Lois Greiman (29 page)

“And I am a princess.”

“Yes, but you are more. If you take my meaning.”

“I’m not certain I do.”

Mary was silent for a moment, then, “I heard about Jack.”

“Did you?”

“Lady Catherine said he stole her necklace.”

“He tried to steal it. There is a good deal of difference.”

“Not to some.”

“She resents the fact that I kept the boy from the gallows?”

“She and some others. And they are not happy that you set Lord Landow up as his protector. A baron—taking a back street thief as his ward.”

Megan glanced down at her hands, wrapped as they were around her mug. Her head did feel better, and her face felt
flushed. She liked wine and wished she had a bit more, for the truth was bitter. She had no more idea how to be a princess than how to soar like a butterfly.

“And what of you, Mary?” she asked. “What do you think?”

“I think…” Her voice was soft, but finally she raised her face and spoke with less caution. “Allard said you saved the boy for no reason other than kindness.”

“Allard. My guard?” Megan canted her head. “How do you know what Allard says?”

Mary’s cheeks brightened again. “He and I…” She swallowed and glanced down. “He is a good man, Your Majesty.”

“Lady Mary!” She put some scandal into her voice. “What would your father say?”

The girl’s eyes went as round as guinea eggs. “You won’t tell him.”

“No I will not,” Megan promised, and laughed. “But a lady and a guard?”

“His prospects are good. Or…” She cleared her throat. “They were good until he was pulled from palace duty.”

“Oh, I see.”

“No. Begging your pardon,” she said. “I don’t suppose you do. He wanted to come back here, to secure his position. And…I wanted him to. But now he says the boy needs him. Lord Landow needs him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. Don’t you see what you’ve done?” Mary asked, and touched her shoulder. “You care, and in so doing, you have taught others to care.”

For a moment, she actually feared she might cry. Maybe wine wasn’t her friend. Or at least not one to be trusted.

“You’re right,” Megan said, swallowing her foolish sentiment with the last of the wine. “I’m a saint. Saint Megan.”

“What?”

God’s knees! For a moment her mind went absolutely blank, but then she smiled and rose to her feet, fighting for calm. “Saint Megan,” she said. “Surely you’ve heard of her.”

“No. I’m sorry, I don’t believe I have.”

“Perhaps the wine is making me imagine things.”

“You’ve only had but one cup. Last Christmastide you drank two bottles yourself and were not the least affected.”

“Well…” For a moment she could think of nothing, then, “saints aren’t supposed to drink a’tall.”

Mary stared at her for a moment, then smiled and finally hurried to the bed and pulled back the covers. Megan crawled onto the mattress and let the woman pull the blankets up under her chin.

“Would you like me to remain in the room with you this night, Your Majesty?”

Did she jest? Megan obviously couldn’t hold more than a thimbleful of wine. One more word and she’d be blubbering like a baby and spilling the entire truth like a flood from a broken dam.

“No, Mary. That won’t be necessary,” she said. Holy heavens, she thought as she closed her eyes. What an idiot she’d become. But at least she was safe from her own foolishness for the night. Until morning, until sobriety, she wouldn’t have to speak to another living soul.

M
egan sighed as she stirred from her sleep. The bed was warm and soft. The mattress, freshly plumped and perfectly shaped, smelled of dried heather. She knew immediately where she was and who she was. She was the princess Tatiana and she resided in Malkan Palace. Megan O’Shay, on the other hand, slept on a rotting pallet in a cold dungeon of a room. And no one touched her there. No one turned down her covers or held her in his arms or taught her to waltz. Images of Nicol slipped gently into her mind. The dark intensity of his eyes, the entrancing twist of his lips. She could almost feel him stroking her arm, her cheek, her…

Stroking her hair?

She opened her eyes groggily. The fire had burned down to embers, but she could still see him. He sat on the edge of the mattress, watching her, and though she couldn’t make out his face, her dreams detailed every irresistible feature.

A dozen emotions smote her, but she was careful to ignore each one.

“So,” she said, keeping her tone steady, “you were able to tear yourself from her arms?”

“Of course,” he said, and in that instant, she realized her mistake. This man was not Nicol.

Jerking to a sitting position, she stared into the smiling face of the marquis of Altura. “What are you doing here?”

“I am watch you sleep,” he said. “You are beautiful beyond word.”

“She glanced toward the door, toward the window, the door. “How did you get in?”

He chuckled. “Surely there is nothing that can keep me from such beauty.” She could smell the wine on his breath. Apparently, she was not the only one made foolish by alcohol.

“I think you might be wrong there.”

“Mere wall cannot keep me away.”

“You’re drunk.”

“And you are irresistible.”

