When Gravenhurst and Grey neared the stables, Grey asked, “What sort of training are we going to do?”
In the dark, Gravenhurst’s expression was unreadable. Horses neighed from within the stables, and a cold wind blew Grey’s hair over his eyes. He shoved it back as Gravenhurst said, “I’m going to train you to stay alive.” His voice had a hard edge. “Tonight I’ll start teaching you to never assume anything except that someone always wants you dead. Study your surroundings. Know your enemies.”
“Sounds like useful lessons.”
Gravenhurst snorted, grabbed a lit torch from a stand, and proceeded past the stables toward a dark, twisting path that led into the woods of the park. He stopped suddenly at the edge of the path. Grey nearly bowled him over.
“A little warning would have been considerate.”
“The men striving to kill you will not be considerate.”
“Point taken,” he conceded as Gravenhurst faced him and regarded him without a word. Insects of the night chirped around them. Music drifted on the swirling wind from the castle to fill the silence between them. It would have been pleasant, but he was tense as hell. He wanted to perform well. He didn’t want to disappoint his father.
“Take this,” Gravenhurst said and shoved the torch at him. Grey gripped it and stared at his friend’s shadowed face. Gravenhurst leaned down and came up holding two daggers. He offered one to Grey, and then headed down the path.
Grey sidestepped a gnarled tree root that rose across the ground. He pushed branches out of his way as he followed Gravenhurst deep into the woods. A branch came swinging at him, and he ducked. It hissed by his ear right before the sharp twigs slid across his cheek and left a stinging cut. “Damn it.” He couldn’t afford to be too slow in reacting to anything.
Up ahead, his friend chuckled as he crunched through fallen leaves and twigs to make his way into a clearing. Gravenhurst walked over to an iron post and with a clank slid the torch into a slot. He came to the center of the circle and beckoned to Grey. “We’ll train with daggers and fists until the torch runs out, and then we’ll train blind. Once first blood’s drawn we’ll make our way back to the castle.”
Grey’s muscles tensed in anticipation. He curled his fingers around his dagger. “You’ve never beat me in a fight.”
Gravenhurst’s robust laugh echoed in the silence. “Part of my cover, my friend.”
Grey gripped his dagger and moved toward the center of the circle.
Gravenhurst tossed his dagger from hand to hand and started circling Grey. “You’re moving slow. Your mind is elsewhere.”
Grey refocused his attention just as the whistle of steel sliced the air and filled his ears a second before Gravenhurst’s blade cut through his coat, shirt and skin.
Pain burned a path down his arm. He dropped his dagger. It hit the dirt with a thump. His arm throbbed as he removed his coat. He touched the place where the blade had sliced and his fingers met with sticky blood. “You’ve cut me.”
“Pitiful,” Gravenhurst said. “You’re going to have to be a lot more alert if you don’t want to end up dead. Pick up your blade.”
Grey reached down and grasped his dagger. “I assume you’ve decided we need to stay.”
“Hell yes we need to stay. I didn’t expect your training to be over in less than a minute. But now I know your Achilles’ heel. Just make sure your enemies never learn it, my friend.”
“I don’t have an Achilles’ heel.” Grey lunged toward Gravenhurst and the tip of his knife snagged Gravenhurst’s coat but did not meet flesh.
“You do. But I’ll give you this, if you have to have a weakness, Lady Madelaine is a beautiful one to have.”
Eleven
Five tedious days had passed since Madelaine last saw Grey at the costume ball, so when she walked around the sharp turn of the trail leading to the queen’s country house and he was standing alone by the entranceway, she quickened her step and nearly tripped over her skirts in her excitement.
Probably, she ought not to act so eager. She tried to slow down, but her feet didn’t want to cooperate. Her half-boots padded against the hardened snow as she rushed across the grass. She’d dreamed of him every night since he’d so valiantly tried to make sure Lord Thorton couldn’t bother her at dinner anymore. Dreams really hadn’t done Grey justice.
Her stomach flipped. He leaned negligently against the iron gate with a booted foot propped against the dark steel for support. The buckskins he wore encased his powerful thighs in a sinful way. That tingling sensation, that only he elicited, swept over Madelaine’s skin. His dark-colored coat had been left open to reveal the white cambric shirt next to his skin. When she reached him, she was panting from her efforts to hurry.
“Grey, how nice to see you.”
“Only nice?” He quirked his eyebrow.
Blast. She’d tried to temper her words, but she didn’t want to. “Very nice. I’ve looked for you every day.”
“I’ve dreamed of you every night,” he countered in a voice as smooth as silk.
She shivered, but it had nothing to do with the falling snow. “Then what’s kept you away? Surely not equerry training?”
