Miss Burton Unmasks a Prince (23 page)

“I do not want to anger them by removing the bindings.” Rodrigo would not give the soldiers any reason to be displeased. Not when Meg’s life hung in the balance.

Meg sat up and dropped more beads through the window before nestling back against him and slipping her hand between his.

Rodrigo was amazed how much such a simple action could soothe him. He pressed her hand between his palms. “Margarita, I have not formally apologized for my actions.”

She shook her head against his shoulder. “It is not necessary. I know you are sorry.”

“It
is
necessary. I owe you the deepest apology for deceiving you as I did. I truly did not intend for our relationship to develop into something so . . .”

Meg shifted next to him.

“I admit, if I had to do it again, I likely would not change a thing. Except your tears. Such a thing is inexcusable. I regret more than anything causing you to weep.”

Rodrigo pressed a kiss to her head, avoiding the spikes of the crown and wishing that his arms were not bound and he could wrap Meg in them.

“Thank you.”

“And now what would Carlo do?” Rodrigo asked softly, rubbing his thumb over Meg’s knuckles.

Meg was quiet for a moment. “He would tell me a clever story, or I wonder if he might . . . quote some poetry? I think he said once that he knows Quintana.” Meg sat up, her mouth forming a small ‘o’ which Rodrigo found completely adorable. “You don’t only know his poetry, you know Manuel José Quintana.”

Rodrigo smiled. “That is correct. In that, I have a point ahead of Carlo. He doesn’t know any famous poets.” He laughed inside at the idea of having to compete with the other version of himself, wondering when his world had stopped making sense.

Meg raised her eyebrows. “And do you know any of Quintana’s poetry, Your Highness?”

“Of course. I would wager that every Spaniard does.” He tipped his head. “But I only allow my soul to speak to another if she sits a bit closer. For some reason, I find it sparks my memory.”

He had the satisfaction of seeing Meg’s cheeks turn pink. She dropped some pearls through the window and moved next to him, leaning against him and returning her hand to his.

“And Margarita, you must call me Rodrigo.”

“It feels strange.”

“I am sorry.”

“I know.”

Rodrigo took a breath and began:

“¿
Que era, decidme, la nacion que un dia

Reina del mundo proclamo el destino,

La que a todas las zonas extendia

Su cetro de oro y su blason divino?
”

As he spoke Meg relaxed against him, and her hand softened, melting in his grasp. Though he spoke of war and of unrest in Spain, his voice was soft and the cadence soothing to both of them. He looked down at the head of curls that leaned against his shoulder and the ridiculous crown perched among them. He inhaled the warm scent that he had come to associate with Meg, and his heart skipped.

Though he had given her every reason not to, this woman trusted him, and he wanted to be worthy of such a gift. He did not know how they would escape from the French soldiers, but the burden of Meg’s safety weighed heavily on him.

Meg stirred, leaning away to pour more beads through the gap in the window. “It is beautiful. I wish I understood the words.”

“Yes, there is no mention of ducklings in ‘Oda a España.’ I shall speak to Quintana about his oversight when next we meet.”

Meg smiled. “He could compose a very moving verse about a brave but gentle horse.” She glanced up at him. “But I am afraid I have made you sorrowful, Car—Rodrigo. You miss Patito.” Meg laid her hand upon his cheek.

He closed his eyes, enjoying the softness of her touch.

“Rodrigo?”

He heard worry in her voice, but at the same time, it was heaven to hear her say his name. “Sí?”

“How will we escape?”

The weight grew heavier as he studied her face. He lifted his bound hands and awkwardly ran his thumb over her brow, wishing he could just as easily smooth away her fears.

“I do not know. We will need a plan. And I will need a sword.”

Meg’s eyebrows drew back together, and he smoothed them again. “Margarita, you are very fortunate that we were apprehended together. Your old friend Carlo did not study under the greatest swordsman in Spain. But it just happens that I did.”

Meg dropped the last of her pearl beads out of the window and sighed as she re-latched it to keep out the cold air. The beads were most likely a pointless endeavor, but she felt as if she had to do something besides sit helplessly in this carriage.

