Page 78 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
“Damn this Summerglee,” moans Cowen.
“It’s not a total loss,” Ward says, patting his brother’s shoulder. “I have a truly magnificent blend ofhannaswe should all smoke.”
Everyone at the table looks up at him with silent suspicion.
His chuckle sounds a little nervous. “Don’t worry—it’s perfectly safe.”
“We should play ‘Risks or Questions,’” says Imrissa. “When we played it at Wintertryst, things got wonderfully naughty.”
“Strip dice!” shouts Bazra. “And I’ve thought of something fun we can all do with Nonni.”
Ruelle stuffs an entire boiled egg into my mouth and hauls me up by my neck chain, dragging me out of the breakfast room. Our exit is masked by a gigantic cracking boom of thunder and a flash of lightning.
But Ruelle isn’t taking me back to our room. She’s pulling me down a dim side hallway that looks suspiciously like a servant’s passage. And she’s carrying a leather satchel that she apparently brought along to breakfast. Damn me for not noticing it before.
Frantically I chew the egg, trying not to choke but desperate to ask questions.
The Princess shoves open a door, and we hurry along another short passage that smells musty and grassy at the same time. Another door, and we step into a humid space with a heavy smell I recognize—the smell of horse, oiled leather, and manure.
I swallow and gasp out, “The stables?”
“Yes! I left a note for Meldare and Penn. By the time they read it we’ll be long gone.”
“Long gone where?” I run two fingers under my neck collar, relieved that she’s no longer pulling on my chain.
“To the shrine, thrall, as we discussed.” She looks at me as if I’m an idiot. “There are spare cloaks on those pegs. Find us two big thick ones, and then help me saddle a horse.”
I planned to lounge in a warm bed with a naked Princess all day. It’s painful to watch those dreams evaporate, and I’m more than a little annoyed at the idea of riding through a storm for hours.
“Your bodyguards will be terrified for you,” I tell her.
“I’m with you. And I have knives.” She pats her corset, then shoots me a challenging glare. “What is it, Captain? Haven’t you marched and ridden through foul weather before? Or are you going soft? Captain Adraxas Ducayne, becoming a flabby, indulgent royal whore—”
I stride forward, snatching two cloaks from the wall, and I move into her space. She looks up at me, her eyes sparkling with dark mischief.
“Call me a whore again,” I say quietly. “And I’ll show you what whores do best. Right here, in the stable.”
She has a knife to my neck before I finish the sentence. A wicked, gleeful smile spreads over her face. “Oh, my sweet whore,” she murmurs. “Have you forgotten who owns whom? I suggest you remember it, or I shall have to remind you.”
I lift my chin as she presses the knife more firmly against my skin, and I give her my most cocky, lecherous grin. “Fuck you, Highness.”
Her eyes widen, and for a second I think she might kiss me. But she withdraws, and we don the cloaks and saddle the horses without any further games between us. Two horses, unfortunately. I was hoping to share one with her, but none are big enough to carry us both safely in such weather.
She removes my slave collar, and I’m grateful for the relief. I much prefer her small hands at my throat.
“You have a map, I hope?” I ask, pushing open the stable doors before mounting my mare.
“I asked a servant for directions.”
“Why isn’t that reassuring?”
“I’m very good with directions,” she retorts. “Oh gods—a stable boy is coming. Go!”
We charge out the open doors just as the stable boy shouts after us. We pelt down the palace lane, toward the main road. It’s as miserable as I feared—rain slanting down in torrents, wind tearing at our cloaks, puddles of indeterminate depth making travel hazardous.
We ride for three wretched hours, under sopping forest foliage, across rushing sheets of water pouring from hilltop to meadow across the road, through muddy slicks that are far too close to the edge of a bluff for my liking. Ruelle rides ahead, and a few times, when her horse’s hoof slips, my heart seizes up. But the mare never actually falls, thank the gods.
Finally we enter a thick wood whose canopy is matted enough to block most of the rain. It’s dreadfully soggy and humid underneath, and the smell of wet horse and moldering rotten wood assails my nose.
