Her eyes popped open. “Good. And now we both look like Russians swathed
for the Siberian winter. A pity we don’t have a sleigh with bells as
well.” She smoothed the fur on her lap.
He nodded. The fire crackled in the silence as he tried to think of how
else he could look after her. There was no food in the cottage; nothing
to do but wait for dawn. How did the upper crust behave when they were
in their palatial sitting rooms all alone?
Lady Georgina was plucking at her robe, but she suddenly clasped her
hands together as if to still them. “Do you know any stories, Mr. Pye?”
“Stories, my lady?”
“Mmm. Stories. Fairy tales, actually. I collect them.”
“Indeed.” Harry was at a loss. The aristocracy’s way of thinking was
truly amazing sometimes. “How, may I ask, do you go about collecting them?”
“By inquiring.” Was she having fun with him? “You’d be amazed at the
stories people remember from their youth. Of course, old nursemaids and
the like are the best sources. I believe I’ve asked every one of my
acquaintances to introduce me to their old nurse. Is yours still alive?”
“I didn’t have a nursemaid, my lady.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks reddened. “But someone—your mother?—must’ve told you
fairy tales growing up.”
He shifted to put another piece of the broken chair on the fire. “The
only fairy tale I can remember is /Jack and the Beanstalk./”
Lady Georgina gave him a pitying look. “Can’t you do better than that?”
“I’m afraid not.” The other tales he knew weren’t exactly fit for a
lady’s ears.
“Well, I heard a rather interesting one recently. From my cook’s aunt
when she came to visit Cook in London. Would you like me to tell it to you?”
/No./ The last thing he needed was to become any more intimate with his
employer than the situation had already forced him to be. “Yes, my lady.”
“Once upon a time, there was a great king and he had an enchanted
leopard to serve him.” She wiggled her rump on the chair. “I know what
you’re thinking, but that’s not how it goes.”
Harry blinked. “My lady?”
“No. The king dies right away, so he’s not the hero.” She looked
expectantly at him.
“Ah.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
It seemed to do.
Lady Georgina nodded. “The leopard wore a sort of gold chain around its
neck. It was enslaved, you see, but I don’t know how that came about.
Cook’s aunt didn’t say. Anyway, when the king was dying, he made the
leopard promise to serve the /next/ king, his son.” She frowned. “Which
doesn’t seem very fair, somehow, does it? I mean, usually they free the
faithful servant at that point.” She shifted again on the wooden chair.
Harry cleared his throat. “Perhaps you would be more comfortable on the
floor. Your cloak is drier. I could make a pallet.”
She smiled blindingly at him. “What a good idea.”
He spread out the cloak and rolled his own clothes to form a pillow.
Lady Georgina shuffled over in her robes and plopped down on the crude
bed. “That’s better. You might as well come lie down as well; we’ll be
here until morning, most likely.”
/Christ./ “I don’t think it advisable.”
She looked down her narrow nose at him. “Mr. Pye, those chairs are hard.
Please come lie on the rugs at least. I promise not to bite.”
His jaw clenched, but he really had no choice. It was a veiled order.
“Thank you, my lady.”
Harry gingerly sat beside her—he’d be damned if he would lie down next
to this woman, order or no—and left a space between their bodies. He
wrapped his arms around his bent knees and tried not to notice her scent.
“You are stubborn, aren’t you?” she muttered.
He looked at her.
She yawned. “Where was I? Oh, yes. So the first thing the young king
does is to see a painting of a beautiful princess and fall in love with
her. A courtier or a messenger or some such shows it to him, but that
doesn’t matter.”
She yawned again, squeaking this time, and for some reason his prick
responded to the sound. Or perhaps it was her scent, which reached his
nose whether he wished it to or not. It reminded him of spices and
exotic flowers.
“The princess has skin as white as snow, lips as red as rubies, hair as
black as, oh, pitch or the like, et cetera, et cetera.” Lady Georgina
paused and stared into the fire.
He wondered if she was done and his torment over.
Then she sighed. “Have you ever noticed that these fairy-tale princes
fall in love with beautiful princesses without knowing a thing about
them? Ruby lips are all very well, but what if she laughs oddly or
clicks her teeth when she eats?” She shrugged. “Of course, men in our
times are just as apt to fall in love with glossy black curls, so I
suppose I shouldn’t quibble.” Her eyes widened suddenly, and she turned
her head to look at him. “No offense meant.”
“None taken,” Harry said gravely.
