His Captive Princess (16 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Eleri tossed breadcrumbs across the pebbled beach. In moments, a trio of birds sailed in to collect the scattered remains of her breakfast. It was the last of the food they’d brought from the abbey, but she and Warren had been too busy making love that morning to finish eating. Besides, there would be plenty to eat when they reached her father’s keep…if, she prayed, her sire didn’t cast her away first.

She felt Warren’s presence close behind her and smiled at the pleasant tingle of awareness that came along with it.

He put his arm around her waist and pointed to the azure Snowdonia Mountains on the horizon. “I think we should climb one of those today.”

She laughed and leaned closer to enjoy the woodsy scent of his neck. “Verily? They’re quite steep. Has my husband vanquished all his fear of heights?”

He pulled away, sharing his scowl. “I climbed to the top of a tower for you and brought you down on my back. ’Twasn’t proof enough of my courage?”

The memory of that tragic day gave her a sense of loss for Lew, though the jab of pain had dulled over the past two fortnights. Her grief was softened by the pleasure of traveling with Warren again, accompanied by her friends and his brother, and now she eagerly anticipated seeing her father for the first time since their arrival in Gwynedd.

And since her betrothal to a Norman.

The breeze ruffled his hair. She turned in his arms and smoothed a stray lock back from his forehead.

He caught her hand and brought it to his lips for a slow kiss. “I’m being serious. We could start with one of the smaller peaks. Of course, we’d avoid the streams.”

Try as he might to distract her, he couldn’t hide the tightness around his eyes betraying his worry.

She’d promised gladly when he’d asked—no visits to any waterside at night. She hadn’t called on Gwrach since before they’d wed. But meeting her family was unavoidable…and something Warren dreaded.

He turned her back around, and his hands swept up her sides until they covered her breasts, fingers dancing over her aroused flesh.

The hard length of him pressed against her backside, and she eagerly brushed against him. His groan sent heady pleasure through her. Soon, very soon, she would make him her captive again. Their new game, with bonds and a hood, had become their favorite, as they loved to play and tease each other’s bodies.

She angled her neck, giving his mouth room to explore.

Gwrach had never been wrong. She’d cried “my son,” for Lew, who had considered his older brother Owain like a father, and “my husband,” for Gareth, who had tried to kill Warren because Lew had threatened his wife. Nest had dispatched Lew’s advisor during the fray, relieving Eleri of the burden of deciding his punishment. Her friend had also shared with her Gareth’s dying words—his remorse and fears for his family’s safety.

As for the white stag, mayhap the taboo she’d crossed had been marrying the son of her father’s former enemy. Or for killing Lew.

She didn’t regret either.

However, she was certain Warren had been right. Their lives and fate were their own to do whatever they desired. Her husband loved her as an equal—he’d said as much when he’d argued against Owain’s treatment of her—and she didn’t fear he would abandon her to go fight in a battle. If Mother Goddess granted them fertility, they would raise their children wisely, offering their greatest strengths, patience and love.

She kissed Warren back, returning the ardent strokes of his tongue with her own, while her fingertips traced the rough edge of the familiar scar on his chest—the wound that nearly killed him and yet brought them together.

When the kiss ended, she offered him warmth in her smile. “I’ll show you the entire principality, from these shores and forests to the ancient Druid stones on the island of my birth, Ynys Mons, but only
after
you meet Father.”

He bit his lip in exaggerated consternation, then gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “
Je suis transparent?
Are you for certes he will not set his army against me? We have brought only a conroi of men, Dom, and your guards. You’ve said yourself he won’t approve of our union. And Lord Vaughn is back in Deheubarth, regrouping his army, no doubt preparing for another revolt.” His arms stiffened, drawing her closer in his embrace as he continued to voice his concerns. “I am ready to defend either people, yours or mine, but if our visit begins a skirmish here…”

“My lord.” Wrapping her arms around his neck, she gazed up at him and grinned as heat rekindled in his dark eyes. “Father might banish us from his castell or from Gwynedd altogether, but he would never risk harm to his heir.” They’d had this discussion before, and would probably have it many times over. They were both fighters, only now they fought on the same side.

His mouth curved with boyish pleasure, melting her insides. He tugged her hips against him and kept her near with his hand over the small of her back. “
Oui
, you’ve begun another day without your courses.” His eyes crinkled with mischief as he lowered his mouth to her neck and murmured, “But before we leave here for Devon, we should keep trying. Just to be certain.”

He dropped tiny kisses along her skin until he reached her collarbone. His rigid cock pressed against her stomach, demonstrating his sincerity.

“Mmm…I agree.” Delicious quivers ran through her.

