Lois Greiman (15 page)

She watched him in silence. Her hair gleamed as bright as her eyes in the flickering light. “Then I am the only one to be sacrificed.”

God yes. The virginal sacrifice. For at that moment she looked as untouched as an angel, yet as touchable as a golden paramour.

“If they discover your true identity, I shall be as compromised as you,” he reminded her, but she laughed and strode across the carpet to confront him at close proximity.

“You?”

He nodded, though it jarred ever tight sinew in his body.

“The viscount of Newburn? Even if they learn that you had a hand in this subterfuge, you think they will punish a lord of the realm as they would punish a simple maid?”

Simple? She was anything but that. She was magic personified, she was light in the darkness. But she was silent just now, waiting for a response, and he shifted slightly, trying to ease the discomfort and remember her words.

“You needn’t fret, lass. All will be—”

“Do not tell me that all will be well.” Her full mouth was pursed and her eyes snapped, shining like emeralds in the firelight. They were close now. So close that he could smell her scent. So close that her gown slipped across his knees. He couldn’t take much more. “You do not know if it will be well or if it will be horrendous or if I shall die at the end of a rope because of your blind lust for your foolish princess.”

“It will be…” he began, but in that moment he realized what she had said. “I don’t lust for her,” he insisted, but she laughed. “I don’t,” he said, amazed that she didn’t believe him. “I lust—” he began, but stopped himself by the barest margin.

She scowled. “For who then?”

Her breasts were nearly in his face as she leaned down toward him. Her succulent lips were parted, and her hair swept over her shoulders to caress his thighs.

He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes for a moment. “Whom,” he said.

She glared at him. “What?”

“The correct word is ‘whom.’”

She shook her head. Her hair danced erotically across his
legs, sending lightning racing through his body in every direction. “Why are you doing this?”

He shrugged, trying to remember to breathe. “Perhaps I was merely bored. I am, after all, a lord of the realm. Wealthy and frivolous.”

“Are you hoping to gain her gratitude?”

“Why would I do that?”

“I could offer some guesses.” She shook her head. Her breasts bobbled beneath the lucky fabric of the nightgown. He dragged his gaze resolutely up to her face.

“Back to the lust theory are we?” he asked, but the words sounded croaked to his own ears.

She nodded.

“Do you think that if I wanted her for myself, I would send her to another man?”

She watched him closely. “Yes,” she said. “If she is as remote as you say she is.”

He watched her, reminding himself to inhale and, for God’s sake, to refrain from dropping his gaze below her neck. No, not her neck. Below her chin. But no, not that either, for that would include her lips, which were undeniably irresistible.

“The laird of Teleere is a pirate,” she continued. “Bold, impetuous, rough. The last man the ice princess would choose as a mate.”

“Maybe you don’t know women as well as I do.”

She didn’t try to hide her anger. “And maybe you don’t care if I am hanged because you are bored.”

“If you did not wish to hang, lass, you should not have turned to thievery.”

She straightened slowly, until she stood absolutely straight, each curve shown to shadowed perfection against the firelight behind her. “Your Majesty,” she said.

“What?”

“From here on you will refer to me as Your Majesty.”

God’s bones, he would call her Aphrodite if it would help, if he could lay her on the bed behind her and…But no. He shook his head, trying to rid it of the scandalous thoughts.

“Lass—”

“Your Majesty,” she repeated. “Now get out of my room. I wish to be alone.”

And he wished for unspeakable things that kept him riveted to the chair.

“Get out,” she repeated, “or I shall call Mrs. Melrose.”

The girl knew how to deliver a threat. He would give her that. There was little he could do but straighten painfully and make his way into his own frigid chambers.

M
egan heard the rap on her door but did nothing to answer it. Instead, she stood at her window, looking out. Fog had rolled in, muffling the world outside. Nearly twenty-four hours had passed. In that time she paced and fretted and called herself a dozen kinds of fool, but now she stood fully dressed and waiting.

