Traitor's Masque (6 page)

“Did I offend you?” he asked suddenly. “I assure you it was not my intention to be insultingly familiar. If I have frightened you again I apologize.”

Trystan drew a quick breath, astonished anew by both his perceptiveness and his readiness to apologize to a woman whose appearance and manner gave him no reason to assume her a lady. “I am neither offended, nor insulted, nor frightened,” she said as evenly as possible. “Merely struck by the absurdity of this conversation.” She flung up an arm in frustration. “We speak to one another like friends, but dare not reveal our names! It is irrational and untenable and…” She hunted for a better word. “Utterly pointless!” Not her most eloquent moment. “I have only this one day to escape my life and I am not willing to spend it in a way I might regret.”

She spoke heatedly and too hastily and realized as she finished that her words could easily have wounded, but the man on the wall did not reply angrily or walk away. She met his gaze without meaning to, and it held only a look of grave concern.

“You are right, of course,” he said, descending from his own perch on the wall and running a weary hand through already rumpled hair. “We should be about our own pursuits.” His mouth quirked ruefully. “I hope my detaining you has not marred your day beyond repair?”

Trystan looked back at him with a hopeless mixture of confusion and amusement and what she admitted to herself was regret. She wished he was someone she could have known.

“My peace of mind, perhaps, but not my day. And if only I had a mounting block even my mind might be significantly restored.” She feigned a cheerfulness she did not feel, but neither of them was fooled.

Expecting an equally inane reply, she was taken aback when the strange man only walked to the side of her horse, knelt there in the grass, and cupped his hands for her foot, much as Andrei or Alexei might have done.

Trystan backed away, unable to conceal her shock. “No! You cannot… I’m not… stop it!” It was unnerving, how he seemed to confound her expectations at every turn. And how he managed to look so unruffled, kneeling there in the dirt, making her feel so provincial for her protestation.

“I don’t see why not,” he replied reasonably, “unless you mean to insult my ability to support such a tiny creature as you, in which case I protest. Strenuously.” He meant to make her laugh again. She would have laughed had she not been undone by his selfless act of courtesy. Open mouthed, she stared at him for long enough that he lifted a brow at her in mock annoyance.

“My lady, are you going to mount up or not?” he demanded. “My knee is getting wet.”

Trystan blushed, hated herself for blushing, and hastily put her left boot in his hands, wincing mentally at the worn muddiness of it, hating herself again for noticing. She actually closed her eyes in confusion as he tossed her up, as easily as if she were a bird instead of a girl. Hiding her embarrassment by fiddling with her reins and stirrups, she turned to thank him and depart, only to find that he had mounted his own horse and sat looking at her expectantly.

“Thank you,” she forced out, “for…” she stopped. What
was
she thanking him for?

“For chasing you, waylaying you, delaying you, and irritating you? You’re welcome.”

She glared at him, but without actual heat. He was, in a way, absolutely accurate. So why had she felt compelled to thank him? For making her smile? For making her laugh? For taking her outside of her life if only for a few sunlit moments on a stone wall in the middle of… The middle of where?

She took a look around her and swore, rather forcefully, as she realized what he had probably already figured out. She was lost. Her headlong flight had left her solidly in the middle of unfamiliar farm country, miles from recognizable landmarks, with an exhausted horse.

When she looked back at him, the wretched man only raised his eyebrows and grinned in appreciation of her less-than-decorous language.

“Dare I observe,” he stated carefully, “that you may in fact be in need of directions?”

“I don’t know,” Trystan responded irritably. “Do you dare?” It would have been so very satisfying at that point to ride off in a huff, but it would most likely only prove more embarrassing later. Perhaps she should settle for being grateful that someone was there to point her in the right direction. Sighing in resignation she turned Theron around. “All right, fine,” she answered without much grace. “I’m lost. But I’m obviously not going to tell you where I live. So,” she conceded, “would you be so kind as to direct me to the King’s Tree?”

The man’s eyes widened fractionally, while he tried not to smile. “Ah...” He took a moment to clear his throat conspicuously. “Where exactly did you expect the Tree to be?”

Trystan reddened yet again. She was certain she had never in her life blushed so many times in a single day. “It’s hardly my fault that some strange man attempted to waylay me in the middle of the Kingswood,” she groused back, loathe to admit her stupidity. “One cannot simply ask any suspicious-looking person they should happen to encounter for directions.”

Her newly appointed guide favored her with a quirky expression, not of triumph, but of genuine, good-natured amusement. “Not to worry, my lady.” He accompanied his words with a bow that managed to appear courtly, even from the saddle. “It so happens that I was headed in that very direction myself when we met, so… ah… precipitously? I would be delighted to make amends for causing you dismay.”

Trystan hesitated. She knew very well she should say no. She should ask him for simple directions and ride away, leaving behind her embarrassment, her uncertainty, and a man who was so unexpectedly kind that she could not bear to deny him again.

Resigned to her own foolishness, she nodded, carefully ignoring the silly little leap of happiness in her chest.

“I accept,” she said.

