Some Enchanted Evening (37 page)

Prince Rainger turned his head as if hearing something from the depths of the keep. "We've got to get out of this fortress." He offered his arm to Clarice.

Presumptuous bastard
. On her other side, Robert offered his. She looked between them both, then laid her hand on Robert's arm.

The prince stepped back, not vanquished, but waiting.

"Can you run some more?" Robert asked her.

"To get out of here, I could run all the way back to —" She stopped.

Back to MacKenzie Manor? Say it. Back to MacKenzie Manor,

But she didn't. Instead, she amended it to "Yes, I can run."

He supported her as they raced out the door. He didn't have to. She was holding up well. But he wanted to touch her, to assure himself she was still his.

He'd waited too long to lay his claim.

While Robert and Clarice ran. Prince Rainger slammed the door to the gatehouse with a solid
thunk
.

About halfway up the wooded hill opposite the fortress, Clarice began to gasp. She hadn't recovered from her ordeal, poor lass, and Robert pulled her to a halt. They were out of sight of the gatehouse, and somehow he didn't expect to see Magistrate Fairfoot coming out. Not yet.

The prince didn't join them. Perhaps he was sensitive to atmosphere. Or perhaps he knew how much Robert hated the price he was exacting for his assistance.

Or perhaps he was waiting for Clarice to tell Robert it was over so he could take her away now. Immediately.

But it wasn't over. Not until Robert had had his say. "Clarice." In the intermittent moonlight he could see dirt on her face. But when he tried to wipe it off, she pulled back and winced. He understood: He added another good trouncing to Fairfoot's already bulging account. "What did that cockscum do to you?"

Her smile was lopsided. "Not nearly as much as he wished to. Nothing . . . nothing ... he didn't hurt me. Not the way you think."

Robert had to embrace her again, in relief for her and relief for him — if Fairfoot had raped her, Robert would have gone to prison for the murder of an English magistrate. Holding her, he breathed deep of her beloved scent and treasured her as his most valuable possession.

Too late.

She didn't let him hold her for too long. Not for nearly long enough. Easing herself free, she assured him, "Truly. Fairfoot is rather sensitive when someone insinuates he hasn't the resources to satisfy a woman."

Shocked and appalled, Robert said, "You didn't tell him that. Not when you were alone in the cell with him!"

Lifting her chin, she replied, "Yes, I did. That was when he hit me, and I have to tell you — it was almost worth it to see him blush. I think I may be more right than I realized."

She filled Robert with pride at her courage, and fear for her well-being. He could keep her safe, but ... he glanced at the prince, who stood far enough away to give them privacy. The prince who was not, as Waldemar had said, blessed with pretty-girl hair and a fancy lisp. This prince was tough and determined, and he appealed to the one thing against which Robert had no weapon — Clarice's sense of duty.

Too late,

Robert plunged his hand into his saddlebags, all the way to the bottom* where the little wooden box rested. "Clarice, listen to me."

"No."

"I bought you a ring." He brought it out, fumbled with the lid. "In Edinburgh. I want you to marry me."

She closed her eyes, turned her head away. "No. Don't,"

"I
beg
you to marry me." He couldn't believe she wouldn't listen. He was the earl of Hepburn. He was the true hero of the Peninsula, and she knew it.

He was hers.

The moon floated in and out of the clouds. The light filtered through the leaves, showing him her anguish, her sorrow.

He was hers. Together they had defeated Colonel Ogley, freed Waldemar, been more than they ever could be apart. Didn't she know that? How could she not know that?

"Look." He opened the box. "The amber is the color of your eyes. The sapphires are the color of mine. The gold is what holds us together. Beautiful gold. Look." He held it out, but he was doing this all wrong, for she didn't look at the ring.

Instead, she looked at him. "Do you know who I am?"

"My lover. My wife."

She covered his lips with her hand. "Don't say it."

