"Lori," he called after her.
She slid and stumbled, and his hand caught her by the arm before she fell.
"Don't walk too fast," he murmured. "The path is still slippery."
She cleared her throat. "I know. It's just the wine."
He bent to look at her, but she turned away, face heated. She swore he was smiling. Was he laughing at her? But instead of embarrassing her, he asked, "Maybe we can return tomorrow afternoon and have a proper picnic with Henry and Lucy."
"Sounds wonderful."
"We can gather more firewood while we're at it."
"Of course."
"Lori," he said, pulling her to a stop. With a finger under her chin, he forced her to look up at him. "What is the matter? You're not being yourself." When she just bit her lips, he frowned. A flicker of worry crossed his eyes. "Do you feel you were forced to—"
"No, of course not!" she scoffed, rolling her eyes, and forcing out a laugh. "Don't be ridiculous."
"Was that your first time?"
She scowled because it was true, and she would rather die than admit it. "No," she lied through her teeth.
"Then what is it?" She didn't answer because she was too busy looking at him. His face was flushed from the wine, his eyes drooping just slightly with sleep. And the smile stayed on his face longer than the usual. "Did you not like it?"
"Don't be absurd," she said, turning away. "Don't you think it odd to talk about it after doing it?"
"I find it more odd that you keep calling a kiss 'it'."
"Let's stop talking. We're both a little foxed. And it's embarrassing—"
Suddenly, he was cupping her face, and his lips stole the rest of her words. It was not like the first time, but it still caused her heart to skip like a ball across a room. As he leaned back with a gentle smile on his face, they both swayed. He chuckled, catching her to steady them both. Then he said, "There's nothing to be ashamed about a kiss."
"Of course, there is." Her eyes rolled to the side. "Your guards are hiding behind the trees!" she hissed. Then loudly, she said, "But it's fine! It was the wine!"
His low laughter echoed around them. He seemed different. Completely stripped of his kingly mien, he was just like a man who had always been here. Was this the real him, or was it simply another Daniel Stanton with a goal?
"My guards know when to look away."
Taking her hand, he led her down the narrow path back to the manor. They passed the chicken coop, entered the kitchen, and, like children sneaking out at night, they tiptoed up the stairs.
"Good night," she murmured, turning toward her wing. He pulled her back, looking over their shoulders as he did so, and kissed the tip of her nose.
Without a word, he smiled and let go of her hand, his slightly foxed state a little too charming to leave behind.
She rushed down the corridor and, without looking back, slipped back into her bedchamber. Lucy was asleep in her bed as she stripped off her clothes. It was only when she was finally wrapped in warm clothing did everything sink through her wine-muddled brain.
And suddenly, she wanted to scream, but she couldn't, so she just jumped into bed and buried her face into her pillow. A sense of giddiness came over her, but from time to time, fear and alarm and suspicions. He seemed to have enjoyed kissing her. But what if it was all a ruse? A part of his plans? Then, just as her thoughts turned dark, she smiled and excitement swooped back like hundreds of wings fluttering inside her stomach.
She rolled on her back, arms stretched out, eyes wide at the ceiling.
Or he was simply a little foxed and he was not in his senses.
She sighed.
***
Things had escalated between her and Emory faster than a snowball rolling down a hill. With her imminent departure looming above them, she couldn't shoo him away enough. He was constantly there, wherever she was, and if he wasn't, he'd always pop out of nowhere. Even Henry was getting frustrated.
One day, as they walked back to the manor, after an afternoon with the Fitzwilliams, while Lucy and Henry walked ahead chatting about the Gavarian court, they met the milk boy who scowled at Emory as soon as he saw him.
"Why are you with the man who murdered Henrietta?"
Lucy and Henry laughed along with Florence, who said, "He apologized and I forgave him. We're friends now."
Long after the boy walked off with a scornful look on his face, Emory was frowning.
"Steffan is indeed the best among the other princes, but he can be a little difficult," Lucy was telling Henry. "He can be cold-hearted. He sticks to tradition. I think you'll enjoy Cassian's company more."
"How so?"
"He's Steffan's total opposite. When we were children, he'd escape his tutors and play with us. We got into a lot of trouble because of him and Florence, but..."
Emory caught Florence's hand over Lucy's story and pulled her back. "What?" she asked.
He placed a finger over his lips as he led her into another path. The forest was coming alive from its long hibernation, the signs of winter melting away day by day. It was still cold, but not as much, that they could now go out without a coat.
Florence laughed behind him as he pulled her down the narrow path. "Where are we going?"
