Page 16

Malik

M alik attempted to join the line at the nearest betting booth, but his mere presence drew a cluster of people to him like gnats to rotted fruit, buzzing about and asking countless questions that went in one ear and out the other.

He smiled to hide his gritted teeth and greeted them one after the other. He’d left the stands for a moment of peace, damn it, not more nonsense. He barely registered who he spoke with or what they asked him, hardly able to give more than non-committal responses. All because she was there, because he couldn’t get her out of his head.

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 facade, 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.”

Perhaps, but… “I always have my eyes on you, Miss Kinsley,” he whispered.

A small hitch in her step was the only indication that she heard him. Thank the Goddess there was no one close enough to listen in.

Behind them, a roar of cheers went up. The racers must be taking their positions, ready to begin. Bronwyn stopped near the edge of the practice ring, a simple wooden fence separating them from the paddock. A trumpet blared, cutting through the ongoing cheers, and she jumped to face the main course.

“We’re missing the race,” Malik said as he came to stand near her.

“So we are.” She turned back toward the horses and leaned on the railing much as she had near the racecourse. No care was taken with the coarse wood that might pull at the delicate threads of her sleeves. Instead, her attention seemed very far away as she hunched in on herself.

Malik joined her at the railing, but she angled her head away from him and tucked her arm closer to her body. That simply wouldn’t do.

“Did you know I used to love riding?” he said with a feigned carefree air.

Like a cat waking from a nap, she slowly turned her head. Not all the way toward him, but enough to show she listened.

“It was one of my favorite pastimes as a boy, one my mother loved as well.” He stared wistfully at the beautiful chestnut that galloped by. It reminded him of the one his mother had favored. “She took me to the countryside as often as she could manage. We’d go riding, take long walks. She had some of the staff teach me how to fish and hunt like a gentleman. At the time, I thought she simply loved the outdoors, and I believe she did, but I think most of our excursions were excuses for her to get away from my father … and to keep me away from him as well.”

When he glanced at his companion, she was staring up at him, her posture more open. “I didn’t know that.”

“It’s not something I share often. Doesn’t quite fit with my current image.” He winked.

Bronwyn rolled her eyes and went back to watching the horses, but he swore he saw the slightest flicker of a smile before it vanished just as quickly. Either way, she wasn’t as closed off anymore, didn’t lean as heavily on the railing.

Malik inched closer. “Something has upset you. Will you tell me what’s the matter?”

She swallowed thickly and gave him a long, hard look. Her lips thinned, and for a moment he thought she’d flee again, but finally, she said, “Mr. Yarwood said something that bothered me, that’s all.”

“He was unkind to you?” Malik’s hand tightened into a fist at his side.

“Not to me. Not exactly. He…” Her fan slid closed, and she laid it atop the railing before turning back to him. “He gave me much to think about.”

“Things that will help our cause?”

She huffed. “I’m unsure.” Once again, the horses claimed her focus. In the stands, cheers rose and fell as the racers likely completed a lap.

“And how did you end up down here? Alone?” An unwise move on her part, given all that had happened. To say nothing of what people might think of a princess roaming the outbuildings.

“I went looking for Lord Griffith,” she replied matter-of-factly.

Malik nearly swore under his breath.

Bronwyn either didn’t notice his sudden shift in mood or didn’t care. “He’d gone to place a bet with some others, but when I came down, I didn’t see them in the betting lines.”

“Perhaps he’d gone back up? There are multiple sets of stairs. Or gone to fetch you a drink on this hot day.” Why, oh, why was he making excuses for the man? Yet, for some reason, he couldn’t stop.

“Yes. Maybe. But I didn’t want to go back up there and be confronted by Mr. Yarwood again. Or worse, Lord Osian.”

Malik wrinkled his nose at the name. “I’m sorry you had the misfortune to meet him.”

She looked up at him, quite serious. “Please tell me he’s on your list.”

He gave a breathy laugh. “He’s one I have my eyes on, yes.” And had for some time. Something about the man unsettled him, and Bronwyn, too, it seemed.

She hugged her arms closer to herself. “Maybe you could just scratch him off now,” she mumbled, staring once more at the horses.

“So bloodthirsty.”

The sideways glare he received had him holding back another chuckle.

“But what if he’s innocent?” Malik prodded. “Wouldn’t want to condemn a man simply because you don’t like him.”

She sighed and tucked a stray strand of hair behind one ear. “You’re right, of course.”

“Hmm, yes,” he mused. “Someone has to keep you from murdering men on first meeting.”

This time, he was certain that was a wry grin pulling at her lips. She pushed off the fence and looked up at him, a touch of brightness sparkling in her eyes that had been missing too often of late. “Perhaps I should have run you through with that fireplace poker. Think of all the trouble it would have saved me.”

He’d take a poker through the side right now if it meant she kept looking at him like that. It should have been a horrible first impression, her glaring at him like he was a thief come to rob them—or worse—and she might have to fight him off. But the fierceness in her gaze, the love she’d showed her sister in that moment, had sparked something entirely different in him. Never in his life had anyone stared at him that way. He should have hated it. Been repulsed, or at the very least offended. But instead, he’d been intrigued, and each meeting afterward only beguiled him more until he was trapped in her web and lost to anyone else.

Strangely, she didn’t even seem to be trying to ensnare him. Quite the opposite. Maybe that was the trick of it.

He stepped closer, planting a hand on the fence post beside her. “There’s still time.”

Her breath hitched. She reached for her fan, but his arm was blocking her path. She dropped her hand at once.

The breath held tight in his lungs pushed against his ribs, but he dared not loose it, not when her gaze darted, her cheeks flushed, and she opened her mouth to respond—

The cheering in the stands shifted. High-pitched screams and exclamations pierced the excitement.

All the hope building within him evaporated into a surge of fear and fury. An acrid scent drifted on the breeze.

Bronwyn cut her attention back toward the stands. “What—”

Malik scanned the outbuildings. His pulse pounded in his ears. There, back toward the stands, he caught his first sight of the flames.

“Stay here.” He threw out an arm, urging Bronwyn back toward the fence. Then he was running toward the disaster as fast as his legs would take him.