Princess of the Silver Woods (Twelve Dancing Princesses) by Jessica Day George Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    If the Russakan prince was hunting for human wolves in Westfalin, then Oliver had no doubt that Grigori had theblessing of King Gregor and probably King Phillippe of Analousia as well. Oliver and his men crossed the border with impunity and had robbed travelers from many lands. But even knowing his own crimes, Oliver had hoped that the men hunting them were vigilantes who had simply lost a purse or two to the bandits. That way Oliver had no qualms about evading them or taking stronger action if the hunters came too close to the old hall. But if they had royal support, any retaliation would be treason as well as murder.
    Oliver was on the wrong side of the road now, with the wall of the estate preventing him from fading into the forest, and the hunters were almost outpacing him. He would have to take to the trees or go over the wall and hide on the grounds for a time.
    When he thought the trees were thick enough to conceal him, he stopped and listened until he heard the horses go past. Oliver located a sturdy elm that had branches that hung over the wall of the estate and swung himself up. He sat in the crook of one of the larger branches and listened some more, pushing back his hood so that he could hear better. They were definitely on foot now; the underbrush was too thick for a mounted search.
    Oliver leaned along the branch as far as he could, looking through the dry, rattling leaves that still clung to the winter branches. There was no snow on the yellowed lawns of the estate, and the bareness of the bushes and trees provided little concealment. It had been a terrible winter: bitter cold yet