The Barefoot Princess (25 page)

“You’re my only living relative, Uncle Harrison. We’re obliged to treat each other fairly,” Jermyn said with measured reason.

“Are we?”

“I shall probably have to let you go.”

“I don’t believe that.” But Harrison’s killer grip on the gun loosened.

“You’ll have to go into exile, of course.” Jermyn picked up an Italian glass vase and tossed it in the air as he paced against the back wall, hoping the ornate wallpaper would distort Harrison’s aim. “But surely a man of your intentions and experience has a place where you’re prepared to flee in case of emergency.”

“Yes. Yes, you should let me go. I’ve been, on the whole, very good to you. The fortune has grown. I’ve tended it as if it were my own.”

“So you have.” Amazing how Harrison made himself sound virtuous when in fact he’d tended the money so lovingly because he
planned
to make it his own. “You took control of the family fortune when my father died. What I didn’t realize is that after my mother’s death, my father no longer trusted you with the family fortune. Mr. Livingstone and Lord Stoke told me that.”

“Those worms.”

“So I surmise when you got control of it again, you took every precaution to assure yourself an ample income no matter what the circumstances.”

“After Andriana’s death, I fixed the books, gave all the money back. Your father never knew
anything
, so why did he change his mind about me?” Harrison answered his own question. “It was guilt for driving Andriana away. Or maybe he thought she was right after all. Until the day he died, he never let me alone with the fortune again.” Frustration burst from him in a spray of saliva. “Now history repeats itself. You get entangled with some pretty thing, that Princess Amy, and you get clever. She was in on it, wasn’t she? She sent me to your room on purpose.”

“Uncle, I don’t understand you.” That was the part Amy was supposed to play, that of messenger to Harrison, but Jermyn had ordered her away just that afternoon.

“She came and got me, told me a pretty story about how you’d fought and she’d gone to your room and you were drinking—”

In shock and in joy, Jermyn dropped the vase. It shattered at his feet, a spray of cobalt shards that shot across the room and glittered in the carpet.

Harrison jumped. He lifted the pistol and pointed it at Jermyn. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Are you crazy? That was worth over a thirty-seven pounds when it was bought twenty years ago.”

Jermyn paid no heed. Was it possible? Amy? Amy had stayed to do as she had promised? But that would mean…that would mean she always kept her word regardless of the provocation. That she was more in a woman than Jermyn had ever hoped to meet, much less to have. That Jermyn was wrong, that he would have to grovel to win her back and that he would do gladly, for she was the only woman for him. She was his wife, and he loved her.

He lifted the knife, determined to end the stand-off with Harrison and go to her, when the study door flew open. It banged against the wall.

Amy stormed into the study.

She failed to notice Jermyn, posed against the back wall, but her slender figure was the sweetest thing Jermyn had ever seen. His heart lifted. So it was true. She
hadn’t
broken her promise.

With her gaze fixed on Harrison, Amy marched toward the desk, her back straight, her fists clenched. “You miserable little man.”

Jermyn’s pleasure shattered as surely as the glass vase. Fear and horror took its place.

She was walking into the path of a bullet.

“I’m so glad you’ve arrived.” A satisfied smile curved Harrison’s mouth, and he glanced from her to Jermyn. “I’m going to use you to escape.”

“What do you mean?” Amy demanded. “You’re not going to escape. I’ve made sure of that. I’ve taken the precaution of setting a guard.”

Jermyn sprinted toward Amy.

“Nephew, look!” Harrison pointed the gun at her. “When I shoot your pretty little fiancée—not kill her, just wound her, you understand—you’ll be so busy trying to staunch the bleeding, I’ll have a wonderful chance to get away. So—”

Amy half turned. Saw Jermyn. Her face lit up in wonder and joy.

Jermyn lobbed the small knife at Harrison. He caught Amy around the waist. He threw the two of them to the floor.

But he was too late. He knew he was too late.

He heard the deafening roar of the gunshot, heard the high-pitched scream.

And he tasted ashes and fear.

Chapter 26

Y
ou’re alive. You’re alive!
Amy tried to speak, but they’d hit the floor hard.

She didn’t care. Jermyn was alive!

And running his hands all over her.

“Where are you hit? Amy, where did the bullet hit you?”

