Lois Greiman (13 page)

“Nicol.” His Christian name sounded disturbingly right on her lips. “I am so very sorry.”

He nodded dismissively as he stepped toward her.

“Your father. I didn’t realize he was…dangerous.”

His stride hitched, but he forced himself to continue on, pacing across the room as if nothing were amiss. More than anything, he wanted to pretend she had not guessed the truth, had not come to the very conclusion he had reached so many years before. In fact, he considered denying it even now, but there seemed little reason. She was naught but a tool. An in
tuitive, intelligent, bewitching tool. “I warned you of my heritage,” he said.

“And you lived with him throughout your childhood? Even though—” She let the thought hang.

“Until I joined the army.”

“But…” She scowled a little, atypical of Anna, but so right for a woman like herself. He tried not to stare, to fawn, to drown in her smallest expression. “You were titled.”

He shook his head, as though dismissing her words. “The younger son of a minor lord.”

“Then how did you become a viscount?”

“My uncle,” he explained, “was not a healthy man. But he was wealthy, and he was titled.”

“And he had no heirs?”

“None. Not even bastards,” he said, trying for levity.

She ignored the gibe. “Then wouldn’t your father inherit his property?”

“My father,” he agreed, “then my elder brother.”

“They both died before you?”

He wondered momentarily if she suspected him of having a hand in their deaths. He wondered, in fact, if she would have been right. After all, he knew of their animosity toward each other. They had been very much alike, his father and his brother—strong, arrogant, bloodthirsty.

“They were both found dead,” he said. “In my father’s house.” He said the words succinctly and with no inflection, watching her expression the whole time.

“Murdered?”

He wanted to say yes. Inexplicably murdered. “My father had been stabbed repeatedly. My brother died with a bullet in his chest.” She said nothing. He drew a deep breath and continued, though he told himself to stop. “My uncle had died some weeks before. Ernest believed he should be viscount. Father thought he himself would make a fine lord.”

“They killed each other?” Her words were little more than a whisper.

“I believe they may have,” he said, but in his heart he was certain. Ernest, in fact, had told Nicol his plans. Had bragged about them in a drunken stupor. But Ernest often bragged, had often been in a drunken stupor, and Nicol had not thought it would really happen. Had not believed. Had he?

Her face was pale, her plump lips somber. “I am sorry.”

“You would be amongst the few.”

“You weren’t?”

“Lass,” he said, and shook his head as though disappointed in her behavior. “If you hope to act like royalty, you’re going to have to show less interest in others’ lives.”

She held his gaze, her own eyes intense. “Tell me of your brother.”

Her skin looked as smooth as vellum, her eyes as bright as a Sedonian emerald. “He looked very much like my father.”

There was a long moment of silence. “Then you must be like your mother,” she said.

There was something about the way she said the words that made his throat close up. Him. The cool lord. “No,” he countered. “I, too, am like the old man.”

M
egan kept her expression unreadable, though butterflies plagued her stomach. Beneath her, the carriage struck a stone, jostling her against the wall. From the opposite seat, Nicol studied her in relaxed silence. She silently damned him for looking so nonchalant.

“Nervous?” he asked.

“Me?” She mercilessly stomped out the butterflies and lifted a gloved hand to her chest. A couple of weeks ago, when she’d first donned this gown, there seemed to have been a bit less cleavage showing, but perhaps that was to be expected considering her current diet of…everything. “Whyever would I be nervous?”

A shadow of a grin shifted his lips. “I can think of no reason,” he said. “If you can’t.”

She raised a single brow at him. She’d practiced it in the mirror at Woodlea and knew how it would look. Regal but tolerant. She liked it. It suited the princess’s persona but did not match the butterflies that seemed to have been resur
rected in her belly. The damned things had even dulled her appetite. But she was not about to admit that. Not to this unflappable viscount. Even talk of his own mother had done nothing to unsettle him.

“How long will it be until we reach the palace?” she asked, trying to match his insouciance.

“Some hours yet.”

Hours. In a few mere hours she would be rattling around Malkan Palace, pretending to be the furthest thing from what she was. She suddenly felt truly sick to her stomach.

“Are you quite well, Your Majesty?”

It was the first time he had called her that, and the shock of his words sent the blood pooling to her feet, but she kept her back straight, her expression impassive. “Of course.”

He smiled as though he knew what she was thinking. He would forever be better at this game than she. “You should have eaten,” he advised.

“As I said…” She paced her words, making sure they were cadenced, unhurried, confident. “I am fine.”

For a moment a spark of something shone in his eyes, but it was soon gone, replaced by his usual sophistication. “We’ll eat soon.”

“Do you think that is wise?”

He was watching her again, closely, and she couldn’t help but wonder what he saw. She had colored her hair with some pungent concoction Nicol had brought her. Was it, perhaps, a shade too dark? Did she tilt her head at the wrong angle? Were her hands too fidgety? Her stomach tightened up another notch, but she raised her chin and lifted a single brow, feeling slightly better for it. “What if we are seen?”

