Chapter 14

P hillip could not believe it. Here he was journeying with the woman he was supposed to marry. He was to meet Princess Rosamund upon his arrival. Yet, he had run away for the same reasons. He didn’t want his life controlled and planned for him by his parents or hers.

The fact she didn’t want to marry him either was almost humorous. And for a moment, he was offended until he cast it aside and thought about what she’d told him. How awful she didn’t know of their betrothal until a few days ago, for he knew when his parents left Haven Castle and when they arrived in Myst. He was supposed to be with them.

Perhaps they were not so unalike after all.

He almost wanted to laugh out loud at the coincidence that they felt the same way about each other. Was their meeting simply chance or something more? Kismet, perhaps?

He, of course, was aware of the betrothal from the time he was six years old. When he stood at the baby princess’s christening and watched the Fae royals from the Fae Courts arrive and bestow their gifts upon her.

As he and Rosamund rode on deeper into the forest, he searched his memories for those Fae gifts. What was the first one the strange and elegant queen bestowed upon her? Ah, yes. Beauty, charm, and grace.

He glanced at her. Beauty. She certainly had that with hair reminiscent of spun gold. Her eyes were big and bright and the darkest green he had ever seen. Like emeralds. She had grown from the squalling baby he recalled into a beautiful young woman.

Charm and grace? At the cabin, she had gone out of her way to see to his comfort. As far as grace, she walked in a way with her shoulders squared, her head held high, her back straight. If he was paying attention, he’d realize she was more than a mere peasant girl. Even now as she rode in the saddle, she held her head high and kept her back straight.

Phillip tried to recall the other gifts of the Fae, but could not. Except for one in particular. One from a dark faery who was inadvertently left off the guest list for the festivities. She exacted her wrath on the baby girl.

The words leapt to his mind.

Before the sun sets on her eighteenth birthday, she will prick her finger on the thorn of a rose and die.

It was only due to the remaining Fae queen who had not yet presented her gift to the princess that she was able to change it from a death curse to a sleeping curse.

He looked her way once more, eyeing her as he remembered the horror that had rippled through the assembly. How her mother, Queen Eleanor, had wept with despair when she thought her daughter would die. How her father, King Stephan, ordered the removal of all roses from the castle grounds immediately.

She said the wedding—their wedding—was planned a few days after her birthday. Her eighteenth birthday. Judging by the fact she was still awake meant she had not yet pricked her finger on a thorn. Which also meant her birthday hadn’t come to pass. Did she know she was cursed to fall into a forever slumber?

If she didn’t know about their betrothal, it seemed reasonable to him she wouldn’t know about the curse.

Rosamund must have sensed him looking at her for she turned her head and met his gaze. A hint of a smile played at the corners of her mouth.

“You’re staring,” she said.

He turned away. “Apologies. It’s just that I was wondering if I should address you as your highness now.”

“No,” she snapped. “You will address me as Rosamund. The princess disappeared the moment I fled the castle.”

Surprise flickered through him at her statement. She was determined, it seemed, to cast aside the princess and become someone else. Was the thought of marrying him so terrible?

They rode on in silence into the forest. He tried to coax more information out of her.

“You mentioned your birthday,” he said. “Is it soon?”

Her eyes remained forward, pinned on the trees ahead. She stiffened. “Soon enough.” She paused for a long moment, then said in a low voice, “My birthday doesn’t matter.”

Oh, but it did. If only she knew how much it mattered. Now that he knew her true identity, vigilance was his constant companion. He’d make sure she wouldn’t prick her finger on any thorns and fall into a deep sleep.

“Well, it matters to me,” he said, sounding cheerful. “When is it? We should celebrate.”

She laughed. “I think not.”

“Why not? Birthdays are important,” he prodded, hoping to get her to tell him.

Rosamund huffed out a breath. “It’s in three days.”

Three days. He had three days to be on his guard and make sure she didn’t go anywhere near roses with thorns.

“Well, then, in three days we’ll celebrate.”

She cast him an annoyed glance at his cheerful exuberance that made him stifle a chuckle.

As they rode farther into the forest, the day began to wane. He realized they would have to make camp for the night. He doubted she was accustomed to sleeping outside, but if she were to become an adventurer instead of a princess, then it was something she’d have to get used to.

They arrived in a small clearing with a felled tree. The log had moss growing on one side. Tall trees surrounded the small area, shrouding it in shadows. He halted a moment, his keen eyes taking in their surroundings. Then he gave a quick nod.

“I think we should camp here for the night,” he said.

“Here?” Her frown of dismay was evident.

“Yes.” He dismounted and tied up his horse. “I’ll gather wood for a fire.”