The knock sounded again, then the door opened rapidly. She didn’t turn around, but heard the viscount’s footsteps stop.

“Some respond when there is a rap on the door,” he said, closing the portal and striding across the floor toward her.

“Some are not the crown princess of Sedonia,” she said, and turned. The ivory gown swished across her slippered feet.

He stopped where he was, then bowed very slowly. “Your Majesty,” he said, and straightened just as slowly.

His gaze was steady and dark, making her nervous. She longed to look away, to clear her throat, to shuffle her feet, but she made none of those peasant gestures.

“I was unsure what to do with my hair,” she said instead. Becky had pulled it up, exposing her neck and ears.

“It looks…quite lovely.”

“A compliment, my lord?”

“Nicol,” he corrected, and drew his gaze away, though for an instant, it almost seemed difficult for him. But why would it not be? Apparently she looked exactly like his beloved princess. “And you should become accustomed to compliments. Your public is a fawning lot.”

She watched him cross the floor again.

“Surely someone will notice if my hair is not exactly like hers.”

“She will be wearing it up. Under a bonnet.”

“I don’t have a bonnet.”

He lifted a hooded cloak from a nearby trunk. “You will be wearing this.”

She felt faint again. “And we will exchange garments in the water closet?”

“You will take her bonnet, and she will take your cloak. Your gowns are exactly the same.”

She nodded, struggling for some kind of normalcy.

“You’re not going to swoon, are you?”

“I have never swooned.”

“Perhaps you have never been a princess before.”

“Is it required of them?”

“Merely recommended,” he said, and settled the cape around her shoulders. It was made of royal blue satin, piped gold at the seams and around the slits through which she slipped her hands. “Are you ready?”

“I haven’t swooned yet.”

“Later perhaps,” he said, and, pulling up her hood, laid an arm across her back. Her slippers rapped down the stairs, then across the marble foyer. Outside, the fog rose to meet her, and she longed with all her heart to slip into it, to disap
pear. But instead, she mounted the waiting carriage. It was different than the one they had brought here, more ornate, more polished. She settled onto a crimson cushion and arranged her cape around her.

The viscount sat across from her, rapped the side of the carriage, and pulled a watch from his coat pocket.

“I had to purchase a new one.”

She brought her attention back to the present.

“The watch,” he explained. “My other was stolen.”

“Was it?” She tried to play along, to breathe.

“Yes. While I visited Portshaven.”

“Really? I’ve never been to Portshaven.”

“You should go there sometime. The countryside is charming and the pickpockets quite lovely.”

She thought it would be best if she could continue the charade, but she could not. “How long do I have?”

He closed the watch and slipped it back into his pocket. “You sound as if it’s an execution.”

“I fear my death will neither be that quick nor that painless.”

His lips quirked upward. But he sobered in a moment. “We will be fashionably late for the play.
Macbeth
may already have ended. But we will slip in before Aladdin finds his lamp.”

Macbeth. Aladdin
. She was far past her depth and sinking fast.

“Aladdin?” she asked.

“The second play. A farcical performance.”

“Of course.”

“There will be a good deal of banter amongst the audience, but Anna isn’t the frivolous sort. You needn’t feel that you must exchange niceties.”

“Good.”

“I will escort you into the theater. You will step into the closet where Anna will be. She always insists on going alone.
There will be no one waiting there. You will exchange costumes. She will leave first.”

“Yes.”

“I will escort her to my carriage and return for you. Count to one hundred, then exit the privy.”

She managed not to beg him to remain by her side. Managed, in fact, to act nonchalant.

“We will proceed to your customary box.”

“Simple,” she said.

“Afterward I will accompany you home.”

“To Malkan Palace.”

He nodded. “Do you remember the floor plan for the palace?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He shrugged and drew a cheroot from his breast pocket. A match flared, illuminating his face in its sharp light for a moment. Olive skin, seductive mouth, inscrutable eyes. “All should go smoothly.”

