Page 37 of The Artist and the Dragon

It had been that way for days, all his time spent turning over their interactions at tea in a never-ending cycle. Or, at least, the time he didn’t spend sleeping or poring over the old coded missives Drystan had found. He’d hoped decoding the letters would be a pleasant break from spell books, but learning more of the heinous acts his father had committed during his reign and before it… Well, it was enough to make any man want to lose himself in drink or a lover. But drinking only made him think of her, the woman he wanted and couldn’t have.

It was his own damn fault. Malik knew that, but it didn’t make the bitterness of the situation any better. He had thought—hoped—that her attachment to Lord Griffith was a façade, but then Bronwyn had gone and defended the man and her relationship with him.

Goddess, how it burned him up inside.

And now she was here, again, on Griffith’s arm, just like she was at half the other events Malik had recently attended. He should be glad of it. It was their plan. Perhaps she could learn something at Griffith’s side, but that logic didn’t keep jealousy from eating him up inside.

“My prince?” a man was saying, his head cocked to the side, brows pinched as if he’d said it more than once.

Malik smiled again. “Apologies. It seems I’m not myself at the moment.” He left the line—if one could still call it that, given the cluster of people around him—and made for the stands. The races would start soon. Perhaps he could claim a seat and simply enjoy the horses for a while. They were a joy to watch, even more so to ride. How long since he’d had the opportunity? He shook his head, trying to recall the last time he’d been riding and coming up empty. Far, far too long.

He looked to the stairs descending from the central stand and stopped dead in his tracks. His thoughts must have conjured her, because Bronwyn flew down the steps in a hurry, dodging a couple who turned to stare after her. Even from some distance, he could see the exaggerated rise and fall of her chest. She stopped briefly at the bottom and glanced at the betting lines. But whatever she sought must have been absent, because she turned and hurried in the opposite direction, toward an open section of course railing between stands.

At some point, Malik had raised his hand, reaching for her as if he could pluck her from the path of whatever harried her—because she was running from something, he knew that much. Something had spooked her, or she’d become uncomfortable, and she’d fled as she was prone to do.

There was no Lord Griffith in tow. Curious, although the young lord had been absent the last time he’d seen her in the stands, too. He’d been thoroughly tempted to go keep her company, and might have if Mr. Yarwood hadn’t approached her from their box. Despite numerous outings with the Yarwood siblings, Malik had begun to think of the brother as an under-ripened nut: impossible to crack. This proved vexing, since the sister was becoming more adamant about advancing their relationship, something Malik refused to do. Some rational part of him had whispered that Bronwyn might have better luck, so he’d left her to it.

But now … now…

He watched her hastily retreating form come to a stop by an empty stretch of the railing. She leaned heavily on it in an entirely unladylike pose. If he didn’t know better, he might think she was about to climb over it and onto the course.

Before he gave thought to what he was doing, Malik had crossed the grassy yard to her. “Miss Kinsley.”

Bronwyn jumped and gave a high squeak, twisting in a flash and leaning back on the coarse wood railing. Her brown eyes widened as she took him in. “Malik.”

He nearly groaned at the sound of his name on her lips. Why should such a simple thing ruin him so?

“A pleasure meeting you here.” He dipped his head in greeting.

“Is it?” She snapped open her fan and began to quickly fan herself.

He grinned at that. “Of course.” When, rather than replying, she increased the tempo of her fanning, he continued, “Have you met any interesting people today?”

Her gaze darted away. She clearly didn’t take his meaning. Not that it was really the time to discuss such things, but he thought it might calm her obviously frayed nerves. “Several. I was just looking for one, in fact.”

“On the racecourse?” He barely held back a laugh.

She scowled at him. At that, he did laugh.There she is.

“Excuse me,Prince Alastair.” She stomped past him, chin lifted high.

That sobered him. She was furious about something, though he couldn’t say what. He followed Bronwyn as she aimed not for the stands as expected but for the outbuildings. She weaved through the crowds with practiced ease, not afraid to brush shoulders through a narrow gap or step in front of the patrons hurrying back to the stands for the first race, which would start in moments.

“Bronwyn!” A few people nearby snapped their attention his way, and Malik snapped his mouth shut, gritting his teeth in frustration. He knew better than to address her so informally in public.

The woman herself stopped, and so did he, staying as close as he could while maintaining careful space between them. The look she gave him might have cowed a lesser man, and he’d wager it had little to do with the use of her name.

She gave him a dismissive once-over. “Are you following me?”

With three long steps, he ate up the last of the space between them. “I am.”

She held his gaze, her eyes blazing with the ferocity he’d come to crave. “Don’t you have others to be watching?” The careful arch of her brow pinned him with her accusation.

“Not when you’re acting so strangely.”

She huffed and turned away again. This time, Malik kept in step behind her. They passed the betting house, rounding its back corner and entering the yard beyond it. Here, among the stalls and stables, the noise of the crowd was much more subdued. A few horses were being led about by grooms; others stretched in the warm-up ring ahead.

“I’m not the one you should have your eyes on, Prince Alastair.”

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