Читать книгу Minstrel's Serenade - Aubrie Dionne - Страница 9

A Perceptive Boy

They rode as swift as the wind blowing across the sea and silent as an unspoken secret. As a farmer’s son, Bron’s experience lay in hauling heavy shipments in carriages, and he knew the maximum speed of the horses and the berth the wheels needed for each bend in the trail. When they’d rested, he’d rubbed woodwork oil on the joints to keep the wheels from creaking like toads in the bog.

Bron kept checking over his shoulder but the forest refused to surrender its secrets. Since camp, the air held no trace of hunters. They rode into the wind, and anything trailing them would have the advantage. Bron had only smelled that redolent stench once in his life, and that time it meant trouble. So, why did he wonder if he’d suffered from some paranoid delusion?

It was because the princess’ life hung in the balance, and he did not--would not--fail again. Even if it meant he played the fool.

Valorian had made a jest of his urge to hide the carriage, and surely the pretentious minstrel thought Bron’s assumption of someone, or something, hunting them to be superfluous as well.

God’s willing, the long-haired pretty boy was right.

Bron would rather be proven wrong by Valorian than have anything or anyone endanger the mission.

Valorian rode side by side with the princess, like two love birds acquainting themselves. A thorn twisted in Bron’s side, and he did what he did best: ignored the pain. Ushering Danika into Valorian’s arms was the right move for the kingdom, and if everything the minstrel said rang true, his hand in marriage would keep her and Ebonvale safe.

So, why did seeing her with Valorian irk him so?

The memories of the past surged like ghosts, peering over his shoulder. Even now, he felt King Artemus’ pain. Bron couldn’t protect him from heartache.

The warrior sighed. This was an entirely different situation. Danika wasn’t married or even promised to anyone else. She was free to give her hand to whomever she chose. Or whomever provided Ebonvale with the best protection.

They passed under an overhanging bough and Bron ducked, pulling Nip down with him. Just in case. Needles rained on top of them, prickling Bron’s neck as they brushed the lowest branch.

“Horred’s Temple! That was close.” Nip’s eyes widened as he turned back to see the branch whipping in the air.

Bron ruffled the boy’s hair, threading out the needles with his awkward sausage-thick fingers, better for wielding a weapon than a gentle caress. Then he swiped his own neck. “Where does a boy your age learn such language?” If he’d spoken that curse in his house, his father would have stuffed soap in his mouth.

Nip shrugged. “Pill.”

Bron raised an eyebrow in question.

“My older brother.”

“Of course.” No other name would complement Nip’s so well. Bron wondered where potty-mouthed Pill was now then remembered the blackened village they’d left behind. He thought of Hule and thanked Helena his brother lived safely in Oaten’s Dell, looking after their aging parents. Fate had been kind to Bron, and he should be more thankful instead of dwelling on unattainable quests.

Nip tugged on Bron’s pinky finger. “Are you thinking about the princess?”

Bron blinked and straightened as if Nip had splashed cold water up his nose. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you have the same expression on your face Pa had when Ma was angry with him and he couldn’t do anything about it.”

Nip’s comment amused him. Bron’s lips curved into a smile. “Do you think the princess is angry with me?”

Nip shrugged and picked at a splinter in his sword. “Like Pa used to say.” His little voice grew grumbly, as if mimicking an older man’s. “If she wasn’t mad sometimes, she wouldn’t care.”

“Care about what?” The conversation had shifted into strange territory and an uneasy feeling crawled across Bron’s shoulders.

Nip flicked the splinter into the trees. “’Bout you.”