Lois Greiman (18 page)

“But you did not bed her.”

“What?”

“You did not bed the princess,” she hissed. “And ’tis not because you did not wish to. Admit it.”

“I—”

“You did not bed her because she is pure. She is nobility. She is all that is good.”

“Never did I—”

She raised her hand to stop him. “But I—” She paced again, watching him the whole while. “I am naught but a thief or so you believe. Therefore, I am free for the taking.”

Something ground in his stomach, an odd mix of anger and guilt and roaring frustration. “If you recall, lass, I did not take you.”

“No.” She stopped again. “And why, my lord? Because you respect me? Because I am a lady? Because I am innocent?”

And suddenly he wanted the truth, needed the truth, though the thought of another touching her made him feel
strangely uncontrolled and somewhat nauseous. “Are you?” he asked.

She laughed. “Aye, Govner,” she said, and tossed her wild hair over her shoulder. “I be as innocent as a babe, that is why you’re willing to sacrifice me, is it not?”

He almost reached out. Almost grabbed her and pushed her onto the bed and did all his body screamed for, but he was still a viscount, by God. “You should save such drama for the stage, lass.”

“Aye,” she said. “Perhaps I will. Actresses and thieves—they are on the same level in your mind. Are they not?”

“I’ve not harmed you, girl. Indeed, I have given you much.”

“Yes,” she agreed, and pursed her lips. “And I have lived up to our bargain. But I will give no more, even if you wish to make me a poor substitute for her.”

He shook his head. She was miles from the truth. Leagues. He stepped forward, wanting to hold her or shake her or do a thousand things he could neither name nor admit to. But she stepped quickly back.

“Stay out of my chambers,” she ordered. “I am not your beloved Tatiana.”

Her delicate body was mistily visible through her gossamer gown, her lush hair swept her shoulders like wilding waves, but it was her eyes that held him captive. They snapped with life, with smoldering passion.

“No, you are not,” he said, and stepped forward again, but in that instant she snatched a candle from its stand and held it toward him like a lance.

“Get out,” she ordered.

“Listen, lass, I did not mean to—”

“Get out,” she repeated, “or I shall scream.”

Anger and frustration boiled like venom in his gut. “You
would be wise to remember that I have made you what you are.”

“No,” she said and firelight shone on her sardonic smile. “God and circumstances have made me what I am,
Nicol
, you have made me what you would like me to be.”

God’s balls, she was beautiful. Like a wildcat protecting her den. Like an innocent maid defending her honor. “You are wrong,” he said, and took another step toward her.

She brandished the candlestick, oblivious of the wax that splashed hot droplets onto the carpet. “What would they think of a viscount who forced his way into the princess’s royal bedchamber?”

He canted his head and searched for the humor in the situation. He was certain it was there somewhere. “You are not the princess, lass.”

“But they don’t know that, do they?”

He watched her—the light in her eyes, the passion in her soul. Never in all his life had he seen anything as irresistible. “They must be blind,” he murmured.

“What?” She lowered the candle a few inches, casting the light upward to shadow her eyes and the delicate hollows of her cheeks.

“Good night, my lady,” he said, and, bowing extravagantly, left the room.

M
egan did her best to avoid Nicol on the following day, and it was damnably easy. He didn’t meet her for breakfast, nor did he seek her out during the afternoon. She was left to deal with decorators and tailors, preening lords, and hovering ladies. It was so much easier than avoiding inebriated sailors and lecherous landlords, but still she felt out of sorts, fidgety, and irritable. Thus, she finally sought the privacy of her borrowed bedchambers. Her ladies-in-waiting deposited her there, but Mary didn’t leave at once. Instead, she curtsied in the doorway.

“What gown will you wear for the party this evening, Your Majesty?” she asked.

“Party?” Megan repeated. She was usually more careful to act informed, more crafty, but she was weary and Mary was easy to talk to.

“Lord Melville’s birthday celebration. Surely you remember.”