“Yes,” she said. “There is just one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

He held his cigar out the window and allowed her a grin. “Ladies of quality do not—”

“Nicol!” she said and there must have been something in her tone, because he gave the outside of the carriage two quick raps. It came to an immediate halt, but he was swinging the door open before the wheels had stopped turning. She tried to hustle past him, to escape outside, but her stomach was already roiling and before she had set a foot to the ground she was bent outward, spewing her supper onto the road.

“The lady is feeling a bit unwell, Ralph,” Nicol said, though the driver was nowhere to be seen. She hoped desperately that she was hidden behind the highly polished door.

“Shall I turn back, my lord?” The voice seemed to come from nowhere, and Megan wondered vaguely if Ralph was, perhaps, nothing more than a figment of her imagination.

Nicol drew a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it over. “Feel better?” he asked quietly.

She closed her eyes, wiped her mouth, and shivered. “That depends if you are referring to my stomach or my pride.”

He laughed out loud, seeming immensely jolly. “The lady wishes to continue on,” he said to the driver. “Though she may have to leave early. Wait by the door for fifteen minutes or so before parking the phaeton.”

Taking her arm, Nicol eased her back into the rocking vehicle and settled her solicitously onto her seat. “Clever of you,” he said. “A perfect excuse to have him wait for Anna.”

She noticed he had tossed out his cheroot. “I do what I can,” she managed, but her voice was weak.

The remainder of the journey was a blur. Fog roiled. Carriages passed. They turned a corner and drew to a halt. Her stomach lurched.

“You look a bit pale.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

He laughed again and checked his watch. The phaeton’s door swung open as if on command. Fresh air wafted into the carriage, and Megan drew in a few bracing breaths.

He didn’t rush her, didn’t question, but merely sat across the vehicle, watching her in silence.

“Thank you,” she murmured finally, feeling somewhat stronger.

His grin flashed in the darkness. “No need for gratitude,” he said. “We’re three minutes ahead of schedule.”

“In that case, congratulations. You must have figured my weak stomach into your calculations.”

He felt for his cheroots again, then seemed to think better
of it and settled his arm across the back of the seat behind him. “I think there is nothing weak about you, lass.”

The lanternlight flickered, casting his right side into shadows and glowing on his left. His hair shone blue-black in the fickle light, and his grin was disarming.

Weakness. One never knew where it would grab you.

“You’re smarter than all of them, little Sparrow. Don’t forget that,” he said.

“I fear intellect may not count for much here.”

“Intellect always counts,” he said. “Especially here, where it comes at such a premium.”

“What if I forget—”

“Everyone forgets. Even Anna.”

“Her own name?” she asked.

“You are the princess,” he murmured, leaning close and taking her hand between both of his. “All will be forgiven. Ladies swoon at the sight of you. Gentlemen scribble poems as you pass. Your only real concern is Paqual. Be careful of him. Time is up. Are you ready?”

“No.”

“You don’t seem the type to underestimate yourself,” he said, and giving her hand a squeeze, rose to his feet, and stepped outside.

She followed him unsteadily.

“If we don’t return soon, you may assume the lady is well and park the phaeton until the end of the play.”

“Yes my lord.” She could only assume it was Ralph who answered, though she never saw him.

A smattering of people littered the lawn, but Megan barely noticed them. Off to the right, she heard someone hacking his meal into the bushes.

“You see,” Nicol said, bending close. “’Tis the thing to do when one visits the theater. Though most empty their stomachs because of an excess of wine.”

She cursed quietly at him, and he laughed as he guided her up the stairs. In a moment he had presented his tickets and a blurry second after that they were standing in front of the water closet.

Two women, dressed to the nines and gossiping behind their fans, strolled past.

“I’m certain you will feel better in a moment,” Nicol said, pretending she was sick and needing attention. “But I’ll wait for you here, just in case.”

She almost considered begging him to take her back, to set her free. But instead she gave him a shallow nod inside her hood and opened the door.

