What was he going to do?
Then, because he was exhausted on top of being poisoned and injured and starving, the king—or we suppose that Edward was technically no longer the king at this point, because the carriage he’d seen earlier had contained Jane and Gifford on their way to the castle, and Jane had, only moments before, been crowned the official Queen of England—the boy who had been king, then, dropped off into a fitful sleep.
He woke up with a lantern burning bright next to his head, and a knife at his throat. Because this was the kind of night he was having.
“Hello,” said the owner of the knife.
A girl.
A girl about his age—no older than eighteen, surely, although it was hard to tell in this light—a girl with startling green eyes.
He didn’t dare to move. Because knife.
“Well,” she said after a long moment, “what do you have to say for yourself, then?”
Only Edward didn’t understand what she said, because what he heard was, “Wull, whadja hev to see fer yeself, thun?”
“You’re Scottish,” he murmured. “Am I in Scotland?”
She snorted.
“I’ll take that as a no,” he said.
The green eyes narrowed. The knife didn’t leave his throat.
“Who are you?” she demanded, and he caught her meaning this time. “What are you doing here?”
He didn’t know how to answer her questions. If he told her who he really was, chances were that a) she wouldn’t believe him, and she’d cut his throat, or b) she’d believe him, and because he was the ruler of England and she was Scottish and this was the year 1553, she’d get even more pleasure out of cutting his throat. Neither option ended well for him.
She was looking at him expectantly, and the knife against his neck was cold and decidedly unpleasant, so he decided he’d better start talking, and he’d better make it good.
“My name’s Dennis,” he burst out.
“Dennis,” she repeated. Still with the knife. “Is that your first or last name?”
“I’m an apprentice for the blacksmith in the village,” he said quickly, to cover that he didn’t actually know whether Dennis was his first or last name. “And I was set upon by thieves on the road.”
At this, the girl’s mouth turned up in a charming—or Edward would have found it charming, if she hadn’t been threatening his life at the moment—little smile. She was pretty, and the green eyes were the least of it. A riot of headstrong black curls cascaded all around her face, which was pale and heart shaped with a delicate, pointed chin and a small red mouth.
“You’re a poor liar, is what you are.” With the hand not holding the knife she suddenly pulled back the horse blanket that was covering him and gave him a quick once over, neck to toes and everything in between.
Edward was too shocked to protest.
“Just checking to make sure you didn’t have a sword under there,” she said with a smirk. “But I don’t see anything particularly dangerous.” She removed the knife from his neck and sat back. “Poor wee thing. You’re a bit of a mess, aren’t you?”
Edward grabbed the blanket back from her and pulled it to his chest. He wasn’t sure what she could be referring to as a poor wee thing. Certainly no part of him. His face was hot as a branding iron. “I was set upon by thieves, as I told you,” he stammered finally. “They took everything.”
“Oh, wearing fine silks, were you? Poppycock. Who are you, really?” She grabbed his hand and turned it over in hers. “Because you don’t have the hands of a blacksmith, that’s sure.”
He jerked his hand away and rose unsteadily to his feet, still clutching the unwieldy blanket around him. The girl stood up, too, and brushed hay off her trousers. She was wearing trousers, he realized. Black trousers and a white tunic and a black cloak, with black boots that came nearly to her knees. He’d never seen a woman in trousers before. It was improper. And unnerving. And surprisingly attractive.
“Who are you?” he fired back. “Because I don’t think you’re the farmer’s daughter.”
The green eyes flashed, but she smiled again. “Do you know what I think?”
He couldn’t begin to guess.
“I think you’re an E?ian on the run,” she said. “And when it started raining you ran in here for shelter, in your animal form, of course, so now you’re stuck here without a stitch of clothes.” She tsked her tongue sympathetically. “So what animal form do you take?”
“It’s raining now?” he said, and then he became aware of the pounding of water against the roof. Because, again, this was the kind of night he was having.
“Are you part of the Pack?” she asked. “You seem a bit green for that.”