Lois Greiman (30 page)

N
icol watched her from across the dining hall. She looked untouchable this morning. Ethereal, and strangely sad.

He almost went to her then, almost crossed the floor and fell down on his knees, but he was not yet that weak. Aye, he had not quite been able to keep himself from her door during the night, but who could blame him? She had been with a man! A man! Like some common street wench. Damn! It made his teeth hurt. Him! Lord Nicol. Always cool. Always elegant. God’s bones. He was acting like an inebriated blacksmith enamored of a well-endowed fishmonger instead of the princess he had trained her to be.

But what did he expect? He had found her on the street. Still, he had taught her everything. Had given her everything. Had—

He almost swore out loud as he glanced at her, for she was stunning, regal, irresistible. He should leave Malkan Palace. Should ride as far away from this hell as possible. Should
leave her alone. But nay, not alone. Worse. She would be here with scores of suitors who groveled at her feet. Remembering the night before, he gritted his teeth, but at least the Italian fool had left shortly after dawn. How many others would be willing to risk their lives for a few minutes of her time?

Rising to his feet, he made his way across the hall. She was conversing with Lord Melville and entirely ignored him as she laughed at some sorry jest. He remained silent, barely managing to keep from yanking Melville away like so much rotten fruit. Instead, he waited quietly, but Melville was already launching into another tale, so Nicol bowed, grappling for his well-renowned insouciance.

“Your Majesty,” he said.

She lifted a regal brow and turned to him in mild surprise.

“Lord Nicol, I didn’t see you there.”

He gave her a tight smile. She’d learned those lines from him, those haughty expressions, those tiny dismissive mannerisms. But he could play this game as well as anyone. “I have a matter of some import I must discuss with you, Your Majesty.”

“Certainly,” she said. “What is it?”

“It is something of a discreet nature,” he explained.

“Oh.” She paused as if mildly miffed. “Very well then, perhaps I could adjourn to my solar.” Rising, she made her way through the hall, stopping now and again to speak to a score of irritating intruders. Behind her, a half dozen denizens followed in her wake. Nicol chafed at the delay, but finally they reached the solar. She took a chair and motioned to another as her entourage occupied themselves about the edges of the room.

Nicol watched her. When had she become so controlled? So serene? He remembered their first days at Woodlea and wondered if he took her back there if she would be the same.
If her eyes would shine with fire and wit. If her face would be full of life and earthy humanity.

“I have a busy schedule, viscount,” she said, implying, of course, that she did not have time to wait for him to speak. He was almost tempted to remind her who she truly was, but they were not alone, and sometimes, when he wasn’t thinking clearly, like now perhaps, he wondered if he had ever known her true identity.

She made a motion as if to rise, and he spoke more rapidly than he had planned.

“About last night—”

“You said your matter was of some import,” she said, her body suddenly stiff and her expression as cool as cut glass.

He wanted to kiss her, to yell at her, to drag her off that damned chair and carry her to bed. Instead, he nodded curtly and fisted his hands lest he reach out and throttle her.

“Very well then,” he said. “I shall get to the point.”

She waited, seeming not the least bit nervous, not the slightest bit curious.

“Tomorrow is Midsummer’s Eve.”

The tiniest scowl marred her brow. There! That was entirely wrong. The princess would not look at him like that. He wanted to scream the words, to point, to prove that she was not who she said she was, the very person he proclaimed her to be, the person he had forced her to become. She was a thief. He was sure of it. She’d stolen his razor and his buttons and…where was his damned watch? He’d had it just the night before. She must have taken it. But how could she? She hadn’t touched him.

He gritted his teeth. No, she hadn’t touched him. Of that much he was certain. For he would remember that.

“Did you ask me here to tell me the date, Lord Newburn?” she asked.

He gave her a curt nod and knew without looking that the
others could not hear him, yet they were not so far away that he could yank her into his arms and insist that she felt something for him, that she had reveled in his arms. She had torn his shirt to shreds, for God’s sake. And where were his damned stockings?

“’Tis the day when you shall go to Bartham and choose Sedonia’s prize steed.”

