The shouts of men mingle with the frantic baying of the dogs, the pounding of the hooves, and the crack and blast of twigs and branches breaking. Riding fast takes skill and concentration. I will myself not to think about Wyatt’s words. About the look on his face.Far ahead, I see the flash of white. The tail of the roe deer. With a roar, the company spurs the horses to a froth and we plunge from shadow to light and back again. Horses dodge through the trees, leap fallen branches, vault over streambeds clattering from the spring rain and ditches stagnant with frogs and water.Does he want me? Or does he just want to win our bet?We are not bow hunting today, but chasing the deer toward the toils—nets strung yesterday at the other end of the park. This hunt is more of a race.Wyatt is ahead of me. I can’t let him win.I lean forward over the neck of my horse, her mane flapping against my cheek, ducking branches that come quick-fire at me.We pass into a blinding splash of morning as the trees thin, and suddenly the king is beside me.“You ride well, mistress,”