Warren had told her before that Claire would enjoy having a niece or nephew, but Eleri looked forward to having time alone with her new sister in order to instruct her on how to use her first bow. Claire’s family was grateful she’d been rescued from marriage to Lew, but Eleri wanted the girl to be able to defend herself if she was ever in danger again.

She caressed his strong arms, sliding her hands around his shoulders, loving his size and strength. If they had a babe, it would be a great warrior, who enjoyed training dogs like Warren, and her sire would surely approve—

“Oh Goddess.” She pushed halfheartedly against his chest. “You have distracted me again. Let’s gather the others and make your introduction to Gruffydd.”

Walking into the impressive, lime-washed hall of what had often been one of the kingdom’s greatest foreign enemies, Warren’s gut fluttered with anxiety for his wife. Eleri and her companions led the way toward the Gwynedd king’s throne in the midst of the room where armed guards, allies and a council crowded close to their liege, likely meaning to intimidate them. He touched the hilt of his sword in a timeworn habit, but when his wife glanced back and caught his action with a scowl, he dropped his hand away.

Eleri had seen through his weak attempts to avoid paying respects to her father, but her vision was clouded with a daughterly love for her sire. She wasn’t aware of the harsh reality that some children of royalty faced: when the time came for the monarch to choose between country and family, the latter often lost.

He knew the feeling of disappointing a parent with his mere existence, and he longed to protect her from it.

“Eleri, welcome home.” The king’s eyes narrowed as he took in their group. A finely dressed woman stood at his side, watching the proceedings with a vacuous stare, and Warren could only presume this was the new queen, Betrys, whom the princess had told him about.

At the beckoning wave of Gruffydd’s hand, Eleri went alone to sit at her father’s knee. Although he was white-headed now, the old man had probably once looked much like his daughter with fiery red locks. Warren prayed he didn’t have a matching temper. “Thank you for seeing me, Father. I return with a heart heavy with loss. Your ally, Prince Lew, has been slain…after he betrayed me and tried to kill me during treaty negotiations at Cardiff. Had it not been for Warren de Tracy—”

The king lifted his gaze and found him. “By the saints! You’ve brought the Norman here? De Tracy was their commander against the Deheubarth forces. How could you forget what happened to Owain? How I’ve aided your husband’s people against the Normans in your honor?” The king summoned his guards with another wave. “This man is not our friend, Eleri. He is the enemy.”

“But he saved my life”—Eleri broke off as three of the king’s men immediately moved toward Warren.

He pushed past Sayer’s outstretched arm and stepped up beside Eleri. “Sire.” He bowed his head, then his words rushed out. “I must speak with you about your daughter. Prince Owain was a fool.”

“Guards—”

“No, Father!” Eleri clutched Warren’s arm. “Listen to what he has to say! Lew and Owain wished to incite rebellion, but Warren’s mission was always one of peace—through our union.”

Rough hands pushed Eleri aside and grasped Warren’s arms. He planted his feet, refusing to budge. “Hear us out, Sire! Owain failed to protect the princess. He left her side. I would never! And he—”

One of the soldiers produced a sword glancing with uncertainty between Warren and his liege.

“Wait,” the king commanded. “Let the Norman continue. I want to hear the rest of his opinions of my daughter’s match.” He leaned against his armrest, rubbing a thoughtful finger across his lips.

Held between Sayer and another man, Warren cast a warning glare around the circle. Let them try to subdue him.

He took a steadying breath before continuing, “I believe Prince Owain’s failing was that he didn’t appreciate his wife. Your daughter is a fierce, skillful warrior, and any soldier should be proud to have her at their side.
Oui
, I know a husband’s duty is to protect his woman, but where better to do that than with her right beside him? She’s as good as a man in combat. If she chose, I would take her into battle, keep her close, yet trust her to do what you—her father—have no doubt trained her to do.”

He felt Eleri’s stare upon him, but he dared not look away from the king, who was now watching him without expression.

“Aye, she is worthy of her ancestors.” Gruffydd’s gaze cut to his daughter and the first twinkle of appreciation appeared in his eyes. Queen Betrys leaned down, whispering in his ear. Then returning his attention to Warren, he gestured for the guards. “Let him go for now. I would have a word alone with him.”

Warren watched apprehensively as Eleri caught his eye, shared a small smile, then slowly left her father’s side to wait with the others in the circle. Still unsure of the king’s intentions, his fingers itched for his weapon just in case they needed to flee quickly, but he forced his hand to relax.

Once he stood alone by the royal couple, the king murmured, “My queen tells me there are rumors Warren de Tracy is the son of Henry Beauclerc.”

“
Oui
. I have been told the same…by my mother.” A joke he seldom made, but the fact that Gruffydd voiced that particular question in private made him slightly more comfortable.

