Lois Greiman (12 page)

She stared at him as thoughts rampaged through her mind. Memories of years on the street, of scraping for a living, of her mother’s broken heart and tired face. And all the while Tatiana Octavia Linnet Rocheneau had lived like a princess. “Sure,” she said, and shrugged with careful casualness. “Why not?”

“Good.” He nodded once. “I just have one question then.”

She waited, breath held.

“Why would you steal my stocking?”

T
he carriage bumped over the rutted snow of the half-cobbled byway. Megan had no idea how Ralph had known where to find them, but the viscount’s highly polished vehicle had appeared at the Sedonian port, its driver as silent and sober as a henchman behind the chestnut team.

“Why now?” Lord Argyle asked. Once again, there was not a hair out of place, not a whisker to be seen on his sharp-cut chin, as if he had spent the night at the opera house instead of dragging her across a choppy stretch of ocean.

“What’s that?” she asked, though she had heard him perfectly well.

“I thought we had come to some sort of agreement,” he said. “I thought you were beginning to trust me.” He watched her in the darkness, seeming to examine her with detached interest. “Was it because I failed to protect you?”

She raised her brows at him, and he must have noticed her expression of surprise because he continued on.

“The horses,” he explained. His arms were crossed against
his chest. And though the carriage jostled and bumped, he looked perfectly unaware of the turbulence, as if he rode above it. “Your injury.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “My lord,” she said and took delight in the flash of anger that shone in his eyes at the formal way she addressed him, “I’ve had broken fingernails that were more alarming.”

“Then why?”

Against her will she remembered the feel of his fingers on her skin, remembered the deep, intoxicating timbre of his voice as he read to her. There were many dangers to a woman alone, but there was none so deadly as the weakness of a woman in the dark throes of infatuation.

“Was it all a ploy?” he asked.

Try as she might she could not seem to forget how the candlelight had shone on his hair or how his hands had looked as they held the book—strong, yet strangely elegant, sprinkled with dark hairs that swept up the taut muscles of his forearms. She could not forget his gentleness or the warmth of his chest against hers as he’d lifted her from the tub. Could not forget closing her eyes and longing to feel his lips against hers.

Damn him. Damn him and every pampered lord who had ever whiled his way into a maid’s tender heart.

“Was it all a trick?” he asked, canting his head slightly. “To make me let down my guard?”

Who would have thought she could be tempted by a nobleman? And not just a nobleman, but a Sedonian. She would have sworn she had learned from her mother’s mistakes. Would have sworn she would not mimic them in her own life. And yet here she was, enthralled with a Sedonian lord who had nothing but his own interests in mind, except perhaps the interests of another woman. She almost laughed at the dark irony of the situation. But not quite.

“Yes,” she said instead and turned to watch the snow-covered countryside roll into the approaching darkness. “’Twas naught but a trick.”

“Who is your eldest lady in waiting?” Nicol asked.

“Lady Evelyn.” The girl’s tone was firm yet feminine, her back perfectly straight as she stared out the window to the farmstead below. What was she thinking? Was she planning another escape, or had she decided she could tolerate even his presence if enough coin was involved? “An aging baron’s only daughter,” she continued. “With dark hair and blue eyes. A rare combination.”

“And her cousin?”

“Lady Mary,” she intoned, her gaze not leaving the scene below. “Who is quite fair by Sedonian standards.”

“What is your country’s foremost export?”

“We are rich in rubies and other precious gems, and our craftsmen are the best in all of Europe.”

“And your chief chancellor?” Nicol asked.

“Lord Paqual.” Her face showed no expression, except perhaps a hint of regal disdain, no joy or animation. God’s bones, it was frightening what one could learn in a fortnight. Her feet were laced into a pair of nearly flat slippers and aligned just so. Her hands were clasped primly behind her small, round buttocks. Nicol paced again, but she didn’t turn to watch his movement. “He is an old man now and was my uncle’s most trusted advisor.”

“Your personal guards?”

“Roger is tall and dark. Keeves has a scar through his left brow. Combs is a redhead. Allard is always solemn…and secretly in love with Lady Mary.”

He glanced at her, and she shrugged. “I am guessing as much from what you told me.”

