Royal Captive (19 page)

Frustration and worry tore through him. Chances were better than good that Lauryn would head straight to her uncle. If Bellingham’s men were still there, she would be walking straight into danger.

And despite the fact that she’d just betrayed and abandoned him, he cared.

Her cell phone was nowhere to be found. When Istvan had jumped on top of her in that ditch, he’d probably knocked it from her pocket. And, naturally, there wasn’t a house in sight where she could ask to use a landline.

Lauryn drove madly over country roads that were even worse in the hills than elsewhere. She needed a plan. She tried not to think that Istvan might already be dead. Tried to keep in mind that she had to keep the car on the left side of the road if she didn’t want to die in a head-on collision.

“What is it with island nations anyway?” she muttered to the steering wheel and smacked it for good measure. “And what is it with princes?”

She refused to worry about Istvan. He could handle himself. He wouldn’t want her as backup anyway. He never wanted her as backup, only let her join him after considerable begging each and every time. Because in his arrogant princely mind, he probably saw her as nothing more than a weak woman. And he still didn’t trust her, no matter that she’d been as straight as an arrow long before he’d ever set eyes on her. Probably wouldn’t trust her in the future either, no matter what she did.

And she wasn’t going to waste a lifetime trying to prove herself to him, trying to get something from him that she could never get.

“I’m not going to fall for His Highness, Indiana damned princely Jones,” she said into the night. “Not gonna happen.”

No matter how good his arms had felt around her.

No matter how well he kissed.

No matter how irresistible he was with all that passion in his voice and eyes when he talked about preserving history, or when they’d talked about great art. Passions they shared.

She was not going to lose all reason and determination, qualities she actually liked in herself, and go fall in love, damn him.

Which didn’t mean that she was going to leave the prince at the mercy of his enemies.

Her uncle’s monastery wasn’t far, so she headed that way. He was the only person she trusted on this island. She needed him to look after the crown jewels while she went back to help Istvan, and she could use his phone to call the embassy and let them know they should send some men ASAP to the Roman ruins.

And, oh, hell, maybe she could talk to her uncle about her mixed-up feelings for Istvan, too, if they had an extra minute. An objective opinion might be what she needed. Someone to tell her that she wasn’t falling in love.

She wasn’t. She definitely wasn’t.

The monastery came into sight at last, along with a shepherd and his flock by the side of the road who settled in for the night. The man had leaned his scooter against a dried-out oil tree. Seemed like a modern guy, probably had a cell phone, too, but now that she was so close to her uncle, she decided to make the call from the monastery where she’d have more privacy.

She pulled the truck right up to the heavy wooden gates, wrapped her head in a rag she found between the seats, making it look like a beat-up skullcap. She rubbed some dirt on her face from the dashboard where dust stood half an inch thick in places. Then she squared her shoulders like a man and beeped the horn.

A monk shuffled forth from the door next to the gate and looked sleepily at the truck, his wide face wrinkled with age. “What is it?”

“Wine delivery,” she said, deepening her voice. She knew she spoke the local language with an accent, but that couldn’t be helped. There were enough foreign workers on the island so that it shouldn’t raise suspicion.

Back in the day, she’d often masqueraded as a boy or young man to get into places, the ruse not entirely unfamiliar or unpracticed. Plus she was inside the cab of a truck, concealed in darkness. She imagined women never drove delivery trucks to this gate. The monk would see what he’d always seen, what he was used to, what he wanted to see.

And he did. He barely paid any attention to Lauryn, eyeing the truck instead. “Nobody said anything about night delivery.”

“Wasn’t supposed to be night delivery. I had to change a tire. Twice. On a day when my partner is home and I ride alone. Killed my back.”

At that, the monk nodded with understanding. He’d probably spent plenty of time on his knees in prayer. The man didn’t look a stranger to back pain.

“The office is closed. You can’t get paid until morning.”

“Fine with me. I’d like to take a look at that tire by daylight before I head back anyway.”