“Yes, of course,” Megan said, and she did. There had been
some passing detail about yet another festivity. “He’s rented a boat, I believe.”

“A yacht, Your Majesty. Everyone shall be there.”

She felt tired and strangely worn. “Then I hope ’tis a big yacht.”

Mary laughed, but it was impossible to tell, even with her, if her humor was faked or real. Being a princess was a tricky business. Everyone wished to be in your presence, but how many wished to be your friend?

“Lord Melville is very wealthy,” Mary said, retrieving a pair of discarded slippers. “You’ll wish to look your best.”

“Aye, unlike if he were poor.”

Mary looked at her askance, her fair brow troubled. “Is something amiss, Your Majesty?”

“No,” she said, and allowed herself a sigh. “’Tis just…. Do you ever feel as if you are naught but a pet lamb?”

“A lamb, Your Majesty?” She was already drawing a gown from a nearby trunk and turned to glance over her shoulder.

“Yes, coddled and stroked until the day before the feast.”

Shock crossed her plump face. “Your Majesty, all of your realm adores you.”

Megan found her feet and paced. “All of my realm does not know me, Mary.”

“But they adore you still.”

“Nay,” she corrected. “But perhaps they adore an image of me.”

“You are the height of femininity and beauty, the epitome of breeding and good taste.”

“Yes.” She caught a glimpse of herself in a gilded mirror and stopped to stare in fascination. “That I am.” But should a princess not be more? Did Tatiana give them more?

“Come, Your Majesty,” Mary said, and motioned to a stool set before a small table. “Sit down. I will dress your hair. It will make you feel better.”

So Megan sat down, and it did make her feel better. Is that what nobles did then? Did they diddle their time away, knowing they could do some good, knowing they could make a change? Did they merely drown their minds until the urge to
do
went away?

By the time Megan stepped out into the open air of the courtyard it was well into the afternoon. She was handed into a carriage by Lord Riven, who bowed and smiled at her thanks. The vehicle was polished to an ebony sheen and carried by a quartet of white steeds that gleamed in the spring sunlight. Her ladies, dressed in a fashionable array of pastels, arranged themselves around her as her guards took their stations outside.

The afternoon air felt soft and delectable, even a bit warm for the long, tight sleeves of her gown. The neckline was laced and starched. The slim skirt started just below her breasts and fell in an elegant drape to her slippers. A floor-length pleat bisected the apricot satin of the gown and boasted two long lines of miniature pearls. Even her headdress, a small, sharp cap of the same fabric, was emboldened with a host of ivory-colored sea jewels. But it was the necklace that took Megan’s breath away. Crafted of gold links, it was hung with an emerald the size of her thumb and could alone, easily pay for the inn she had coveted for so long.

The ride to the docks was smooth but slow, for it seemed she was hardly the only one journeying to the sea. Indeed, nearly a dozen vehicles rolled along behind hers and a bevy of horses joined the throng. Through the phaeton’s narrow window, she searched the assemblage until she realized she was looking for a certain viscount, at which time she settled back, wishing she had a book, but finally entertaining herself by tallying the value of the gems on her person. The ladies beside her tittered on, then exclaimed in soft voices when they pulled to a halt.

Outside the carriage, rows of shops and pavilions lined the thoroughfare. Megan glanced at them, then turned to look at the seafront. It was still a good half mile away, but when she commented she was reminded that she always shopped at Hollyfaire when traveling to the docks.

A liveried servant opened the door and bowed with a flourish. Lord Riven rushed forward for the honor of helping her dismount, and the afternoon commenced. She could hardly complain. After all, she was the princess, beautiful and wealthy and adored.

Her entourage surrounded her, entertaining her with their wit and complimenting her taste. She could do nothing wrong, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Nicol. Still mounted on his burnished chestnut, he was watching her from the far side of the street.

She stiffened and turned toward him. He gave her a nod, and she swiveled away, trying to be sucked back into the pleasure of the facade, but it was not so easy, not when she continued to feel his gaze on her long after she knew he was gone.

