Lennox, Mary - Heart of Fire.txt

by Heart of Fire. txt (lit)

  tone. Expecting only more pain, the mare stood stubbornly, and

  Sera tapped her again, this time hard. The mare jumped forward,

  but met the light pressure of the line and slowed.

  “Good girl,” said Sera. “Walk.” The little white horse moved

  forward in the circle, her ear pricked toward Sera.

  “See how she listens?” Sera said to the boy, never taking

  her eyes from the horse. “Keep the tone quiet for the walk.” It

  was this that she needed to combat the desperation beginning

  to choke her—this still, intent concentration in a simple task,

  and the comfort of using her one small gift. She had forgotten

  how she loved the work. The smell of horse sweat and sawdust

  on a warm autumn day brought it all back to her in a rush of

  feeling that stung inside her chest.

  The mare walked herself cool. Her coat was beginning to

  dry, and her breathing had evened out. The boy stood close to

  her in the circle watching, really listening to the lesson.

  “Now she has rounded up well.” Sera called a halt to the

  lesson, praising the horse and scratching her behind the ears.

  “If you would like, I shall come tomorrow and we can work

  again,” she said as she gave the line to the boy. “Bring an apple

  for a reward.” The lad nodded and tugged at his cap. “Thank

  ’ee miss. Just ask for Ned, and they’ll direct you to me.”

  She turned as young Ned led the mare to the wash stall and

  saw Nicholas Rostov leaning against the arena wall, his arms

  crossed over his chest. The king looked elegant and commanding

  even in his dusty boots and open jacket. She wished he’d stop

  regarding her with such intense concentration, for he made her

  feel like a creature beneath a magnifying glass.

  She attempted to brush the dirt and horse dander off the

  front of her frock, then gave up when it became apparent that

  most of the grime had settled into the light linen. He had

  obviously noticed her dishevelment, she thought crossly as she

  made her way across the sawdust. She could tell by the way his

  brows were raised in that slight air of disapproval.

  Someone coughed, a furtive sound in the upper seats of the

  arena between colonnades. Sera looked up and noticed several

  men dressed in boots, rough linen shirts, and worn breeches.

  They made a quiet audience, lounging in the seats, watching

  her and Nicholas Rostov with bright, curious eyes.

  As she drew closer, Nicholas gave her a grave look. “The

  mare you exercised so competently belongs to my sister

  Katherine,” he said. “She would like to get to know you. She’s

  even now making plans to put your chamber next to hers inside

  the palace. Would you like that?”

  The resentment returned, leaving her feeling heated and

  bitter. “I am a slave,” Sera said with a shrug. “I have no choice

  in the matter.”

  Nicholas Rostov sighed and looked down at her. “That’s

  not true,” he said. “You may do anything you wish within the

  confines of the palace. The position of a lady-in-waiting to the

  princess is a high honor, however. You need to learn the rules

  of court etiquette and the arts of fine needlework and dancing.

  You could even learn to play an instrument if you wished.”

  Sera felt herself bristling. “You needn’t patronize me. I know

  what a lady-in-waiting does,” she snapped.

  His lips tightened. “What would you prefer, then? To

  apprentice to one of the cooks? I assure you, it would be hot

  and heavy work for one of your delicacy, but if you wish it, you

  may work all day in the kitchens and sleep by the fireplace at

  night. Unless you favor the laundry more.” By now, Sera

  recognized that tone of silky sarcasm.

  If he was angry, he might be honest about it, she thought

  while the irritation washed over her. “I wish to work here,” she

  said, just to goad him further.

  He frowned at her with thunder in his eyes. “As a stable

  hand?”

  Suddenly, in a flash of understanding, she realized that the

  gambit she was using to fight him was something very necessary

  to her future. Wind Rider was here in the stable. If these men

  who now sat in the upper seats of the covered arena were at all

  like the stable hands in Arkadia, they would know all the news

  in Laurentia before anyone else in the palace, for the coach

  drivers and the soldiers came to the stables first. She could

  ascertain more about the thief and she could escape from

  Montanyard more easily if she worked here.

  “Truly, Nicholas Rostov. If you watched me lunge the horse,

  you saw that I did it well. You say I am free to choose my

  occupation. Let me work here.”

  He frowned, staring down at her. He was no longer furious,

  she saw, for the look he gave her was troubled, almost concerned.

  “This is a rough place. The men might take liberties.”

  “If you only give me a chance, I shall prove myself to them

  all. In truth, I am uncomfortable at the very thought of entering

  your fine palace and of meeting the nobles of your court. They

  will scorn me, Nicholas Rostov, and you know they will. Think

  how you yourself regard a person from the Hills, and a slave, at

  that! I shall be happy here, and I’ll work very hard.”

  Nicholas Rostov was looking at her with the same

  expression he used often—as though she were an irritating

  puzzle he had to solve.

