Charles listens intently, his eyes bright with anticipation. He favors thepar forcehunt—the long chase, the slow breaking of the animal’s will. When the huntsman speaks of it, I see the gleam in Charles’s eyes, and a chill slides down my spine.
The dogs are brought forward.
I have always liked dogs, but…Charles’s hounds are something else entirely. Lean, scarred, disciplined to the point of emptiness. They move like soldiers, every instinct honed toward pursuit and kill. There is no light in their eyes—only focus.
Charles loves them for it.
As the men prepare, the women gather to watch from a safe distance. I sit among them, hands folded in my lap, watching my husband mount his horse, watching Tassilo do the same.
The horn sounds.
The hunt begins.
Aileen returns while the hunting party slowly leaves, sitting close, her voice low.
“Apparently, Tassilo’s wife resides mostly with her family in the South. They spend little time together.”
I raise my brows, and Aileen hesitates, then continues, “There are…rumors. That they have an arrangement. That Tassilo has another attachment. One he cannot acknowledge…openly.”
Aileen chatters on with the other ladies, but my mind wanders.
I am not the only one living a carefully arranged life. Love does not always take the shape the world approves of. And for a moment, I envy Tassilo—not for his freedom, but for the fact that love exists for him at all. I wonder if there is alove meant for me somewhere, a soul that would have loved me wholly, without fear or restraint. Or if this—this careful, burning thing I have inside—is all the love I was ever meant to have.
Chapter 17
Aileen remains behind at Tassilo’s estate. She dislikes riding horses and grows sick in the saddle too easily. The huntsman has drawn a map for the ladies, marking safe routes along the forest’s edge, and I seize the chance to take in some fresh air.
The horse prepared for me is an old mare—slow, but dependable. Her name is Chamomile. She delights in stopping along the road to graze on fresh grass and bask in the sunshine. Her dark brown coat is warm beneath my hand, her gentle snorting a quiet comfort, a reminder that not everything must move at the pace of kings and hounds.
Of course, I am not truly alone. Charles’s men follow me everywhere, though today they keep their distance. They must be bored beyond measure. They swore themselves to the King’s guard—to defend the monarch with their lives against enemies foreign and domestic—and now they trail a mere woman on an aging horse, halting now and then to pick flowers or watch a flock of birds rise from a field.
I laugh aloud at the thought of them—grown men trained for battle, condemned to spend their morning watching me admire wildflowers. I slow the mare and turn halfway, lifting a hand in greeting.
“Gentlemen,” I call cheerfully. “You may as well ride closer. I promise not to bolt for the woods.”
They do not answer. One of them inclines his head, the barest acknowledgment, and keeps his eyes on the tree line. I try again, asking whether they prefer the quiet or find it as dull as I do, but the forest swallows my words. Conversation, it seems, is not part of their orders.
I laugh again, softer this time, and face forward. If they will not speak, I will not force them. The mare ambles on, content in her unhurried way, and I let myself sink into the rhythm of her steps. Sunlight filters through the leaves in shifting patches. Somewhere nearby, a bird sings, answered by another further off.
Then something rustles in the undergrowth.
I straighten, my hand tightening on the reins. The sound comes again—branches brushing, leaves disturbed. An animal, surely. A deer, perhaps, or a fox startled by my passing. I peer into the bushes, but see only shadow and green. The forest has gone oddly still.
The mare snorts, ears flicking back. A prickle of unease curls low in my stomach. I am being foolish; the guards are only a few strides away. And yet the sensation does not pass. It feels as though the trees themselves are watching, holding their breath.
Hooves thunder suddenly behind me.
I cry out, and the mare jumps sideways, then steadies as a familiar voice calls my name. Tassilo draws up beside me, his horse flecked with foam, his expression apologetic—and amused.
“I did not mean to startle you,” he says, smiling. “Though I see I have succeeded.”
I exhale, shaky, and press a hand to my chest.
“You nearly frightened me out of my skin. Why are you not with the hunt?”
He shrugs. “I followed a deer off the path and lost it in the woods. It seemed foolish to pretend skill I do not possess.” His gaze flicks to the guards in the distance. “May I ride with you, or will I offend protocol?”
“I think they will survive,” I say, and to my own surprise, I mean it.