“Hmm.” She seemed doubtful. “Anyway, he falls in love with this picture,
and someone tells him that the princess’s father is giving her to the
man who can bring him the Golden Horse, which was presently in the
possession of a terrible ogre. So”—Lady Georgina turned to face the fire
and cradled her cheek in her hand—“he sends for the Leopard Prince and
tells him to go out quick and fetch him the Golden Horse, and what do
you think?”
“I don’t know, my lady.”
“The leopard turned into a man.” She closed her eyes and murmured,
“Imagine that. He was a man all along. . . .”
Harry waited, but this time there was no more story. After a while he
heard a soft snore.
He drew the robes up over her neck and tucked them around her face. His
fingers brushed against her cheek, and he paused, studying the contrast
of their skin tones. His hand was dark against her skin, his fingers
rough where she was soft and smooth. Slowly he stroked his thumb across
the corner of her mouth. So warm. He almost recognized her scent, as if
he’d inhaled it in another life or long ago. It made him ache.
If she were a different woman, if this were a different place, if he
were a different man . . . Harry cut short the whisper in his mind and
drew back his hand. He stretched out next to Lady Georgina, careful not
to touch her. He stared at the ceiling and drove out all thought, all
feeling. Then he closed his eyes, even though he knew it would be a long
while before he slept.
HER NOSE TICKLED. GEORGE SWIPED at it and felt fur. Beside her,
something rustled and then was still. She turned her head. Green eyes
met her own, irritatingly alert for so early in the day.
“Good morning.” Her words came out a frog’s croak. She cleared her throat.
“Good morning, my lady.” Mr. Pye’s voice was smooth and dark, like hot
chocolate. “If you’ll excuse me.”
He rose. The robe he clutched slid off one shoulder, revealing tanned
; skin before he righted it. Walking silently, he slipped out the door.
George scrunched her nose. Did nothing faze the man?
It suddenly occurred to her what he must be doing outside. Her bladder
sent up an alarm. Hastily she struggled upright and pulled on her
rumpled, still-damp dress, catching as many of the fastenings as she
could. She couldn’t reach all the hooks, and it must be gaping around
her waist, but at least the garment wouldn’t fall off. George put on her
cloak to hide her back and then followed Mr. Pye outside. Black clouds
hovered in the sky, threatening rain. Harry Pye was nowhere in sight.
Looking around, she chose a dilapidated shed behind which to relieve
herself and tramped around it.
When she came back from the shed, Mr. Pye was standing in front of the
cottage buttoning his coat. He had retied his queue, but his clothes
were wrinkled and his hair not as neat as usual. Thinking about what she
must look like herself, George felt an uncharitable smirk of amusement.
Even Harry Pye couldn’t spend the night on the floor of a hut and not
show the effects the next morning.
“When you are ready, my lady,” he said, “I suggest we return to the
highway. The coachman may be waiting for us there.”
“Oh, I hope so.”
They retraced their steps of the night before. In light and downhill,
George was surprised to find it not such a great distance. Soon they
topped the last hill and could see the road. It was empty, save for the
carriage wreckage, even more pitiful in the light of day.
She heaved a sigh. “Well. I guess we’ll just have to start walking, Mr.
Pye.”
“Yes, my lady.”
They trudged up the road in silence. A nasty, damp mist hovered off the
ground, smelling faintly of rot. It seeped beneath her gown and crept up
her legs. George shuddered. She dearly wished for a cup of hot tea and
perhaps a scone with honey and butter dripping off the sides. She almost
moaned at the thought and then realized there was a rumbling coming from
behind them.
Mr. Pye raised his arm to hail a farmer’s wagon rounding the curve. “Hi!
Stop! You there, we need a ride.”
The farmer pulled his horse to a standstill. He tipped the brim of his
hat back and stared. “Mr. Harry Pye, isn’t it?”
Mr. Pye stiffened. “Yes, that’s right. From the Woldsly estate.”
The farmer spat into the road, narrowly missing Mr. Pye’s boots.
“Lady Georgina Maitland needs a ride to Woldsly.” Harry Pye’s face did
not change, but his voice had grown as chill as death. “It was her
carriage you saw back there.”
The farmer switched his gaze to George as if noticing her for the first
time. “Aye, ma’am, I hope you weren’t hurt in the wreck?”
“No.” She smiled winningly. “But we do need a ride, if you don’t mind.”
“Glad to help. There be room in the back.” The farmer aimed a dirty
thumb over his shoulder at the wagon bed.
She thanked him and walked around the wagon. She hesitated as she eyed
the height of the boards. They came to her collarbone.
Mr. Pye halted beside her. “With your permission.” He hardly waited for
her nod before grasping her about the waist and lifting her in.