  “No one could ever scorn you, Sera. From the first moment

  I met you, you acted like a princess. If this is what you want, so

  be it. I’ll command the grooms to treat you with respect.”

  Sera executed what she hoped was an acceptable curtsey

  despite the fact that her legs were trembling from relief. “Thank

  you, Nicholas Rostov,” she said, keeping her eyes lowered while

  her heart leaped in triumph. In two days she would know enough

  about the stables and the countryside to execute her escape.

  ***

  In the evening, Nicholas dictated the last dispatches to his

  secretary Holmes. He had spent two days mapping out

  Napoleon’s progress through Russia and arguing with his

  ministers. One or two insisted that Britain had obviously proven

  an unreliable ally—that Nicholas should consider the alternative.

  The very outrageousness of the suggestion made Nicholas

  realize how bad the situation was. For a king of Laurentia to

  approach the French despot with hat in hand and plead for an

  alliance was tantamount to abandoning his country to the enemy.

  The hour was late, but he still had several dispatches to dictate

  to his secretary.

  What to do? The answer was obvious. He must cement the

  alliance with Beaureve. Nicholas sent an emissary to Anatole

  Galerien requesting a meeting, and he began to consider what

  concessions he would have to make with trade and import taxes

  in order to sweeten the agreement.

  He wished that Galerien’s niece, Catherine Elizabeth

  Galerien, was well enough to leave her convent and finally marry

  him. Alt
hough Nicholas was far from being an eager

  bridegroom, the marriage, agreed upon by his father and her

  father, Beaureve’s late king, would cement the alliance, making

  Laurentia stronger.

  A knock on his study door interrupted his thoughts, and he

  felt his irritation rise. He had left word that he was not to be

  disturbed.

  “Enter,” he called in none too pleasant a voice.

  A guard who had the conscience to turn red-faced with

  embarrassment entered, dragging what looked like a very wet,

  very dirty ragamuffin across the study to stand defiantly before

  him.

  He shook his head, scowling down at a bedraggled blonde

  braid and a pair of flashing blue eyes. Holmes made a choked

  noise in his throat. He dismissed the man with an impatient

  wave of his hand.

  “We followed her out the gates of the city,” said the guard.

  “Had it not been for your instructions, Sire, we would never

  have caught up with her, but the men waiting on the eastern

  road waylaid her. There was a bit of a scuffle, I’m afraid, and

  the lady unfortunately fell into a puddle. I beg pardon for the

  inconvenience, but you had commanded that we inform you

  immediately.”

  “No need to apologize, Lieutenant. You have all done well.

  Please leave us.” He waited until the man had bowed his way

  out and shut the door before exposing Sera to the Rostov frown.

  She was in no mood to concede, he realized, when she squared

  her shoulders and glowered right back at him.

  “You posted guards on me!”

  “And you obviously justified my mistrust. You should have

  listened when I told you it would do no good to sneak away.

  Pray do not attempt such nonsense again.”

  Sera had the temerity to cross her arms over her bosom and

  turn her back on him. Her wet linen gown was provocatively

  plastered against her body, giving him a fine view of gently

  flaring hips and a nicely rounded backside. In immediate

  reaction, his loins tightened. His hands itched to lift that sodden

  skirt inch by inch and mold themselves to her slender thighs,

  warming the goose bumps he knew must have risen from the

  chill of the water. Then he remembered that every soldier he

  had posted to this task had caught a glimpse of those singular

  charms, and his anger surged again. Before he could stop

  himself, his arm snaked out and grabbed her shoulder, whirling

  her about.

  “You have embarrassed yourself and the crown. Your

  behavior is more fitting for a two-year-old in a tantrum than a

  young lady. I expect better of you in the future, or your activities

  in the stable will end, and you’ll become what every other ward

  of the king is in this country—a cosseted, protected young lady

  of irreproachable reputation.”

  Sera stared at him for a long moment, her brows furrowed

  above eyes narrowed to blue slits. She looked like a furious

  kitten getting ready to spit. For the first time in his life, Nicholas

  regretted his philosophical stance against beating women.

  Sera drew herself up to her full height and gave him a frosty

  look. “You are in danger of becoming the greatest prig that ever

  lived,” she said.

  He let go of her arm and watched her lift her other hand to

  rub the soreness out of it. Shame and resentment warred within

  him.

  “Perhaps,” he said coldly. “But I am the prig controlling

  your life. Make your peace with that and we shall get on better.”

  She opened her mouth, seemed to think a moment, and

  closed it again. Foolish little brat not to realize he could see her

  thoughts flash right across her face. He reached out one hand,

  turned her toward the door, and gave her a little push.

  “Tell my secretary to return immediately. Then go to your

  rooms and bathe that muck off. Oh, and take a cloak from the

  first guard you see in the hallway. You look like a dox—a woman

  of loose reputation—in that wet gown.”

