My Lady Jane(85)

Someone had stepped on Jane.

G shoved himself up and pushed through the group until he reached his wife, who looked like she was preparing for another good scurry. Nothing broken, then. Probably. Hopefully. G grabbed her up in his arms.

From the exit, a series of loud barks sounded: Pet.

G tucked the ferret against his chest and turned to flee. There were a half dozen people in the way. He curled his shoulders around Jane and ran head-on into them, barreling through the press of people and—after a few bright bursts of light—dogs and wolves. If there’d been any doubt before that this was the Pack, it was gone now. But somehow, in spite of the various daggers and swords they slashed at him, G finally made it to the door.

Pet was on the other side, snarling and biting at those who would follow (gosh, we love that dog), and she stayed back to give G time to escape. He ran as fast as he could as a man, and after a few minutes he found himself alone in the forest, just a shuddering Jane against his chest. He let himself slow down. It was then that he finally registered the stabs of pain in his arms and legs. He must have been cut during the scuffle.

G dropped to one knee to catch his breath, and relaxed his hold on Jane. “Well, at least no one will ever say that our married life has not been exciting, right, my dear? But I thought we agreed that it would be for the best if you stayed in the woods.”

She didn’t respond.

All at once he became aware of the blood soaking the front of his shirt and how unusually quiet she was.

Jane was never quiet.

She was hurt.

G threw off his cloak, laid it on the ground, and placed the ferret on top. It was too dark for him to see anything besides the outline of her small body and her breath coming in fast, short gasps. He ran his fingers down her side and discovered a long, deep gash. He tore a piece from his shirt and wrapped the cloth around her, hoping to stanch the flow of blood.

“Jane?” His voice shook. “Tell me you’re all right.”

Of course, ferret-Jane couldn’t answer. She just looked up at him, limp in the bundle of the cloak. A tiny whimper escaped her.

Brush crackled and G whirled, but it was Pet.

In a flash of light, she was a naked girl. “The other dogs won’t follow.” She flashed into a dog again, came over, sniffed at Jane, and whined. G closed his eyes and bowed his head.

“Jane. Jane, you stubborn girl.” He carefully picked her up and cradled her against him. “I’m going to get you to Helmsley. Don’t leave me before then, Jane. Don’t leave me. Go, Pet!”

The dog took off and G followed her, running like he’d never run before. He ran flat out for at least ten minutes, and then he kept on running, because Jane was depending on him, and now it was his turn to save her life.





TWENTY-TWO


Edward

A dog was barking. Stupid dog.

Edward had been lying awake for hours, trying to sleep, but he found his bed uncomfortable, and his head full of women: Mary with her great velvet-encased rear end upon his throne, which irked him. Jane shut up inside a cold, dark room somewhere, weeping because she thought he was dead, which—okay, well, Edward liked the idea of Jane mourning him more than he would have admitted out loud. It did seem appropriate that she would grieve for him; she was his best friend, after all. But the idea of Jane locked away in London and him here, helpless to go to her, nettled him. And then there was Bess with her complicated plans that all seemed to come down to Edward entreating the King of France—one of his least favorite people—for help, which felt an awful lot like begging, and kings did not beg. Plus Gran with her disgusting tonics and her razor tongue and the infuriating way she had of making him feel like a boy who had only played as king.

And Gracie. Gracie, Gracie.

The way she’d said she liked his smile.

The surprising roughness of her hand against his when she’d given him the little wooden fox.

Her trousers, because she was too stubborn to wear skirts like a proper female.

Her finger against his lips back in the barn, her eyes full of danger and fun.

Her untamable hair.

Her laugh.

Of course she was always laughing at him, it seemed. Mocking him. Knocking him onto his backside. Disobeying his commands, even the simple ones like, Call me Edward. How hard could it be to call him Edward?

Edward was vexed.

The dog was still barking, a sound that bounced off the stone walls of the old keep, loud and constant. Edward turned over onto his side and yanked at the tangled covers. The mattress was lumpy, stuffed with a combination of wool and straw. In the palace, he’d slept on a feather bed with fine sheets and the softest of furs. He’d never had to clean his own shirt. Or see to his own chamber pot. Or subsist on rabbit stew for three nights in a row.

Bark, bark, bark, went the dog.

And let’s not forget the women. He found himself suddenly overtaken by women, and not the demure and silent young ladies that fawned over him at court. Oh, no. He had to be surrounded by opinionated women who delighted in bossing him around.

Aggravating, unkissable women.

And still the blasted dog would not stop barking!

Even the dogs here are ill-mannered, he thought as he crammed a pillow over his head and pressed it to his ear. In the palace, the dogs never barked all night. That was not allowed. Pet certainly never barked, unless there was something wrong. Something urgent. Pet never—