“I must have all my favorites about me,” the elderly lady’s letter had said. “And that includes my most dashing grandson as well as my most beautiful flower princess.”

“We’re almost there,” Oliver said.

Once again Petunia was so startled that she tripped and would have fallen if Oliver hadn’t caught her around the waist and pulled her upright.

“You must have been far away,” he said, laughing. He was so close that his breath stirred her hair.

“I’m right here,” she said, shrugging him off.

“I meant in your head,” he said.

Petunia straightened her cloak with as much dignity as she could manage. “I suppose I was,” she conceded. “Not that your conversation isn’t riveting.”

She was pleased to see him turn red again, but then she felt ashamed. It was the kind of comment that Jonquil could carry off but Petunia never could. Jonquil would say such things to her suitors, and they would fall over themselves trying to please her. Oliver just looked hurt.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Did you say that we’re almost there?”

“Yes. The road is just through those trees. Once we reach it, we’ll only be a few minutes from the estate.”

“Oh,” she said, hardly showing a sparkling wit herself.

They walked in silence until they were standing atop a low bank that looked down on the road. Petunia hopped down the bank, glad for the hard-packed dirt of the road to walk on. Struggling over hidden rocks and tree roots had mostly ruined her low boots, which were for riding in a comfortable coach and not foot travel.

“It’s to the right,” Oliver instructed, sliding down the bank to stand beside her on the road. He started to lead the way.

“Is it far?” She did a little skip to catch up to his longer legs.

“Not far,” he said. He pointed at the other side of the road, which was just as dark with forest. “If you go just past the first line of trees, there’s a wall that surrounds the estate’s grounds.”

“Really?” Petunia peered through the thick trunks but couldn’t make out a wall.

“It’s made of a brownish gray stone,” Oliver said. “It’s fairly hard to see from here.”

“Are the grounds quite large?”

“Very,” Oliver said, and his voice was strained.

Petunia gave him a quick look. She was hit, suddenly, with how hard this must be for him. He had been disinherited through no fault of his own; he had lived most of his life in the forest, responsible for the survival of dozens of people; and now, because of her, he had to see his old home again, the home that had been given to someone else.

“If it’s only a few minutes walk, I can go alone,” Petunia said. She gave him a quick smile. “I’m not trying to be rude, but won’t it be better for you if you’re not seen? I can tell them that I got lost and made my own way here.”

“That would be better,” Oliver admitted. “But are you sure that you can find the way?”

She raised one eyebrow.

“Yes, all right,” he said with a laugh. “I’m sure that you’re capable of following a road! Well then, just follow it around this bend; the wall comes right up alongside the road. The gates are perhaps a mile along, you can’t miss them.” He swept a low bow. “And so, princess, this lowly earl will bid you farewell!”

Petunia felt another stab of pity for Oliver, and guilt over her own behavior. She gave him a proper curtsy, as befit an earl.

“Thank you for all your help,” she told him.

“The pleasure, I assure you, was mine,” he said, and bowed again. This time Petunia couldn’t detect any irony in the gesture.

“Please give my best to your mother,” she said. “And convey my wishes for a speedy recovery to your brother.” She gave him a small smile, and then turned, feeling self-conscious, and continued on up the road.

After a moment, she looked over her shoulder, pretending to fuss with the way her basket hung over her elbow. Oliver was gone, and the road was empty.

Hidden

Oliver faded back into the forest, putting on his mask out of habit. He kept to the side opposite the estate wall, staring at Petunia. If the princess couldn’t find the gates to the estate from that point, she really was more helpless than a babe, but still he watched. Oliver knew that if he didn’t report back to his mother that he had seen her safely through the gates, he would never be forgiven.

Besides which, his mother wasn’t the only person who wanted to make sure she was safe.

He could feel the knot of tension between his shoulder blades beginning to unravel. She was almost there. Now he could relax and just go back to the old hall and be what he was: a disgraced earl with nothing more pressing on his mind than whether to rob the very next traveler on the main road or wait a few days.

Oliver sidled through the trees. There was a crash and a roar of sound from the direction of the still-hidden gates. Oliver saw Petunia freeze in the middle of the road, her right hand reaching into her basket for her pistol. Why didn’t she move? Oliver knew exactly what that sound was, but she just stood there with her head cocked in curiosity.

Oliver didn’t hesitate for another second. He ran for the princess. She still hadn’t moved when he reached her, dragging her to the opposite side of the road. They tripped over each other’s feet and fell against the leaf-strewn bank. She screamed, but Oliver wasn’t sure if it was because of him or because of the pack of hunters who were bearing down on them. Had he not hauled her out of the way, the superb black stallion at the front would have run her down.

“Out of the way,” the black horse’s rider shouted, brandishing his whip. It snapped out and nearly struck Oliver’s cheek, which was fortunately still covered by his mask.

“Watch yourself!” Oliver shouted back.

Oliver could feel Petunia trembling with shock. He scrambled to his feet and helped her up. Her cloak was covered with leaf mold, and the hood had fallen back to show all her masses of curls. Her eyes were extremely wide, and her face was very white. Oliver could see that she realized now just how close she had come to dying under the hooves of that horse.

Knowing that the sight of his wolf mask was only adding to her fright, Oliver reached up to unfasten it, but Petunia put out a hand to stop him. She darted a look over her shoulder at the rider, who was now bringing the black horse around, whip still raised.

“Gypsies, are you? Stay out of the road,” the rider said in faintly accented Westfalian. He was very tall and had dark hair beneath a black hat. Petunia was staring up at him.

“Run,” she said, her voice soft.

“What?” Oliver leaned in closer.

Petunia turned and pushed his chest, nearly sending him onto his rump with surprise. “Run!”

“You there!” The rider was standing in his stirrups, his whip coming down to point at Oliver. “Why are you wearing that mask?”

“Your Highness,” called out one of the other men. “It’s the princess! The Wolves have kidnapped the princess!”

“Run, you fool,” snapped Petunia, and then she lunged forward and caught the black horse’s reins just as its rider spurred it toward Oliver.

Oliver didn’t want to run, but he was no fool, regardless of what Petunia thought. He spun and ran through the forest as though all the hounds of hell were after him. Which, to a certain extent, they were.

“Prince Grigori,” Petunia called out. “Stop!”

Oliver felt sick. This was Prince Grigori, the beloved grandson of the Grand Duchess Volenskaya? He and his black horse were no strangers to Oliver, though he had never known the man’s name. This man was the leader of the hunters who had been tracking Oliver and his men for months, hounding them at every turn.