The Barefoot Princess (4 page)

With a glance at the oblivious Miss Victorine, he slipped it up his sleeve.

“Yes, dear Amy came from a lovely country called Beaumontagne. It’s very rugged there. The winters are dreadful, but the summers are glorious. The forests are absolutely deep and green, with evergreens and oaks and so many birds.” Miss Victorine rocked and smiled, not at him, but at some crazed illusion in her mind.

“How do you know about this country?” Which Jermyn vaguely recalled from lessons that demanded he learn the location of every country in Europe.

“In my youth, I visited there. My father was quite the traveler, and after my brothers married and I…well, when it was clear I would remain single, my father planned to take me to the great places of the world.” She picked up a ball of twine and a small hand shuttle.

The shuttle was about the length of his palm, about the width of his finger, and was made of ivory worn thin from heavy use. On one end sat a sharp point that Jermyn remembered only too well, for when he was seven he stuck it in the skin between his thumb and finger. It had hurt like Hades and left a scar he still carried.

She shook out the tiny scrap of lace. “Only Father didn’t make it very far. We were gone less than a year when he contracted a fever and died. That was a long time ago, but I lived in Beaumontagne for six months afterward, waiting for the winter to break so I could come home.” Her gaze shifted to him, and for a lunatic she looked remarkably cogent. “Here I’ve been ever since. Do you know where Beaumontagne is, my lord?”

“I have an idea. It’s in the Pyrenees on the border between Spain and France.” It wasn’t easy to eat with the knife in his sleeve, but he speared the sausage with his fork and ate bites off it. After all, why should he worry about manners? He had a
manacle
around his ankle.

“Your geography has not been as sadly neglected as I feared.” Miss Victorine began the painstaking task of making beaded lace.

As his appetite was met, Jermyn watched her, remembering the sound of the point across the twine, the sight of her veined and spotted hands. Now her little finger crooked in at a painful angle and the skin looked thin and parched, but she still created her beadwork without looking at her efforts.

The thin stream of lace grew as slowly as ice melting.

“I warned your father you needed to know more than how to dance and which goblet to use.” She smiled fondly at him.

Jermyn’s education had been considerably broader than that, but he asked curiously, “Did you? And what did Father say?”

“He said if you knew your place in England, that was enough for any marquess of Northcliff.” She shook her head in disillusionment. “If your father had one fault, it was an overabundance of pride.”

“I would not say an overabundance,” Jermyn said stiffly. His father had been proud, but gracious to his tenants. He knew every man’s name who worked his estates, and personally oversaw the giving of gifts on Twelfth Night. Duties Uncle Harrison had taken over from Jermyn.

For the first time, Jermyn wondered what his father would say about that.

“I’m sorry. You miss him still,” Miss Victorine said with an empathy that made Jermyn shift uncomfortably. “Please don’t take my ramblings the wrong way. I feel as if I can talk with you about your father. I adored him. He was a great man. I miss him still, and it’s a comfort for me to talk about him with someone else who loved him. Of course, you loved him like a son and I loved like a son…no.” She frowned. “That’s wrong. You loved him as a son should and I loved him as if he were my son. There!” She lifted her shuttle triumphantly. “I knew I could say it correctly.”

“So you did.” Jermyn tried to subdue a rush of affection. She was a dear old lady. He tried to remind himself that she’d help kidnap him, but that made no difference. The truth was, he, too, liked reminiscing about his father, and too few people were left who remembered him.

Jermyn supposed he could discuss Father with Uncle Harrison, but Uncle Harrison seemed interested in nothing more than figures on a page and profit from the estates.

That’s what made this whole “steal the beading machine” so ludicrous. Uncle Harrison might not have the title, but he certainly comprehended the dignity that belonged to the marquess of Northcliff. He would never indulge in vulgar manufacturing.

“Perhaps if your mother hadn’t left us so soon, your education would be more rounded.” Miss Victorine seemed to be speaking to herself. “Andriana certainly had strong opinions on how you should be raised. Perhaps if your father had listened—”

“I’m sorry, Miss Victorine, I don’t speak of my mother,” Jermyn said gently and without a hint of the rage that, even after all these years, still possessed him. “Not even to you.”

