My Lady Jane(62)

This last part he found astounding. Gracie was the least appropriate girl in the world for him to receive his first kiss from; he knew that. He was the King of England. She was a Scottish pickpocket. But still, impractically, impossibly, he wanted to kiss her.

She was the one, he’d decided. The lucky girl he was going to kiss.

Now all he had to figure out was how to make said kiss happen.

Usually, when Edward wanted something, he simply had to ask for it. He had no doubt that back at court, if he’d wanted a woman to kiss him, all he would have had to do is say, Lady Suchandsuch, I wish you to come over here right now and press your lips to mine, and his wish would have literally been her command. He wouldn’t have even had to say please.

But this was different. First off, as Gracie had so generously pointed out, he wasn’t much of a king around here. Secondly, if he came right out and asked Gracie to kiss him, he had a feeling that she would laugh in his face. And thirdly, he didn’t just want to kiss Gracie. He wanted her to want him to kiss her.

But how could he make her want him to kiss her? It had seemed to Edward that she’d been at least slightly interested in the prospect of snogging back in the barn. She’d looked at him that way. He shifted uncomfortably in front of the fire. But after that she’d immediately tried to get away from him. But then she’d been helping him. But then she was always leaving him alone.

Women were complicated creatures.

The bushes rustled and Gracie-the-fox stuck her head out and gave a funny little bark, the cue for Edward to turn away again so that she could dress. He stared down at his feet as the E?ian light flashed and Gracie-the-girl snatched up her clothes and disappeared again into the forest.

When she finally emerged, she was carrying a dead rabbit and a bundle tucked under her arm. She tossed him the bundle.

Edward unfolded it eagerly. Whenever she left him for a time, she always returned with something they needed: a pair of pants, to start with (because that had been Edward’s biggest shortcoming), followed by a battered cloak, a linen shirt, and a warm woolen blanket. A loaf of bread here. A flask of water there. A slightly rusted but otherwise decent sword. And, the pièce de résistance—boots. A fine, supple pair of boots in exactly his size. How she had pulled that off, he had no idea. He thought it best not to ask.

This particular bundle turned out to be a pair of mismatched socks.

“Thank you,” he said, immediately kicking off his boots to put them on.

“You’re welcome.” She didn’t look at him, but sat down on a stump across from the fire and drew from her belt a hunting knife with a beautiful pearl-encrusted handle. Edward felt a bit sick as she made a cut in the rabbit’s belly and then pulled its skin off in a single smooth motion. Before this, most of his food had been served to him already dressed and prepared and looking like food, not like some poor defenseless animal.

He remembered the field mouse he’d eaten as a bird. His stomach grumbled unhappily. He turned his attention back to the socks.

“Oh, there’s a hole in the toe,” he discovered.

“Is there?” She didn’t glance up from where she was now gutting the rabbit. “I suppose you’d like me to mend it for you?”

“Yes, that’d be nice,” he said, pleased. “When you get time.”

“And you’ve let the fire go down, so you’ll be wanting me to stoke it up again.”

“Whatever you need to cook the rabbit,” he answered.

“And should I press your shirt while I’m at it?”

“It is a bit wrinkled,” he admitted, although he wasn’t sure how she would manage it.

There was a gross plop at his feet—rabbit innards. He gasped and looked up to find her standing over him, feet apart, green eyes furious.

“I’m not your serving wench!” She shook the skinned rabbit under his nose. “I said I’d help you, and I will, but I won’t be ordered about. You’re not my king, and I’m not your subject. So don’t you be telling me what to do.”

He blinked up at her, taken aback.

“I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to give you orders, or make you do all the work. It’s just that I . . .”

She folded her arms across her chest.

“I’ve never had to look after myself before,” he muttered to his feet. “I don’t know how.”

She was still for a moment, and then he heard her move away. When he dared to look up again she was roasting the rabbit on a stick over the fire, her black curls all tumbled about her face and shoulders, her expression grave as she stared into the flames.

His heart sank. She hated him. She was probably thinking about what was the fastest way to be rid of him.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

She lifted her head and met his gaze, her face aglow with firelight. “I’m sorry, too,” she said at last. “I shouldn’t have bitten your head off. I’m just touchy on the subject, I suppose.”

“The subject?”

“Of English kings.”

“Oh.” He gave her a weary smile. “Well, that I’ve noticed. But I think my head is still attached. Last I checked, anyway.”

Her dimples appeared; she was trying not to smile back. Hope flooded back into his chest. Maybe she did like him.

“I suppose it’s not your fault,” she said. “You must be used to people waiting on you hand and foot and tripping over each other to serve you.”