She turned her attention to Car—Rodrigo.
Prince
Rodrigo. How had she possibly been so foolish not to realize who he was? As she thought back through the weeks of their acquaintance, there were numerous evidences that her friend was not who he claimed to be. Why had she not seen them? Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to.

She squirmed uncomfortably inside as she thought about her treatment of Carlo—at least initially. She had believed his station to be below her own. Had she treated him as such? Had she been guilty of the very thing she had come to abhor about the British aristocracy?

Once Meg had realized the depth of her feelings for Carlo, she had been saddened to realize that as a poor servant, he would not be a suitable match. The wretched feeling of knowing now that
she
was the one unsuitable was infinitely more painful. Perhaps Rodrigo did not feel the same for her after all. Why would he when he knew she was no more than an American merchant’s daughter who needed a rich husband? Her stomach felt heavy. Spanish men were known for their flirtatious ways. Had it all been an act? Or a game?

Meg was jarred from her thoughts when the carriage came to a halt. Rodrigo moved to the seat across from her. Was he just attempting to seem more ‘brotherly’ when the French soldiers opened the door? Or was there some truth to her worries about his true feelings for her?

The leader of the Frenchmen assisted her from the carriage, and Meg looked around. They had arrived at a cottage. Though it was dark, with only the moonlight and soldiers’ lanterns to clarify the scene, she could smell the sea and hear the whisper of waves crashing into the shore. The nets hanging near the door led Meg to presume that the cottage belonged to a fisherman. She estimated they had traveled for nearly two hours, which was plenty of time to reach the coast.

Rodrigo stepped from the carriage and stood behind her. Even though Meg couldn’t see him, his strong presence reassured her, and she squared her shoulders.

The men led them into the quaint house. Directly inside the front door was an entryway with a small parlor off to one side and a kitchen and eating area to the other. They followed the soldiers straight ahead to a narrow hallway with only two doors. A soldier opened one door and indicated for them to enter. By lantern light, Meg saw the tidy room contained only a straw-mattress bed and a chest.

Meg wondered what had happened to the occupants of the house. It didn’t look as though it had been deserted. Simple curtains hung in the windows, and linens were upon the bed. Had the French soldiers imprisoned the fisherman? Killed him? Did he have a family? Her contemplations brought back the fears she had felt earlier. They were in serious danger, and Meg didn’t think her legs would support her.

Rodrigo caught her just as she started to sway and led her to sit upon the bed.

Meg heard the soldier speaking in French to Rodrigo, but she felt so overwhelmed that she didn’t put forth the necessary energy to concentrate with her limited understanding of the language. Her head felt as if it were stuffed with cotton.

The soldier set the lantern on the floor. He closed the door, and a key turned in the lock.

Rodrigo knelt in front of her, moving his bound hands to her cheeks, turning her gaze to meet his. “Are you all right?”

Meg tried to nod. But she felt the blood draining from her face, and Rodrigo pushed her gently back onto the pillows.

“You need to rest.”

“We need to escape.” She tried to speak without slurring.

“We can spare a moment.” Rodrigo brushed the curls from her forehead, which she could tell felt clammy. “When did you last eat?”

“This morning,” Meg said. “But I was so nervous about the ball that I only ate a bit of toast.” She didn’t dare to mention that the tight corset likely played a part in her light-headedness.

“And you have been awake all night.”

“Rodrigo, I think I’m cured of adventures,” Meg said.

“Surely not. We are just beginning.” He smiled, attempting to cheer her.

With an enormous effort, Meg pushed her arms down against the mattress and sat up, blinking as her head swam, but she did not lie back down. Her stomach felt sick, and her head ached. “I had imagined it to be much more romantic to swoon,” she said.

“Next time, with a bit of warning, I will catch you in my arms and spirit you away on my stallion.”

Meg appreciated his efforts to take her mind from their situation, and his words caused her cheeks to heat. “Not if your arms are bound.” She attempted to speak calmly as if his words had not nearly caused her to swoon again. “Come, I will see if I can untie the ropes.”

He sat next to her on the bed, the straw mattress creaking noisily, and Meg worked at the knots, finally managing to loosen the ropes enough to unwind them from Rodrigo’s arms.