Yet the two leaders were once bitter enemies. He prayed he hadn’t made a mistake in telling the truth.

Gruffydd’s heavy eyebrows lifted with surprise. “But my advisors say ye defended the usurper’s strongholds. Are ye a supporter of Stephen’s?”

Warren lifted his chin. Again he wondered whether to tell the truth or not. Shame washed over him that he couldn’t stand proudly before this throne and defend his oath of fealty. “I have followed Stephen’s bidding by fighting his battles, protecting his colonies, and now by wedding a princess of Deheubarth—though I was happy to wed such a wonderful woman. If that obedience makes me a supporter, then so be it. I have done so to protect my family. But my father declared his daughter Matilda as his rightful heir. She is also my family, so if there was any way—”

The king lifted a hand, stopping him. “If Henry Beauclerc’s daughter comes back to England, she will have my support. Your father, for all our clashes and struggles, was true to his word when he signed our truce. He earned my respect. Be ye a child of his wedlock or no, Warren de Tracy, ye are his kin. I see his stamp upon your brow and in your convictions.”

The king glanced back at Eleri, his gaze pensive. “Other suitors for my daughters have praised their looks, showered them with trinkets, and yet you admire my daughter’s fighting abilities. This I also respect. But I have to know…”

Warren tensed, bracing for the worst as the king leaned forward to speak conspiratorially.

The old man’s eyes twinkled as he spoke. “If my daughter bears your child, will he be raised Cymreig?”

About the Author

Sandra Jones is the author of historical romances, including the River Rogues series. Living in the Ozarks with her husband of more than twenty-five years, she makes her home on a river where she writes to the sounds of mischievous wildlife and daydreams about adventure. When not writing, she enjoys traveling to places off the beaten path and attends the occasional Renaissance faire. Huzzah!

Sandra loves hearing from her readers. Visit her website to find out more about her books and sign up for her newsletter with its exclusive excerpts and contests,
www.SandraJonesRomance.com
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Sandra Jones

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The River Rogues

Her Wicked Captain

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His Most Wanted

She played right into his hands.

Her Wicked Captain

© 2014 Sandra Jones

Possessing uncanny people-reading skills like her mama, Philadelphia “Dell” Samuels has spent thirteen years in her aunt’s rustic Ozarks home, telling fortunes over playing cards and trying to pass as white. But the treacherous Mississippi River childhood her mama had dragged her away from finally catches up to her on a steamboat captained by her old friend Rory Campbell.

Known to his crew as the Devil’s Henchman, Rory is a gambler in need of a miracle. Following the cold trail of his boss’s wife and bastard daughter, Dell, Rory has only one goal in mind: saving his crew from the boss’s cruelty by ruining him. The only one who can defeat the Monster of the Mississippi is the man trained to take his place. Rory’s convinced he can lure his boss into a high-stakes game against a rival, and with Dell’s people-reading skills, the monster will lose everything.

Under Rory’s tutelage and protection, Dell agrees to the tortured captain’s plan. Passion and peril quickly bring them together as lovers. But when Rory’s plan backfires, the lives of the innocent depend on Dell’s ability to read the situation correctly—and hopefully save them all.

Warning: There’s not enough moonshine on the Mississippi to keep this fortuneteller from saving The Devil’s Henchman, a high-stakes gambler and her childhood friend, from his boss’s cruelty. Touches upon issues of child abuse, revenge and redemption.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Her Wicked Captain:

The only thing worse than dying from a gunshot to the stomach was being the one carrying the pistols.

For that reason, Rory Campbell felt a flicker of envy for the man as he dropped. When the smoke cleared, Harold Best’s toes were pointed skyward, the open wound above his navel pumped ichor down his side to soak the sand of Bloody Island, while a pair of startled ducks complained overhead. The gambler should’ve known he was dead before he ever stepped foot on the Mississippi sandbar.

Best’s wife screamed the moment he went down. His lawyer, the second, broke his shocked spell and hurried, along with the lady, to the man’s side.

The breeze tugging Rory’s hair helped to revive him. He glanced down at the embossed case clenched tight in his arms and remembered his role in the grisly affair. “You’re the second. You must tend the first!” He’d received those instructions six years ago in his first duel
a l’outrance
, right after Quintus Moreaux smacked his head with the butt of his Colt. Now twenty-seven, Rory’s chest felt hollow, his spirit weary, but he knew the procedures. Snapping into action, he went to aid his boss.

Garbed in a black vest and breeches, Moreaux’s tall form made a dapper silhouette against the peach sunrise over the river. With the still-smoking gun in his left hand, he rolled down his white shirtsleeve and smiled slightly while the witnesses were preoccupied with the fallen man twenty paces away.