He finally slowed and drew her closer, narrowing his eyes down at her. "You told that boy we're friends."
She swallowed, a nervous scoff escaping her lips. "Well, we are. Are we not?"
Since that night, he had not kissed her again. Today, she thought he would, but he stepped back and walked off. "We'll need more firewood for the stove."
Florence scowled at the back of his head and grudgingly followed, blowing hair off her forehead in frustration.
It was all the wine, she thought. And maybe he was simply a man in need of a lover. And then she wondered how many he had left behind in Coulway. Probably close to a dozen. Or more. And they must be completely different from her. He was not the most handsome, nor was he the most charming, but he was king. And from what she experienced in the lake, he surely knew his way around women.
It shouldn't bother her. If he were to honor the betrothal and marry her, she had to expect that he'd seek another woman's bed. That was not unheard of. As her mother said, men were all the same around the world. Men in Gavaria kept as many wives as they could afford, while men in places like Sutherland kept mistresses.
"The villa you'll be staying in Coulway should have enough guards to keep you safe. But they won't be able to do their job if you make it difficult for them," he said, pulling her from her thoughts.
"What makes you think I'll make it difficult for them?"
"I've heard enough stories from Lucy," he said, giving her a reprimanding look. "Don't sneak out."
"I will not." She didn't want to talk about Coulway, but now that they were, she asked, "But I can still go out."
He took her hand and led her into another path. "You are not a prisoner, but you will have to always go out with the guards."
"And if I wish to attend a ball?"
She smiled when he hesitated. "Of course."
"Drink and make friends?"
"Safely."
"Dance?"
He stopped. "With friends?"
"Yes, of course."
The smile did not reach his eyes. "If you wish, you most certainly can. I'm sure you'll enjoy Coulway."
She grinned with excitement. "I can't wait to discover what it has to offer."
Suddenly, his face turned dark. "I'm sure you will," he said, walking faster. He remained quiet after that, did not talk as much as they walked back to the manor with not a piece of firewood in hand.
"Where have you two been?" Henry asked.
"We got lost," Emory said, pulling at his scarf.
Henry stared at him incredulously. "You? Lost? In Birchfield?"
"Well, we were," he snapped.
Henry shook his head with a knowing smile. "Good thing you found your way back then," he said. "Because St. Vincent just sent word."
Florence watched as Emory read the paper Henry handed him. When he lifted his eyes and looked at her, she asked, "What is it?"
His lips stretched into a tight smile. "Everything is ready for you in Coulway."
***
What he really meant was that she had to leave because important people were on their way to Birchfield. Florence could not contend with that. He was a king, and he had far more important things to deal with than some princess in distress from Gavaria.
The party was Lucy's idea. She and Florence had discussed it days ago, but now that the day had to come, she couldn't enjoy it as much as she hoped. Yet, she tried because she couldn't spend their last night with a gloomy note. Their only guests, the Fitzwilliams, brought Florence and Lucy's favorite cookies, depriving Emory and Henry because they were for their journey. Emory prepared a grand meal of roast and potatoes and even baked Florence's favorite egg pie.
They talked and laughed around the table. They shared tea in the parlor, and later, some more wine by the fire. Lucy played the piano. Henry asked Mrs. Fitzwilliam for a dance, then Florence, when Mr. Fitzwilliam claimed his wife back.
"Be good in Coulway," Henry told her as they waltzed. "And don't make it difficult for the guards."
She rolled her eyes. "You sound like your cousin."
He smiled. "Very well, I shall stop. I'm certain you've already heard an earful." He twirled her around and they shared a laugh. "Enjoy Coulway, Florence. You'll love it."
She had to admit that a part of her was looking forward to coming to Coulway. But a great part of her wasn't too keen on leaving. What if he didn't come for her? What if he forgot about her again? And if Steffan arrived and found her before she could make plans?
She was terrified, but she couldn't tell these people why.
"May I?" Emory's voice asked from behind.
Henry gracefully stepped aside. She let Emory take her hand and guide her into the dance. From the corner of her eyes, she saw Henry stand beside Lucy, watching her cousin play. In the middle of the room, the Fitzwilliams danced as if nothing else existed.
"I hope they can stay like that for many, many years," she said.
Emory glanced at the Fitzwilliams. "I'm sure they will."
"With their loss, it's astounding how they still complete each other."
"It's their loss that made them stronger."
She tipped her head back and looked at him. As much as she wanted to, she wouldn't ask him again. He already said he'd come for her. And if he didn't, then she would simply find a way out of Sutherland and forget this ever happened.
