The Woman Who Rides Like a Man (Song of the Lioness #3)

“Don’t, George,” she whispered, feeling uncomfortable.

“All right, I won’t,” he said amiably. Silence stretched between them until Alanna broke it.

“Who is this man Joesh? Is he new? I don’t remember him.”

George grinned as he settled more comfortably into his deep chair. “Joesh? He’s no rogue. He’s the Falcon of Shang, and a friend of Rispah’s. I trust him to keep his mouth shut, or he’d not be here.”

Alanna sat up, startled. “Another Shang warrior?” Unlike Jon, she’d never gotten the chance to see one of the legendary fighters in action. Whenever one had made a brief visit to the palace, she had been absent or involved in duties. To actually test herself against a man trained to fight from childhood....

George saw the thoughtful gleam in her eyes and shook his head. “Nay, lass, you’ll not be challengin’ him under my roof. I’ve no wish to see you killed by accident. These Shang lads are far quicker than the best knight ever lived, and you’ll have to trust my word for that. Besides, I intend that you rest from bein’ a knight whilst you’re here.”

“I’ve done nothing but rest from being a knight since I was made one,” Alanna remarked bitterly as she sank back into her chair. “I’m probably getting rusty.”

“Not you, lass.” George laughed. “Never you.”

Alanna was not to find out if she was as good as Joesh; when she arose in the morning, the Falcon had left. George gave her no explanation for the man’s departure, but she knew he had probably requested that Joesh go. She felt a twinge of regret for the chance missed, but only a small one. Life in House Azik was restful, and thoughts of challenging strangers to contests of arms were alien. George and his people went out of their way to keep her and Coram entertained, treating Alanna with a care and consideration she had never known, either as a page or a squire, or as the Woman Who Rides Like a Man.

On one crisp fall day Rispah took her to the markets of Port Caynn, where Alanna purchased two dresses, feminine underclothing and shoes, and a pretty shawl, using some of the monies Sir Myles sent as her allowance. Jonathan’s taunts about her lack of femininity had stung and stuck, and the look in George’s eyes when she appeared in a soft lilac wool dress went far toward healing those wounds.

George, in particular, was attentive to her needs and whims, taking time to walk with her on the beach, spending long evenings in games of chess, or just talking. Before, they had lived their lives under the scrutiny of the inhabitants of palace and city; now it was strange to be alone together, with only the household to know they were in Port Caynn at all. And if George was wooing her again, as he had done in the past, he was going about it very carefully.

“If he is courting me, I wish he wouldn’t be so subtle about it,” she confided to Faithful one night, after the thief had shown her to her bedroom. “But maybe he isn’t. Maybe he thinks I’m unfeminine, too.” Without warning, a tear trickled down her cheek, and she sniffed.

You’re feeling sorry for yourself, Faithful replied without sympathy. You provoked Jonathan into saying the things he did. You know how proud he is. If you hadn’t pushed him, he probably would never have even thought you were unfeminine.

Beet-red with rage, Alanna hurled a pillow at her cat, missing him completely. “You’re as bad as Coram!” she yelled, forgetting where she was. “If it’s all my fault, why do either of you bother to stay with me? Why don’t you go and give Jonathan the benefit of your advice. I’m sure he’d appreciate it much more than I do!” She seized the door handle, intending to slam out of the room, and halted. The door was open, and George leaned against the frame, his muscled arms crossed over his broad chest.

“It’s not polite to eavesdrop,” she snapped.

“I don’t doubt that,” he agreed, his voice soft. “On the other hand, if you’d yelled a wee bit louder, perhaps Jonathan himself could’ve heard he had two unexpected allies here in Port Caynn.” Reaching out, he touched her cheek with a gentle hand. “Lass—will you not tell me what passed in the desert?”

Alanna pulled away from his touch, unwanted tears trickling down her cheeks, “I can’t, George,” she whispered. “Don’t ask me to—please.”

He sighed. “Very well, then.” Turning, he walked away, his feet making no noise at all on the stone floor. Alanna closed the door and let the tears fall, crying herself to sleep.

She slept late the next morning, breaking the habits she had set as a page, and awaking not long before noon. Still tired and bleary-eyed, she padded downstairs. The sound of George’s voice coming from his study turned her away from the kitchen: thinking to turn his eavesdropping trick back on him, she crept to a spot where she could hear everything.