He kissed her palm. He moved it aside. And added softly, "My dearest and only love."

She took a quivering breath. "I'm a princess. I didn't ask to be, but I was born a princess. I've spent the last few years of my life waiting to go back to Beaumontagne and
be
a princess. Nothing ever got in the way of that dream . . . until you."

"Then being with me is the right thing to do."

"No. No, it's not. Amy — my sister Amy, Miss Amy Rosabel — has run away. She doesn't want to be a princess, and I am too fond and protective of her. I want her to be what she wants, not what some accident of birth made her." Clarice swallowed. She dusted her fingers across her eyes. "But don't you see? That leaves me to do the dutiful thing."

Savagely he commanded, "Stop saying duty."

She corrected herself. "The honorable thing."

"Stop saying honor."

She glared into his eyes. "I will when you do."

She had a way of silencing him.

More gently she said, "You and I have things in common. Values in common. That's why we've dealt well together. That's why I ..." She struggled to speak. Laid her hand on his cheek. A silver tear trickled down her face. "I love you." She covered the ring, and his hand, with hers. "I love you."

He couldn't answer. His heart, the heart he had thought was dead, broke.

The soft sound of a horse's whinny slipped through the air. Clarice's head jerked around. "Blaize." Without knowing his location, she walked to the place where Robert had tethered Blaize.

"Oh, my pretty lad." Threading her fingers through the horse's mane, she dropped her head into his neck. "Blaize, my beautiful boy. You're here."

As Robert watched her hug the horse she loved, he felt a hitch in his breath. She was saying good-bye. To the horse. To him.

And he couldn't fight her. She thought she was doing the right thing, and he suspected, he feared, that she was right. Carefully he put the lid over the ring, and over his dreams.

"You brought him," she said. "You rode him to my rescue."

Pocketing the ring, Robert walked to Blaize, to Clarice, and quietly reassured them both. "He wouldn't be left behind."

"I
did
steal him, you know." Her face tightened. "He's Magistrate Fairfoot's horse, and I can't take him with me."

"I brought Blaize from MacKenzie Manor, and he'll return with me. When I get done with Fairfoot, he'll beg to sell me Blaize, and any other horse in his stable." Robert wanted to comfort Clarice, but he didn't have the right to touch her. Not anymore. Instead, he rubbed Blaize's coat and stared at her, trying to soak in enough Clarice to last for the rest of his life.

"Blaize will have a good life."

"Thank you, Robert." Her thank-you echoed softly through the woods.

He cleared his throat, trying to say the right thing. "You — Princess Clarice, you have a good life too."

She lifted her head. "And you, Robert."

Was she jesting? He shook his head.

"Yes." She was princess enough to put a royal imperative in her tone. "You have a good life. Promise me."

He didn't want to promise that. He wanted to howl at the moon. He wanted to curse at fate. He didn't want to taste his food, smell the roses, mind his clothing, dance as if he heard the music. But she wasn't going to let him get away with sulking. Somehow, he knew she would get her way.

Which she did with a single word. "
Promise"
she insisted. "It's the one thing you can do to make me happy."

He capitulated. "I promise."

The prince called, "Your Highness, we need to leave."

How Robert hated the sound of that deep, accented voice. It was the voice of a nightmare made human.

"Right away," she called back. She stared at Robert. Lifted a hand toward his cheek.

Pulled it back. Turned and walked to the place where the prince stood waiting with two horses.

The blackguard had come prepared.

Robert watched Clarice, the love of his life, ride away with the man she would marry, and he did nothing. Absolutely nothing, except wave a hand to her when she turned around for one last look.

He couldn't believe it. He was letting her go. Just like that. Because she'd used words like
honor
and
duty
. And because, well, he couldn't force her to marry him against her will. For one single mad moment he'd considered it.

Unfortunately the minister didn't exist who would call a forced union a legal marriage. And even if one did, she would still say
honor
and
duty
until Robert relented and allowed her to go.