She sighed. “I bear you no ill will, Fantino, but if you’re found in my chambers, there will be trouble.”

“You are worry about me,” he said, sounding near tears. “That is beautiful.”

Pushing back the covers, she prepared to rise to her feet, but he grabbed her hand.

“Such beautiful fingers,” he said, and, lifting them to his lips, kissed the tips.

She pulled her hand away. “Quit that.”

“I cannot,” he said, and captured her fingers again. “You are too beautiful. My heart it is fill to burst.”

“Your head’s going to be bursting in the morning. We’d best get you out of here.”

“I cannot. Your beauty holds me fast,” he said, and kissed her fingers again.

“Listen,” she said, feeling irritable as she snatched her hand away for the second time. “As I said, I’ve nothing
against you, but if you say ‘beautiful’ one more time, I’m going to have to slap you.”

He chuckled. “You are fiery. Fiery and beautiful, just as I suspect.”

She ground her teeth. “How did you get in here?”

“I climb toward your radiance.”

“You climbed the wall? Truly?”

“I am small, but I am wiry, aye, my beauty? We shall fit together like the hand and the glove.”

“You will get yourself back down that wall before you get us both in trouble.”

“You, my beauty? In the trouble?”

She gave him a look. “Yes,” she assured him and managed to gain her feet as she tugged at his arm. “Here in Sedonia, they frown on their princesses being caught in bed with drunken marquises.”

“I am more than drunken marquis,” he said and staggered to his feet.

She turned him carefully toward the window. “Of course you are.”

“I am spy.”

“Good.”

“I have the important news,” he said, not moving from the spot.

“You also have a drinking problem.”

“The old king had another…” He searched his foggy brain for a moment. “Child,” he said, and tottered back onto the mattress, pulling her with him.

“What!” she gasped, tumbling down beside him.

“Yes,” he said. “It is truth. There was a bastard born.”

“What makes you think so?”

He smiled at her in the darkness, his face inches from hers. “I am a fabulous lover,” he said, “but I am also a fabulous spy.”

“My uncle had two sons,” she said. “They both died years
ago. There were no other children. ’Twas the reason she…
I
was put on the throne.”

“There was maid in a village to the south that would not agree with you.”

“Where did you get this information?”

“I searched. I asked the questions.” He tapped his forehead. “I thought. Why did the old king travel to Glenhollow, I ask myself. Then finally I found one who knew of a maid there. She was the rare beauty, ’tis said. Unfortunately, the
bambino
died while still small.”

“Dead?”

He touched her cheek, pressing back her hair. “I could find no evidence that he had survived.”

“He?”

The marquis chuckled as if flattered by her disorientation. “The king’s son,” he explained.

Megan drew a careful breath. “So you believe the old king had an illegitimate son, but he is dead.”

“I am sorry, my beauty,” he said. “But surely this is the best for you, aye. No…contention for the throne.”

“I never wanted the throne,” she whispered.

He drew back slightly, and she realized she had spoken aloud.

“Never wanted it? But you jest. What woman would not wish to be the princess?”

“One that is not meant to be one.”

“Ahh.” He stroked her arm. “Conscience and beauty all in the so lovely form.”

Her head was reeling, but she focused on the immediate. “You have to leave.”

“Now?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

“Yes.”

“But no,” he argued, and, throwing a leg over hers, pressed her onto the mattress.

Small or not, he was considerably heavier than she. She scowled into his face.

“Get off me.”

“I cannot. You have intoxicated me.”

“You’ve intoxicated yourself.”

He chuckled. “Let me initiate you into the ways of love.”

“No thank you.”

He scowled. “You wound me.”

“I may.”

“I will be gentle.”

“Get out before I call the guards.”

“Surely you would not.”

“Surely I would.”

“Admit it. You feel it.” He fisted his hand near his chest. “A melding of our souls.”

“I feel an ache in my knee. Get off me.”

“I cannot,” he said, and kissed her.

She growled and pushed at his shoulders and in that moment the door swung open.

“Megan?”

The marquis jerked to the side, still pinning her legs with one of his. She sat up with a start.

By the light from the fire, she could see Nicol’s profile limned to perfection. He closed the door with careful precision and crossed the floor with slow, cadenced steps.

“Who are you?” Fantino asked.

Nicol ignored him. His expression was cool. “Bored, lass?” he asked.

She pushed at the Italian’s shoulders, finally freeing her legs. “What are you doing here?”

He bowed. “I was passing your door when—”

“In the middle of the night?”

He lifted his watch from his waistcoat pocket and glanced at it. “At a quarter of three to be exact. It seems there is a
good deal of activity at a quarter of three. As I said, I was passing your door when I heard a commotion. Thinking you were in distress, I entered.”

