Hoyt, Elizabeth - The Leopard Prince2.txt

by The Leopard Prince

  immediately jumped up; then she crossed to the mantel and inspected the

  clock sitting upon it. Five minutes after seven o’clock. Perhaps he

  didn’t have a timepiece? Or maybe he was just a habitually late man? Or

  perhaps he didn’t intend to come—

  Someone knocked at the door.

  George froze and stared at it. “Come in.”

  Harry Pye opened the door. He hesitated, watching her with the door

  still ajar behind him.

  “Won’t you come in?”

  He walked in but left the door open. “Good evening, my lady.” He was at

  his most indecipherable.

  George started babbling. “I thought we might have a quiet dinner to

  discuss the poisoning and the attack and what we might want to do—”

  Footmen appeared at the door—/thank goodness!/— and started laying the

  table. Behind came more servants, bearing covered dishes and wine. There

  was a flurry of activity. She and Harry watched silently as the servants

  arranged the meal. Finally, most of the servants departed, leaving only

  one footman to serve dinner. That correct gentleman held the chairs,

  first for George and then for Harry. They sat and he began ladling the soup.

  The room was deathly silent.

  George looked from the footman to Harry. “I think we’ll manage, thank you.”

  The footman bowed and left.

  And they were alone. George peeked at Harry, who was frowning down at

  his soup. He didn’t care for consommŽ?

  She broke her roll, a thunderclap in the quiet. “I hope you didn’t catch

  a chill from the stream this afternoon?”

  Harry lifted his spoon. “No, my lady.”

  “Because the stream looked extremely cold.”

  “I am fine, my lady. Thank you.”

  “Good. Well . . . that’s good.” George chewed and furiously tried to

  think of something to say. Her mind was a complete blank.

  Harry suddenly set his spoon down. “Why did you call me here tonight?”

  “I just said—”

  “You wanted to talk about the poisoning and the attack, yes, I know.”

  Harry rose from the table. “But your breasts are all but naked, and

  you’ve sent the servants away. The /other/ servants. Why do you really

  want me here?” He stood almost menacingly, his jaw bunched, his hands

  fisted.

  “I . . .” George’s heart quickened. Her nipples had tightened the moment

  he said /breasts./

  His eyes flickered down, and she wondered if he knew.

  “Because I’m not what you think I am,” Harry said evenly as he advanced

  around the table toward her. “I’m not a servant to jump to your bidding

  and then lie down when you’ve done with me.” His voice was deepening.

  “I’m not someone you can dismiss like those footmen, like everyone else

  in this manor. I’m a man with blood in his veins. If you start something

  with me, don’t expect me to turn into a lapdog, panting at your call.”

  Harry seized her upper arms and drew her against his hard body. “Don’t

  expect me to be your servant.”

  George blinked. The idea of confusing this man, who fairly crackled with

  danger, with a lapdog was absurd.

  He drew a finger slowly across the edge of her bodice, watching her

  reaction. “What do you want with me, my lady?”

  Her breasts seemed to swell. “I . . .” She couldn’t think while he

  touched her; she didn’t know what to say. What did he need to hear?

  George looked around the room for help but saw only the piles of food

  and dishes. “I’m not sure, really. I don’t have any experience in this.”

  He dipped two fingers below her bodice and brushed her nipple. She

  shuddered. /Oh, my./ Harry pinched the nipple, sending sparks all the

  way to her most private places. George closed her eyes.

  She felt his breath caress her cheek. “When you figure it out, my lady,

  let me know.”

  He closed the door quietly behind him.

  /Chapter Nine/

  Bennet walked into the Cock and Worm at just after midnight that

  evening. The tavern was crowded and loud at that hour, the smoke from

  innumerable pipes hovering in a cloud near the ceiling. Harry sat in a

  dark corner and watched young Mr. Granville move with the overly

  cautious gait of a man who was already the worse for drink. Walking into

  a disreputable place like the Cock and Worm with one’s senses impaired

  wasn’t a particularly bright thing to do, but that wasn’t Harry’s worry.

  An aristocrat gambling with his own safety wasn’t his business—now or ever.

  Harry took a pull from his mug and switched his gaze to the two local

  harlots drumming up trade. The younger of the wenches, a blonde, sat on

  a ruddy-faced man’s lap. Her titties were right under his chin—as if she

  was worried he was near-sighted. The man’s eyes were glazed, and the

  harlot made stealthy movements at the front of his trousers. It wouldn’t

  be long before the two came to an understanding.

  The second harlot, a red-haired wench, caught his gaze and tossed her

  head. She’d already tried her charms with him, and he’d sent her away.