The panic in his voice brought her eyes open. She gasped, “Nowhere. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Still he moved her arms, her legs, slid his palms over her looking for a wound.

“I’m fine,” she repeated. She struggled up on one elbow, grasped his shoulder. “You?”

“I’m…going to be all right.” He touched her face, a somber glow in his eyes. “Now that you’re here.”

“Then we’ve got to get out of here.” Mr. Edmondson had shot the pistol. She’d heard it.
Did he have another?
She tried to struggle to her feet.

Jermyn held her still. Looking toward the desk, he listened, then said, “Yes, we need to get out of here.”

She heard it, too. From behind the desk, she heard a thrashing, a choking sound.

Jermyn rose. He glanced behind the desk, then turned away. “Come on.” He helped Amy to her feet. “You don’t want to see.”

She heard the cough that signaled the onset of death. And the flailing behind the desk ceased.

Somehow, Mr. Edmondson had been killed.

She recognized the scent of blood and death. Recognized it from the brutal days of her past.

The room whirled slowly. She saw a slash of light as a man pushed the curtains aside and stepped out from the window seat. She saw servants and guests crowding the doorway. She heard a woman shriek, “Oh, thank heavens, Lord Northcliff, you’re alive!” Amy reached out to lean on something, but her hand groped thin air. Black veils and red spots crowded her vision—and she fainted.

“Dear God, no!” Jermyn caught her before she hit the floor. “Amy. Amy!”

She lolled in his arms, limp and lifeless, her face colorless, her hair dragging back her head.

The crowd gasped and murmured.

A strange man caught her drooping head and tucked it up on Jermyn’s shoulder. “She’s all right.”

“How would you know?” Jermyn asked fiercely. She looked so…lifeless.

“I’ve seen cases like this before.”

Jermyn heard the edge of humor in the fellow’s voice, and looked at him sharply. Black hair, strong form, good clothes, good breeding, but tough in a way Jermyn identified and respected. He’d seen him earlier today walking with Amy.

Somehow, this man was a threat. “Are you a doctor?” Jermyn asked sharply.

“No.”

“Then get me one—now.” He strode toward the door, Amy’s limp body cradled in his arms.

The servants fell back, but the aristocrats crowded forward, wanting a look, murmuring, jostling for position, calling his name. Then, viewing the expression on his face, they moved aside. He heard them close in behind him. Behind him, he heard the stranger’s voice coolly ordering up a doctor—and a mortician for the body behind the desk.

Then Jermyn forgot about the stranger. Forgot about everything but the woman in his arms.

Amy had collapsed. She remained too still. Never had he imagined that the vital, vibrant woman he loved could be so quiet, so silent. Not even in the face of death.

Jermyn moved swiftly up the long stairway to her bedchamber. His blade had stuck in Harrison’s shoulder, but that hadn’t killed him. It was the pistol that had backfired—a gruesome irony not lost on Jermyn.

But how, when he’d had all the pistols cleaned, had this one escaped to find its way here, now?

Looking down at the woman in his arms, he realized that he didn’t care—as long as she was all right.

As he approached her bedchamber, he found himself once again suddenly and smoothly joined by the stranger. “What do you want?” Jermyn demanded.

“I want to make sure she’s well.” The fellow walked like someone who believed he had the right to know Amy’s condition.

“She wasn’t hit with the bullet.” Jermyn hoped that was assurance enough.

“Of course not.” The stranger spoke with the slightest breath of an accent. “That was never an issue. I stuffed the barrel and I placed the pistol on the desk for your uncle to find.”

The sheer nerve of the stranger took Jermyn’s breath away. He stopped. Cradling Amy close to his chest, he turned and faced him. “Who are you?”

The stranger bowed. “I’m Amy’s prince.”

Amy woke in her bed when someone put a dripping wet cloth on her forehead. Goaded and annoyed, she threw it off, flinging it hard across the room.

She heard it smack against something, and a strange voice, a man’s voice, cursed in a language she hadn’t heard in years.

She didn’t care. In tones of acute exasperation, she demanded, “Do you
have
to get me all wet and sloppy?” She wiped water off her face. Opening her eyes, she saw Jermyn leaning over her, his auburn hair glowing in the candlelight, his eyes golden and intent.

