novel.”

Pavi snorted. “A
novel
.” She couldn’t think of anything less worthy of a person’s time. All the same, she continued to work alongside him, the peaceful rain pattering outside his barred window.

EACH DAY, THEY NEARED THE mountains. Were Geo alone, he’d have crossed through them. Treacherous and cold though they appeared, the distance was more direct. With Lucie, however, he erred on the side of caution. He’d not subject a lady to a soldier’s traveling conditions.

They took the slower route, through the towns stationed at the mountains’ foothills. It had been another long day of riding horseback when the moon overtook the evening sky, and Lucie spoke behind him. “Please, may we eat real food this evening? If I must eat any more of that soldiers’ grub, I’m going to retch.”

Geo twisted his mouth. He shared her sentiments, and possessed enough gold to dine at any hall, but he ran the risk of being recognized. Given the ongoing war, he didn’t imagine any Llewesians would be too pleased to discover a Tybirian royal in their midst.

Then again, these were simple mountain towns. And the humble folk therein might not readily recognize him. So long as he and Lucie kept a low profile, perhaps they could get away with one night at an inn.

They found a lively joint hopping with patrons and music. Good, thought Geo, steering the horse its way—the more crowded, the better. With so much commotion, it would be easy to blend in. Once the groom secured their steed, the prince led Lucie into the noisy hall.

Villagers were merrymaking, gambling, drinking, supping and dancing as adept fiddlers projected tunes at lightning-paced tempos. Lucie watched them, intrigued, as Geo found a spot at the edge of a table. She sat down across from him, still admiring the musicians. “I could never dance as fast as they play,” she laughed.

Dinner took some time to reach them, given the high demand. But it had been worth the wait, for the meat was fresh and the ale rich, such as they hadn’t tasted since the onset of their journey. Lucie’s golden cheeks grew steadily pinker as she drank. The effect was admittedly endearing.

Once they had dined to their stomachs’ content, Geo arose, offering her a hand. “Let’s see how fast you can dance, then.” He could tell she was eager to partake of the music, so frequently did her eyes pan over to the dancers.

She grinned and took hold of his arm, and the pair moved to the back of the room. The patrons raised their voices in tune with the old folk song, a melody Geo hadn’t heard in years, which recalled to him happier, more peaceful times.

“Do you remember the first time we danced?”

He met Lucie’s eyes, unsure why she would bring it up. Of course he remembered the first time they had danced together. He remembered the first time he’d done anything with her—seen her, kissed her, held her.

She twirled under his arm. “It was to
Lae Mondau.
You were very good.” She staggered somewhat, and he gripped her waist, steadying her.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, I remember.”

They resumed, and Geo did not remove his hands from her. He attempted to convince himself that it was only because she was tipsy, and he wished to prevent her from falling and hurting herself. But in truth, he couldn’t take his hands off of her if he tried. They were adhered in place, so incredible did it feel to touch her again, in a setting where no one knew or cared, for what would probably be the last time in their lives.

He pulled her closer, regardless of the fact that the other men bounced and spun their partners about. Under his voice, he hummed along with the melody, as others howled it aloud:

She’s a catch, the pretty one

With hair that glimmers like the sun

A smile so bright, her laugh so warm

Oh, fair lassie, take my arm….

Lucie squeezed his hands. “Sorry, but I feel a bit winded. I ought to sit down.”

Reluctant, Geo let her go. “All right. Find a seat, and I’ll bring you some water.”

She blew him a kiss and traipsed over to a table, and he suppressed his smile all the way to the bar. In spite of everything, being with her made him feel indescribable. It was the same way he’d felt the night she had first strolled into his father’s ballroom, enigmatic and swathed in mint green taffeta. He instantly knew he had to have her, and would accept no other outcome.

What if he had never pursued her that evening? Regardless of the less-than-ideal future that awaited them as siblings-in-law, Geo couldn’t bring himself to wish he hadn’t. There was more to her, he suspected. Secrets, feelings she wasn’t letting on. Hadn’t she hinted as much? Perhaps they needed to talk—but not tonight, while the drink was clearly affecting her.

He retrieved a glass of water from the frazzled barman and wove his way back to Lucie, but she wasn’t where he’d left her. Concerned, Geo searched the hall.

His muscles tensed when he finally spotted her. She was the only lady at a congested table, surrounded by strange men and nearly sitting in the lap of one. They honed in on her, competing for her attention. Geo stalked over, not caring should he spill a splash of water. The men’s simpering gazes upon her were artificial, the glances they exchanged with one another calculating, sinister.

“There you are.” He clamped her shoulder. “I was looking all over for you.”

Lucie giggled as the rogues pushed more pints her way, and she downed another. “Oh, Geo—Shiro here’s just told me the most hilarious joke. Would you like to hear it?”

“No.”

“Such a stiff,” she complained, leaning against the man beside her, who was quick to offer her another drink.

Geo glared at him. “Come, man, can’t you see she’s had enough?”

“The lady will decide when she’s had enough,” the brute grunted. “Won’t you, sweetheart?”

Geo seared. “She is in no condition to decide for herself.” He pulled her up. “Excuse us.”

“Hey, now,” the men scolded him at large, rising up threateningly.

“Gentlemen,” Lucie staggered to her feet with a carefree chuckle, “really, it’s all right.”

“And who d’you reckon you are?” the one beside her confronted Geo. “Her father?”

Geo did not relinquish her arm. “I am her brother.”

“Really,” he drawled. “The way you was lookin’ at her whilst dancing didn’t seem very brotherly to me.”

Geo had heard enough. “Lucie, let’s go.” He guided her away.

She tripped over her feet as he pushed through the crowd and led her out the front door. She was still chortling as they emerged out to the dark road, hanging on his arm. “Ea-
sy
.” She prodded him playfully. “Why so uptight, Sir Serious? That would be your name, were you knighted.”

“You’re drunk,” Geo informed her.

Her face reddened. “Am not!”

“Are too,” he whispered. “And you’re causing a scene. Not to mention….” He thought on the gang of predators indoors, his anger boiling. “Listen. You mustn’t ever let a man take advantage of you.”

She made a rude noise, startling him as she blew air between her lips. “Ha, ha,
ha
!” she shrieked, crouching over. “This, coming from Georome Straussen!”

“Shh!”
Geo covered her mouth. “Don’t say my name aloud! Not here.” He glanced around apprehensively.

Lucie swatted his hand away, and with the effort, stumbled down onto the road. Geo rolled his eyes, waiting for her to collect herself and rise. But she didn’t. “I’m stuck,” she claimed, peering up at him accusingly. “Something’s pulling me down.”

“You aren’t stuck.” Irritated, Geo knelt beside her. Grasping her elbows, he tried to hoist her up, but she dropped from his grip. “Whoa, whoa.” Alarmed, he realized her legs were sliding into what appeared to be a manhole in the street.

Lucie clung to his wrists, sudden fear in her eyes as Geo made to better angle himself. But his boot caught in a puddle of sewage, and he slipped. At that moment, the rumbling of wheels met his ears. He looked up to see an enormous carriage hurtling in their direction.

The deadly hooves of four galloping horses charged straight at his face. Before he had time to react, Lucie was torn from his grip and fell, screaming, down the manhole. Geo cried after her just as something yanked his legs, and he plummeted down with her.