  Of course, if he flashed a purse now, she’d be smiling soon enough. The

  more ale he drank, the more he began to rethink turning the redhead

  down. He’d been randy for days now, and the object of his bone-on,

  despite her offer, wasn’t likely to help him now, was she?

  Harry scowled into his ale. What had she been after, his Lady Georgina,

  when she invited him to her private rooms? Not what he’d wanted to

  think, that’s for sure. The lady was a virgin, and the first rule of

  aristocratic maidens was /Guard well thy virginity. Don’t, whatever you

  do, go handing it out to the hired help./ The lady had been looking for

  the thrill of a stolen kiss or two. He was forbidden fruit to her. Good

  thing he’d resisted her blandishments. Few men he knew could’ve done so.

  He nodded and drank to his own wisdom.

  But then he remembered how she’d looked earlier that night. Her eyes had

  been so blue and so unwary, belying the temptation of her low neckline.

  Her breasts had seemed to glow in the firelight. The thought of her even

  now made his too-alert prick come to attention. He frowned, disgusted at

  his own weakness. Actually, none of the men he knew—

  /Crash!/

  Harry jerked around.

  Young Mr. Granville slid across a table, headfirst, knocking ale-filled

  glasses to the floor. Each glass detonated with a small, wet explosion

  upon impact with the floor.

  Harry took another swig from his mug. This wasn’t his worry.

  The men at the table weren’t pleased. One fellow with hands the size of

  hams hauled Bennet upright by his shirtfront. Bennet flailed at the

  other man, catching him a blow to the side of the head.

  /Not his worry./

  Two other men grabbed Bennet’s wrists, jerking them behind him. The man

  in front buried his fist in Bennet’s belly. Bennet doubled over. He

  tried to kick, but he was heaving bile from the blow to the stomach. His

  feet missed his attacker by miles. Behind them, a tall woman threw back

  her head and laughed drunkenly. She looked
familiar, wasn’t she . . . ?

  The big man drew back his fist again in preparation.

  /Not his worry. Not his . . . oh, the hell with it./

  Harry stood and drew the knife from his boot in one movement. No one was

  paying any attention to him and he was on the man about to hit Bennet

  before anyone noticed him. From this angle, a quick stab to the side

  followed by a twist of the wrist would kill the man before he even fell.

  But death wasn’t what Harry was after. He sliced the man’s face open

  instead. Blood gushed, blinding the man. He bellowed and dropped Bennet.

  Harry slashed one of the men holding Bennet’s wrists, then waved his

  blade in front of the second man’s eyes.

  That one raised his hands. “Hold on! Hold on! We was only teaching him

  his manners!”

  “Not anymore,” Harry whispered.

  The man’s eyes flickered.

  Harry ducked—in time to protect his head but not his shoulder—as a chair

  smashed across his side. He turned and stabbed. The man behind him

  howled, clutching a bleeding thigh. Another crash and the /thwack/ of

  flesh hitting flesh. Harry realized that Bennet was standing

  back-to-back with him. The aristo wasn’t as pie-eyed as

  he’d thought. He was able to fight, at least.

  Three men charged at once.

  Harry leaned to the side, helping a man pass him with a punch and a

  shove. A yellow-haired man with a knife came at him. This man had some

  experience with knife fighting. He gripped a cloak in his free hand and

  tried to foil Harry’s dagger with it. But the yellow-haired man hadn’t

  fought in the places Harry had.

  Or ever fought for his life.

  Harry grabbed the cloak and yanked the man hard. The man stumbled, tried

  to recover his balance, and found that Harry had him by the hair. Harry

  pulled the man back, arching his neck, and pointed his knife tip at the

  man’s eye. Balls and eyes. Those were the two things men feared losing

  most. Threaten either, and you had a man’s full attention.

  “Drop it,” Harry hissed.

  Sweat and piss assaulted his nostrils. The yellow-haired man had lost

  control of his bladder. He’d also dropped his knife, and Harry kicked

  it. It skittered across the floor, sliding under a table. The tavern was

  quiet. The only sound was Bennet’s labored breathing and the sobbing of

  one of the sluts.

  “Let him go.” Dick Crumb came out from the back.

  “Tell them to back off.” Harry pointed with his chin at the three men

  still standing.

  “Go on. You don’t want to be messing with Harry when he’s in a mood.”

  No one moved.

  Dick raised his voice. “Go on! There’ll be more ale for them that wants it.”

  The mention of ale was magic. The men grumbled but turned away. Harry

  let his hand drop. The yellow-haired man fell to his knees, whimpering.

  “Better get Granville out of here,” Dick muttered as he passed with mugs.