Could she be that intuitive? he wondered. And if so, what did she know about
him
? But he pushed the thought away, moving on. “And your father,” he said. “What was his name?”

“Edward Rocheneau, Duke of Northrum. Dead these past several years.”

“Your uncle?”

She paused as if lost in deep thought, but in a moment she spoke. “My uncle was the old king, who died some months ago and is missed by all.”

There was something in her tone or lack thereof that niggled at his curiosity, but he focused on the lessons at hand. She was just a tool. Nothing more. And a tool who would leave him at the first opportunity, he reminded himself. Hardly did he care about her or her nefarious thoughts. But in the back of his mind, he couldn’t forget the rushing panic he had felt when he’d found her gone. Damn her and her devious ways.

“Tell me of your mother,” he said, making certain his tone was as cool as hers.

“Lady Margarite.” She pursed her full lips and turned her head to study him over her shoulder, and in that moment she resembled the princess so perfectly that it all but took his breath away. Surely that should make him happy. He stared at her in silence as his gut clenched, and she raised one brow as if wondering at his reticence. Not a wrinkle creased her perfect forehead. “She was the duchess of Fellway,” she said. He still made no comment. “I believe it was she who said that trying is what one does when one is too weak to succeed,” she added, and almost smiled. “She was a cold auld bitch by all accounts.”

The sharp contrast of her native accent to her acquired speech yanked Nicol from his reverie. He should reprimand her, he supposed, but a spark shone in her bewitching eyes. A glimmer of the maid who had fascinated him in Portshaven
months before. A flash of the wit and charm he had admired. Not that he was either charmed or admiring now that he knew her conniving ways, but he had been right. She was amazingly intelligent. Indeed, she had made fantastic progress. Her tone was flawless, her memory astounding. He gave her a curt nod.

“Is your Anna just as cold?” she asked.

Her question jarred him, but he kept his expression stoic and paced to the nearest trunk to pull out a pair of books. “You’ve got much to learn yet,” he said.

“And this is surely something I should know,” she reasoned. Her accent was still perfect, but her tone was animated. “How will I impersonate her if I do not know her demeanor?”

He straightened and glanced at her. Her hair was several shades too light though they’d cut it to match Anna’s length. He almost winced at the memory of seeing it fall, of wanting to catch it before it hit the floor, but he brought his mind sharply back to the matter at hand. She was, perhaps, just an inch taller than the princess, but the thing that made her unique was the force of her vitality. When she entered the room all else seemed dimmed by comparison. How would he mask that? Perhaps she was right. Perhaps she should know Anna’s temperament in order to mimic her.

He drew a deep breath and watched her for a moment as he carefully chose his words. “The Princess Tatiana does not like to be touched.”

Her brows raised in earnest, and for a moment he thought she would break out of character, but when she spoke, her tone was impeccable once again. “Ever?”

How could he explain the princess’s cool demeanor to this girl who exuded life itself? Perhaps there had been a time when he had thought the Princess Tatiana was feminine perfection. Perhaps there was even a time when he believed she was all that was good, but now…“Her mother was a great
beauty,” he said. She waited patiently for him to continue. He considered how best to phrase it. “The duchess did not like others to draw attention from herself.”

Megan narrowed her eyes the slightest degree. The expression made her look like a sly fairy, pondering things best left alone. “Including her daughter?” she asked.

“The duchess of Fellway rarely touched Anna. Rarely spoke to her in fact, but to reprimand her, and I believe she encouraged others to do the same.”

“So the lass grew up untouched? Unloved?”

He said nothing. What the devil did he know of love? But perhaps to a woman like Megan one could not love without touching, he thought, and remembered with startling clarity that she had never so much as brushed her hand against his.

She paced the length of one wall, trailing her fingers along an oval picture frame for a moment. “The princess’s title did her little good then. Even his bastards—” She stopped abruptly, stilling both her feet and her words. He watched her, wondering.

“Whose bastards?”

Suddenly she looked stiff and strangely fragile, but in a moment she shrugged. It was one of the few idiosyncrasies he could not break her of. “The old king’s,” she said. “Certainly he had bastards.”

He watched her carefully. “Why would you think so?”

