Free Blood Prophecy by Alyxandra Harvey Page A

blond hair caught in his silver cloak clasp.
    When he kissed her it felt as though there was lightning striking off her, as if she could set the whole world on fire and watch it burn with a smile just as long as they were together. There was no cold wind, no ice dripping down the back of her neck; there was nothing but him. His lips were teasing and desperate but no more so than hers. He kissed her throat and she tilted her head back, inhaling the scents of him: smoke, iron, and the rare oranges Lord Phillip had just received for Christmas. She remembered dancing with Tristan in the hall, wearing a crown of holly leaves. No one had suspected them.
    He pulled back slightly but they stayed locked together, breathing as one. When she smiled, he smiled. When he leaned in, she leaned in. The last of the russet oak leaves clattered like bones around them.
    When her horse shifted closer to nibble at the thawed grass, Tristan finally noticed the pack on her saddle and frowned. “Where are you going?”
    “I’m going home.”
    “You’re leaving Bornebow Hall?” He seized her arms, his eyes searing into her like ice. Her breath caught, as if she were in a runaway cart. “Without me? Why?”
    “Why do you think?”
    “Does Richard know?”
    “Not you too.” Viola made a sound of disgust. Her horse tossed her mane, recognizing the sound and impatient to run across the fields and moors. “I’m going to talk to my father. I’m fifteen years old. That’s old enough to know my own mind. My own heart.”
    Tristan was only a few years older than she was, and had been a knight for less than a year, but he felt positively ancient at the thought of losing Viola. It was one thing to recite poetry like a troubadour, and sneak roses onto her pillow, but another thing altogether to challenge her father. Her betrothal to Richard was made on the day she was born. But he knew the set of her jaw and what it meant. There would be no stopping her. She was like the hawk above them, hungry and wild.
    “I don’t want to lose you,” he said softly, stepping close enough to smell the amber and lavender of her hair, to brush his mouth over her cheek.
    “Nor I you,” she whispered, melting into him. “So come with me. Fight for us.”
    “Viola, I would die for us.” He touched his brow to hers. “But you know what they’ll say.”
    “My mother might listen,” she insisted stubbornly. “She wants me to be happy. She is always asking if Richard treats me well.”
    “And he does,” Tristan felt honor-bound to remind her. He considered Richard a brother. It seemed a poor way to repay him by falling in love with his betrothed. But there was a reason they called it falling in love—you couldn’t choose your landing. Fate chose for you. “He’s a good man.”
    “But he’s not you.”
    She jerked out of his grasp and vaulted into her saddle. “Are you afraid to prove yourself?” she asked, looking down at him, temper making her cheeks red. “Because I’m not.” She kicked her horse into a gallop, churning dirt and dead leaves in her wake.
    Tristan swore and leaped onto his own mount, chasing after her. They kept to the edge of the forest until it was time to follow the river, crossing the fields. They passed villages with their creaking mill wheels and goat pens. The shorn fields glittered in the fading light and it was dusk when they finally left the empty howling moors to approach Viola’s father’s castle. The stone walls and the keep above them were silhouetted against the pink-and-orange sky.
    “Lady Viola,” the guard at the gatehouse greeted her with a bow of the head. She nodded back and then they were in the outer bailey, their tired horses picking their way up the path to the inner courtyard.
    Viola slid out of her sidesaddle, her legs aching from being wrapped around the pommel. Her cheeks stung from the constant onslaught of the cold wind. The courtyard was quiet, as it always was this time of day. She’d chosen