  She had begun her procession toward the door with upheld

  head and an apparent air of nonchalance, but at this last, she

  stiffened, picked up her skirts, and ran the last few feet, slamming

  the door behind her. All Nicholas was left with was an empty

  ache, misspent anger and regret, and a trail of small, muddy

  footprints across the light blue Aubusson carpet.

  ***

  The next day, Sera was saddling the white mare, when the

  young girl she had seen upon her arrival at the palace made her

  way slowly toward her. Immediately, because of her timid

  approach and her plain, worried face, she recognized the

  princess, Nicholas Rostov’s sister.

  “I hope…” The princess’s strangled whisper faded away to

  nothing. She cleared her throat and tried again.

  “My brother told me you would be here. I was hoping—

  that is I am afraid to ride out alone—a-and the riding master is

  so strict with me. I was hoping…Would you please…” The rest

  of it came in a rush. “Would you mind terribly if we rode

  together?”

  Sera felt a sharp twinge of sympathy. The princess was

  painfully embarrassed. How could anyone say nay to her?

  “I should like nothing better,” she said.

  “Thank you,” said the princess, still flushed with

  embarrassment. “I forgot to introduce myself. Katherine

  Rostov,” she said. “I-I mean that is my name.” She curtsied to

  Sera.

  A princess, bowing to a groom! Sera quickly covered her

  startled giggle by clearing her throat.

  “That is my name, too,” she said in an attempt to help

  Katherine relax.

  The princess glanced up quickly. “I thought your name was

  Sera.”

  “Oh, that is a short name, a—what is it in your language? A

  pet name from a larger one.”

  “A nickname,” said Katherine looking interested. “How

  many names do you have? I have four—Katherine Mary

  Annalyse Rostov.”

  “So do I.” Sera clamped her mouth shut. How could she

  have been so unguarded with an Outlander? The situation called

  for a quick change of subject. “Let me introduce you to my

  horse. He’s become quite gentle now that he knows the grooms,

  and he loves treats. If we stop by the apple barrel, you can feed

  him.”

  Katherine was happy with the suggestion and seemed to

  forget all about their conversation. Sera sent Katherine off to

  get her mare and pressed her forehead against Wind Rider’s

  nose.

  “I was an arrogant fool to think I was worthy of this task,”

  she whispered. The horse snuffled affectionately at her hair. “I

  know,” she said looking into his large, kind eyes. “Worthy or

  not, I must get on with it. But I have been trying, Tzirah. I cannot

  get out by the gates. Someone will always stop us. I must find a

  place where we can jump our way out. Each day I have gone as

  far as I can in the park and checked the walls of this place, but

  they are too high for us.”

  Wind Rider j
ust looked at her, a calm, accepting presence

  in the dark stable. She sighed. “Very well, I’ll keep looking.

  Every day, I promise.”

  Katherine was already mounted when Sera led Wind Rider

  into the stable yard. The princess’s face was ashen as the mare

  tried to skitter out from under her. Holding the reins with a death

  grip, Katherine gave Sera a look of desperation. Sera shook her

  head and quickly mounted. She trotted her stallion to the

  obstreperous mare’s side.

  “Give me the reins, Katherine,” she said quietly and pried

  them from the princess’s hands. “That’s right. Hold on tight to

  the mane.” With a sharp jerk that brought the mare’s head up

  hard, Sera pulled the little white into Wind Rider’s side.

  “Walk,” she said in a stern voice and tugged once. The mare

  fell into a walk, her head and neck relaxing into obedience.

  “You just have to be firm with her,” Sera said, turning to

  Katherine as she led the mare into the park’s grassy expanse.

  The princess’s head was bent, and what Sera could see of her

  face was a mottled, blotchy red.

  “I wish you hadn’t seen that,” she whispered. “I wish I could

  at least lead my own horse out of the stable without showing

  you how badly I…”

  Sera’s laid her hand on top Katherine’s. “I don’t care how

  well you ride. Why should I?”

  “Because it is expected that I do well, and instead, I am a

  laughable failure at it.”

  Sera shook her head. “I don’t know how it is possible for

  any of your ladies to ride well in those ridiculous sidesaddles.

  Where can you hold on with your legs? How can you learn

  your balance? You’ll notice that men do not ride with both legs

  on one side of the horse.”

  Katherine stared at Sera open-mouthed. Then she looked

  again, this time with a gleam of skepticism in her large, dark

  eyes. “You are riding sidesaddle as well as I,” she said

  accusingly.

  Sera grinned. “Only to that copse of trees. Come along. I’ll

  show you.”

  Sera halted Wind Rider within the little wood and

  dismounted. “I hate these hard saddles,” she said, working the

  girth free and setting the saddle on a fallen log. “I cannot feel

  the horse at all through it.”

  Katherine climbed down from her mare’s back. “I don’t