“But dear boy, it would be better if you did! I’ll never forget how surprised we were when your father brought her back from Italy. She had such a charming accent, and she was so pretty and so kind.” With a smile, Miss Victorine settled into her reminiscences. “She adored your father and she adored you. I’ve never seen a woman so in love with her husband!”

“Miss Victorine, please.” Angry blood buzzed in his head.

“But I know you must have missed her. To keep such grief bottled up inside cannot be good for you.” She sounded sincerely concerned.

He didn’t care. “Not even to you,” he repeated.

Hearing the creak of footsteps on the stairs, he realized he’d been saved in more ways than one. He pushed his fork off the edge of the table. It clanked as it hit the floor. He sighed pitifully. “Miss Victorine, with this manacle on my ankle, I can’t reach that.”

With a cluck of sympathy, Miss Victorine stood and moved toward him.

As Amy stepped into the cellar, he grabbed Miss Victorine and held her against him with the knife against her throat. With a direct and dreadful glare at Amy, he said, “Let me go or I’ll kill her.”

Chapter 5

“M
y lord!” Miss Victorine’s frail voice quivered. “Dear boy…”

Against Jermyn’s chest her body felt bony and fragile, and it trembled like that of a frightened bird in a rough lad’s grasp.

He didn’t care. She’d betrayed him. The kind lady he remembered didn’t exist. She had been part of a plot to kidnap him. She refused to release his manacle. Now she would pay. And when he got loose, she would pay more.

But smoothly, as if she’d foreseen this very circumstance, that disdainful girl reached into the drawer and pulled out a pistol. Her aim was perfectly steady as she pointed it at him. “Let her go or I’ll shoot you.”

“I’ve never met a woman who’d have the guts to shoot a man,” he sneered. All the women he knew were too kind. Too gentle.

“I have the guts,” the girl said. “Better yet, I
want
to shoot you.”

That shook him. The words, and the tone, a kind of flat, plain aversion the like of which he’d never met in all of his privileged life.

What had he ever done to deserve this girl’s contempt? And why did he even care? “Which part of me will you shoot?” he mocked. “All that’s showing is my head—and you can’t be that good with a gun.”

“I am,” the girl said. “On the count of three, I’ll shoot. One…”

“You’d take the chance of hurting Miss Victorine?” he asked.

“I won’t hurt her. Two…”

“Amy, please, let him go!” Miss Victorine begged. “He was such a sweet boy.”

“Three.” Amy’s eyes narrowed, her finger began to squeeze the trigger.

And he released Miss Victorine, spinning her away from him and into a cabinet.

She landed with a thud and fell.

The pistol roared.

He dived to the floor.

A shot whistled past the place where his head had been.

Amy gave a sigh of relief. “Damn, that was close. Good thing you surrendered, my lord!”

“Don’t swear, dear, it’s not ladylike.” And there on the floor, Miss Victorine burst into tears.

He felt surprisingly like bursting into tears himself. It didn’t matter that he told himself Amy couldn’t have hit him. He didn’t believe himself. That sharp-eyed girl hated him, and until she replaced the gun in the cabinet, he didn’t release his pent-up breath.

“Miss Victorine.” Without sparing him another glance, Amy hurried to the old lady’s side. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

“No. No. Well, a little when he tossed me.” Miss Victorine rubbed her shoulder. “But he didn’t want me to get shot just because you wanted to blow him away.”

“Blow me away?” What an odd phrase to come out of that gentle lady’s mouth. He laughed shortly. He stood and dusted off his trousers, before placing the knife on the table.

And realized at once that his amusement did not sit well with Amy. She looked at him in disdain and distaste. “How does it feel to be such a big, bad aristocrat that you have to use this dear little lady as a shield?”

Actually, he was feeling a little ashamed of himself, but he wasn’t about to tell this virago. “I pushed her aside when you shot at her.”

“You shoved her out of the way when you realized I would shoot you,” she answered hotly.

“That’s not true.” He couldn’t believe how she misinterpreted his action. “Don’t you have any respect for your betters?”

“I do. That’s why I’m going to help her up the stairs and put her to bed with a cup of hot tea. You can just sit here and…and jingle your manacle!” With her arm around Miss Victorine, Amy started for the stairs.