Her expression changed the slightest amount, as if, perhaps, she was the smallest bit curious.

“Traditionally, the king rode there,” he continued. “It was something of an excuse to allow the people to view him. He wore his state robes and crown as a symbol of Sedonia’s power and wealth, but if you would be more comfortable, I could find an excuse for you to take a carriage.”

“No. I shall go astride.”

“Paqual might think it strange if you ride the bay again.”

“Then I shall ride the gray.”

“The mare can be unpredictable. If—”

“I am certain I will be fine.”

He considered arguing, but she looked firm and cool, as distant as a winter cloud. “Very well,” he acquiesced.

She waited. “Is there something else, Lord Newburn?”

Yes, why the hell had she been with that Italian? Why the hell did she refuse to see him? Why the hell did she only look at him with that icy veneer?

She shifted as if to rise, and he spoke quickly, saying anything to keep her there.

“I thought you might wish to know that Sunderlund himself has been training the gray, so you needn’t worry over much about your choice.”

“Mr. Sunderlund, the horse master?”

“Yes.”

She nodded and made a motion as if to leave.

“Perhaps I was wrong!” The words spurted out.

She settled back, watching him narrowly. “You, Lord Newburn? Wrong?”

He gritted his teeth. “I didn’t mean to imply that you had invited the Italian into your room.”

She raised a brow. His stomach curled up tight and he couldn’t stop the words.

“Did you?”

“Did I what, Lord Newburn?”

“God damn it, woman! You’re driving me mad!”

“You? The elegant whip? Surely not.”

“Did you invite him to your chambers or not?”

She shrugged. “I would have called on you, but you seemed preoccupied by another. I believe someone said she was a baroness.”

“Listen—”

“Listen to what?” she interrupted smoothly. “Are you about to tell me that I should not have dallied with the marquis because you never touched the lovely baroness?”

“I didn’t—”

“Ever?”

“Dammit, girl, you’re the princess! Well above—”

“No!” she said, and rose abruptly to her feet. “I am not.”

The next day was devoted to feasting and celebrating. A huge breakfast was served in the great hall, but Megan found she had little appetite. She sat, instead, talking with her guests and remembering to smile now and again. Was this what a princess did? Pretend, carry on, smile?

She was tired of it. Sick to death of it, in fact. The hall was packed with gentry. People with nothing more to concern themselves with than whether their gloves matched their jackets.

But then, across the room, she caught a glimpse of Jack as he entered the chamber. The boy wore a high, starched collar
beneath a black tailcoat. His posture was stiff and his expression sober, but in that moment Lord Landow and Nicol stepped through the door together. Landow set his hand on the boy’s shoulder. The lad glanced up. Nicol spoke a few words, and the boy grinned. It was hardly laughter, hardly unbridled joy, but just a hint of happiness, and with that thin expression Megan felt her heart twist, for she would leave soon. Must leave soon. And this is what she would leave behind. She stared at the unlikely trio, and in that instant Jack caught her eye.

He lifted his hand to point at her. Nicol’s attention turned with him. For a moment their gazes caught, then he bowed. The boy did the same, and with that identical motion, her eyes began to sting.

Pursing her lips, she gave them a quick nod and hurried back to her seat. She was more than ready to tangle with the gray’s fractious moods.

It seemed to take forever for the royal entourage to be ready to ride. Megan chafed as the ermine robe was placed about her shoulders, but when the crown was settled onto her head, she remained very still, letting Mary steady it into her mass of hair before making her stately way down the wide marble stairs and through the palace doors.

A cheer rose up and she stopped, nearly knocked back a step from the roar of the crowd that flooded from the grounds below her. They roared again, lifting their glasses in a happy toast.

“Smile,” Nicol said from beside her. She managed to do so, managed, in fact, to wave before making her way down the arced stairway to the gleaming gray mare that waited in the cobbled courtyard. Her hide shone with health and she rolled her black eyes toward Megan, worrying at the bit as her groom held tight to her bridle.

Nicol was close at her side. “The bay has been readied, if you wish to change your mind.”