The merchants, on the other hand, were giddy with pleasure. It was not every day that dozens of nobles milled in their midst, not every day that scores of wealthy lords and ladies came with naught to do with their fortunes but spend it foolishly and often. Even Lord Paqual had accompanied the entourage, but perhaps that wasn’t surprising. After all, Lord Melville was reputedly wealthy, and by all accounts Paqual hoped to secure a financially favorable match for Sedonia’s maiden princess. But she had only Nicol’s word to make her suspect the man’s intentions were less than honorable. It was hardly a crime to try to better the country’s outlook by finding Tatiana a good match. In fact, there was probably not a royal family in all of Europe who did not do the same. Perhaps it was Nicol whose intentions were suspect. Perhaps it
was he who did not have Tatiana’s best interests in mind. Maybe he had sent her to Teleere in the hopes that she would realize she had left behind the man who loved her. Or maybe he had sent her away in the hopes that she would never return. Megan had no way of knowing. Turning slightly, she scanned the crowd.

Her entourage had fanned out, bargaining and flirting and laughing. And there, some distance away, she saw him again. He was talking to a bonny lass who stood behind the counter of a cloth merchant’s stand. The girl’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright as she looked into his face.

It was the scream that tore Megan’s attention aside.

“No! Thief! Stop him!”

Megan searched wildly for the source of the scream. There. An elderly lady who clasped her throat, her eyes wide as saucers, and through the crowd, like a nimble-footed billy, a tattered boy was weaving and bobbing. For one breathless moment he was visible, then he was gone, disappearing behind a china shop.

Megan exhaled sharply. Her personal guards had remained with her and none of her elegant hangers-on were inclined to give chase. The boy was safe. But in that instant she heard a howl of agony. She leapt forward before she thought, before she considered. Wrestling her way through the crowd, she careened around the corner of the china shop only to find the boy pressed facedown against the earth. A city guard’s foot was planted on the lad’s back while his right arm was stretched out and held by another. A second guard raised his gleaming sword into the air.

“Nay!” She screamed the word, but no one noticed her in the hubbub. The boy writhed. The executioner tightened his grip on his weapon’s hilt. And she leapt.

“What the bloody ’ell do you think you’re doing?”

The mob went absolutely silent. Not a soul moved, and in
that moment Megan realized with breathless terror that she was hanging like a ripe plum on the guard’s upraised arm.

“Your Majesty!” The guard’s face was as white as the lad’s as he dropped his weapon to his side and bowed in confounded reverence.

“Princess.” Lord Paqual hurried through the crowd, his lips drawn back in an indefinable expression. “Are you safe?”

“He was…” What exactly had she said? And how had she said it? She licked her lips and scanned the crowd. The expressions were stunned and eager, but if there was sympathy there she could not discern it. “He’s just a child,” she murmured.

“What goes on here?” Paqual asked, skimming the scene until his gaze landed on the boy.

“My necklace. He stole it. Ripped it right off my throat.” The elderly lady’s voice bobbled as she slipped through the masses. Her face looked as green as her gown. Beside her, a young woman grasped her elbow as if to keep her from toppling face first into the dirt.

“Search him.” Paqual’s voice was like gravel.

A guard bent to grasp the boy’s left hand, but it was empty. Wrestling him onto his back, he searched the ragged pockets, then straightened with a scowl. “It does not seem to be on him, my lord.”

“He took it,” warbled the victim.

“Perhaps it was another,” Megan suggested. The crowd watched her as if she were some foreign intruder. She swallowed and shrugged, doing her best to appear nonchalant. “There is no shortage of ragged waifs at the docks. ’Tis impossible to tell one from the next.”

“Nay…Your Majesty,” said lady, and curtsied. Catherine. Her name was Lady Catherine. “I saw him clearly. It is he.”

“Check the lining of his coat,” Paqual ordered.

The guard patted about, slowed his movements, then
straightened. A square-cut ruby dangled on a string of gold from his blunt fingers.