She gave him a prim smile, but it did not reach her eyes, and it was leagues from her soul. “He was a nobleman, was he not?”

Thoughts stormed rashly around in his head. “Who are you, lass?”

She laughed now as though she found him vastly entertaining. “Are you imagining that I am some lost princess in my own right?” she asked and laughed again. “You must be a great tutor indeed if you can make yourself believe your own lies.”

He forced himself to relax. Perhaps he was going mad. “So you are naught but a thief.”

Her eyes looked almost lazy now. “Nay. I am naught but a beleaguered maid who you
believe
is a thief. But it seems I am lucky after all, for my mother was neither cold nor selfish.”

“You said you had no mother.”

She shifted her eyes to him and away, then turned and paced back toward the window. “I did not say I had no mother, only that I could not remember her well.”

“You said you could not remember her at all,” Nicol corrected, trying to keep up, trying to decipher a mystery he seemed on the very cusp of understanding.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, and he was immediately distracted, for it was that pose that made her look most like the princess. With the light shining on her profile, as if she were the very center of the universe. “I did not think it necessary to share my memories with you at the time,” she said, “since it seemed extremely unlikely that I would ever see you again.”

“And now?” Watching her was fascinating, like watching a fine sculpture come to life.

“I have said I would play the part of the princess until she returns to her throne.”

“So there is no reason to avoid telling me of your mother.”

“It hardly seems necessary for my tutelage.”

He almost smiled at her choice of words. “We’ve worked hard this morning.” Indeed, they had worked hard all week. Had done naught but work. Had returned to Will’s country home with nearly no explanations for her escape and begun their lessons where they had left off, beginning her studies long before the first cock crowed and ending after the tapers had burned down to nubs. “Perhaps you deserve a reprieve.”

“Is that a compliment, my lord?”

“Call me Nicol,” he ordered, though he had done so a
score of times without making any impression on the girl. “Anna does.”

“Is the princess so informal with all her advisors?”

“I think you’re avoiding the issue, lass,” he said, and settled a hip onto the desk the farm boy had brought up from the library. “You were about to tell me of your mother.”

“Was I?”

“Eager to, in fact.”

An imp of a smile played on her lips, but she glanced out the window again. For a moment he was sure she would refuse, would keep her memories to herself, but finally she spoke. “I truly believe she was an angel.”

The words seemed strange, unsuited for either Tatiana’s cool persona or Megan’s tough character. It intrigued him far more than he dared admit. “When did she die?”

“Many years ago.”

“How old were you?”

She shrugged, but even in profile he could see the shadow of a tiny smile. So the pain did not outweigh the joy her mother had given her, he realized, and wondered how that could be.

“My age mattered naught,” she said finally. “If she had lived to be a hundred, her death would have come too soon.” Turning from the window, she found his eyes. “And what of you, my lord? Were you blessed with a title
and
adoring parents?”

Her question jolted him back to reality, but he rose to his feet with careful grace. “’Tis time to practice your French,” he parried.

“Answer my question…
s’il vous plait
,” she said, and though he intended to refuse, her whimsical expression changed his mind.

“I remember very little of my mother,” he said, and set the books’ spines upon the table, still holding them.

She canted her head slightly, silently calling him a liar, and he wished he were.

“God’s truth,” he said. “I can barely remember her face. She fell down a flight of stairs a few years after my birth.” He tightened his grip on the books.

“I am sorry,” she said, but her tone suggested something besides sympathy. An inkling that he was not telling the entire truth perhaps, but then he shouldn’t be surprised. She might be a liar and a thief, but she was no fool.

“Yes,” he agreed, and good God, what an actor he was. There was not a hint of emotion in his voice. Nobles truly were amazing. “It was a terrible loss. Everyone said so. I believe even my father regretted it. Afterward…” He knew immediately that he had said too much, but she remained silent for some time, letting him hope she was not as astute as she surely was.

“Afterward.” Her tone was soft. “Did he…” She drew a careful breath. “How did she fall?”

He turned his gaze toward the books. “Your subjects will expect you to speak several different languages. You will not be able to speak them fluently, of course. But you’d best be able to manage a few words,” he said, but when he looked her way, he saw that she had not heard him.