My Lady Jane(61)

“Then perhaps we could acquire a horse. . . .”

She stopped walking and turned to look at him. “Acquire a horse, you say? Do you know of any nice, friendly farms just giving away their horses?”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “You’re a thief, aren’t you?” At least that was what she claimed as her occupation: stealer of chickens, professional bandit, highwayman when the need arose, cat burglar, occasional pickpocket. She admitted easily to her loose association with the law. Edward wondered how one came by that particular skill set at the tender age of seventeen, which is how old she told him she was, but Gracie didn’t answer a lot of questions when it came to her past. She was somewhat evasive about her present situation, as well.

“Stealing a horse is punishable by death,” she reminded him.

“Unless you happen to know a king who could pardon you.”

She set her hand against her hip and he instantly regretted bringing up who he was. Ever since he’d confessed to being king, the girl had been moody. Oh, she seemed to like him well enough most of the time; she was kind and often merry of soul, and sometimes even wonderfully, confusingly flirtatious, but every now and then she’d remember that he was not just her travel companion but the King of England, and then she’d go quiet. Or even worse, she’d get annoyed with him.

Like now, for instance.

“Well, Sire,” She loved to call him Sire, but the way she said it made him suspect she was making fun of him. “You might not have noticed, but you’re not exactly a king around here. We can’t snap our fingers and have a coach with golden wheels and four fine white horses to carry us wherever we wish to go. We have to make do with our own two feet.”

Edward tried to think of a clever reply, but then he had to stop to lean against a tree, because he was out of breath.

Gracie saw the haggard look on his face and turned to squint toward the west, where the sun was quickly descending. “We should stop for the night.” She slung her pack against a nearby stump and started to set up a quick, makeshift camp.

“I could keep going,” he wheezed as she bustled around gathering kindling. “I’m perfectly capable of continuing.”

She ignored him.

“All right, then,” he conceded graciously after she got a fire started. “We can stop, if you feel you can’t go on.” Even as he spoke his traitorous body sank to the ground beside the fire, craving its heat. He closed his eyes. Just to rest them for a moment.

“Are you going to be all right?” Gracie asked.

He opened his eyes and cleared his throat. “Of course. I’m perfectly fine. I only agreed to stop because I know women need to rest more often, on account of your delicate constitutions.”

She snorted. “All right, then. Wait here. My delicate constitution and I will be back soon.” She bent to remove her boots. Edward tried not to ogle her shapely feminine ankles (a sight that would have been indecent in the royal court, as a woman’s ankles were considered scandalously provocative at this time), but he couldn’t help staring.

She had lovely ankles, he thought. Very nice.

Gracie glanced up like she’d felt his gaze. “Would you like to paint my portrait, Sire? It will last longer.”

He flushed and looked away, which was a good thing, because then she turned her back to him and quickly removed the rest of her clothes and was therefore completely naked for all of three seconds, which he just caught a glimpse of in his peripheral vision before a light flashed, and where Gracie had been standing there was a small red fox, complete with pointed ears, whiskers, and a bushy, white-tipped tail.

Yes, Gracie was a fox. No, really. She was. Literally. (We know. It’s too good.)

The fox slipped away into the underbrush, silent as a shadow.

Darkness fell. He watched the stars come out. The rain had finally stopped, and a gentle breeze was blowing, cooling his face. An owl hooted from somewhere in the trees. It was a beautiful night. The kind of night that makes you pensive. And Edward was alone.

It should be mentioned that Edward wasn’t accustomed to being alone. In his life before, it’d been exceedingly rare for him to have even fifteen minutes to himself. He’d been the glorious sun with an orbit of men revolving constantly about him. Men to watch that when he ate he did not choke. Men to help him onto his horse. Men to teach him Latin. Men to comb his hair. Men to refill his glass when it was empty, which it never was, because he had men to fill it. Even while he slept there’d been men standing just outside his door to guard him.

And now here he was, completely alone. He found this situation both euphoric (he could scratch himself and no one was looking; no one was judging him—no one!) and unsettling. (What if he choked?)

Edward could have used this time to think about many things: to consider his next move in finding Helmsley and his grandmother and a cure for the poison, to reflect on the nature of trust and betrayal and how hard it was even as king to find good, reliable help these days, to plot a way to regain his kingdom, or at the very least to worry about how his little cousin Jane was doing at that very moment, facing down Mary’s army. But Edward didn’t think about any of that.

He thought about Gracie. How she was a fox (but Edward was not aware of this little irony, as to our knowledge the term fox, used to convey the attractiveness of a woman, was not invented until Jimi Hendrix sang “Foxy Lady” in 1967). How she was, undoubtedly, a thief (but it was all too clear to Edward that although Gracie was definitely a criminal, there was nothing common about her). And how he very much wanted to kiss her.