“Now dear,” he heard Miss Victorine admonishing, “he wouldn’t have hurt me. He was always such a nice boy.”

He sank down on the cot. When he was young, everyone said that, considering the circumstances, he
was
a nice lad.

He had loved coming over to call on Miss Victorine. He’d adored her cakes and the fuss she’d made over him and the scent of her lavender sachets. She had been a civilizing influence on a lad knocked flat by events he didn’t understand and over which he had no control.

He didn’t remember when or why he’d stopped his visits. It had been nothing more than part of growing up—discovering hunting and balls and women and cigars and forgetting the sea and the sky and the clouds and the earth. He’d seen them in a flash when Amy had raised her gun, pointed it at him, and said in a cool, strong voice, “
Three
.” He’d seen his whole life in his mind for the last time, or so he’d thought, and when he remembered that piercing moment of fear his hands shook.

He didn’t know what the hell was going on here, but he didn’t intend to die in this damned cellar at the hands of one crazed old woman and a young female steeped in bitter disdain. He bloody well was going to escape.

Sitting up, he went to work on the manacle.

In the best bedroom, Miss Victorine uttered no protest as Amy helped her out of her Sunday garments and into her worn flannel nightgown. She winced as she lifted her arms to let Amy drop the gown over her, and Amy could see that purpling bruises were rising from beneath Miss Victorine’s fragile skin.

Hotly Amy wished that beast downstairs possessed a single moral, or showed a decent regret—or had his hands tied so she could pummel him until he repented of his ways, or was unconscious, or all of them.

Amy’s fulminating silence must have indicated the direction of her thoughts. Or perhaps Miss Victorine understood Amy all too well, for she said, “Amy dear, do you remember when Pom brought you to me all wet and bedraggled?”

“Of course I do.” With the tongs, Amy took a few red coals, put them into the bed warmer, and chased the chill from the thin sheets.

“I asked where you came from, and you turned your face away and wouldn’t say a word. You refused to tell me about your country or your title or your poor lost sisters.” Miss Victorine petted Amy’s arm. “I feared you were deaf or mute. You were certainly starving.”

“You gave me your dinner.” Amy held up the warmed sheets and invitingly gestured Miss Victorine in.

“And the first words you spoke to me were, ‘Aren’t you afraid I’ll kill you in your bed?’”

“I am eternally charming.” Amy laughed at herself and at the absurdity of her current circumstances. “The marquess of Northcliff would agree.”

“He doesn’t know you yet, dear. Once he does, he’ll be in love with you like the lads in the village.” Miss Victorine sighed as she settled into the bed. “I felt so sorry for you, all alone in the world without a protector or anyone to care for you. I wanted to take you under my wing and keep you forever.”

“You’re the kindest lady in the whole wide world.” Amy knew whereof she spoke. She had been out in the wide world since she turned twelve, most of the time with her sister Clarice, but for the last two years on her own. She’d seen terrible things, experienced cruelty and disdain, poverty and terror.

She had never met anyone as kind as Miss Victorine.

“In his way, Lord Northcliff is as lost as you were,” Miss Victorine said in a sad little tone.

Amy refrained from snorting, but barely.

“It’s true.” Miss Victorine arranged the thin pillows behind her back. “When his mother left us Jermyn was only seven. Never had there been a more woebegone little boy. His father was a good man, but he took the loss of his wife badly. He shied away from affection, any affection, even affection for his son. He taught Jermyn his duty and how to be a man. No one cuddled Jermyn or kissed his scrapes or loved him.”

Amy didn’t understand why Miss Victorine thought that was so important. She couldn’t remember her own mother, and if her royal grandmamma had cuddled her, she would have died of frostbite. But even without those services Miss Victorine deemed so vital, Amy had grown up without idiosyncrasies. Any perceived quirks in her nature were nothing more than the results of her determination in the face of adversity.

Yet Miss Victorine didn’t insist on explaining further. Miss Victorine had a tendency to assume that people understood how necessary love was, even to despicable swine like Lord Northcliff…and lost souls like Amy.

