Traitor's Masque (5 page)

“What were you doing in the king’s forest?” Perhaps he’d been silent out of a need to restrain his temper, because his question echoed with command rather than contrition.

“And what business is it of yours?” Trystan snapped back, now well beyond irritated. “The forest has always been free, unless you care to accuse me of poaching.” She swung to face him and held up empty hands to indicate her evident lack of stolen game. “As that is clearly ridiculous, I hope you’ll acknowledge your discourtesy and leave me in peace.”

The man’s scrutiny grew momentarily more intense, but ended abruptly with shrug and a brief quirk of his lips. “You are, in fact, correct,” he acknowledged with a nod. “I apologize. You appeared out of place, and as I regularly visit the woods, I felt it my duty to investigate.” He let out a deep sigh that sounded like concession. “As you say, your errand is your own. Please forgive me for frightening you.”

Somewhat mollified, but still feeling the vulnerability of her position, Trystan was no less determined to get rid of the encroaching stranger. If nothing else, perhaps she could ignore him to death.

Subsiding into a dignified silence, she turned and walked away. Theron needed time to recover from his headlong flight, and without encouragement, perhaps the other rider would simply give up and move on. She walked on for several minutes, trying to recapture some sense of peace. The sun was warm, and there were no sounds but birds overhead and hooves in the tall grass. It ought to have been a pleasant interlude, but it proved difficult to feel very pleased when her companion showed no signs of growing bored. If anything, he gave every evidence of complacent enjoyment of the situation, trailing in her wake with a loose rein while chewing on a grass stem. Trystan had no choice but to stop and glower at him in bemused frustration.

“Why are you still here?"

The strange man looked back with an expression of mild surprise. "I suppose I'm still hoping you’ll accept my apology." His quick and slightly rueful grin made him appear more mischievous than apologetic. “Or satisfy my curiosity. Or perhaps both, if I can manage to be sufficiently contrite.”

Trystan could not immediately produce a response. She had only limited experience with men in general, and owed much of what she did have to the occasional observation of her stepsisters’ prospective suitors. They tended to be foolish and self-absorbed, far more adept at flattery than honesty, despite the benefit of wealth and education. This man, though he was dressed as poorly as she, seemed to possess both authority and wit. Neither a fool nor a flatterer, he was far more dangerous to Trystan’s peace of mind than any other man of her acquaintance, narrow though it was.

At this point, her forward progress was impeded by a stone wall, which Theron was clearly too tired to hurdle. Rather than walk alongside it, Trystan decided to pretend that the wall had been her destination all along. With only a small effort, she pulled herself up and sat on the wide top, swinging her reins idly as if to rest.

The strange rider rested both hands on his pommel as he watched, then rewarded her efforts to ignore him with a self-deprecating laugh. “Do you know, it has been some time since I have been quite so determinedly repulsed,” he admitted, in an alarmingly cheerful voice. To Trystan’s dismay, he proceeded to dismount and seat himself a few feet away from her on the wall. “But,” he continued, “I daresay poor Parsifal here could use the rest.”

Despite her consternation, Trystan could not help eyeing his tall bay mare with some surprise. She darted one brief glance at his face to see if he was, in fact, serious.

“Yes,” he replied to her unspoken question, with a sheepish look that suggested he knew exactly what she was thinking. “Parsifal. I’m afraid I let my cousins name her, and was too preoccupied to assert beforehand that she was a
girl
horse.”

Trystan laughed before she had time to think better of it. She’d had no intention of encouraging the man, but it felt like a very long time since she last laughed. “Girl horse or not,” Trystan found herself admitting, albeit grudgingly, “I’ve not seen many who could keep up with Theron. She’s beautiful.”

Her companion grinned like a proud father. “She’s something, isn’t she?” He patted the mare’s nose fondly, then threw a quick, sideways glance at Trystan. “Though I confess I’ve not met many young women who could tell a hunter from a hack.”

So he was admitting that he had seen through her disguise. Trystan's apprehension, nearly forgotten in the midst of laughter, came surging back. She fell stiffly silent and wondered if she should simply get up and walk away.