At once the events of the day crashed into her mind. Her fight with Jermyn, the farce on the balcony, Jermyn’s plunge off the cliff, Mr. Edmondson’s death…and overshadowing it all, her joy that Jermyn was alive. He was here, he was alive, and he was hers. He would always be hers.

“Are you all right?” He sat on her bed with her. “You fainted. You scared me half—I thought you had died.”

“It wasn’t a dream. You’re really alive.” For the excruciating thirty minutes it had taken her to locate Mr. Edmondson, she had believed that she’d helped kill her love. Instead he was here, breathing, talking…being. She stroked the stubborn jut of his chin, the bones of his cheek. Bringing his face down to hers, she kissed him. “I’m the happiest woman in the world.”

“Exactly as it should be.” He brushed her damp hair back from her face. “Do you feel better now?”

She glanced around her curtained bed in confusion. Why was she here? What had happened? “Your uncle…?”

“Don’t think about it,” Jermyn quickly said. “The body’s been taken away.”

“Good. May he find peace wherever he is.” Her words were more grudging than they should have been.

“I don’t think it’s peace he’ll find. Not where he’s going. When I thought he’d killed you—” Jermyn put his forehead against hers and closed his eyes, and for one long moment, the two of them breathed each other’s breath. Then he lifted his head. “He killed my mother, too, and she”—regret and sorrow colored his brown eyes—“she lies in state in the main drawing room.”

“Your mother?” Amy was bewildered.

“The body on the cliffs was—”

“Your mother?” Amy struggled to sit up.

Jermyn shoved pillows under her shoulders.

He was trying to care for her as a convalescent—and doing a terrible job. Yet she enjoyed his attention. “Tell me everything.”

When he was done, she pressed his hand in hers, for while he’d gained the sweet memory of his mother, he had also just lost her. For the first time in twenty-three years, he knew for sure she was dead and his grief was new again.

He cleared his throat. “Also, Biggers is in bed with a large lump on his head and a larger headache. The guests could leave, but they refuse for fear of missing another morsel of juicy gossip. And”—he moved back so she could look out into the room—“Prince Rainger is impatiently awaiting a report on your health.”

Rainger moved into sight. He held a still dripping rag, and a wet spot stained his black jacket.

Ah, it was he she’d hit when she flung the cloth. Extending her hand, she allowed him to kiss it, and for a moment, reflected on how easily the habits of being a princess returned.

He didn’t release her hand. Instead he lightly squeezed her fingers, looked into her eyes, and said, “Princess, I want you to tell me everything, no matter how inconsequential, about where Sorcha may have gone.”

She blinked at his abrupt demand. “Good evening to you, too, Your Highness.”

He frowned at her reprimand. In an imposing tone, he said, “I don’t have time for pleasantries. Fate is nipping at my heels.”

“That could be said of all of us,” she said crisply. She knew how to play the royal role as well as he.

His gaze ran around the expensive room, at the glowing candles, the rich materials, the leaping fire. “I spent seven years in a dungeon so deep and dark I had only rats for companions. I ate gruel once a day. I was beaten on the whims of the man who stole my country. My friends, the men who had supported me, lived and died there. We communicated by tapping on the walls, and I escaped because we dug a tunnel with our fingernails and our spoons. I’m only one of two who lived.” He moved closer without seeming to take a step.

She wanted to back away, but the horror of his story held her transfixed.

“I owe those men my life,” he said. “I owe them to take back my kingdom from the bastard who rules it now. As soon as you help me, I’ll leave this place. I’m racing to save our two countries—
and I need Sorcha to do that.”

Did she believe him? Yes, he had the look of a man driven to seize destiny by the throat. But did she dare trust him? “I don’t
know
anything.”

“Then tell me what you suspect—and don’t, I beg you, give me false information.” He fixed his intense, driven gaze on her. “When I asked where you might be, Clarice sent me on a wild goose chase, but I assure you, the longer Sorcha is alone the more danger she’s in.”

“So there
are
assassins after us?” Was this the threat Amy and Clarice had feared?

“Yes.” Rainger thoughtfully considered her. “But who told you?”

“Godfrey, Grandmamma’s courtier, seven years ago.”