But she shook her head and allowed him to boost her into the saddle. The crowd cheered again. The gray danced beneath her, muscles twitching like knotted ropes beneath her sleek skin. For a moment Megan almost quailed, almost begged them to take the mare back to the stable and bring out the gelding, but a wild host of Sedonians surrounded her. She nodded to the groom to release the bridle, and the horse pranced forward.

“Relax.” Nicol’s voice came from directly beside her.

The mare shook her head, fighting for control and tossing a bit of froth from between her clamped teeth and onto the crowd.

“Give her a bit of rein,” Nicol said, and though logic told Megan to grip harder, she took his advice. Tossing her head again, the mare relaxed a mite, settling her weight onto her bunched haunches and easing into a rocking, high-stepping trot. Behind her, the royal carriage followed. It was empty but accessible, supposedly at Nicol’s request. And behind that scores of highborn Sedonians toasted the crowd as they followed her lead.

Nicol remained silent. The tension cranked up a notch. “The marquis has returned to his home,” he said finally.

She didn’t respond.

“But I was told he had a meeting with Paqual before he left.”

Someone called to her from the crowd. The mob cheered and the mare became more animated.

“Might you know what they spoke of?” Nicol asked.

“How would I know, my lord? We surely did not waste time in idle conversation.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw his hands tighten on the chestnut’s reins. “I’ve no wish to fight with you,” he said.

“Then perhaps you should ride with another. I believe I
saw your baroness—” she began, but in that instant someone screamed. Nicol yelled her name and spurred his mount ahead of hers. A shot rang out, and she saw the viscount jerk.

“Nicol!” she screamed, whipping around. Trying to see. Trying to make certain he was safe. The gray reared. Megan fought for control, but the crowd was milling madly. The mare shook her head, hit the ground with her forefeet, and reared again. And then Megan was falling, tumbling backward. She struck the earth with a jolt. Above her, Mist pawed the air. Megan covered her face in fear, but suddenly someone threw himself atop her. She struggled to get free, but even through the haze of terror she heard Nicol’s voice.

“Anna.” The name escaped him on a breath. Disoriented, she thought he spoke to her and tried to reach him, but her captor held her at bay. “Anna,” Nicol breathed again. “You are well.”

Megan’s attacker rose to his feet, pulling her with him, and in that instant she recognized him—the Laird of Teleere—the man from whom she’d stolen an ancestral brooch. She jerked away, but he didn’t attempt to grab her as her guards rushed forward.

“Arrest him,” she ordered, her voice shaking, but the viscount spoke.

“Hold,” he said, yet he failed to glance at her. She turned, and in that moment she knew the reason. A woman stood there. Her hair was disheveled and her gown nondescript, but there was no mistaking royalty. Princess Tatiana had returned.

The truth rushed Megan like a pack of wild hounds. This was it then. It was finished. She was no longer needed. Indeed, for all Nicol knew she was already gone. His gaze had not shifted from the princess for a moment.

Someone yelled, seeming to break him from his spell.

“Inside the carriage,” he said. “We’d best get out of sight.”

It was then that she saw the crown. It lay on its edge near
her feet. Mud was spread across the golden band, but the sun caught a ruby and shone blood red in the evening light. She bent to pick it up, and then, like one in a trance, she stepped into the carriage.

Her guards were still disoriented but managed to assist her into the rocking vehicle. Turning immediately, they lifted their weapons and set their backs to her as they watched the crowds. And outside, Nicol still faced Anna like a moonstruck calf. So the princess had returned to him, had returned and was just as entrancing as ever. Something twisted in Megan’s heart, something tore, and then, without another thought, she slipped off the royal robe and stepped out of the far side of the coach. The guards there were busy watching the crowds, and it was simple, so very simple, to duck beneath the carriage. She froze there, waiting to be discovered. But the mob was fractious and loud, the guards besieged. She felt the carriage tilt as people entered it, heard voices raised at her disappearance. But it was not difficult to find a way to hold to the bottom of the conveyance.

In fact, the biggest problem was finding a place to secure her crown as the carriage lurched into motion.