It was slowgoing with Simon injured and having to keep the pistol in one hand, threatening the girl. And with every step Oliver knew that he had done something terribly wrong. Robbing coaches that looked like they could spare the gold was vastly different from kidnapping. And how old was she? She seemed very confident, and he had to admit she was quick with her pistol, but the top of her head probably wouldn’t reach to his collarbone.
“I’m going to hang,” Oliver muttered under his breath.
“What?” Simon gasped. His face was gray and sweaty.
When they came to the stream, Oliver stepped down into the water so that Simon could use the bank to climb onto his brother’s back. Now Oliver had both hands free, but Simon had his arms wrapped around Oliver’s neck strangle-tight. Standing on the bank next to them, the girl gave Simon a concerned look.
“He doesn’t look very good,” she said.
“I know,” Oliver snapped.
“Well, why don’t you let me go so that you can find help for him faster?”
“No,” Oliver said. He waved the gun at her. “Wade across. Go on.”
“No, thank you,” she said primly. “I don’t want to get my shoes wet.”
Oliver was about to argue with her, but she crossed the stream in one fantastic leap. On the far side, she adjusted her cloak and waited for him with arched brows as he trudged across through the water and up the other bank, panting already from Simon’s weight on his back.
“That was amazing,” Simon mumbled. “Not you, Oliver. Her.”
“It wasn’t that far,” she said, dismissive. “Listen, I could still find my own way back to the road. I won’t tell anyone your names.”
“Don’t know my name,” Simon said. “It’s Simon, though.” He sounded like he was becoming feverish.
“It’s nice to meet you, Simon,” the girl said. “I’m Petunia.”
“Petunia?” Oliver snorted. “Like the flower?”
The look she gave him made him wish he’d kept better control of his face, but really: Petunia? He’d thought she was going to say something simple, but pretty, like Anna or Emilia. Of course, Queen Maude and King Gregor had long ago set the fashion for flower names by giving all twelve of the princesses awful names like Campanula and Tulip.
He was starting to feel uneasy about how close her connections at court might be. If her father had the ear of the king, no matter how lowly an earl he was, Oliver was in very grave trouble. And that meant that his family and everyone under his care was in trouble as well.
“It’s not much farther,” Oliver grunted.
There was a birdcall, and then another, and Oliver knew that sentries had spotted them. He’d taken only a few more paces when Karl came striding along the path. The big man gave Petunia only a cursory look before lifting Simon off Oliver’s back. He pushed past Oliver and Petunia to hurry off with the injured boy.
The path twisted, and they were at the walls of the old hall. The gate was to the right, but it seemed like too much effort to Oliver, though he usually set an example by using it. Instead, he took the girl’s elbow and steered her through one of the many large breaks in the wall, over the broken stones that had been purposefully left scattered about, half-covered by grass.
“Where are we?” Petunia asked. “Is this your … oh.”
To their left was the hall, artfully propped up from the inside to preserve its derelict appearance. All around them were cooking fires and women carrying baskets of laundry or bread. The bellows were going in the smithy, and near the hall doors was a group of children reciting their lessons with a smiling teacher.
“What is this place?” Petunia’s voice was hushed.
Oliver didn’t answer. The less she knew, the safer his people would be … or was it naive to assume that they could go on living here, now that she had seen them? Part of him, however, wanted to boast, or make a sarcastic remark, welcoming her to his fine country estate.
He opened his mouth to do so, when his mother came out of the hall and headed toward them with an expression on her face that made Oliver feel all of six years old. He stepped a little behind Petunia and almost dropped his pistol trying to holster it.
His mother was brought up short when she got a good look at the girl. Her face went deadly white, and she swayed a little where she stood.
“Mother?” Oliver let go of Petunia’s arm and hurried toward her.
“Maude?” His mother’s voice was barely a whisper.
“No,” the girl said. Her voice was quiet and her face looked strained. “I’m Petunia. But I understand that I look a great deal like my mother.”
“Your mother’s name is Maude?” Oliver felt like the ground had just dropped out from under his feet.
“Yes,” Petunia said, throwing back her hood. “Queen Maude of Westfalin.”
“Your Highness,” Oliver’s mother said respectfully, giving a small curtsy. “Welcome to our humble home. I am the Dowager Countess Emily Ellsworth-Saxony. I came from Breton with your mother when we were just girls.” She gave Petunia a faint smile, but then her eyes hardened and she turned to Oliver.
“Now please explain what the princess is doing here, Oliver.”
“She’s here to visit our lowly earldom, Mother,” Oliver said, and he knew with great certainty that if his mother didn’t kill him, King Gregor would. His fate was sealed.
He started to laugh.
Kidnapped
Petunia promised herself that she would not panic. She would behave at all times in a manner befitting a princess. No matter how difficult it became.
At least she’d been left alone for a bit. Admittedly, it was in a room that belonged to that young man … who, it seemed, was an earl … who had kidnapped her. While the earl’s mother scolded him for the kidnapping, a smiling woman in a patched but clean gown had taken Petunia into the hall to rest. As though she would curl up on a strange man’s bed!
Instead she paced. The ornate bed filled most of the little room, but it still felt good to move. She had been frightened, when Oliver had first abducted her, that he was going to … er, ruin her, as Maria would say. She wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but she knew it was a terrible thing that was only talked about in whispers. But with his mother here, she thought she was fairly safe. Now she just had to convince them to let her go.
She checked the little watch pinned to her bodice and sighed. She should have arrived at the Volenskaya estate by now. The grand duchess would be concerned, and her grandson, the handsome Prince Grigori … Petunia suppressed a delicious little shiver. Prince Grigori would be beside himself with worry, she was sure. He had probably waited at the gates for her, and when she hadn’t arrived … would he dare search for her in the darkness? He was a fearless huntsman—she was sure that he would.
She decided that she was in no real danger, now that she was under the protection of one of her mother’s oldest friends. Not that she remembered Lady Emily. Maude had brought several ladies-in-waiting with her from Breton, most of whom had returned to Breton when Maude died. Petunia had been just two years old at the time. A few of the ladies had married Westfalian nobles and stayed behind, like this countess, and one had become the princesses’ governess. Trapped in the bandit earl’s bedchamber for the time being, Petunia had ample time to wonder just what had happened to this particular lady-in-waiting.
This hall, of a design that had not been in fashion for a good five hundred years, looked like a strong wind would blow it over from the outside, but within, the masonry was freshly repaired. The stairs to the upper gallery were only a few years old at most. The main doors were hanging askew, but from the inside she had seen that they were actually propped in place with thick beams. There was an entire village’s worth of people outside, going about their business as if this was just an ordinary day. She supposed that it was, for them. But if Oliver was an earl, why was he robbing coaches as one of the notorious Wolves of the Westfalian Woods? And why were all his people hiding here in this carefully maintained squalor?