  Harry took Bennet’s arm and shoved him toward the door. The younger man

  wobbled, but at least he kept upright. Outside, the air was chill and

  Bennet gasped. He put out a hand to steady himself against the tavern

  wall, and for a moment Harry thought the man would be sick. But then he

  straightened.

  Harry’s bay mare stood beside a larger chestnut gelding. “Come on,” he

  said. “Best to be away before they fin-ish their drinks.”

  They mounted and started off. It had begun to drizzle again.

  “Guess I should thank you,” Bennet spoke suddenly. “Didn’t think you’d

  come to the aid of a Granville.”

  “Do you always start brawls without anyone at your back?”

  “Nah.” Bennet hiccupped. “This was a spur-of-themoment thing.”

  They rode in silence. Harry wondered if Bennet had fallen asleep. The

  horses splashed through puddles in the road.

  “Didn’t know you could fight like that.” Bennet’s slurred voice cut

  across the patter of the rain.

  Harry grunted. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

  “Where’d you learn?”

  “The poorhouse.”

  Harry thought he’d shut the other man up with his stark statement, but

  then Bennet chuckled. “My father’s a right sod, isn’t he?”

  There was no need to reply to that. They crested a rise and came to the

  river.

  “Better not come any farther. You aren’t safe on Granville land.” Bennet

  peered at him in the dark. “He wants to kill you, did you know?”

  “Yes.” Harry turned the mare’s head.

  “Will you never call me by my name again?” Bennet sounded wistful.

  Perhaps he’d entered the maudlin stage of drink.

  Harry nudged his horse down the track.

  “I’ve missed you, Harry.” Bennet’s voice floated on the night air behind

  him and melted away like a ghost.

  Harry didn’t answer.

  OUTSIDE THE COCK AND WORM, Silas peeled himself away from the shadows

  and watched bitterly as his beloved son rode away with the man he hated

  most in the world.

  “Your boy be dead but for the Woldsly s-steward,” a drunken voice

  slurred nearby.

  Silas whirled and peered into the dark alley between the Cock and Worm

  and the neighboring building. “Who are you? How dare you speak to me thus?”

  “I’m juss a little bird.” A harsh feminine giggle.

  Silas felt pressure building in his temple. “Come out of there or I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” the voice sneered. A face appeared, ghostly in the

  shadows. It was lined and worn and belonged to an old woman Silas

  couldn’t remember ever seeing before. “You’ll what?” she repeated,

  cackling like a demon. “He’s been killing your sheep for weeks and

  you’ve done naught. You’re juss an old man. Ol’ man Granville, lord of

  nothing! How’s it feel to be under the spur of the new cock?”

  She turned and started staggering down the road, one hand held out to

  balance herself against the wall.

  Silas was on her in two steps.

  “MY, THE SOFT-BOILED EGGS are good this morning.” George mentally rolled

  her eyes at her own inanity.

  She, Violet, and Euphie sat at the breakfast table. As per usual for the

  last several days, her sister refused to make any but the most desultory

  conversation, reducing George to commenting on the eggs.

  “Mmm.” Violet shrugged one shoulder.

  At least she was still alive. What had happened to her vivacious younger

  sister? The one who was constitutionally unable to refrain from

  exclaiming about every little thing?

  “I do like soft-boiled eggs,” Euphie fluted from the other end of the

  table. “Of course, it is very important that they still be /moist/ and

  not at all dried out.”

  George frowned as she took a sip of tea. Hadn’t Euphie noticed the

  almost deathly quiet of her charge?

  “Kidneys are nice as well,” Euphie continued. “If they’ve been prepared

  in butter. But I can’t abide gammon in the morning. I don’t know how

  anyone can, really.”

  Perhaps it was time to find a younger companion for Violet. Euphie was a

  dear but a tad absentminded at times. />
  “Would you like to go riding today?” George asked. Maybe Violet just

  needed fresh air. “I saw a lovely vista the other day, and I thought if

  you brought your pencils, you could sketch it. Tony says—”

  “I’m sorry.” Violet leaped from her seat. “I . . . I can’t go today.”

  She ran from the room.

  “Young people are so abrupt, aren’t they?” Euphie looked puzzled. “When

  I was a girl, I’m sure my mother told me a hundred times, ‘Euphemia, do

  not rush about. The true mark of a lady is her ability to be sedate.’”

  “Very enlightening, I’m sure,” George said. “Do you know what is

  bothering Violet?”

  “Bothering her, my lady?” Euphie cocked her head like a bird. “I don’t

  know that she is actually /bothered./ I think any little change from her

  normal behavior might be blamed on her youth and certain /monthly/

  happenings.” She blushed and hurriedly took a drink of tea.

  “I see.” George studied the older woman thoughtfully. Perhaps she would