To her surprise, the man seemed to sense her uneasiness. “I don’t intend to eat you, you know.” Startled by this absurdity, Trystan turned her gaze on her companion, whose wry expression made Trystan wonder if he had read her mind. “I only devour young maidens when there’s no other food to be had,” he promised solemnly, “and as I likewise have no designs on your virtue, can we be friends?”

His expression was so hopeful that Trystan could not quite bring herself to walk away. Yet. It was tempting to return his disarmingly lopsided smile with an amused smile of her own. And to wonder what it might be like to actually have a friend. What a pity that her need for anonymity prevented her from taking the idea seriously.

“You’re a complete stranger who began our acquaintance with intolerable rudeness,” Trystan answered, not entirely certain whether there were any actual guidelines for behavior in situations such as this. “I don’t know your name and I’m not about to tell you mine, and in any case, there is no one suitable to introduce us. I don’t see how we can be friends under the circumstances.” She could not explain, even to herself, the strange and illogical desire to not rebuff him completely.

She needn’t have worried. The young man waved a dismissive hand, apparently unmoved by her objections.

“I’m certain there is a way to resolve these difficulties,” he assured her. “It is perfectly within the bounds of etiquette to refer to you as ‘my lady’ or perhaps to hail you from afar as ‘hey there, you with the gray horse!’ I’m sure we could hold perfectly logical conversations if you would only consent to provide such titles for me in return.” The gravity of his expression was ruined by a gleam of what Trystan suspected was amusement in his eyes.

“Perhaps,” Trystan replied, in a suitably prim voice, “but I was taught to be polite. I couldn’t possibly call you any of the things that have thus far come to mind.” To the man's credit, he appeared to try very hard to remain solemn, but failed, his expression dissolving rapidly into delighted laughter.

“I begin to think you disapprove of me,” he offered, as soon as he was able, though he did not seem much distressed by the possibility.

“Yes,” Trystan answered baldly, “and I can only hope the experience will have an improving effect on your manners. Though,” she added, “I suspect the opposite will prove true.”

“No doubt you’re right,” the man returned, with unquenchable cheerfulness. “But I do believe you are stalling. If we’re to continue this conversation with even the slightest pretensions to decorum, we must establish what form of address you mean to use for the duration.”

“Oh, very well,” Trystan folded her arms and feigned disgust. “I suppose I could find some sort of label for you. If you insist.” She paused as if to consider. “I’m partial to ‘disagreeably inquisitive’ myself, but ‘self-satisfied prat’ would serve just as well. I'll let you decide.” She shoved her nose in the air and tried to look haughty, but the effect was rather spoiled by the grin that pulled irresistibly at the corner of her mouth. For some reason, it was suddenly very difficult to remain angry. Or serious.

Instead of being quite reasonably affronted, her companion only choked on another laugh. “I confess, I find it rather lowering to be thought disagreeable, or self-satisfied, but I am quite unable to argue with your other sentiments. And so, my lady,” he continued hopefully, “might I inquire whither you were bound this fine morning?”

Trystan raised an eyebrow at his formal tone. “You are welcome to inquire, but I’m not likely to answer,” she admitted. “I try to avoid being seen, for obvious reasons.” She gestured to her clothing. “In truth, I’m probably a fool to be talking to you at all. Before too long, I’m sure to say something I shouldn’t. Well,” she amended, “something else I shouldn’t. Your conversation seems to bring out the worst in me.”

Her companion feigned an expression of affronted dignity. “But I’ve been the very model of propriety,” he protested, “and I said I wasn’t going to eat you. If I’d had any dishonorable intentions, which I didn't, let me assure you I’m now much too terrified to act upon them. What are you afraid of?”

Trystan was tempted to smile, but she could not afford to let him distract her again.

“Nothing.” She tried to brush the question aside, while admitting to herself that what she was doing was dangerous. She could not remember seeing the man before, but what if he had seen her? What if he could guess who she was? By his dress and demeanor, he was probably some young lord’s groom, a man who might have crossed her path during past hunts with her father.

Then again, his cousins had named the horse, so possibly he was the young lord himself, slumming in the Kingswood before breakfast. The idea almost made her smile in spite of herself. But her continued silence would do nothing to dispel suspicion. She had to say something. Anything, as long as it wasn't the truth.

