The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)(22)

He glanced at her.

She caught the look. “Surely you can tell me that? All of your childhood can’t be a secret.”

“No, but it isn’t very interesting. I mostly helped my da.”

She leaned toward him. “And…?”

“We walked the land, checked traps, watched for poachers. That’s what a gamekeeper does.” A memory of his father’s strong, leathery hands delicately setting a trap came to him. Strange how he could remember the hands but not the face.

“And did you find any poachers?”

“Aye, of course.” He was pleased that his voice was steady. “There are always poachers, and Granville had more’n his fair share because he was so mean to his tenants. Many poached for food.”

“What did your father do?” Her hand, which had been lying on her lap, slipped, resting now alongside his thigh.

Harry kept his gaze ahead and shrugged. “Mostly he’d turn a blind eye. If they took too much, he’d tell them to do their hunting elsewhere.”

“But that would’ve put him in conflict with his employer, wouldn’t it? If Lord Granville found out he wasn’t arresting every poacher.”

“It might’ve. If Granville found out. Turned out he didn’t.” He’d been more interested in other things, hadn’t he?

“I would’ve liked to have known your father,” she mused. He could’ve sworn he felt her fingers press against his leg.

He looked at her curiously. “Would you? A gamekeeper?”

“Yes. What else did you do when you were a boy?”

What did she want from him? Why all these questions, and why the hand against his leg? Her fingers felt as if they burned straight through his breeches to his skin beneath. “That’s about it, my lady. Roaming the land, checking traps, looking for birds’ eggs—”

“Birds’ eggs?”

“Aye.” He glanced at her, then down at her hand. “Used to collect them as a boy.”

She was frowning and didn’t seem to notice his gaze. “But where would you find them?”

“In the nest.” She still looked puzzled, so he explained. “You watch the birds in spring. See where they go. Sooner or later, they all go back to their nests. Jackdaws in chimneys, plovers on the heath, pigeons in the crook of trees, and thrushes in a nest like a cup in the branches of hedges. You wait and you watch, and if you’re patient, you see where the eggs are. Then you can take one.”

“Just one?”

He nodded. “Never more than one, for my da said ’twas a sin to steal all the eggs from a nest. I’d watch the bird and slowly, slowly creep close until I could take an egg. Most of the time I’d have to wait until the bird left the nest. But sometimes if I was careful, I could reach right under the bird—”

“No!” She laughed up at him, her blue eyes crinkled at the corners, and suddenly his heart seemed to contract. Maybe he didn’t really care why she asked her questions—just so long as she asked them. “You’re teasing me now.”

“It’s true.” He felt his lips curve. “I’d reach right under the bird, feel its little downy body beating and warm on my fingers, and steal an egg straight from the nest it was sitting on.”

“Really?”

“A fact.”

“You’re probably bamming me again, Mr. Pye, but for some reason I believe you.” She shook her head. “But what did you do with the eggs after that? Eat them?”

“Eat them? Never!” He widened his eyes in an exaggeratedly horrified look that seemed to amuse her. That pleased him and he was puzzled. This silly conversation was like no other he could remember. Men took him dead seriously. Women were a little in awe of him. No one giggled at his words or attempted—

“Then what do you do with the eggs?” Her eyes were laughing up at him again.

He almost swore, he was so startled. Was Lady Georgina—an earl’s daughter for Christ’s sake—flirting with him?

He’d gone insane. “I’d take a pin and poke a tiny hole in each end of the egg and let it dry. I had a shelf next to my bed with a whole row of eggs, brown and white and clear blue. Blue as…” He trailed away. Blue as your eyes, he’d meant to say, but he remembered suddenly that this woman was his employer and he her servant. How could he forget that fact? Irritated with himself, he faced forward again.

She didn’t seem to notice his pause. “Do you have the eggs still? I’d like to see them.”

They’d rounded a bend in the road, and Harry saw that a tangle of branches blocked the way. A tree had fallen across the lane.

“Whoa!” He frowned. The lane was hardly wide enough for the gig as it was. It would be a devil’s job to turn the carriage around. What—?

Four men suddenly appeared from behind the tangled branches. They were big, they looked mean, and they each held a knife in their hand.

Shit.

Chapter Six

George screamed as Harry Pye made a heroic attempt to pull the horse around. The lane was too narrow, and the men were upon him in seconds. Mr. Pye kicked the first in the chest with a booted foot. The second and third overwhelmed and dragged him from the carriage. The fourth dealt him a horrendous blow to the jaw.

Oh, my sweet Lord! They were going to kill him. George felt a second scream clog her throat. The gig jolted as the horse half-reared. It was frightened and trying to run, stupid animal, even though it had nowhere to go. George frantically scrabbled for the reins on the floor of the gig, cursing under her breath and banging her head against the seat.