Page 7 of Pippa of Lauramore (The Eldentimber #1)

She is tall and wispy with a very unfortunate bland color of brown hair and huge hazel eyes. Her eyes are quite pretty, actually.

“I’m his family’s ward,” she corrects him, her voice soft.

The man who hasn’t spoken yet moves forward. “I’m Prince Bran of Triblue, and this is my younger brother Dristan.”

“We’re honored to be in the tournament, Your Highness,” Dristan adds, his smile wide.

Irving elbows him, and Dristan yelps .

“It’s nice to meet—” I stop mid-sentence and lunge for my straw hat. I pile my hair on my head as fast as I can.

They all look at me as if I’ve lost my mind, but they don’t recognize the voice outside the tent. I turn away just as my brother sticks his head in.

“Galinor,” Alexander says. “You must give me a chance to redeem myself. Come spar with us. Cardin thinks he can best you two-handed.”

“I’m better two-handed than I am with a short sword,” Galinor answers, his tone full of good humor and male boasting.

“Prove it.”

I turn around when my brother leaves, grateful he didn’t notice me. Alexander is a wild card. Sometimes he’ll keep a secret, and other times he’ll run off to Sir Kimble or Father and rat me out.

“I need to go,” I say to Galinor. “I think I’ve risked all I can for today.”

He glances at our audience. They watch us with avid interest.

“I’ll walk you back to the arena,” Galinor says.

Irving steps forward and grins. “You can’t do that. Alexander will wonder where you went and track you down. I’ll walk her back.”

Galinor bristles. “I don’t think so.”

“I’ll go with them,” Marigold offers, her eyes flickering between us and the floor.

I nod and then shrug. There will be no goodbyes today.

We share one last glance as I exit the tent. Galinor dips his head as we leave .

Bran and Dristan stay with Galinor, so it’s just the three of us making our way to the arena. As we walk, I learn something about Irving—he doesn’t shut up.

I like that about him.

“Who’s that, and where is he from?” I nod to a tent and crest I don’t recognize.

Irving glances over. “Lord Kellerby from Murin. He’s twenty-nine years old and, tragically, a widower.”

Marigold makes a sad little tut.

I nod to another. “And him?”

“That is Prince Peter of Coppel’s cousin, Sir Mort. He’s not in the tournament.”

Irving knows something about everyone. We’re not skirting the tents like I did before, but walking right through them, weaving so he can slyly relay information to me as we go. Marigold follows, but she doesn’t say much. Not that Irving gives either of us a chance.

“What about him, Irving?” I hold back, motioning to Lionel. We’re not in his direct view, and I don’t think he’ll notice me in a maid’s dress. I’m quite below him right now.

“Ah,” Irving says. “Prince Lionel of Vernow. Twenty-three years old and very powerful, both in kingdom and physical strength. He’s not terribly sociable—or likable—for that matter. Word has it he’s expected to win.”

“Not if I can help it,” I say under my breath.

Irving raises an eyebrow. “Can I ask you something, fair princess?”

Marigold makes an embarrassed noise but looks away.

Irving ignores her and continues, smirking. “Why Galinor? There was a spark between us last night, was there not?”

I laugh. “You really are a scoundrel.”

He clasps his chest. “You wound me, sweet maiden. I only speak so openly because I’m hopelessly besotted with you.”

“Irving, really,” Lady Marigold chastises.

“Then win the tournament,” I joke.

He sighs. “I’m afraid I have no choice.”

I spot Leonora as she scans the arena seating. The princess looks vexed, and I have an idea who she’s looking for. I tap her shoulder, trying not to grin when she jumps.

“Where have you been?” Leonora demands, but when she sees I’m not alone, she lamely finishes, “You’re supposed to be in the gardens.”

Irving stands beside me and drapes his arm across my shoulder. “We know who she is. We walked in on a very private moment between her and the valiant Prince Galinor.”

Leonora’s eyes go wide, and she looks like she might pass out from the thought. I shrug away from Irving, giving him a good, hard poke in the ribs.

“They were only speaking, Your Highness,” Lady Marigold interjects, glaring at her sort-of brother.

“Who are you?” Leonora asks, her voice sharp.

I blink. That’s as rude as I’ve ever heard her speak.

Undaunted, the prince bows low. “Prince Irving of Primewood.”

She scowls at him but turns to Lady Marigold .

“I’m Marigold of Primewood,” the girl says, her voice small and mousy again.

“ Lady Marigold,” Irving adds.

“Ah,” Leonora says, her face softening at the girl’s introduction. “Of course. It’s very nice to meet you.”

A trumpet sounds from the palace walls, and we all turn toward the road. A trio of riders charges through the trees, their leader on a magnificent black stallion. The two behind him hold an orange and black flag with a slain dragon on its crest.

“Well, well,” Irving says. “He made it after all.”

“Who is it?” I watch intently. The man’s very handsome. “I don’t know him.”

The newcomer rides past us, nodding. His hair is black, and his eyes are almost the same color. I hear whispers behind us, and it seems everyone has something to say about our newest guests.

Leonora answers me before Irving gets the chance. “Lord Rigel of Errinton.”

“Errinton?” I rip my gaze from the man and turn to her. “We’re not on good terms with them.”

Irving snorts. “Who is?”

The princess takes a deep breath. “Your father invited him.”

Of course he did.