“Hold your hand up, dear. Out away from your face,” Lady Genevieve instructed.
The falconer took the raptor from the servant and carried her over. The hawk was magnificent and blinded by a leather hood with a short decorative plume. While being transferred to Amilia, Murderess spread her massive wings and flapped twice as her powerful talons took hold of the glove. The hawk was lighter than she had expected, and Amilia had no trouble holding her up. Still, Amilia’s fear of falling was replaced by her fear of the bird. She watched in terror as the falconer wrapped the jess around her wrist, tethering her to the hawk.
“Beautiful bird,” Amilia heard a voice say.
“Yes, it is,” she replied. Looking over to see Sir Breckton taking station on her left, Amilia thought she might faint.
“It’s the Duchess of Rochelle’s. She—” Amilia turned. The duchess had moved off, abandoning her. Panic made her stomach lurch. As friendly as Lady Genevieve was, Amilia was starting to suspect the woman enjoyed tormenting her.
Amilia tried to calm herself as she sat face to face with the one man in the entire world she wanted to impress. With one hand holding the bird and the other locked on to the horse’s reins, she realized the cold was causing her nose to run. She could not imagine the day getting any worse. Then, as if the gods had heard her thoughts, they answered using the huntsman’s voice.
“Everyone! Ride forward!”
Oh dear Maribor!
Her horse tripped on the rough, frost-heaved ground, throwing her off balance. The sudden jolt also startled Murderess, who threw out her great wings to save herself by flying. Tethered to Amilia’s wrist, the hawk pulled on her arm. She might have stayed in the saddle—if not for the bird’s insistence on dragging her backward.
Amilia cried out as she fell over the rump of the horse, her nightmare becoming reality. Yet before she cleared the saddle, she stopped. Sir Breckton had caught her around the waist. Though he wore no armor, his arm felt like a band of steel—solid and unmovable. Gently, he drew her upright. The bird flapped twice more, then settled down and gripped Amilia’s glove again.
Breckton did not say a word. He held Amilia steady until she reseated herself on the saddle and placed her foot on the planchette. Horrified and flushed with humiliation, she refused to look at him.
Why did that have to happen in front of him!
She did not want to see his face and find the same condescending smirk she had seen on so many others. On the verge of tears, she wanted desperately to be back at the palace, back in the kitchen, back to cleaning pots. At that moment she preferred the thought of facing Edith Mon—or even her vengeful ghost—to that of enduring the humiliation of facing Sir Breckton. Feeling tears gathering, she clenched her jaw and breathed deeply in an effort to hold them back.
“Does it have a name?”
Sir Breckton’s words were so unexpected that Amilia replayed them twice before understanding the question.
“Murderess,” she replied, thanking Maribor that her voice did not crack.
“That seems… appropriate.” There was a pause before he continued. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” She tasked her brain to think of something to add, but it came back with nothing.
Why is he talking like that? Why is he asking about the weather?
The knight sighed heavily.
Looking up at him, she found he was not smirking but appeared pained. His eyes accidentally met hers while she studied his face, and he instantly looked away. His fingers drummed a marching cadence on his saddle horn.
“Cold, though,” he said, and quickly added, “Could be warmer, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” she said again, realizing she must sound like an idiot with all her one-word answers. She wanted to say more. She wanted to be witty and clever, but her brain was as frozen as the ground.
Amilia caught him glancing at her again. This time he shook his head and sighed once more.
“What?” she asked fearfully.
“I don’t know how you do it,” he said.
The genuine admiration in his eyes only baffled her further.
“You ride a warhorse sidesaddle over rough ground with a huge hawk perched on your arm and are still managing to make me feel like a squire in a fencing match. My lady, you are a marvel beyond reckoning. I am in awe.”
Amilia stared at him until she realized she was staring at him. In her mind, she ordered her eyes to look away, but they refused. She had no words to reply, which hardly mattered, as Amilia had no air in her body with which to speak. Breathing seemed unimportant at that moment. Forcing herself to take a breath, Amilia discovered she was smiling. A second later, she knew Sir Breckton noticed as well, as he abruptly stopped drumming and sat straighter.
“Milady,” said the falconer’s servant, “it’s time to release your bird.”
Amilia looked at the raptor, wondering just how she was going to do that.