The Leopard Prince

She cut a piece of beef and held it out to Harry. He eyed the fork, but instead of taking it, he merely opened his lips. His eyes met hers and held them as George placed the food in his mouth. For some reason this transaction made her breath quicken.

George looked down at her plate. “But the young king was out of luck again, for the Golden Swan could talk just as well as the Golden Horse. The father king took the Golden Swan aside and quizzed it and soon discovered the young king wasn’t the one who’d stolen the Golden Swan from the nasty witch. Potato?”

“Thank you.” Harry closed his eyes as his lips took a piece from her fork.

George’s mouth watered in sympathy. She cleared her throat. “So the father king went storming out to confront the young king. And the father king said, ‘Right. The Golden Swan is very nice, but not exactly useful. You must bring me the Golden Eel guarded by the seven-headed dragon that lives on the Mountains of the Moon.’ ”

“An eel?”

She held out a spoonful of pudding, but Harry was looking at her dubiously.

She waved it under his nose. “Yes, an eel.”

He captured her hand and guided the spoon to his lips.

“It does seem rather odd, doesn’t it?” George continued breathlessly. “I did question Cook’s aunt about it, but she was quite certain.” She speared another piece of beef and held it out. “I myself would have thought, oh, a wolf or a unicorn.”

Harry swallowed. “Not a unicorn. Too close to the horse.”

“I suppose. But, anyway, something more exotic.” She wrinkled her nose at the pudding. “Eels—even golden eels—don’t sound exotic to you, do they?”

“No.”

“Nor I.” She poked at the pudding. “Of course, Cook’s aunt is getting on in years. She must be at least eighty.” George looked up to find him staring at the pudding she’d just destroyed. “Oh, I’m sorry. Would you like some more?”

“Please.”

She fed him some pudding, watching as his lips enveloped the spoon. Goodness, he had lovely lips, even when they were bruised. “Anyway, the young king trotted off back home, and I’m sure he was quite nasty when he told the Leopard Prince that he had to retrieve the Golden Eel. But the Leopard Prince had no choice, did he? He turned into a man and took his emerald crown pendant in his hand, and guess what he asked for this time?”

“I don’t know, my lady.”

“One-hundred-league boots.” George sat back in satisfaction. “Can you imagine? You put them on and the wearer can cross one hundred leagues in a single step.”

Harry’s mouth quirked. “I shouldn’t ask, my lady, but how would that help the Leopard Prince get to the Mountains of the Moon?”

George stared. She’d never thought of that. “I haven’t any idea. They would be wonderful on land, but would they work in the air?”

Harry nodded solemnly. “It is a problem, I fear.”

George absently fed him the rest of her beef while pondering this question. She was offering the last bite when she realized that he’d been watching her the entire time.

“Harry…” She hesitated. He was weak, barely recovered enough to sit upright. She shouldn’t take advantage of him, but she needed to know.

“Yes?”

She asked before she could rethink the idea. “Why did your father attack Lord Granville?”

He stiffened.

She immediately regretted asking. It was more than clear he didn’t want to talk about that time. How mean of her.

“My mother was Granville’s whore.” His words were flat.

George stopped breathing. She’d never heard Harry mention his mother before.

“She was a beautiful woman, my mother.” He looked down at his right hand and flexed it. “Too beautiful for a gamekeeper’s wife. She was all black hair and blazing green eyes. When we went to town, men used to watch her pass. Even as a lad it made me uneasy.”

“Was she a good mother?”

Harry shrugged. “She was the only mother I had. I’ve none other to compare her with. She kept me fed and clothed. My da did most everything else.”

George looked down at her own hands, fighting back tears, but she still heard his words, rasping and slow.

“When I was small, she used to sing to me sometimes, late at night if I couldn’t sleep. Sad love songs. Her voice was high, and not very strong, and she wouldn’t sing if I looked at her face. But it was lovely when she sang.” He sighed. “At least I thought so at the time.”

She nodded, barely moving, too afraid to interrupt the flow of his words.

“They moved here, my da and my mother, when they were first married. I don’t know exactly—I’ve had to piece the story together from conversations I’ve overheard—but I think she took up with Granville soon after they came here.”

“Before you were born?” George asked carefully.

He looked at her with steady emerald eyes and nodded once.

George let out a slow breath. “Did your father know?”

Harry grimaced. “He must’ve. Granville took away Bennet.”

She blinked. She couldn’t have heard correctly. “Bennet Granville is…?”

“My brother,” Harry said quietly. “My mother’s son.”

“But how could he do such a thing? Didn’t anyone notice when he brought a baby into his house?”

Harry made a sound that was almost a laugh. “Oh, everyone knew—quite a few hereabouts probably still remember—but Granville has always been a tyrant. When he said the baby was his legitimate son, none dared disagree. Not even his lawful wife.”

“And your father?”

