The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)(5)

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?”