“You’re welcome at pilgrim’s hall. There’s water to wash. Prayer’s at six, then a small breakfast.” He shuffled back through his door, then opened the main gate, letting the truck enter.

“I’ll park in the back, by the caretaker’s cottage.” The familiarity would reassure the man that she had delivered here before, as well as put her closer to her uncle. She had a good idea of the monastery’s layout from her uncle’s letters. He’d often described his work as well as the renovations going on, financed by donations, progressing little by little.

She drove slowly over the uneven cobblestones, groaning when the cottage finally came into view. What looked like dozens of candles flickered in the windows.

A prayer meeting or some strange ritual? But why not in the chapel? Why in the caretaker’s cottage? She’d hoped to find her uncle alone so she could ask for his help immediately.

She cut the engine and let the truck roll all the way to the rock wall that edged the monastery grounds in the back. Whoever was with her uncle, she didn’t want to draw their attention. She crept to the window, prepared to wait for the guest or guests to leave, yearning to see her uncle’s familiar face. She’d been toughened up by life, but that didn’t mean she never needed a hug, a soothing pat on the shoulder and to be told that everything would turn out okay.

She peeked in the front window and saw several monks at prayer, lit candles filling every available surface. Worry stabbed at her heart. What if her uncle was sick?

She would talk him into taking Istvan’s offer and moving to Valtria. If Istvan said he would protect the man, then he would. Her uncle was getting old, he shouldn’t live in a spartan hut that didn’t even have running water and precious little heat in the winter. He looked much younger than his age, but he was well into his sixties. Too old to work as hard as he still did, keeping the grounds for a place as big as this. At one time the monastery was the only place where he was safe. But now that he had other choices, she wanted him someplace where he could live the rest of his life more comfortably.

At least in Valtria she could visit him anytime and spend time with him. Here, they were restricted to brief visits, the two of them standing outside the gate. She moved toward the back window, which she guessed to be the bedroom.

More monks in there, heads bowed as they prayed silently in the light of dozens of small flickering flames.

The bed caught her eye. Empty. Not sick then, she thought as relief filled her. Then someone moved and she spotted the table that had been dragged in from the kitchen. A long dark cloth covered the top where a body lay dressed in black, the hands folded in prayer.

Her fingers flew to her mouth to stifle the sob that tore from deep in her chest. She didn’t have to guess what her uncle had died of. There were enough candles to illuminate his face, which had been beaten bloody. A glimpse was all she had, then her eyes filled with tears and she could no longer see.

Dozens of questions flew through her mind, but only one explanation came. They’d been followed here. Her uncle had been interrogated, then killed. By Bellingham? By the Freedom Council?

She sagged against the wall and cried silently, sobs racking her body. Grief pulled her to collapse to the ground. She’d brought Istvan here. She’d brought trouble to her uncle’s doorstep. A cat came around the corner of the cottage and sidled up to her. She pulled the animal onto her lap and buried her face in its soft fur. Part of her wanted to lie down in the dark outside that window and cry herself into numbness. But the bad guys still had Istvan.

She swallowed her tears. She would be damned if she let them do the same thing to him.

“I love you,” she whispered to the glass. “I’ll always love you. You’ll never be forgotten.” Then she let go of the cat and as carefully as she’d come, she stole back into the darkness.

Twenty minutes of searching the grounds, moving in the shadows, and she found the office. The lock was as old-fashioned as the rest of the place and proved no impediment at all. She was inside with her usual speed.

She went straight for the phone, called international directory assistance and asked to be put through to security at the Valtrian Royal Palace.

“Security office,” a man responded.

“I need to talk with Prince Miklos immediately.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, he’s not available, could I help you?”

The patronizing voice made her see red. “I’m not some lovesick teenage fan, for heaven’s sake. Prince Istvan’s life is at stake. And so are the coronation jewels that were stolen,” she added, knowing that wasn’t public information.

Another voice came on the line immediately. “Prince Miklos here. Who is this?”

“Lauryn Steler. I have the crown jewels.” She gave the name of the monastery. “And I know where the rest of the stolen treasure is, but your brother is in grave danger.” She explained the scene the last time she’d seen him.

