Wolfie’s deep-throated bark stunned the air one second before he bounded between Rose and Peter Brunckhorst, causing the man to take a step back. The dog snarled and bared his teeth at the merchant.
Rose rubbed her palm across her cheek, trying to brush away the feeling of Brunckhorst’s fingers on her skin. As people gathered around them, murmuring, he curled his lip upward in what Rose presumed was meant to be a smile. “I have hope that you will yet come to accept me.”
He stepped back. The Marktplatz was growing more crowded, and a group of people walked between Rose and the merchant. When they passed, Brunckhorst was gone.
Rose’s legs turned to water. She sank to her knees and buried her face in Wolfie’s neck. “Thank you, boy.”
Wilhelm sat astride his horse near the entrance to the castle courtyard, at the north end of the Marktplatz. He patted Shadow’s neck as his gaze swept over the various performers, sellers’ booths, and people taking in the sights and sounds. Amid the crowd, someone caught his eye. A maiden stood in front of the musicians. Her eyes were closed and a blissful smile graced her lips.
Rose.
The back of his neck tingled. She looked beautiful, especially with that rapt expression on her face. But I shouldn’t be watching her. He tore his eyes away. He was supposed to be making sure the May Day celebrations took place in an orderly fashion. And, as always, he was keeping an eye out for Moncore, though the evil conjurer was hardly likely to show himself so publicly. Wilhelm had lost days of searching due to his injury, and the man could be far away by now.
He’d read Rose’s story to the rest of his family while he was laid up with his leg, and they were as impressed as he’d been. Now he felt strangely excited at the way she obviously appreciated music.
Perhaps some day he would get a chance to play for her.
Perhaps he should cease staring at her. She was fair of face and form, but it was crude of him to stare admiringly at someone so far beneath his station in life. He’d never been tempted to do so before. But it didn’t mean anything—he was simply curious about the maiden who had taken care of his injury. Besides, he knew his duty, which was to wed the daughter of the Duke of Marienberg. Their grandfathers had quarreled and become enemies years before. As the eldest son, it was his responsibility to his people to marry his betrothed and solidify the alliance between their regions. He didn’t want death and destruction on his head. War had come about under less serious circumstances than a broken betrothal.
Such had been his focus for years now. That, and capturing Moncore. The self-described conjurer and expert in pagan magic had been the personal advisor of the Duke of Marienberg, his betrothed’s grandfather, enjoying the riches of the duke’s fortune and the privilege of favored counselor. However, when the elderly duke died and his son took over, he cast Moncore out as an evil conjurer, banishing him from the region. Moncore swore he would get revenge through the duke’s newborn daughter. He seemed to think his revenge would be more complete if he could prove his powers—by finding the duke’s daughter and unleashing demons to torment her.
If Wilhelm could track down Moncore and stamp out the threat of his black magic, his betrothed’s parents would be satisfied that she was safe. She could come out of hiding and they could marry.
Nearby, a performer played a recorder. Wilhelm watched as the man’s trained bear hopped from one hind leg to the other, shaking his shaggy head from side to side. The sight did not long detract him, however, and within moments his gaze returned to the place where Rose stood. She was gone, having vacated her spot in front of the musicians. A twinge of disappointment stung him, but he told himself it was for the best.
A shout rang out to his right. A boy ran toward him, dodging and pushing in his attempt to escape. A man jogged not far behind, yelling, “Thief! Stop!”
Wilhelm dismounted and limped two steps, catching the boy by his shoulder. “Whoa!”
The boy stared up at him, his face pinched in fear as his pursuer rushed up, gasping for breath. The man’s ample stomach jiggled at his sudden stop. He bowed to Wilhelm and pointed a malevolent finger at the boy. “My lord…that boy…stole an apple…from me.”
The boy looked to be around seven years old, and his eyes were the only part of his face not covered with dust. The green apple in his hand was quite small. A person would have to be terribly hungry to steal such a thing.
“Give the man his apple,” Wilhelm ordered the boy.
The child dropped it into the man’s fleshy palm.
“Thank you, my lord.” The man bowed again to Wilhelm. “Little beggar,” he muttered as he walked away.
Wilhelm held on to the lad’s arm. “What’s your name?”
“Lukas, my lord.”
“Go to the castle, Lukas, and find the kitchen.”
The boy’s mouth hung open as he stared up at him.
“Tell Cook that Lord Hamlin said to give you something to eat, and that you’re to wait there for me.”