Harry looked down at his hands, frowning. “I don’t remember, I was only two or so, but I think Da must’ve forgiven her. And she must’ve promised to stay away from Granville. But she lied.”

“What happened?” George asked.

“My father caught her. I don’t know if Da always knew that she’d gone back to Granville and looked away or if he fooled himself that she had turned over a new leaf or…” He shook his head impatiently. “But it doesn’t matter. When I was twelve, he found her in bed with Granville.”

“And?”

Harry grimaced. “And he went for Granville’s throat. Granville was a much larger man, and he beat my father off. Da was humiliated. But Granville still had him horsewhipped.”

“And you? You said he horsewhipped you as well.”

“I was young. When they started on Da with that big whip…” Harry swallowed. “I darted in. It was a stupid thing to do.”

“You were trying to save your father.”

“Aye, I was. And all I got for the effort was this.” Harry held up his mutilated right hand.

“I don’t understand.”

“I tried to shield my face, and the whip caught me across this hand. See?” Harry pointed at a long scar that cut across the inside of his fingers. “The whip nearly severed them all, but the third finger was the worst. Lord Granville had one of his men cut it off. Said he was doing me a favor.”

Oh, God. George felt bile rise in her throat. She covered Harry’s right hand with her own. He turned it over so they were palm to palm. George carefully linked her fingers with his.

“Da was out of work and so badly crippled by the whipping that after a while we went into the poorhouse.” Harry looked away from her, but he still clasped his hand with hers.

“And your mother? Did she go into the poorhouse as well?” George asked in a low voice.

Harry’s hand squeezed hers almost painfully. “No. She stayed with Granville. As his whore. I heard many years later that she’d died of the plague. But I never spoke to her again after that day. The day Da and I were horsewhipped.”

She breathed deeply. “Did you love her, Harry?”

He smiled then, crookedly. “All boys love their mothers, my lady.”

George closed her eyes. What kind of woman would abandon her child to be a rich man’s mistress? So many things about Harry were explained, but the knowledge was almost too painful to bear. She laid her head down in his lap and felt him stroke her hair. It was strange. She should be comforting him after his revelations. Instead, he consoled her.

He drew a breath like a sigh. “Now you understand why I must leave.”

Chapter Sixteen

“But why must you leave?” George asked.

She paced the small bedroom. She wanted to pound on the bed. Pound on the chest of drawers. Pound on Harry. It had been almost a fortnight since he’d first said it. A fortnight in which he’d regained his feet, his bruises had faded to the greenish-yellow color of recovery, and he hardly limped. But in that fortnight he’d remained adamant. He would leave her as soon as he was well.

Every day she came to visit him in his tiny room, and every day they had the same argument. George couldn’t stand this cramped room anymore—Lord knew what Harry thought of it—and she was about ready to scream. He was going to leave her soon, just walk out the door, and she still didn’t know why.

Harry sighed now. He must be weary of her badgering him. “It’s not going to work, my lady. You and me. You must know that, and you’ll agree with me soon.” His voice was low and calm. Reasonable.

Hers was not.

“I won’t!” George cried like a small child told she must go to bed. All she lacked was the stomp of one foot.

Oh, Lord, she knew she was making herself ugly. But she couldn’t stop. Couldn’t help pleading and whining and pestering. The thought of never seeing Harry again brought blind panic flooding into her chest.

She took a deep breath and tried to speak more sedately. “We could get married. I love—”

“No!” He slammed his hand against the wall, the sound like a cannon shot in the room.

She stared at him. She knew damn well Harry loved her. She knew by the way he said my lady so low it was almost a purr. The way his eyes lingered when he looked at her. The way he had made love to her so intently before he’d been injured. Why couldn’t he—?

He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, my lady.”

Tears started in her eyes. She rubbed them away. “You can at least do me the favor of explaining why you don’t think we should marry. Because I just can’t see why not.”

“Why? Why?” Harry laughed sharply. “How about this reason: If I married you, my lady, the whole of England would think I did it for your money. And how exactly would we work out the money part? Eh? Would you give me a quarterly allowance?” He stood with his hands on his hips and stared at her.

“It wouldn’t have to be that way.”

“No? Perhaps you’d like to sign all your money over to me?”

She hesitated for a fatal second.

“No, of course not.” He flung up his arms. “So I’d be your pet monkey. Your male whore. Do you even think any of your friends would invite me to dine with them? That your family would accept me?”

“Yes. Yes, they would.” She stuck out her jaw. “And you’re not—”

“Aren’t I?” There was pain in his green eyes.

“No, never,” she whispered. She held out her hands in supplication. “You know you’re not that to me. You’re much more. I love—”

“No.”

But she spoke over him this time. “You. I love you, Harry. I love you. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“Of course it does.” He closed his eyes. “It’s all the more reason not to let you be pilloried by society.”

“It won’t be as bad as all that. And even if it was, I don’t care.”