“You’re probably hearing the hounds.” Blythe scanned the forest for any hint of prying eyes. “We need to get back. There are things I have to take care of.…”
“Stop your muttering and listen.”
She had half a mind to ignore his request and to take off with his own steed in tow, convinced he was toying with her. Yet Blythe gave him a single, begrudging chance, shut her eyes, and listened.
She heard the songs of the forest. A symphony of insect wings and chirping birds. The steady rhythm of a woodpecker high above, beating on the trees. A fluttering of the branches as birds flitted between them.
And somewhere beneath it all a quiet, chittering whine.
Blythe’s eyes flew open. “What is that?”
Aris held out his hand, silencing her as he crouched and crept toward the direction of the noise. So deep into a thicket of trees did he venture that she nearly lost sight of him. Her horse blew a snort, as if sensing Blythe’s unease and wanting no part of it. When the reservoir of her patience ran dry and she could no longer quell her curiosity, Blythe slid from the saddle and tied both horses to the sturdiest nearby branch.
She should have followed Eliza back to the manor. She should have used her illness as an excuse to try to speak with the staff and pry for more information about Everett. Instead, she was trotting after a prince through the woods, fully aware of what this would look like should anyone find them. She tried to be as mindful of her steps as he’d been, though, given the vast number of scattered twigs and bramble littering the ground, it was a more difficult task than she gave him credit for. She hiked her skirts to her knees, breathless and flushed with the effort by the time she found him several minutes later.
The last thing she expected to see was the prince on hands and knees in the dirt, his backside in the air as he reached into a tiny hole in the base of a tree.
“Brace me,” Aris demanded.
Blythe flushed from head to neck. “I beg your pardon?”
“Believe me, love, if I was aiming to seduce you then you’d know it. Brace me so I can get hold of whatever’s in there.”
She opened her mouth, then pressed it shut with a huff. Checking once more that no one was near, Blythe moved behind him to settle her hands on his hips. Even if Aris himself appeared to have no shame, Blythe tried to keep her gaze averted from the trousers that fit around his thighs frustratingly well.
Aris grunted and dug around inside for a moment longer before he started to lean up, relying on her help to properly straighten. Only then did Blythe see the source of the noise—a tiny black fox, hardly even a kit. He held it out by the scruff, looking the poor creature over.
“There’s blood on the ground,” he said. “I’m surprised it managed to avoid the hounds.”
Blythe’s throat went tight. She had half a mind to push Aris aside and snatch the poor thing away from him, though what she’d do beyond that was a mystery. It wasn’t as though she could take the creature back to Thorn Grove. Perhaps that would have been possible were her father still there, but Byron would have it thrown back into the forest the moment he saw it.
“Are you going to kill it?” she asked, unable to hide her unease. Though she understood that was the entire point of the day and that she had agreed to come, the whole thing felt hopelessly cruel.
Aris held the kit out toward her. “I hear some people like to wear them. Someone could make it into a scarf.”
She blanched. “You wouldn’t.”
He drew the kit back into his chest, cradling it there as though it were a newborn child. “Of course I wouldn’t. Do I look like a barbarian?” He brushed a hand down its dark fur, taking great care with his touch. “We can’t just let the beast go. The hounds will find it in no time if it keeps making that awful noise. Besides, I don’t think it’s old enough to hunt for itself.”
Blythe brushed a soft hand down the fox’s back, careful to avoid touching the prince. “It’s only making that noise because it’s frightened. It can’t help it.”
“Frightened or not, it”—he paused and stretched the fox out again, inspecting its lower half—“excuse me, she is as good as dead if we leave her here.”
Blythe’s gaze flew upward, checking for any sign that he might be joking. Yet his too-bright eyes were as serious as ever, and already he was marching back to his horse. Blythe sighed and hiked up her skirts to follow him.
“You want to bring home a wild fox?” she asked.