So he watched Clarice ride away and wished he could do something. Something like smash his fist into the wall or get drunk or beat someone up. Something that would relieve some of this terrible clawing frustration in his gut.

From Gilmichael Fortress, he heard a gigantic
bang
. The doors swung wide, and three men stood there, carrying torches and short iron clubs.

Fairfoot, looking rumpled and furious, and his thugs.

Robert smiled. He rolled up his sleeves. He stalked back up the hill.

His frustration wouldn't have to wait long for relief at all.

Chapter Thirty-one

In the end, a princess must do her duty.

— The Dowager Queen of Beaumontagne

The summer sun was dipping toward the west when Robert walked across the village square to the alehouse and squinted down at the checkerboard. "Look at the dust on this board," he said. "Is everybody in this village afraid to challenge you five hearty men?"

"I dunna know why." Old Henry MacCulloch widened his eyes innocently. "We ne'er cheat."

"Do you not?" Robert asked. "I've heard differently."

"Ye canna believe everything ye hear, m'lord," Benneit MacTavish answered.

"Fearsome, you five men are." Seating himself on a stool before the board, Robert rubbed his hands. "So — who do I beat first?"

The old men hooted in unison.

"Think ye're right clever, do ye?" Hamish MacQueen creaked to his feet. "I'm the man t' take ye doon."

"
First
," Benneit MacTavish added. "Ye're the man who'll take him doon
first
."

Robert waited while Hamish settled himself across the board.

"I'll be takin' me turn before ye, o’ course," Hamish said. "Ye'll be feelin' pity on an auld soldier wi' only one hand."

"I'm a busy man." Robert shoved a black chip out. "I don't have time for pity."

The other old men hooted again and pulled their chairs closer to watch the action.

As if in an aside, Benneit's brother, Tomas, said, "M'lord, we chased Billie MacBain oot o’ Freya Crags."

"Now, Tomas, ye know that's na true," Benneit chided. "After his folly in turning Princess Clarice over t' that colonel and that English magistrate, we
encouraged
him t' leave toon."

"Encouraged him?" Robert suffered a pang at the mention of Clarice, yet he almost welcomed the pain. In the three weeks since she'd walked out of his life, he'd come to yearn to hear her name, to speak to someone who knew her. The truth was, he would rather miss her than never to have known her.

"When ye live as long as we ha'e, ye hear things aboot a man." Henry's wrinkled mouth twisted as if he tasted something nasty. "Things he'd dunna like t' have noised aboot, if ye know what we mean. And so we pointed that oot t' Billie."

"I see." Robert kept his gaze glued to the board as Hamish moved a red piece. "I'm glad to hear you helped him see the right thing to do. I fear I would have been rough on him had I found him."

"It gets worse for Billie." Gilbert Wilson made a
tsk
. "We hear he was drinking in a tavern at Edinburgh when the king's sailors did a bit o' conscripting. It seems Billie has gone t' sea."

Benneit nodded peacefully and folded his hands over his small belly. "Wi' his disposition, the fresh air will do the lad guid."

"Eh?" Henry cupped his ear and leaned toward Tomas.

"He said," Tomas shouted, "that the fresh air would do Billie guid."

Henry nodded. "Na doubt, na doubt."

"Got a few bruises there, lad." Tomas pointed at Robert's face. "Been fighting, ye ha'e."

Robert gingerly touched the mark left when his face had smashed Magistrate Fairfoot's fist. "This is nothing. You should have seen the other fellow."

"Did ye trounce him guid?" Gilbert Wilson asked.

Robert thought back on the carnage of that night. "Fairfoot'll be no good to any woman ever again. Neither will his friends." And Robert felt a great deal of satisfaction knowing that — that the guards who supported Fairfoot and Fairfoot himself would long remember the name of Hepburn, and never, by God, ever imagine they could come onto his lands, into his village, and seize something which was his.