They turned toward each other at the same time, their lips a hairsbreadth away. But he leaned away just a little with a small smile.
Florence grew restless. This man confused her more each day. Sometimes she'd catch him looking at her the way he did when he kissed her, and sometimes he seemed to see her as a piece that could not fit his puzzle.
She looked into his eyes and he stared back at her, but she knew his thoughts were miles away. This fool. He could not make up his mind about her.
"While you're there," he said in a low voice only she could hear, "Don't tell anyone why you're in Sutherland, or your association with me."
"For my safety?"
He nodded.
"Not so your lovers find out?"
"I don't have one."
She let out a snort.
"You don't believe me."
She just shrugged. "What else can I not do while in Coulway?" she asked instead.
He gazed at her intently. "I do not have any." His voice was firm, almost cold.
"If you say so."
"Because it's true."
"Fine. I believe you." As they whirled, she mumbled, "Not that it matters."
"I did not catch that."
"Well, you should catch me," she said, grinning as she spun into his arms.
He let out a helpless scoff. "And don't dance like that in Coulway."
"Too many rules," she whined.
He squeezed her hand. "They're for your own good."
When she offered to accompany the Fitzwilliams home, Emory got up and waited by the door without a word. Leaving Henry and Lucy, they walked the old couple to their cottage—Florence arm in arm with Mrs. Fitzwilliam, and Emory walking side by side with Charles, talking about the fit weather tomorrow.
"Come back and visit us when you can," Mrs. Fitzwilliam said after they arrived.
"If Coulway gets too much for you, we'll be here," Mr. Fitzwilliam added, patting Florence's cheek with a tender look in his eyes.
With eyes moist with tears, Florence embraced him. "Thank you. Eliza had an amazing father."
She went into Mrs. Fitzwilliam's arms and murmured, "And an amazing mother."
Mrs. Fitzwilliam was in tears as she and Emory walked out the door.
Florence stopped at the tree house and looked up. "Can we stay here a while?"
"Of course," he quietly said.
Emory climbed up and she followed. They sat side by side, legs stretched toward the window. The night was quiet, the wind chilly.
"Don't make a lot of friends," he said, breaking the quiet stillness.
She smiled at his words. "That's a little absurd, don't you think?" she asked without looking at him.
He took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. "Not all of them will be good to you."
"I think I know how to judge a character." She rolled her head and found him already looking at her. "Lorraine Paulet."
A small smile played on his lips as he frowned in confusion. "Another cousin?"
She shook her head. "That's the name I'll use in Coulway."
His laughter rumbled in his chest. "And where are you from, Lorraine Paulet?"
"Miss Lorraine Paulet," she corrected. "I'm from England."
"And what brings you to Coulway?"
She feigned a serious look. "I ran away from my rich father."
He was getting more amused, and he snickered as he leaned closer, whispering, "Why?"
"I wanted to join a group of traveling musicians. I heard they're currently performing around Sutherland."
His shoulders shook with laughter. "And have you found them?"
"I'm still searching."
"What is the name of this group that you risked your comfortable life in England for?"
She scrunched her nose. "I have not yet figured out that part of the story. What do you think?"
He grinned. "What if they ask you to sing in Coulway?"
"Easy."
His eyes gleamed in the moonlight as he smiled at her. "Can I hear it?"
She faced the window again with an impish smile. "I'd rather not, but since you insist..." When he chuckled, she gave him a light shove by the shoulder. "Don't laugh."
"I'm not," he said, laughter fading into a soft smile.
She cleared her throat, eyes on the silhouette of the trees outside the window.
Then she made up a song, the words flowing with ease in her head, the melody soft and enchanting.
I'll meet you on the promised day
When the last snowflakes melt away
I'll wait for winter's last breath
And see you on spring's first day
I'll run through meadows
With flower crown and kisses from a dream
On spring's first day
I'll wait for you by the stream
When the last note died, there was utter silence. Florence turned to Emory with pride because if there was anything she was confident of, it would be her voice. Everyone in the palace always requested for her talent. Her father would flaunt it around at every chance.
But Emory slept through it.
His head had fallen back against the wall, his mouth slightly open. He must be tired from cooking all day in the kitchen.
She smiled and faced the window again.
This was her last night in Birchfield, she thought.
She didn't know what would happen in Coulway. She was uncertain if Emory would come for her and marry her. If he didn't, she had to leave before her brother got here.
Looking at Emory again, her smile slowly faded. He seemed human as he lightly snored. She rested her head against his shoulder, took his hand in hers.
With a sad smile, she traced a vein with a finger. "I hope you'll forgive me," she softly whispered.