Chapter 1 #3
stated intentions were as real as the kohled black of his hair, and
as oily. Who did he think he was ogling Princess Sahar? Why were
her beautiful green eyes not blazing back at him as they had at
Aleksi earlier today, but coolly taking in this Prince Yago?
An elbow jabbed him in his right side, and
Aleksi stopped glaring at the prince to his left long enough to
realize he was next in line and that the entire gathering was
waiting for his introduction.
He stepped forward and winked at Sahar, whose
eyes blazed instantly. “I am Aleksandr—”
“Bastard son of King Maksimillian,” a high,
feminine voice shrilled out, “and a lowly whore of a kitchen
maid.”
Aleksi grit his teeth. He would recognize
that shrewish voice anywhere. It had plagued his ears his entire
life. The firstborn son of King Maksimillian, he had been raised as
a prince in his youth, though he was a bastard and his mother a
kitchen maid. Proud of his son’s size and prowess, his father had
provided Aleksi with the best tutors and sword masters coin could
buy. His last tutor, a kindly old grey beard who had often
despaired over Aleksi’s preference for riding and fighting over the
studying of figures and governing, had grudgingly admitted that the
boy’s mind was as strong and fit as his body, if only he would
apply it.
Aleksi had been a boy without a care in the
world, except for his father’s first wife, Queen Theodesia, and her
two daughters, Gertruda and Anastasia. Older than Aleksi by several
years, they were jealous of their father’s favorite, and had been
encouraged in their hate and spite by their mother, who had been
unable to give her husband a male heir. Aleksi had never known his
own mother, for she had abandoned him only a day after his birth,
but he had known his father’s love and protection up until the
summer he had turned ten and two, the summer his father’s new,
young, second wife gave him a son and legitimate heir. The summer
Aleksi had gone from prince to stable boy.
A sea of heads turned toward a still handsome
woman of thirty years, her fair hair piled high and glittering with
jeweled combs, sitting at a table two rings behind the royal
families. Widowed three years ago by her elderly husband, and
childless, there could only be one reason she was here.
“Anastasia.” Aleksandr dipped his head to
her. “Sister,” he added to anger her.
“Half-sister,” she spat, “and full and
rightful daughter to our father, King Maksimillian, and Queen
Theodesia.”
“Is this to be your introduction to the
marriage market, sister, or is it mine as a competitor in the
races?”
She wisely, and unusually for her, said
nothing. But then she never had been able to beat him in a battle
of wits, and she could not bully him here where the long arm and
quick slap of her mother could not reach.
Standing tall, Aleksandr squared his
shoulders and met the king’s watching gaze head on. “I am, as my
half-sister said, the eldest and bastard son of King Maksimillian.”
He locked eyes with Princess Sahar. “I do not pretend to be
anything other than what I am, a horseman of the Northern Steppes
here to win these races and any prizes I might claim on the merit
of my stallion’s strength and my riding abilities. I am, if nothing
else, honest and straightforward”—he glanced pointedly at the Wolf,
whose black gaze coolly assessed Aleksi from head to toe and back
again before Aleksi turned back to Sahar—“in my intentions and my
proposals.”
Beside him, the Wolf snarled low, and before
him, green eyes flashed fire. Aleksi stepped back into line with a
deliberate low bow to the princess, who placed both hands on the
table, hesitated a moment, and then stood and walked around the
table and up to the line of riders amidst a grassfire of gasps and
whispers.
She eyed each man in turn, and not one, not
even one of the many who had pledged to win the races in her honor,
would meet her gaze for more than a fleeting moment before looking
out into the courtyard of buzzing bees or up into the night sky.
Until Yago the Wolf, who met and held her gaze with a smug leer
Aleksi longed to swipe off his pretty face.
It was obvious that the prince had no idea
why Sahar was standing there, but Aleksi did. He remembered her
words earlier in the day when speaking of the princess and her mare
winning the races. He jostled the man to his right, making a place
for her to stand in the line of riders, and as he did, the Wolf,
catching on more quickly than Aleksi cared to give him credit for,
swept his arm to indicate the open space. With a gracious nod of
her head and a smile that lit her entire face, the princess took a
place amongst the riders.
She stood there beaming for a moment before
she stepped forward, trailing her intriguing, intoxicating scent.
“I am Princess Sahar,” she said, her low, smoky voice filling the
now quiet courtyard. “Eldest and only daughter of King Asad and
Queen Oona. I will win these races on my mare Lasair, the last foal
out of Storm Chaser and Cloud Dancer, for the honor of my family
and every woman here.”