“Who the devil are you?” Fantino demanded.

“How did he get in?” Nicol asked, still facing Megan.

She stared up at him, anger and frustration and embarrassment all boiling inside her. She considered a million statements, a thousand foolish rejoinders. Instead, she said, “I believe he came through the window.”

Nicol raised one brow, turned to the marquis, and asked, “Why?”

The Italian opened his mouth, found his feet with stumbling difficulty, and waved in her vague direction. “Why? She is beauty itself, and you would ask the foolish question?”

Nicol’s eyebrow twitched. “She is a princess.”

“The princess, she needs love, too. No?”

She never saw it coming. Never saw Nicol move. But suddenly the marquis was lying on his back, and Nicol was standing over him. His fists were clenched, his face alight with fury, but in an instant, he hid the anger carefully away.

“Tell him to get out,” he said, his voice low.

Her heart was thumping like a gong against her ribs. “Go on, Fantino.”

The Italian found his feet, but he was already shaking his head. “She did not inviting you into her chamber, sir.”

“Did she invite you?” Nicol asked, his tone low and deadly, his fists still clenched.

“We share the soul, she and I.”

Nicol stepped forward, but Megan scrambled from the bed and stumbled between them. “Stop this, both of you.”

“Do not worry for me,
amato
. I am the prized pugilist.”

Nicol took another step. She crowded backward, pressing the marquis along with her.

“Leave, Fantino,” she insisted. “Now.”

“You want me to go? To leave you alone with him?”

“He is my bodyguard,” she said.

“But no,” he said. “A bodyguard he is not. And he should not be here.”

“Neither should you.”

“I cannot let him stay.”

Nicol stepped around her and grasped the other by the shirtfront. “I hate to spoil Sedonia’s relations with Italy by throwing you out the window.”

“Do so, and you will—”

But by then Megan had reached her door. It opened with a creak.

They turned in unison. “I am going to fetch the guards,” she said evenly. “If you are not gone by the time I count to five, I shall call my guards. It will take them less than ten seconds to ascend the stairs and reach my door.”

“My beauty—”

“One.”

Nicol released the marquis who stumbled back.

“My love—”

“Two.”

“I did not—”

“Three.”

“I shall never forget your beauty,” vowed Fantino, and slipped like water through the window.

Nicol faced her in the silence. Seconds ticked wistfully by.

“You could have told me if you were in the mood for company,” he said.

“And disappoint your current liaison?”

He smiled, but there was no humor in the expression. Indeed, if she had not known better, she would think him enraged.

“At least you could have chosen someone taller than yourself, princess.”

She shrugged as she paced the room. She felt cold suddenly and angry. “Tell me, Nicol, what really brought you past my door at this hour?”

“I am but your faithful servant,” he said, bringing his hand to his chest.

She forced a laugh. It sounded harsh in the stillness. “Were you afraid I would learn the truth?”

“What?”

“Is he your spy?”

His face showed his surprise. Was that two honest expressions in one night? “What the devil are you talking about?”

“Get out,” she ordered.

“Or you will call the guards?”

She nodded.

“Have you no more respect for her than that?”

“Her?” The word gritted out. “You mean your princess? Your paragon?”

“Aye,” he said, and suddenly he was directly in front of her, his face intense, his teeth gritted. “She would not have invited some stunted Italian to share—”

“Invited!”

“She is pure.”

She could feel the blood drain from her face, could feel the heat disappear from her body. “So was I. Until I met you.”

“Lass,” he began, and reached for her, but she stepped away from his hand.

“Four,” she said.

“I did not mean—”

She stepped into the hall, but he caught her arm.

“I did not intend to come here tonight.”

She raised her gaze from his hand to his face. “Then you should not have,” she said.

“What should I have done?” he whispered. And emotion
was back, lighting his eyes with frustration. “Leave you here with that randy half-wit?”

“As it happens, my lord, I have spent most of life with randy half-wits.”

He glanced toward the window. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Listen, lass, I cannot—”

“Five,” she said.

He shook her arm. “Listen to me,” he growled.

“Guards,” she yelled.

“God’s bones! What do you think you’re doing?”

“Saving your paragon’s reputation.”

Footfalls rushed up the stairs. Nicol stared down at her for an elongated second, swore softly, and slipped out the door and into the dark hall.

The guards appeared in an instant.

She told them she had heard something. Told them she was nervous. Thus, they posted a man at her door and dutifully searched the hallways for no one.

Latching the window, Megan returned to bed and lay in silent wakefulness.

It was time to leave, she thought, before it was too late, and Magical Megs was lost forever.