Page 75 of Kingdom of Locks

Amell had seen the truth of Abigail’s words, and he’d sheepishly acknowledged that bringing flowers for Honeysuckle—as he’d then known her—was a little too lover-like to be appropriate. He hadn’t done so since, and he’d tried to be circumspect in all his interactions with her, not leading her on, or encouraging her to think of him romantically.

He hoped his restraint was benefiting her in some way, because it had done nothing to stop his own headlong descent. He hadn’t lived his life in total isolation. On the contrary, he’d been chased and courted by every girl in Fernedell’s court, and he had no reason to doubt his own heart. He knew he’d fallen hard for his Princess, and who could blame him? She was the kind of girl any man might dream of, but she was real, and fascinating, and unashamedly full of admiration for him.

He groaned aloud as he hurried toward his suite. He knew he didn’t deserve her admiration—she thought him wise and reliable, of all things! He’d joked that his sister would warn Princess against giving him a big head, but the truth was that her high opinion of him did the opposite. He’d never been more aware of his shortcomings, of how unworthy he was of such a pure-hearted woman.

And yet, he argued with himself, surely he was better than Cyfrin. When he’d dared to make such a hint to Abigail in the study, she’d gone pale, and taken a moment to reply.

“I won’t let that happen,” she’d said through gritted teeth. “Not while I’m alive.”

“Neither will I,” Amell had promised.

She’d nodded firmly, but her gaze had become no less piercing. “I’m determined she’ll be free one day. And when that day comes, I want her to be free in every way, to have the opportunity to discover her options.”

Amell had nodded, chastened. The older woman was right. But surely it wasn’t wrong of him to hope that when that day came, he might have as good a chance as anyone.

As sorry as he was to be away from the tower, he enjoyed spending a night in his own bed. The soldiers were no longer camped at the prison, so he’d been accommodated in the guards’ quarters. It was comfortable enough, but nothing compared to his own luxurious rooms.

He rose early the next morning, hoping he might be given leave to return to the prison sooner than expected. Furn had obviously risen even earlier, because he was already in the training yard when Amell arrived, looking to spar. His time at the prison had interfered with his usual training, and he was getting out of practice.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” said Furn cheerfully, showing no hint of the discomfort that had sent him running home the evening before. “Care for a bout?”

“You took the words out of my mouth,” Amell smiled, already stripping off his tunic.

They sparred for a solid hour, at the end of which time both men were spent enough to be ready to call it a morning and seek out breakfast. They were still toweling their faces, however, when a cheerful voice hailed them.

“Amell, Furn, what good luck to find you here.”

“Hello Tora,” said Amell, looking at his sister in some surprise. “Don’t let Mother catch you near the training yard.”

“I never let Mother catch me,” said Tora comfortably. Her eyes flicked to Furn, whom Amell noticed had hastily slid his tunic back on. “Furn,” the princess said pleasantly, “I was wondering if you could help me.”

“Help you, Your Highness?” Furn asked, his eyes slightly narrowed. Clearly he also found her innocent air suspicious. Amell’s gaze traveled to the bow clutched in his sister’s hand, his confusion growing.

“Yes, I’m determined to improve my archery. It’s the only kind of fighting princesses are allowed to learn, apparently, and I’m quite out of my depth.” She smiled serenely at the guard. “I’ve heard you’re an excellent archer, and I thought perhaps you could show me how.”

“Oh,” said Furn, looking momentarily flummoxed. “That’s…that’s very kind of you to say, Your Highness. But I’m not much above average with a bow, to be perfectly honest.”

“Nonsense,” she said brightly. “I’ve heard excellent things. And you must be a very patient teacher if you can put up with Amell.”

The guard’s lips twitched as if in spite of himself, and he seemed to hesitate.

“The archery yard isn’t in use by the guards at present,” Tora pressed, raising her bow and pulling back a hand in imitation of releasing an arrow. “We could practice for a quarter of an hour before breakfast.”

“I can give you a refresher, Tora,” Amell offered helpfully. “Last I saw, you weren’t at all bad. But if you want to go over some pointers, I’d be happy to help.” He stepped up to his sister, pointing at her hand. “First off, your grip isn’t quite right.” He yanked her hand up to the level of her eyes, then leaned down to elbow her hip into place. “And your hips should be angled this way, not—”

“Amell,” she hissed in his ear, so quietly he doubted Furn could even hear, “if you don’t butt out, I will stab you with an arrow.”

“But,” protested Amell, straightening, “I thought you said you wanted—”

“Prince Amell is right, Your Highness,” Furn cut in, his expression a little strange. “He’d be a better choice to teach you. His marksmanship is at least as good as mine.”

With a bow, the guard took off, striding away down the corridor with more haste than dignity.

“Amell!” Tora burst out, the moment the guard was out of earshot.

“What?” Amell asked, totally perplexed. “What did I do?”

“Ruined everything, that’s what,” she told him. A glance around the training yard seemed to remind her that several guards were watching them with interest. Dropping the bow onto a bench with so much force it clattered to the ground, she powered toward the door.

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