“Don’t go too far,” she said, sounding uneasy.

As he scanned the area for wood, she dismounted and tied up her horse next to his. He caught a glimpse of her patting the animal’s neck with affection.

“Perhaps there is water nearby,” she said to the mare, continuing to stroke her neck. “You deserve a big bag of oats for all of this, don’t you?”

The mare replied with a snort, as though she understood.

When he had an armload of wood, he stepped back into the small clearing and began building the fire. She watched with great interest as he placed the wood into a pyramid. Then he tossed dried leaves around it and in between the logs. Returning to his saddle bags, he retrieved his matches and lit one of the leaves. It caught fire immediately and moments later they had a warm blaze.

He stepped back, grinning, clearly pleased with his handiwork.

“How do you know how to do that?” she asked.

“My father and I used to hunt when I was a child,” he said. “He taught me.”

Rosamund sat on the ground by the log, drawing up her knees. The firelight flickered over her features. She had a pensive look about her as she wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees.

“Is hunting fun?”

He returned once again to his saddlebags and drew out the wrapped food he had swiped from the castle kitchen before he left. It had only just occurred to him he still had the wheel of cheese and the loaf of bread. He sat down next to her and unwrapped the food.

“I suppose it is. When he was too busy to take me, I went with friends.”

He thought of Charles and Jeffrey—the friends he hunted and hawked with. He wondered how furious Jeffrey was when he discovered he was gone from the keep without him.

Taking out his dagger, he sliced off pieces of cheese and then bread and handed them to her. She took them with a grateful smile.

“I suppose that means you won’t be hunting us any dinner other than this.” She lifted the piece of bread.

Phillip sliced more cheese for himself. “You don’t like my cooking?” He couldn’t resist the barb.

“I like your cooking fine,” she replied. “Especially since it means we won’t starve. I’m grateful for it, really.”

“You’re welcome.”

A twig snapped. He sat up straighter, his hand still clutching the hilt of his dagger as he peered into the shadows. She heard it, too. Her head snapped in the direction of the noise. Even the horses seemed restless.

“What was that?” she whispered.

Another twig, which could only be that of another person. He handed her the dagger. She gave him a wide-eyed look of surprise.

“In case,” he whispered.

He got to his feet, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

An old woman emerged from the shadows, her back hunched as she stumbled into their makeshift camp. She wore a black gown, tattered at the hem and the edges of her sleeves. The cloak she had over her shoulders didn’t fare much better. Her nose was hooked and large. Her face a map of wrinkles. Her black hair was tied back away from her face at the nape of her neck, but sprigs of wiry hair sprung out from her head in all directions.

She paused by a tree, her gnarled hand on the bark to steady herself as she peered at them with squinting eyes.

“Ah, so ye’re the source of the fire in me forest,” the hag said in a roughened voice.

He relaxed his stance but kept his hand on the hilt. Next to him, Rosamund gripped the dagger. The old woman’s beady gaze landed on it. She cackled.

“Ye can put that away now, dearie. I mean no harm.”

“Are you lost?” he asked.

“Lost?” She cackled again. “Nay, my good man. You two appear to be needing shelter for the night. My cabin is just there.” She pointed a gnarled finger over her shoulder in a direction behind her.

Phillip extended his hand to Rosamund for the dagger. Reluctantly, she handed it over and he sheathed it. Peering at the old woman, he wasn’t sure he trusted her. And why should he? It seemed odd the old woman appeared out the shadows with an offer of shelter for the night.

A glance at Rosamund told him she had the same thought.

“I have a nice warm fire and a couple of cozy beds for ye both,” she said. “I can even feed ye a better meal than that. Bring yer horses. I can feed and water them, too.”

Rosamund met his level gaze. Question burned deep within those emerald eyes of hers.

“I see yer hesitation,” the woman said. “I mean ye no harm. Truly. I’ll give ye a moment to discuss.”

She melted into the shadows, disappearing as quickly as she had appeared. Phillip moved closer to her, his sleeve brushing hers.

“What do you think?” he asked, his voice low. “Can we trust her?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so, but for the chance at a nice bed and a warm meal…” Her words trailed off.

“Indeed,” he agreed. “All right, then. We follow her. I’ll stay on my guard and we can leave at first light.”

She nodded agreement. He kicked dirt on the fire, snuffing it out. It plunged them in total darkness. She drew in a sudden, sharp breath. Another cackle from the old hag and suddenly a ball of blue-white light appeared between two trees.

“Come along, dearies.”

He untied the horses, handing her the reins of her mare. As he passed, he was aware of the skeptical look on her face. Even so, she fell in step beside him and, together, they followed the old woman through the trees to her cabin in the woods.