He was silent for a moment, but if he found some problem in her demeanor, he didn’t voice it. “We’ll not chance an inn,” he said. “Widow Barnes sent a meal for the journey.”

She said nothing for a time, but glanced out the window again. Spring was visiting today, offering them a glimpse of hope and warmth. They rolled along in silence but for the steady beat of the horses’ hooves until finally the carriage slowed to a halt. They disembarked on the road and made their way through a copse of trees to a hillside, where the snow had lost its hold and given way to short, springy grasses.

Ralph carried a basket and placed it upon a blanket that the viscount spread upon the grass. From the barren branch of a nearby elder tree a brown thrush whistled a tribute to spring. The driver disappeared without a trace, and Nicol extracted the meal from the wicker and distributed it upon metal plates. Filling pewter mugs halfway with wine, he handed over her portion and settled down with his own.

Although the food was cold, Widow Barnes had produced her usual splendor. There was chilled pigeon pie, baked to bubbly perfection, white crusty bread, still fresh from the widow’s stone oven, and sharp yellow cheese. Megan’s stomach lurched.

Nicol ate, refilled his glass, and glanced at her plate.

“You’ve barely touched your food, Princess.”

Princess. Her stomach pitched even harder. Until today, perhaps until this very moment, it had all seemed like a foolish game. Now it seemed surreal, impossibly and breathlessly dangerous.

“Are you feeling unwell?”

“Nay.” The viscount had said the princess tended toward archaic speech, and somehow following that advice made it simpler for her to stay in character. “I am well,” she said. “But still sated from breakfast.” Far overhead, a falcon swooped over the glen, its wings spread as it screamed at the valley below. The thrush fell immediately silent. A cloud shadowed the bright sunlight, and Megan shuddered.

“Are you cold?”

“Nay. Just…” Her breathing felt out of control, her heart overstressed. “Mayhap a bit.”

Unbuttoning his tailcoat, Nicol pulled it off and draped it over her shoulders. The warmth of his skin was retained in the fabric, enveloping her. His fingers brushed her collarbones as soft as a breeze. Her breath froze in her throat, but in a moment he drew away.

“It’ll not do if the princess of Sedonia faints from hunger,” he said.

She was sitting upon the blanket like a waif, with her legs curled under her skirt, but she kept her back perfectly straight and gave him a level stare.

“Or nerves,” he added, and retrieving her untouched mug, filled it to the top. She reached out. Although the stains were gone from her nails and her fingers were clean, her palms were still callused, her cuticles still rough. And three weeks ago, she hadn’t known she had cuticles. Neither had she owned a pair of yellow kid gloves to hide the evidence of her past labors—gloves so soft they felt like water against her skin.

“You needn’t worry on my account, my…” His hand froze in midair, and she gave him the smallest of nods. “Nicol,” she corrected.

He handed over the wine, and for a moment their fingers brushed, striking up a flutter of emotions that sizzled up her arm.

Memories stormed in. Memories of wine, of a warm bath, of his words soft on her mind, of his hands, tender on her skin. Wine was not her friend. But there was a challenge in his eyes. And she was not the type to turn aside a challenge.

Taking the cup, she lifted it to her lips.

“’Tis a lovely day,” she said, not meeting his eyes.

He didn’t respond. She shifted her gaze from the horizon to his face.

“You will do well,” he said, his voice quiet in the falling darkness.

She wanted to agree, to raise her chin in regal acceptance and assure him he was right, but in that second she weakened. “What was my aunt’s name?”

He sat with one leg bent up and his forearm stretched across his knee. He had removed his cravat. The neck of his shirt was open, showing the dark skin of his throat and chest. He was the very picture of relaxed elegance. She felt like she was going to throw up.

“Don’t concern yourself with that just now,” he suggested.

But panic was roiling in her stomach. “I can’t remember her name.”

A ghost of a smile played upon his lips. “Generally, Anna’s loyal subjects don’t test the princess’s knowledge of her heritage.”

“But what if they do? What if I don’t walk correctly or laugh just so or like the proper foods?” She knew she was being foolish. She reminded herself of Laird MacTavish’s stolen brooch. Sometimes she wore it against her skin to remember her ability. But that was when she had been Magical Megs. Who the hell was she now?

“Lass…” Reaching out, the viscount brushed his knuckles across her cheek. “You would eat pig hooves if they were served to you.”

She dropped her eyes closed and wondered if she truly was going to swoon. “I can’t do this. I am no lady.”

He slipped his fingers beneath her chin and raised it slightly. “The truth is this,” he said, his voice low, his eyes earnest. “You are no barmaid. Indeed, sometimes I believe you are more of a lady than…” He paused for a moment, and for that same length of time, she held her breath, waiting.

“Cole!”