Rodrigo rubbed his wrists as he moved to the window, pushing aside the curtains and looking out. He tightened his lips, and Meg supposed he did not like what he saw.

She stood and joined him. In the silvery moonlight, she saw that the cottage was perched upon a high cliff. The side of the house was nearly to the edge with just a small lip between the wall and a steep drop.

Rodrigo tried the window, but it did not open. Even if it had, they could both see that this route would offer no escape. He moved to the door, trying to turn the knob, and then kneeling to peer through the keyhole.

Rodrigo stood and paced, his eyes squinting in concentration. He stopped and looked at Meg. He turned to the wooden chest and, after digging around for a moment, took out some clothing that he handed to her. “It appears that the owner of this house is larger than you, but I fear that gown will make stealth an impossibility.”

Meg held up the trousers and shirt, glancing around the room. The chamber was too small for privacy.

Rodrigo cleared his throat. “I will turn around while you dress. Do you need any . . . assistance?” he indicated the back of her gown.

Meg shook her head. Her face burned. The gown was difficult to unfasten, but she didn’t dare to ask Rodrigo to help. As she contorted her body and attempted to liberate herself from her costume, she stole glances at Rodrigo. True to his word, he remained facing the wall.

She was sweating by the time she finished wrestling her way out of the gown and layers of petticoats. Meg finally took a deep breath, enjoying the sensation of expanding her lungs as she loosened the corset ties, removed the contraption, and tossed it onto the pile of discarded garments.

The fisherman’s clothing
was
quite large. Meg rolled up the cuffs of the trousers, mortified at how silly they looked with her dancing slippers peeking out beneath them. The shirt hung to her knees, but she gathered it and tucked it down inside the pants.

“I am dressed,” she said, holding the waistband of the trousers to keep them from falling off, knowing she looked utterly ridiculous.

Rodrigo picked up the rope that had bound his hands and reached his arms around her, pulling her toward him as he knotted it around her waist. He left trails of heat behind where his hands brushed against her torso, and Meg could not meet his eyes as he performed such an intimate action.

He stepped back and looked her over, nodding as the corners of his mouth turned downward, and his eyes sparkled with mischief. “If I had known how your figure would appear in men’s clothing, I’d have recommended it from the beginning.”

Meg was secretly pleased, but how could he possibly think she looked anything but absurd? She acted shocked at his presumptuous manners. “Rodrigo is a bit of a scoundrel, Your Highness. I wonder how Carlo would react to such brazen sentiments.”

“Carlo would agree with me completely.” Rodrigo winked and turned his gaze to the pile of clothing on the floor. “Margarita, I think I have a plan.” When he looked at her, all humor was gone from his expression. “But it will require risk on both our parts. I do not know how long we have, and it is of the utmost importance to me for you to escape.”

“For both of us to escape,” she corrected.

“You are in the greatest danger, so we will worry about your safety first.”

“Rodrigo, I—”

“You must trust me. Can you do that?”

“Of course I trust you, but I’ll not leave this place without you.”

“These soldiers, they will not harm me. I am more valuable to them alive. But if—when we should arrive in France and it is discovered that you are not Serena . . .” He rested a hand on her shoulder and then moved it up to the side of her neck, his thumb stroking her throat. “Margarita, I do not know if I could protect you, and I must know you are safe.”

Meg nodded, although she did not agree. She would not leave Rodrigo with these French soldiers while she fled to safety. But she would not argue. They did not know how much time they had. “Tell me the plan.”

“First we need the key.” Rodrigo picked up Meg’s heavy gown and pushed the train beneath the door. He looked around the room, and finally his gaze landed on Meg’s crown. “May I?” he asked as he pulled it from her hair.

Meg nodded, more interested in what Rodrigo was doing than in keeping her costume tiara.

“I will replace it,” Rodrigo said. His mouth curled in a half smile as he focused his attention on the crown, bending one end of the low quality metal into a tube. He pushed the tube into the keyhole, twisting it around until they heard the thunk of the key hitting the fabric on the floor in the hallway. He pulled the gown’s train back into the room with the key on top.