“Thank you,” George said breathlessly.
She watched as he placed his palms flat on the bed and vaulted in with
catlike ease. The wagon jolted forward just as he cleared the boards,
and he was thrown against the side.
“Are you all right?” She held out a hand.
Mr. Pye disregarded it and sat up. “Fine.” He glanced at her. “My lady.”
He said no more. George settled back and watched the countryside roll
by. Gray-green fields with low stone walls emerged and then were hidden
again by the eerie mist. After last night, she should’ve been glad for
the ride, bumpy though it might be. But something about the farmer’s
hostility to Mr. Pye bothered her. It seemed personal.
They cleared a rise, and George idly watched a flock of sheep grazing on
a nearby hillside. They stood like little statues, perhaps frozen by the
mist. Only their heads moved as they cropped the gorse. A few were lying
down. She frowned. The ones on the ground were very still. She leaned
forward to see better and heard Harry Pye curse softly beside her.
The wagon jerked to a halt.
“What’s the matter with those sheep?” George asked Mr. Pye.
But it was the farmer who answered, his voice grim. “They’re dead.”
/Chapter Two/
“George!” Lady Violet Maitland ran out Woldsly Manor’s massive oak
doors, ignoring the disapproving mutter of her companion, Miss Euphemia
Hope.
Violet only just refrained from rolling her eyes. Euphie was an old pet,
a short, apple-round woman with gray hair and mild eyes, but nearly
everything Violet did made her mutter.
“Where’ve you been? We expected you days ago and . . .” She skidded to a
stop on the gravel courtyard to stare at the man helping her sister from
the strange carriage.
Mr. Pye looked up at her approach and nodded, his face as usual set in
an expressionless mask. What was he doing traveling with George?
Violet narrowed her eyes at him.
“Hullo, Euphie,” George said.
“Oh, my lady, we’re so happy you’ve arrived,” the companion gasped. “The
weather has /not/ been all one could wish for, and we have been quite
/apprehensive/ as to your safety.”
George smiled in reply and wrapped her arms around Violet. “Hullo, darling.”
Her sister’s marmalade hair, several shades lighter than Violet’s own
exuberantly flaming head, smelled of jasmine and tea, the most
comforting scents in the world. Violet felt tears prickle her eyes.
“I’m sorry you were worried, but I don’t think I’m so very late.” George
bussed her cheek and stepped away to look at her.
Violet turned hurriedly to inspect the carriage, a rather dilapidated
old thing that didn’t look a speck like George’s. “What’re you doing
traveling about in that for?”
“Well, there lies a story.” George pulled off her hood. Her coiffure was
incredibly bad, even for George. “I’ll tell you over tea. I’m just
famished. We had only a few buns at the inn where we got the carriage.”
She looked at the steward and asked rather diffidently, “Would you like
to join us, Mr. Pye?”
Violet held her breath. /Say no. Say no. Say no./
“No, thank you, my lady.” Mr. Pye bowed in a sinister fashion. “If
you’ll excuse me, there are some estate matters I should see to.”
Violet expelled her breath in a whoosh of relief.
To her horror, George persisted. “Surely they can wait another half hour
or so?” She smiled in her wonderful, wide-mouthed way.
Violet stared at her sister. What was she thinking?
“I’m afraid not,” Mr. Pye replied.
“Oh, very well. I suppose it is why I employ you, after all.” George
sounded like a prig, but at least Mr. Pye was no longer coming to tea.
“I’m sorry, my lady.” He bowed a
gain, this time a little stiffly, and
walked away.
Violet almost felt sorry for him—almost, but not quite. She hooked her
arm through her sister’s as they turned back toward Woldsly. The manor
was hundreds of years old and sat in the landscape as if it had grown
there, a natural feature of the surrounding hills. Green ivy scrambled
up the four-story redbrick façade. The vines were trimmed back from
around tall, mullioned windows. A multitude of chimneys climbed the
manor’s gabled roofs like so many hikers on a mountain. It was a
welcoming house, perfectly suited to her sister’s personality.
“Cook baked lemon curd tarts just this morning,” Violet said as they
climbed the wide front steps. “Euphie has been mooning over them ever
since.”
“Oh, no, my lady,” the companion exclaimed behind them. “I don’t believe
I have really. Not over lemon tarts, anyway. When it comes to /mince/
pie, I do admit a certain fondness, not altogether /genteel,/ I fear.”
“You are the very epitome of gentility, Euphie. We all strive to follow
Hoyt, Elizabeth - The Leopard Prince2.txt Page 2