“There was no threat to you then,” he said in clipped tones.

Amy exchanged a look with Jermyn.

“So we suspected,” Jermyn said.

“But since I escaped from my prison, I’ve been hunted.” Yet Rainger didn’t act like prey. He behaved like a hunter. “Now I must find Sorcha and take her home. She’s the crown princess. She’s my fiancée. I need to wed her. We need to produce children and create a dynasty.”

“Have you thought she might not want to do that?” Amy asked.

“Have you thought that she is a princess and should do her duty? That one of you must do her duty?” In a softer tone, Rainger countered, “Have you thought that becoming the queen might be exactly what she wants?”

Amy remembered Sorcha as a soft, sweet, obedient older sister. Would marriage to this man fire her to steel or melt her like tallow?

Rainger touched the silver cross of Beaumontagne which hung on a chain around her neck. “In any case, helping me will save her life.”

“Amy, you have no choice,” Jermyn said. “You’ll have to trust to Sorcha to decide what she wants and tell the prince. If she’s anything like you, he’ll not have an easy courtship.”

She grinned at him. “Why, my lord, whatever do you mean?”

Jermyn planted his fists on the mattress and leaned toward her, a lascivious smile on his face.

Rainger cleared his throat.

Jermyn straightened and crossed his arms like a guard protecting his mistress.

“All right, listen to me, Rainger.” She took a deep breath. “I know nothing for sure. Nothing. But Clarice and I discussed where Sorcha might be, and we thought an abbey seemed the most likely place Grandmamma would stash her. Sorcha’s the crown princess, and while it was important for us to be safe, for her it was imperative. But there aren’t many abbeys in England, they’re far apart, and to reach them is difficult. We started searching in the south and moved north. When we reached the Scottish border, we asked if there were any abbeys in the country. They said no, and treated us like vipers. But I left on a ship from Edinburgh. One of the seamen was from the Highlands, and he said he’d heard that in a hidden vale on an island off the coast was a small abbey called Monnmouth. Perhaps you can find it.” Leaning forward, she met Rainger’s gaze and touched his hand. “I beg of you, if you find her, save her life. If you find her, let me know.”

“I will.” He stood, bowed over her hand, and kissed her fingers. “Farewell for now, Princess Amy.”

“Farewell, Prince Rainger. Godspeed.”

At the door, Rainger turned. A smile slashed his grim face. “And congratulations to you both on the forthcoming child.”

He left the two of them staring after him.

Amy’s hand clenched a handful of Jermyn’s shirt. “Does he think that I’m—”

“Are you?” Jermyn hadn’t realized it before, but now that Rainger had spoken the words, Jermyn remembered her pallor during their fight today, her faint at Harrison’s death. It had to be true. Amy was pregnant with his child.

But Amy denied it. “No, of course not! That would be so quick.” She placed her hand on her flat belly. “It doesn’t happen that suddenly, does it?”

He nuzzled her cheek and grinned. “You are an innocent.”

She counted on her fingers. “I’ve not had my courses since that night in Miss Victorine’s basement, but…”

When her voice faded, he prompted her. “And you fainted today. Do you faint often?”

“I’ve never fainted before, but…and I was so tired today, but…”

He shook with the onset of blessed laughter. Thank God. She was going to have his child. “When you fainted, you scared me past good sense.”

“That’s obviously not too difficult,” she said tartly. She watched him, perplexed, as he laughed.

“A baby. We’re going to have a baby.” He was exhilarated…and she didn’t look pleased at all. He sobered. “What’s the matter? Did this come too soon? Would you rather have waited?”

“No, but don’t you realize what this means?” Her voice faded. “Our marriage is legal. Binding. Eternal.”

Now was the time to tell her the truth. “I never intended otherwise.”

Still she watched him, a question in her troubled eyes.

Gently but inexorably, he said, “I’m sorry if you wished to be free, but once you placed that manacle around my ankle, I was bound to you.”

Sitting up, she tucked her knees under her chin and stared at him with her sea green eyes. “Today, you told me to leave.”

Time for confession.
“I was…angry. I was…afraid. I carried you through the wedding arch…because I loved you.” He felt so uncomfortable. He could scarcely force the words past his throat. “And you didn’t love me back.”