Chapters (68)
- Cover
- Dedication
- 1853
- PART I
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- 1854
- PART II
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Elisabeth sat up. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I can’t help it.”
“Can’t help what?” There was mirth at the corner of Franz’s mouth, as he sat up beside her, a laugh in his eyes. Her heart fluttered. He wasn’t angry.
“Saying exactly what I think.” Well, not exactly what she thought. If she said exactly what she thought, she’d say something about his eyes—how they were kind and strong and deep all at once. She’d tell him the way he laughed in the garden made her feel like she knew him already. She’d admit that he seemed like a hero from a poem, the kind of man she might ask to—
Kiss her.
It was a dangerous thought. An unexpected one. Startling. Thrilling.
“Maybe you can teach me,” Franz said. “I could use a lesson in saying what I think.”
Elisabeth laughed. She couldn’t believe she’d thought he’d be as arrogant as the dukes. Instead, he was humble, knowing his limitations, wanting to learn.
Franz held her eyes for a moment. “You’ve got something there, in your hair.”
He reached across the space between them, now stunningly small. She could smell him, then: all cloves and cardamom and something earthy, like a spring rain. Goose bumps flickered to life across her exposed arms. She hoped he didn’t hear her gasp, feel the jolt of electricity across her skin. She hadn’t known her skin, her heart, every inch of her could feel so fully realized. Before she’d been a shadow; the touch made her real. Even the guilt of Helene only two hallways away couldn’t break through the storm that was the brush of fingers across skin.
Carefully, gently, Franz lifted a strand of Elisabeth’s hair to reveal Puck’s braid. Her reminder of wildness, friendship, love. The mountains. Adventures. Wind in her face, the earth speeding past.
“It’s not mine,” she said after a long pause. “I only braided it in.”
“Then whose is it?” His voice was tender.
“Puck. So that I don’t forget the way he was.”
A pause.
“A man?” Was that pain in his voice?
“A horse.” She smiled, just a little, wrapped up in the breathlessness of the moment and the sadness at its edges.
Franz returned the smile, the corner of his mouth twitching in a way that was starting to feel familiar, like a secret shared between them, the kind of secret she’d always wanted to have.
TWENTY-TWO
A HORSE. NOT A MAN, BUT A HORSE. FRANZ FELT GIDDY. He’d dared touch her neck; he’d seen the way her lips had parted. He hadn’t dared touch those. But one day…
His mother would hate it; he forced her from his thoughts.
“Don’t say I’ve lost my mind,” Elisabeth said. “I hear it far too often.”