“We’re on our way. I’m requesting local assistance in the meantime. You stay at that monastery and be safe. I’ll send an escort for you and the crown jewels.”

“Hurry.” She hung up and exited the office, leaving everything as she’d found it, locking up behind her. Then she went back to the monastery wall and traced it until she came to a spot that was easily scaled and out of the way enough so she wouldn’t be seen by anyone who might come from or go to her uncle’s vigil.

Her eyes refused to dry, which made looking for handholds difficult. Half the time she went by feel, but she made it to the top. She paused there, looking toward the cottage and the flickering lights in the windows. She felt more alone than she ever had before.

Her uncle had been the last of her family.

She whispered a prayer for him, then jumped off the wall on the other side and headed straight for the sleeping shepherd.

Her old self would have taken the scooter, not wanting to be seen. She marched straight up to the man instead, not bothering to quiet the dog that immediately ran toward her, barking.

“I need your help,” she said in Greek. “It’s an emergency. I have to go help a friend. Right now. Immediately.” She pulled money from her pocket and pointed at the scooter.

The shepherd wiped the sleep from his eyes and quieted his dog. “Go help your friend.” He nodded toward the scooter. “I’ll be here when you bring it back.”

She thanked him and got on the road, knowing her chances of finding Istvan where she’d left him were one in a million. Hours had passed since she’d left. She didn’t know how bad the damage had been to Bellingham’s chopper. They might have been able to fix it and get it up in the air. And in any case, there were plenty of cars on the other side of the woods to use as getaway cars, Prince Istvan’s and his guards’ included.

Tears filled her eyes anew, making it difficult to see the road. She blinked them away. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing Istvan, too, of never seeing him again.

And she knew without a doubt why that was. Because despite all her best intentions and protests, she had fallen in hopeless and unrequited love with the prince.

H
E WAS IN A CRUMBLING
dungeon, part of a half-collapsed fort left from the time of Turkish occupation. He was tied like a hog and suspended from ropes hanging from the ceiling. The result was that his arm was about to fall off and every small move he made to seek a little relief sent him swinging, activating his motion sickness.

He still had the pearl bracelet thing Lauryn had made for him, in his pocket, had been carrying it around for some reason, although he’d meant to give the pearls back to her. Of course, he couldn’t reach his pocket.

The room was spinning with him, his stomach in his throat. He was hard-pressed to think of a time when he’d been more miserable, and his physical condition was only half of that misery. He was worried about Lauryn, bursting with anger and frustration that he hadn’t been able to get away and go after her.

Bellingham had left with the rest of the royal treasure, giving him over to his goons to be taken away. That had been over three hours ago. He’d had human contact only once since, when the goon’s leader came in to tell him that Bellingham had sold him to the Freedom Council, a representative of which was on his way to confirm that he indeed was the prince and witness his killing.

He was no longer mad at Lauryn for leaving. He was glad she’d taken off and hadn’t been captured by Bellingham. His most fervent wish was that she hadn’t been captured by anyone else either. She might have proven herself a thief at the end, her upbringing proving too difficult to resist, but had she stayed, she would be killed along with him.

He half convinced himself that she wouldn’t go to her uncle. She had to know that it would be the first place he’d look for her if he got free.

The door of his prison opened. He twisted his body to look, the motion sending his rope turning in a slow circle. He swallowed the nausea and swore under his breath.

“Not how I imagined our next meeting, Your Highness,” the man who’d come in said, shining a flashlight in Istvan’s face.

“Richard Kormos,” Istvan called him by name. He knew the man by reputation more than personally, although they’d met at receptions given by the Valtrian Business League. Kormos was one of the most prominent businessmen in the country, owning all the most important coal mines in the north of Valtria and several others all over Europe.

Kormos was a short guy with a trim body that spoke of strict discipline, sharp eyes, a beak nose and a forceful voice that went with his forceful personality. The business papers often wrote about his Napoleon complex.