“Do you know”—she turned and accosted him abruptly—“I think it’s most unfair that you’ve been asking all the questions.” Which was true, she realized. He had been friendly, but hardly forthcoming. “It seems unchivalrous to expect a lady to declare her name and intentions first.” Unfortunately, it sounded like exactly what it was: an attempt to deflect the man’s persistent curiosity.

“Not very sporting,” he noted, “but not precisely unjustified, either.” He sighed, looked off across the downs, then glanced at her and offered what sounded oddly like an apology: “It seems I’m not so very anxious to lose my anonymity either. I suspect we are at a social impasse.”

Trystan was surprised by his acuity, but not his reluctance. A young nobleman, if this was in fact his secret, would hardly want a wild young woman of uncertain origins showing up to embarrass him in front of his family.
 

“Perhaps I should assure
you
,” she said dryly, “that you have nothing to fear from me.”

He looked at her in surprise, then appeared stricken as he realized what direction her thoughts had taken. “Don’t be daft,” he said, swinging the tips of his reins at her in mock retribution. “That wasn’t meant to warn you off.”

“Then why?” Trystan asked, her curiosity getting the better of her tongue. “And don’t pretend that you fear censure. Young men are encouraged to be independent. What would it matter if you were known to have committed the terrible crime of chasing mysterious persons across a cow pasture before breakfast?” Her slightly bitter tone failed to get a rise out of her companion.

“Because, for me as much as for you, the whole point of being out here is to be unknown. To be free of life’s burdens, if only for a few hours.” He shook his head at her. “Don’t make the mistake of believing that all young men are at liberty to do as we please. We may bear different expectations, but they are binding just the same.”
 

Abashed, Trystan considered an apology, but her companion’s expression held no judgment.

“It is nothing to do with you, I swear it," he promised solemnly. "On a day like today, I would refuse my name to a squirrel.” Trystan choked on a laugh as he continued. “I know it seems a rather pathetic rebellion,” he admitted, “but sometimes I tire of being what I must. I have judged it better to risk my reputation than to risk becoming a tiresome, predictable curmudgeon before I’m thirty.”

It was an echo of Trystan’s own, scarcely understood fears. What if she never escaped her life? What would she become if she lost even the freedom of these occasional rides? Could she survive without any hope that life might someday be different?

An unguarded glance at her companion produced an entirely unexpected rush of emotion she could not readily identify. It might even have been liking. Though it should have been impossible to feel such a thing for an inquisitive, self-satisfied prat.

“I fear,” Trystan said lightly, hoping to disguise her own consternation, “you may be too late.” He looked startled. “But even a tiresome, predictable curmudgeon is entitled to the occasional day off.”

The man put on a pained expression and pressed a hand to his heart. “You wound me, lady. How have I offended thee, to deserve such callous disregard?”

Trystan giggled. “Stop making me laugh,” she protested. “It isn’t dignified, especially when we’ve only just met.”

“Dignity,” he replied, “is highly over-rated. Besides, how can we have just met? We never once spoke of the weather or complimented one another on our sartorial splendor. It seems obvious to me that we’ve known each other for ages.”

He was joking of course, but the joke was not without truth. Perhaps she did not feel as though she knew him, but she did feel as though she wanted to. Which was ridiculous. They both had too many secrets.

And, as she had to keep telling herself, she couldn’t possibly like him. This unfamiliar feeling was nothing but her own longing for a friend. Someone who could know her, and someone who could be known in return. This man could not possibly be that person. They may have shared feelings, but they did not even dare share their names. There could be nothing here for either of them but pretense, which would likely end in pain. It was long past time for her to leave the stranger behind.

Without making any reply, Trystan hopped off the wall and looped her reins back over Theron’s ears in preparation to retreat. The gelding was still tired, but if they kept to a walk he would cool off in time. Grasping her stirrup, she realized too late that she would have to climb back on the wall if she hoped to mount. Muttering under her breath, she turned around and caught the eye of her companion, who was, curse him, watching her with a look that was both hopeful and worried.