Laughter rumbled from Prince. Before he could stop himself he put his hands on slender shoulders and spun this dust-covered gem to face him. "What is this? Tears, my fair lady?" He reached up and brushed one away. When she froze in shock, he took her hand gently in his, and gave a short gallant bow. "I believe I have not had the pleasure." He knew he should let go, but found himself quite unable lest she panic and bolt in fear.
Something akin to irritation flared in her eyes, before she dropped them and answered. "Cinderella, my lord." A voice of velvet softness, husky and low prickled over his skin.
She dipped a nervous curtsy, then stepping back. She couldn't go far, he still held her hand captive.
Her name…it struck a chord of familiarity. He lowered his lips, brushing a roughed hand. A servant, then. "Cinderella? I've heard your name spoken before, have I not?" A shift in the air tingled about. He would not faint again, he vowed. The very idea, set him on edge.
The warmth of her hand surprised him and he forced a calming breath. He could not seem to let go. She wielded some strange power over him. Held him enthralled; it was both disturbing and compelling. Prince leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. He should be appalled at his behavior. But somehow he could not. 'Twas just a whisper of a kiss, really. A sense of an unfulfilled promise.
Slender fingers trembled beneath his, and he stood back to look at her. Relief touched her eyes.
"My lord," she whispered. "I-"
A shout sounded from the path interrupted her. Panic replaced her relief. Cinderella stiffened, her head whipped head around and she tried to snatch her hand from his. His gaze followed. The batty-eyed Edwina was racing toward them in a breathless unladylike pace. He was charmed in spite of himself even with disappointment coursing through him.
Retreat was the only option. With a sigh of reluctance, and a short squeeze of her fingers he let her hand slide from his. "Until later," he promised, and melted back into the trees.
From his vantage point at the edge of the forest, Prince observed drama unfold between the two young women with interest. Cinderella's gray cloak and drab brown skirt were covered in patches that spelled a history of mending. Waist-length hair fell down her back, in a rich mass of dark brown, and unfashionably straight. The top of her head was covered by a frayed scarf fastened at the nape of her neck. She had a lovely profile, he allowed. What had she been about to say?