They jerked about in unison. Two men strode toward
them. One was thin and handsome though carelessly dressed, the other tall but soft.

“Turn away before they get a good look at you,” Nicol hissed, and, rising, strode toward the road.

“Cask,” he said, his tone dry as he addressed the paunchy man. “And Will.

“I thought those sorrels were yours,” said Cask. “Whose carriage do you drive?” The newcomer was close, within thirty feet of where their blanket was spread on the ground, but Megan refrained from looking at them. She dared not. For she had no idea who she was supposed to be.

Shrugging out of Nicol’s coat, she rose to her feet, careful to keep her back to them.

“I am just now returning to Skilan from Woodlea.” Nicol said. “Thank you, by the way, for allowing me to stay, Will.”

“It was no trouble,” said William, his voice a slow drawl, but in that instant the other spoke up again.

She could feel Cask’s attention on the back of her head. “Tell me, Cole, was the lady also in need of a restful few weeks in the country?”

“As a matter of fact she was.”

“I didn’t think you would abandon your friends for a bit of fluff.”

Nicol’s voice was lower, but still clear enough. “As you well know, Cask, I would abandon you for much less.”

“I’m wounded. Truly.”

“Perhaps you could be wounded elsewhere.”

The other grinned. “But surely you’ll want to introduce me. After all, the lady will certainly need a shoulder to cry on when you’ve tired of her.”

This time Nicol’s words were too soft to hear.

Cask chuckled, then, “Well, at the least you could admire
my latest purchase. I’ve bought a new gelding and Will, as usual, hasn’t been nearly appreciative enough. Come along. I’ll show you.”

Megan heard them retreat, heard their boots rattle through last autumn’s leaves as they headed back toward the road. Turning slightly, she chanced a glimpse at them from behind a tree. Nicol was in the lead. His friends followed along behind, talking as they went.

The viscount’s answers barely disturbed the silence, and Megan headed into the woods, intent on taking advantage of this bit of privacy. But she’d barely turned about when she heard footsteps running up from behind.

A lifetime of self-preservation swelled up inside her. She swung about, ready to scream or strike or flee. But before she could do anything, the man called Cask skidded to a halt in front of her. For one wild moment they stared at each other in absolute speechlessness, then he dropped to one knee like a drunken squire, his head bowed.

“Your Majesty. Forgive the intrusion. I had no idea—I didn’t know—”

She tried to think, to rally, but the world had turned topsy-turvy, and in that second, Nicol joined them. “My apologies, Your Highness,” he said, nodding a bow. “You remember Cask, the baron of Bentor.”

She had no idea what was expected of her, so she kept her back impossibly stiff and linked her hands in front of her trembling skirts. “Does he always jump out of the bushes at unsuspecting travelers?”

The viscount’s lips smirked. “Only when he is inebriated. So…yes…Your Majesty, I believe he—”

“I didn’t mean to startle you, Your Majesty. I simply thought…” The drunken baron’s words wound to a halt, and he raised his head.

Perhaps she should flee or cover her face or faint dead away, but she did none of those things, though she realized she was holding her breath.

Behind him, the man called Will remained perfectly silent, his gaze sharp on her face.

“What is it you were thinking, my lord?” she asked.

“I assumed Cole…the viscount…was simply dallying…” His words trailed off. His skin was pale, his eyes bright. “Not that you are the kind to dally, Your Majesty.”

She nearly laughed. Indeed, if she hadn’t felt like hurling, she might have. “And what of the viscount, my lord? Is he the sort to dally?”

She could almost see his mind spinning, trying to work out the situation—why was she alone in this remote glen with the viscount? Why had she not acknowledged their guests immediately? The moment he came to a conclusion, she could see it in his eyes; Nicol was having an affair with the princess. That was what he believed, but Will’s expression remained absolutely guarded.

“Of course not, Your Majesty,” Cask lied. “Cole is not the sort to dally.”

She raised her gaze to Nicol’s. “You’ve a true friend here, my lord,” she said, but the viscount’s expression was one of bland amusement. “You may rise, Lord Bentor.”

He did so, though a bit shakily. “You are overkind, Your Majesty.”

“Perhaps,” she said dismissively. His eyes were still wide and steady on her face.

She stared back, keeping her spine perfectly straight while her heart pounded like a galloping stallion in her chest.

“Cask, old friend,” Nicol said, “we were just about to return to Skilan.”

The baron delayed a second, then bowed nervously. “Of
course. My apologies. ’Tis my greatest honor to see you, Your Majesty.”

She nodded graciously, and he turned away, heading back toward the road. As for Megan, she stepped into the cover of the underbrush and stopped, trying to hear above the thunder of her heart.

For a moment the men were absolutely silent, but finally the baron of Bentor spoke, his voice barely above a hissed whisper.

“Goddammit, Cole,” he said. “Do you happen to know the penalty for debauching a princess?”