I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. His fingers, long and callused, worked with precision. A sign of his noble heritage, but a testament to his work ethic.
My gaze dropped to his black boots, then to my light blue dress brushing the tops of them.
Too close. I stood far too close. Anyone passing by might see us like this—my reputation undone over a careless sketch.
“Princess.” His rough fingers released the final chain, and it fell against his chest as he placed a hand on my shoulder. “Are you well?”
I forced a smile and stepped back. His touch fell away, but his brow remained furrowed, lips pressed tight with concern.
“I’m fine. I was just heading to my rooms. My apologies.”
“The third apology in as many minutes.” His face softened, the crease between his brows fading. “You’re forgiven.”
I let out a breath, trying to push the knot of nerves with it.
Then he bent down and picked up the canvas.
A wave of horror surged through me, and my cheeks burned. He straightened, glancing at the sketch as he passed it back to me.
“I didn’t know you drew.” His voice faltered as I reached out for it, and that familiar crease of confusion reappeared as he tilted his head. He brought the canvas closer, studying it with narrowed eyes. I prayed to every god I knew that the earth would open and swallow me whole.
“Just a sketch,” I managed, voice tight.
Greaves cleared his throat, and I caught the way he blinked, lips pressed together as though to hold back a smile. My face flamed, and sweat gathered along my brow.
“Just a sketch,” I repeated, more forcefully this time. “Nothing worth calling art.”
His piercing gaze locked onto mine, but his expression remained unreadable. Yet the weight of his stare carried a thousand questions.
Did he assume I’d drawn another man? Would he think me unchaste, disloyal? Was he worried about a bastard heir? If he knew I’d been close enough to sketch a half-naked man, as a princess–
“The battle for the foothills,” he said.
I blinked, confusion warring with panic. My fingers tugged at my skirts, and I tried a smile, but it faltered and disappeared.
“The scar across my chest is from the battle for the foothills in the northern mountain range,” he continued, handing me the canvas. “Nearly lost my heart that day.”
He watched me closely as I grabbed it and hugged it close, not caring if charcoal smeared my blouse. Did he find this amusing?
“I don’t know what you mean.” My throat tightened as I met his gaze, chin raised.
“I think you do.” His eyes flicked toward the guards, and his expression went unreadable as he straightened. “But you seem to be in a hurry. I won’t keep you.”
“Thank you,” I muttered, stepping around him. The words caught in my throat, and I moved with haste, letting the tension in my muscles carry me away. I didn’t say another word as I fled the scene, though I thought a great many curses.
“It was quite a nice picture.”
“Scythe!” Both Edith and I hissed in unison.
The younger handmaiden flinched and gave a sheepish smile. Edith poked at the canvas, already burning in the hearth, scattering ashes back into the flames. I sprawled across my sofa, my arm over my eyes, waiting for my pulse to return to an acceptable pace.
“Perhaps you should refrain from drawing men.”
Edith’s voice hummed with a reprimand, but I didn’t dare lift my gaze. When I’d rushed in, demanding the sketch be destroyed, she had taken it without a word. Her stare alone could’ve withered grass.
I lay still, listening to the crackle of the fire, trying to ignore the weight of Edith’s words. The tradition of waiting three seasons to wed had already begun—enough time to prepare for the wedding, for Tallon and I to become acquainted, for us to prove we were trustworthy.
And, perhaps most crucial of all, for me to prove I wasn’t with child.