 
Chapter 2
 

His Royal Highness Prince Ramsey Donevan Tremontaine rode homeward through the Kingswood at a brisk trot, feeling rather guilty. His clandestine early-morning exit from Evenburg Castle had been nothing if not un-princely, but he had been desperate. The past week had been more than usually exhausting, both mentally and physically, and he would have done far worse than sneak out of his rooms for the privilege of a few hours alone to clear his head.

Ramsey had always been a private person, and the past ten years of his increasingly public life had taught him the true value of solitude. It was the one prerogative of his position that he protected with every resource at his royal command. When royal command was no longer enough, he was more than willing to resort to subterfuge.

The plan had been simple: instruct his valet that he was officially still asleep, steal away, ride to the woods and return before the court finished breakfast. As long as he returned by mid-morning, no one else would be awake enough to miss him.

It was a good plan, and one that Ramsey had frequently put into practice during the busiest seasons at court, when the constant barrage of people and their concerns fatigued him beyond bearing. Even when court was nearly empty, the incessant arguments between councilors, guild leaders and the king occasionally drove him to make his escape. After a few hours of peace and quiet he would return, to silently resume the burdens of a life he had never wanted. As long as he was careful, Ramsey’s escapes hurt no one, and ensured that he was able to meet his numerous obligations with at least the appearance of equanimity.

But those escapes had never before resulted in such a shameful neglect of his responsibilities. It was now well past luncheon. Ramsey had missed at least two meetings and a formal presentation, and by this time was no doubt the subject of a great deal of speculation.

He was supposed to be the reliable one. The respectable one. The prince who didn't make mistakes. As much as he regretted the lapse, Ramsey considered that perhaps this would teach the court to remember that he was human.

As the path they followed emerged from the wood and approached the crossroads, Parsifal dropped to a walk and swiveled one dark ear in her rider's direction. To return, or not to return?

Ramsey's lips quirked in wry amusement. Even his horse could tell how badly he wanted to escape his life. With a gentle nudge of his heel, the prince directed his mare down the broad, smooth Crown road towards Evenleigh. Towards home, and whatever dire consequences awaited him.

The king was going to be furious. Ramsey's father had been perpetually irascible for weeks, probably due to the crippling combination of intransigent guild leaders and a resurgence of gout. The king's patience was short at the best of times, which these were emphatically not. This particular transgression would doubtless lead to an irate lecture about the dignity and safety of the crown, among other things.

If Ramsey was very careful, he might get through it without yawning.

It wasn't that he didn't care. The gods alone knew how deeply he cared about his kingdom and what became of it. But there were times that he wished he was someone else. That the weight of his people's every trouble, every quibble, every squabble, could have fallen on another set of shoulders. As it should have done.

A familiar bitterness rose in Ramsey's throat. No one seemed to understand that he had never cared for the dignity or privilege of his position. Even as a boy, he had desired little more than a quiet, private life, a life he had been taught to believe would be his. As the younger son, he had been considered largely expendable. A spare, in case of emergencies.

Unfortunately, Prince Rowan Tremontaine had turned out to be an emergency.

The clatter of wheels on the road behind him prompted Ramsey to rein his mount closer to the grassy margin of the thoroughfare. He turned to look over his shoulder as an elegant black barouche barreled past him at a smart clip, bearing a fashionable set of young people—one gentleman and three ladies. Two of the ladies turned to look at him as they passed, wearing puzzled looks that Ramsey suspected would soon turn to horrified recognition.

Had they really just seen their crown prince, riding alone on the side of the road like a common stablehand? Ramsey mentally added "behavior unbefitting" to the very long list of the day's misdeeds. It would no doubt be discussed at length during his upcoming tongue-lashing.

Where he was sure to be reminded of his most important duty: to remain above reproof. To retain the confidence of his people. After his elder brother's scandalous career, there was little room for Ramsey to err.

Urging Parsifal into a trot, Ramsey continued down the road in the wake of the now-distant barouche, mentally bidding his solitude farewell. He was not far now from the edge of the city, and the road would not remain so empty for long. Already, the houses grew more numerous and clustered more closely together. Soon, houses would give way to businesses, to the tightly-packed and thickly-peopled streets of Evenleigh. Even thinking of it made Ramsey feel tired.

But not as tired as before. Even his guilt stung less when he considered the events of his entirely unexpected morning.

A smile crossed Ramsey's lips, unbidden, as he imagined telling the tale at court. They would never believe him. Who, after all, would credit the notion of a prince who chased miscreants about the wood on horseback? Even worse would be their dismay should he be fool enough to relate the aftermath of that indiscretion. The confrontation. The conversation that followed. And the woman, who had so inexplicably lightened his heart.

She was completely unlike the other women he knew. And it wasn't as though he lacked experience. Ramsey may have been quiet and reserved, but he was also royal. Since being declared heir to the throne he had been introduced to an uncomfortable number of females, many of whom seemed to cherish fond hopes of marrying their way into a crown. At least to Ramsey's mind, their assiduous and utterly insincere attempts to capture his attention made it rather difficult to tell one from another.

But this young woman had been nothing if not original, a bundle of contradictions that Ramsey had not yet managed to decipher.

She had ties to a noble house, of that Ramsey was sure. Her blithe assurance of free passage through the Kingswood betrayed origins that were well-connected, if not legitimate. But neither her clothing nor her mount had matched her manner.