Gild (The Plated Prisoner #1)(39)

Sixth Kingdom horses were specifically bred to withstand the cold. They have long, thick hair all over their bodies, the longest at their chests and right above their hooves. But even so, they’ve still been equipped with heavy woolen blankets draped over their backs beneath their saddles, along with thick leg warmers.

I walk up to the horse, crooning a soft hello as he blinks at me. I lift a gloved hand to his nose and pet him slowly, noting how his braided tail flicks. The Highbell emblem on the front leather harness hanging around his neck sits proudly against his chest, gleaming in gold.

When he nudges my hand for daring to slow my strokes, I smile and continue to rub his nose affectionately. “What’s his name?”

“Crisp,” the other guard answers me, hood over his head, matching cloak and gloves to keep the cold out.

I hum and look again into the horse’s eye. “Help me out here, okay, Crisp?” I murmur to him before I circle around to the saddle.

Luckily, he’s not too tall, so I easily slip my foot into the stirrup and then stand, praying that I don’t embarrass myself and go falling on my ass.

Gritting my teeth, I swing my leg over the other side, my grasp slipping slightly on the saddle before I manage to hoist myself up. I beam as soon as I get settled on top of Crisp, shooting a pleased look at Digby, only to find all of the guards staring openly at me with something akin to horror.

My smile drops. “What?”

Digby scowls at the others. “Move out!” His words snap everyone to attention, and the other riders face forward before the procession starts moving once more.

I look over at Digby as I fix the hood over my head to keep the icy rain off my face.

Digby nudges his horse forward, staying to my right, and clearly not going to tell me what that was all about. Looking over, I meet the eye of another guard who comes up to ride on my left. “Why were they looking at me like that?” I ask.

The guard looks at me sheepishly, a blush crawling over his pale cheeks that I can see even beneath his hood. “Well...it’s just that ladies don’t normally sit astride.”

I look down at my legs straddling the horse. “Oh.” I forgot that. I always rode this way before, but I wasn’t worried about propriety then.

Behind me, in one of the carriages holding the other saddles, I hear feminine snickers at my expense. “So she does like to spread her legs after all,” I hear one of them say—Polly. That’s Polly’s voice.

My cheeks heat. “Should I…”

But the guard shakes his head. “You’ll be more secure this way, and it’s better for long distances. Don’t worry about them,” he says, tipping his head at the carriage.

Nodding, I gently tug the right reins while pressing my left leg against Crisp to get him to turn a bit, to get him to move ahead, where I don’t have to hear the saddles’ taunts.

My horse maneuvers us with ease, and I breathe a sigh of relief that I seem to remember what the hell I’m doing. The longer I ride, the more relaxed I become, not even caring if the other saddles have anything more to say.

As we move steadily forward, I bask in the open air, glad to be out of the carriage. The rain, while light, is still cold and wet, but I’m too excited about being out in the open to care.

Crisp moves steadily beneath me, his hair helping to keep my bottom half warm. I’m glad that I’m wearing such thick stockings beneath my dress and that my boots are so well insulated.

Highbell City is pretty at night, though, and that distracts me from the dropping temperature. Most of the buildings are three stories tall, all made of the same gray rock that the mountain is made of.

The streets are cobbled and slightly uneven in places, but I like the sound of the horses’ hooves clomping over them. The street lamps create a flickering path for us along the winding road, and it’s all so picturesque that it brings a smile to my face.

People come out to view us, eyeing the royal procession with avid interest, but I’m careful to keep my hood up so that it covers most of my face and all of my golden hair. Even the saddles in the brothel pop out of the windows, waving topless at the guards and blowing kisses as we go.

The guard to my left clears his throat and snaps his head forward when one of the women purrs out a rather generous offer to him. I don’t blame them. He’s handsome, with an open, friendly face. The sort of face that probably always looks kind, even when he’s angry. He has ashy blond hair and deep sea blue eyes, a patchy line of hair across his jaw that tells me he can’t quite grow in a full beard.

“What’s your name?”

He looks over at me, and I notice how young he looks. Maybe only twenty years or so. “My name’s Sail, miss.”

“Well, Sail, you seem to be popular with the ladies,” I note, nodding to the saddles hanging out the windows who are still beckoning to him more than any other.

That pink hue on his cheeks deepens, and it’s not from the brisk air. “My mum would wallop me if I ever disrespected a woman enough to force her to sleep with me for a few coins.”

I decide I like Sail right then and there.

“You know, some could argue that it’s one of the few jobs we women can have to earn a decent wage and manage to stay independent,” I tell him.

Sail blanches, like he just realized what he’d said—just remembered who I am. “I didn’t—I...I didn’t mean to imply that being a saddle isn’t respectable. I’m sure plenty of saddles are respectable. Or, I mean, I just—”