Megan’s stomach lurched, and for a moment she thought she might actually vomit. She wanted to hide, to run away. Surely they knew the truth. She was nothing but a lowly thief herself. Nothing but an impostor. The entire assemblage was watching her. She could feel their hungry gazes devouring her. Her knees felt week, her hands clammy, but she straightened her back and raised her chin. “He’s only a lad,” she repeated.

“That may well be, Your Highness,” agreed Paqual, “but he is a thieving lad, and bold.” He swept a bony hand in a circle, indicating the company in which they stood. “Not even afraid to steal from the cream of society. Not even afraid of your own esteemed person.” He bowed his head perfunctorily. “What if he had harmed you, Your Majesty?” He looked pale at the very thought, but then he always looked pale.

There were murmurs of assent.

The ancient chancellor took a step toward the boy, who tried to scramble away. But the guard still held him by the arm and drew him roughly to his feet.

“The very thought hurts my heart,” said Paqual, and put a hand to his chest.

“He did not harm me,” Megan said, and hoped to God they could not see her knees quaking through the gown’s sheer fabric. “As you can see I am whole and hale.”

“But we may not be so lucky next time, Your Majesty. If he goes unpunished, he will only grow bolder. But if his punishment is severe and immediate, he will be an example to others.”

Her stomach roiled at the thought. “He will most likely be dead, Lord Paqual.”

He shrugged. “Life is sometime harsh, my princess.” He used the endearment with a smile. “As you know, Sedonian justice is quick and true. If the boy forfeits a hand, he will be less likely to steal in the future.”

“If he loses a hand, he will be less likely to survive for the future.”

The old man smiled. “You would be surprised how resilient these young brigands are.”

She glanced at the boy again. His cheeks were gaunt and little darker than the enormous whites of his eyes.

“We must uphold our country’s standards. I did not make the law. Nor did your uncle, the king. But neither did he see fit to change it,” Paqual continued.

The boy struggled again, but there was no hope there. He was outnumbered and outmaneuvered.

Panic swelled inside her, suffocating her. She scanned the crowd. Surely they wouldn’t let this happen. Surely. But not a soul moved to forestall it. And who was she? An interloper. An impostor. And if they found out, her fate would be worse than the lad’s. Perhaps he would survive the loss of his hand. Perhaps…She glanced at him and found that he was staring at her, breathlessly watching in petrified horror.

“Then I shall change it,” she said.

Murmurs echoed through the crowd.

“What’s that, Your Majesty?”

“Release the boy.” She was surprised to hear her own words.

“Release him!” Paqual actually laughed, and with that harsh sound, she felt her back stiffen.

“Do you defy me, my lord?”

“No.” He bowed slightly, barely bending his back. “Surely not, Your Majesty, but this is not your decision to make. The Council of the Realm made the law long years ago and—”

“And the sovereign ruler has every right to release one prisoner.” The crowd parted as Nicol pressed his way through.

Relief flooded Megan, but when she turned toward the viscount, she saw that the baron of Landow was stepping to the
fore, not exactly as if he wished to, but as if he were being silently urged.

“That may be,” Paqual said. “But our princess, as beloved as she is, is not yet the sovereign ruler. Not until she weds.”

“Which will surely be soon the way you are throwing foppish swains—” Nicol began, but Lord Landow stepped in front of him, interrupting as he did so.

“Why not keep the boy safe until she marries, my lord, then she can decide if she still wishes to give him immunity.”

“Keep him safe.” Paqual scanned the faces around him. “Where do you have in mind? Devil’s Garden? ’Twould be kinder to hang him now. Or do you plan to take him to Landow with you, my lord?”

“Yes.” The crowd actually gasped, but no one was more surprised than Megan that Nicol had spoken. “Lord Landow can take the child into his care.” She glanced at the baron, but his bored gaze was steady on Nicol. “Landow is certainly large enough to hold one small lad, and close enough to the palace for the princess to check on his progress if she so wishes.”