Hoyt, Elizabeth - The Leopard Prince2.txt

by The Leopard Prince

  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