Rory took the gun from Moreaux so he could finish adjusting his clothes. Then after cleaning the weapon, he opened the box and set it in its satin nest.

“Now we see who’s really best,” Moreaux chuckled. Rory often suspected killing made his boss somewhat drunk and giddy. That was just one reason he hated him.

There were worse reasons. If he had a choice, he would be far from here, but he had none. Too many other lives depended on him.

“You know, you’ve been my second several times now, Rory.” The gambler’s cold eyes were on him now. Dark circles testified to the fact the bastard had stayed up late the night before at the card table, as usual—the only things marring his distinguished face. “It’s past time you earned a name for yourself. Otherwise my opponents will think you’re weak. The next duel, you will take my place and defend my honor.”

To remind Moreaux he was the one who cheated at faro would cause him to lash out at someone else—and the thought that a member of the crew would be beaten because of him made Rory shudder with revulsion.

He held his tongue. Carrying the pistols was one thing, but could he kill a man for Quintus Moreaux, Monster of the Mississippi? He’d often thought being Moreaux’s protégé and steamboat captain were the lowest levels he could sink to, but he guessed he’d been wrong. When Rory ran out of diversions for his boss, Moreaux turned to diversions of his own making—usually starting with Rory’s crew, his roustabouts.

The price was more than Rory was willing to pay.

If you dance with the Devil…

The flat of Moreaux’s hand came from nowhere, connecting with his cheek. “Christ! Wake up and fetch my other pistol from that damned corpse.”

His smarting blows no longer sent Rory flying as they had when he was a youth. Now standing an inch taller than Moreaux with arms and legs of iron from years working on the docks, Rory took the hit without shame, yet he couldn’t stop the hazy curtain falling before his eyes.

In the darkness of his mind, cold dread replaced the morning warmth, and for an instant, he feared he was home on the paddlewheeler again, waiting for the terrors that claimed him in the night. When his vision slowly cleared, fury chased away his momentary bewilderment. Days like these, he could easily imagine killing the source of all the suffering. In one selfish act, he could take one of the pistols, jab it into Moreaux’s ribs and squeeze the trigger. Yet then the boats and everything would go back to the bank, the crew losing their jobs and homes—suffering of a different brand.

Worse, he would have blood on his hands, giving the boss what he wanted.

Gritting his teeth, he closed the box, tucked it under his arm, and hurried across the so-called field of honor.

The lawyer backed away when he saw Rory coming, a grim expression on his face. Mrs. Best held her husband’s hand as she wept against the poor man’s shoulder.

Rory avoided the wife’s petticoats and knelt in the sand to take the gun from Best’s fingers, but they were still curled tight around the trigger. His gaze flew to the man’s face and discovered his eyes open, alive and watching him through tears.

“My apologies,” Rory mumbled low, hoping Moreaux wouldn’t overhear. He knew the Christian prayer, having heard it nearly a dozen times, but considered himself too lost to repeat the words with any effect.

Best’s fingers refused to budge when he pried at them. “Hurts. Hurts. It’s so cold-d-d.” His bloodied teeth chattered, making talk difficult.

Mrs. Best sobbed louder and Rory’s stomach twisted so tight he would’ve vomited if he’d eaten anything that morning. Experience had taught him better. Damn lawyer! He should know to carry the proper equipment to a duel.

“I have laudanum,” Rory whispered, and opened the case, revealing the false bottom where he kept six bottles of the painkilling dosages. The man might live a day, maybe two, since he’d survived the blast, but he wouldn’t have enough blood left to last longer.

Keeping his back to his employer, Rory popped the rubber stopper on the vile and brought the liquid to the dying man’s lips. If Moreaux saw he carried such to his duels, he would make him regret it, as he considered medicines cowardly.

The woman thanked him, and the man’s grip loosened on the pistol. When Rory had the weapon stowed and the gold latch fastened, he moved to get up, wanting to be away from the tears, the blood and the stench of innards, but the man spoke again, softly calling for his attention.

“Give me more. I want to die quickly.” Red sprayed between his lips with each word. “Please! In exchange for more, I’ll tell you something your boss wants to know. I—I knew Moreaux’s wife, Eleanor.”

“What about her?” Rory frowned, confused. Missing for the last thirteen years, Eleanor Moreaux was one of the few people he knew who’d ever beaten the man. Men who uttered the name of the gambler’s unfaithful wife usually died at his hand. ’Course Best was all but in the grave already.

“Harold,” the lady moaned. “No!”

Blood drizzled from the corner of his mouth. “She and her bastard daughter. I know where they went.”