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Governess Agnes cleared her throat and glanced over her shoulder even though the chamber door was firmly shut. She met Blanchette’s reflection in the looking glass with solemn eyes. They were full of wisdom and love. Blanchette’s heart ached from the affection she found there. She smiled at Governess Agnes and held her hand.
Governess Agnes’s voice lowered, sounding very much like a conspiratorial whisper. “Listen to me, dear, and listen closely. If you share another thing with your father—and there’s only one other—it’s your temper and… well, your rather impulsive nature. I’ve seen how stubborn you can be, God save us.” Governess Agnes squeezed her hand.
“That’s three things.”
Governess Agnes cracked a smile. Then she stepped in front of Blanchette, effectively blocking their reflections, and placed her small, gloved hands on Blanchette’s shoulders. An edge came into her voice that demanded Blanchette’s full attention and prickled her skin. “The lesson you must learn quickly, my dear, is patience. You must be clever with this man… this Black Wolf, this Rowan Dietrich. If you truly wish to escape”—an uncharacteristically sly smile shaped her lips—“perhaps even win him over… let him underestimate you. You are a raven. Remember that. So be clever and fly when it’s time. But only when it’s time. Isadora shall send help. I know it in my heart… but be patient, my dear, and I promise you’ll be rewarded tenfold.” She continued to smooth out Blanchette’s wimple and the fine material of her dress. Blanchette gave a small yelp as Governess Agnes pinched her cheeks, bringing color to her fair skin. “Ah. There we are. The Black Wolf shan’t stand a chance.” Governess Agnes stepped back with a nod of approval. Then, in a regal voice that sent more needles across Blanchette’s skin, she recited, “Patienceis better than pride. Don’t be quick-tempered, for anger is the friend of fools.”
Blanchette thought again of the bird she sent from the rookery.
She nodded at Governess Agnes.
This was naught but a waiting game.
She could be patient. She could play for a little while.
Meanwhile, let the Black Wolf play at swords.
* * *
She entered the chamber in her red riding cloak, looking every bit like a queen. Rowan came to his feet instantly because her very presence demanded it.
Her posture alone told Rowan precisely what she thought of him summoning her, and he admired her even more for it. He admired how she held her shoulders up and back as if whatever burden he’d lain there couldn’t bring her down. He admired the unrelenting tilt to her chin, how loose curls spiraled out from her wimple in defiance.
He admired the fight she had in her, even in the presence of a wolf.
But her eyes fascinated him most of all.
She came right up to him—his heart leaped without warning at her intimate nearness—then she placed a delicate hand on the back of the chair he’d risen from. His chair.
“Pardon me,” she said, that steady gaze locked on his. Pushing past his body, she sat in the gilded chair at the table’s place of high honor. Then she untied her cloak with trembling hands.
It was the one giveaway to an otherwise relaxed and self-assured demeanor.
She glanced around the room, her eyes narrowed with a poorly masked anger. Rowan bit his cheek, knowing his mirth would only fuel her ire.
“Where is your beast?”
“Smoke? He’s hunting in the woods.”
Rowan couldn’t take his gaze off her. Twin candelabras flanked the table, casting a delicate glow over her face. The wound on her cheek had transformed into a thin, raised ridge. It added fierceness to her beauty, a contrast to those fine, regal features. It reminded Rowan of what she’d endured, what she’d survived and could survive, and that even one as gentle as Princess Blanchette could be his undoing if he didn’t tread carefully.
She exuded confidence she’d lacked in the tavern, which showed Rowan just how well-crafted she was for castles and throne chairs.
Hell of a lot better than me, that’s for certain.
She’s trained her whole life for such a seat.
She stared at him coolly, her eyes never wavering, her red lips tilted at the corners.
Or was that just his imagination? The open ties of her gown revealed a patch of creamy white skin that rose voluptuously from the bodice.
She looked good enough to eat.
A servant placed a decanter of ale and two goblets before them. Rowan poured one, then handed it to Blanchette, allowing a tense silence to linger between them.
Finally, she spoke, her voice firm and smooth as silk. “A pity our steward died in the attack. It would have made your invasion much easier had he lived.”
Rowan’s gaze dragged into hers. “Many good people died that night, Blanchette.”