Miss Victorine was alone in the world, without kith or kin or anyone nearby who was of her class or interests, yet through her kind and welcoming spirit, she had made herself the heart of the village and the conscience against which all living souls on Summerwind measured themselves. Without saying a word, she had shown Amy the value of family…and lately Amy had begun to wonder if her decision to leave her sister in Scotland and strike out on her own had been less the good sense she imagined at the time and more the result of adolescent rebellion.

Amy and Clarice had been lost to their family. Their father had died. Their sister had disappeared somewhere in England. Grandmamma was out of reach, they had no money, and they fled from one town to another, fitting in nowhere, afraid to settle anywhere. Most people saw the young princesses as vagrants and thieves. Women chased them with brooms and stones. Men leered and offered drinks and lodging, but demanded the most disgusting of services in return.

Yes, Miss Victorine had saved Amy in more ways than one. She’d saved Amy’s life, and more than that, she’d saved Amy from the bitterest kind of hostility and cynicism.

Amy would do anything for Miss Victorine.

“All this excitement has worn me out.” Miss Victorine smiled tremulously.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, dear! It’s good for an old woman to have her routine shaken up occasionally. Gets the blood flowing. Makes the brain work.” Miss Victorine tapped her forehead.

“I think your brain works just fine.”

“Yes, Papa said I always was the smartest of the children.” A satisfied smiled curved Miss Victorine’s wrinkled lips. “But if you had known my brothers, you’d realize that was not a compliment.”

Amy laughed as she knew Miss Victorine wished.

“I do like this room.” Miss Victorine looked around, then closed her eyes with a smile.

Amy looked around, too. The thick curtains were faded from dark blue to a pale robin’s egg. The flowers on the wallpaper were as faded as last summer’s blossoms, and even the squares where the pictures had hung were faded. The white duvet cover had turned yellow and the down inside was nothing more than a thin fluff. The wooden floors were worn from generations of footsteps, and they kept a pan under the worst of the leaks.

But to Miss Victorine, this was home.

Amy’s gaze moved to the sweet, plump face against the pillows. Miss Victorine had said it was good for her to be shaken up, to have her routine changed, but Amy didn’t believe her.

Miss Victorine wanted—needed—to stay here in the house where she’d grown up, but when Amy had proposed her plan, Miss Victorine refused to hear of any variation that allowed her to remain out of sight and untainted by their transgression. If she was going to profit by the crime, she was going to take all the risks, and nothing Amy had said could change her mind.

So when they talked about what they would do with the ransom money, they discussed living in Italy in a villa, or a cottage in Greece or Spain. Someplace where Miss Victorine’s bones would no longer ache in the cold, and oranges grew right outside their back door. And all the time Amy knew Miss Victorine wanted to stay here in her leaky cottage with its faded wallpaper and the neighbors she had known her whole life.

Amy didn’t understand such a sentiment. Since she turned twelve, she had wandered the byways of England and Scotland. She couldn’t comprehend the concept of home. She didn’t dare try.

Tucking the blankets close around Miss Victorine’s neck, Amy gave her a kiss on the forehead and left her to sleep.

Inside her bedchamber, Amy splashed cold water on her face to calm herself. She’d chosen the maid’s quarters for its proximity to Miss Victorine; if ever Miss Victorine needed her, Amy wanted to be close. Not that Miss Victorine had needed anything; she was a spry old lady, not dotty with old age, but always eccentric.

The cold water did Amy no good.

That man had held a knife to Miss Victorine’s neck! And while his cruelty and disregard for Miss Victorine’s safety made her fume, it also brought into sharp focus the peril of her scheme. She held a dangerous man in the cellar, and one wrong step would send them plunging off a precipice. It was one thing to take a chance with her own life, another with dear, sweet Miss Victorine.

Making her way to the kitchen, she looked around. It was as shabby as the bedroom, with a wooden table cleaned so often with sand that it bowed in the middle, a huge fireplace that let in cold drafts in the winter, and thatching that was wearing thin in the corner. Yet Miss Victorine had made this a homey room; garlands of dried herbs and onions hung from the blackened rafters and pots of flowers bobbed in the windows.

Amy glared at the closed door to the cellar. She’d slammed it on the way out, but she would damned well go down those stairs in what her grandmamma would call a civilized manner. No matter how much his wonderfully handsome, totally ungracious lordship grated on her, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he got under her skin.

Although perhaps with the shooting it was a little late for that.