It was a strange moment, for the first thing she realized was that privies smelled pretty much the same no matter one’s station. Her second realization was that she was in the presence of a princess. Tatiana Octavia Linnet Rocheneau stood with her back straight, her hands clasped before her. She wore a pale blue bonnet tied at her throat. A veil was draped across the front, shielding her face. Megan closed the door behind her. They stood facing each other from mere inches, saying nothing. The world spun slowly on its axis, then Tatiana nodded once and removed the hat.

Megan couldn’t stop the hiss of air down her throat, couldn’t quite prevent the widening of her eyes, for there, before her now, was her twin, or the twin of the woman she had become. Did she look like the deceased king? Did they both?

“I am in your debt.”

It took Megan a moment to realize the princess had spoken, for she didn’t look like a living being, but more like the priceless glass doll she’d once seen displayed in a Skilan market. Cool and beautiful and untouchable.

“I…What?” Megs breathed.

“Nicol said you would be perfect, that you were the only
woman to perform this task.” Tatiana’s expression was regal, though she nodded in agreement. “I shall not forget this favor.”

And then Sedonia’s future queen was handing over her bonnet. Megan took it in fingers that bumbled with nerves.

As for the princess, she didn’t hesitate a moment, but untied the cape from Megan’s neck and swung it smoothly over her own shoulders. Megan just managed to settle the hat onto her head, but her hands seemed to have forgotten how to function. Pushing them silently aside, Tatiana slipped the wide ribbon around the back of her neck before tying it in front. Megan blinked through the fine mesh of the veil. It was like seeing a goddess through the mist. One moment she was there, the next she was gone, leaving the room empty but for a frazzled thief who blinked owlishly through the fog of the veil.

“Still feeling unwell?” Nicol’s voice was clear from outside the closet, Tatiana’s a mere murmur as they paced away.

For several seconds Megan’s mind went blank, but somehow she remembered to count, starting the numbers in her head with a jolt and rattling them off too fast. She slowed the rhythm, trying to do the same with her heart rate, but thoughts buzzed like angry hornets in her head.

Voices murmured outside the privy, becoming clearer.

“Of course not,” Nicol said through the muzz of Megan’s jangled nerves. “I wouldn’t miss one of Kern’s performances.”

“At least not the part where Mrs. Ballum tears her bodice.”

“Just so,” Nicol agreed, and with that Megan forced herself out the door.

Nicol stopped where he was. “Your Majesty,” he said, and bowed. Perhaps there was the perfect inflection of surprise in his tone. She couldn’t be sure.

“Nicol.” She gave him a nod as he straightened. The world felt strangely fuzzy. “Are you just now arriving?”

“Only just. But I beat Will here by a good three seconds.”

She turned slowly, her mind working at the laborious speed of a lumber wagon straining uphill. The man from the woods stood beside the viscount. He was as thin as she remembered, with the same world-weary expression, the same casual demeanor he’d displayed at their first meeting. Will was his name. Lord…

“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing low.

“Lord Landow.” The name came to her despite the world’s fuzziness. “You and the viscount must keep the same unorthodox schedule.”

The baron nodded soberly. “He has been a bad influence on me, Your Majesty.”

“That I believe.”

Nicol bowed again. There was some unfathomable emotion in his eyes. If she didn’t know better, she would almost think it was pride. “May I escort you back to your box, Your Majesty?”

She gave him a shallow nod and took his arm.

From near the wall, three guards hurried up behind. Two women followed them. One was dark, the other fair.

“Mary and Evelyn?” she murmured, not glancing at her escort. “And the guards—Allard, Combs, and…Roger?”

“Excellent,” he said, looking directly at her.

She wasn’t sure what he referred to, but the compliment surprised her, adding to her disorientation. She glanced at him through the veil. His smile was full-blown.

“Her Majesty has an amazing memory.”

She couldn’t seem to respond.

“Are you enjoying the performance this evening?”

She had no idea how he could expect her to answer, to carry on as if all was well, and yet she did. “Mr. Kern is a favorite of mine.”