The Prince Kidnaps a Bride (20 page)

“I need to explain a few things to her.” More than a few things, apparently.

“No. No, you really don’t,” Montaroe said.

“We need to explain a few things to you.” Alroy took Rainger’s other arm. “Sit down over here.”

Alroy was the blacksmith. His chest was the size of a bull’s and his shirt bulged with muscle. When Alroy guided, a man moved.

So Rainger found himself seated by the fire. It was the fanciest, most comfortable chair in the taproom, but Father Terrance pulled up a footstool and sat on one side of him while Alroy guarded the other side, and from the way Alroy crossed his hands over his chest, Rainger knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

Montaroe shoved a tankard of ale in Rainger’s one hand and a rasher of bacon on toast in the other.

Rainger looked at the food and drink, then glanced around at the men, all standing stern-faced with their arms crossed. “What’s all this about?”

“Drink up, Your Highness, you’re not leaving until we’ve finished our talk.” Father Terrance waited until Rainger took a bite and a drink. He moved his footstool to face him. “In the normal manner of things, you’d be married with your family there to celebrate with you.”

“Yes.” Rainger waited tensely.

“The wedding celebration would take days. There’d be dinners and plenty of chances to meet your new relatives and converse with your bride, and perhaps you’d be allowed a chance to sneak a kiss.” Father Terrance accepted his own mug from Montaroe, drained it, and wiped his mouth on his hand. “On the morning of the ceremony, your father and your uncles would take you aside and give you good advice on the proper handling of your bride during the wedding night.”

Rainger couldn’t believe he was hearing this. “I know how to handle a woman.”

“Yes, Your Highness, but the women you’ve handled in the past haven’t been princesses. Possibly they weren’t virgins.” Father Terrance’s voice rose to a low shout. “Certainly they didn’t come downstairs afterward crying as if they’d been torn from stem to stern.”

Montaroe hastily interceded. “What Father Terrance is trying to tell you is—with a princess as delicate as your bride, you need to be a little gentler.”

“I made her happy!” Rainger snapped.

“Of course.” Father Terrance’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “I’ve never seen a happier-looking bride than Princess Sorcha when she ran in here, glared at us like we were beasts, and ran out.”

“Eventually she’ll get used to it. Then you can ride her like a mare rather than a filly.” Alroy’s voice rumbled in his massive chest. “It just takes some patience.”

Rainger started to tell them all to go to hell.

Then Vernon said, “Even if she doesn’t get used to it, it only lasts a few seconds.”

Rainger stopped, stunned, and realized his mouth was hanging open.

“Lots of patience,” Alroy repeated. Standing, he headed for the bar and poured his own ale.

All the men poured themselves an ale.

Chauncery leaned against the bar and said, “My wife says my organ is tiny, but even the biggest pipe organ seems small when it’s playing in a cathedral.”

Rainger ate his bread and bacon and finished his tankard. If they were going to keep talking like this, he needed sustenance. When he’d finished, he declared, “I didn’t hurt her.”

The men turned to look at him.

“I took my time.” Half the night in fact. “As sweetly as she sang, I feared you would hear her throughout the inn.”

“We did,” Montaroe admitted. “But when we saw her this morning, we thought—”

“
That’s
not why she was crying.” Montaroe offered another ale, but Rainger thought better of it. He and Sorcha should leave as soon as possible and he needed his wits about him. “She’s angry because she says I made a fool of her.”

“Ah, is that it?” Father Terrance stroked his chin. “She’s right. I never did understand why you didn’t tell her who you are.”

“Or why you wore that scarf across your eye,” Chauncery said.

“I had my reasons.” Rainger did not have to explain himself to these men. For as much good as it had done him, he shouldn’t have explained himself to Sorcha.

“Well, whatever they are, they’re unlikely to impress her,” Father Terrance said. “Have you never been made a fool of? It’s a painful experience.”

Rainger
had
been made a fool of. Julienne had made a fool of him and even now the memory of his naked defense of her made him wince.

Father Terrance watched him with wise eyes. “Yes, forgiveness might take a bit of time.”

All right. Rainger would accept she felt the sting of mortification. But her reaction to the other issue was extreme and absurd. “She actually seemed more aggrieved that I burned her sisters’ letters.” He expected the men to laugh.

“You burned her sisters’ letters?” The length, strength, and unity of the outcry surprised Rainger.

“Yes.” He debated telling them the rest of it, but it seemed they knew something he didn’t. “And I had some new letters and kept them from her.”

The collective sighing and head-shaking was prolonged and unnerving.

“Not that my wife and her sisters get along, mind you, but I made the mistake of stepping between them when they were fighting.” Alroy swallowed and his eyes widened with remembered fear. “I still have the scars to prove it.”

“They turned on you?” Rainger wanted to laugh at the absurdity of women attacking this strong man.

“Like a pack of wolves,” Alroy said. “They don’t like each other—”

Octavius interrupted, “Except when they do.” He tapped his chest. “I’m Alroy’s brother-in-law.”

Alroy nodded. “But a wise man never interferes where sisters are involved.”

Rainger rubbed his forehead. His head ached. Not from too much drinking, but from counsel that baffled and confused him.

“So the little princesses are alive?” Vernon’s eyes were alight.

“Very much so,” Rainger confirmed

The men clapped each other on the back, offering congratulations as if they were new-made fathers.

Their happiness warmed Rainger and told him how much Sorcha had touched their hearts. “Amy lives in southern England. Clarice is married and lives not far from here.”

“Uh-oh,” Montaroe said.

The men shook their heads at him.

Rainger was getting tired of this silent communication they shared.

“Princess Sorcha is going to want to visit her sister,” Vernon told him.

“She can’t.” Rainger had already thought of this and he’d made his decision. “We need to get to Edinburgh and on a ship as quickly as we can. When the kingdoms are safe, her sisters can come to visit, but until then—”

Alroy snorted. “If you think Her Highness is going to let a little detail like assassins stop her from going to her sister after years of separation, you’re more naïve than I can even imagine.”

“You must be patient, my son,” Father Terrance told Alroy. “He lived in a dungeon for eight years.”

“That’s the only way a man manages to remain so ignorant of women.” Alroy snorted again. “Well, that and living in a monastery.”

Rainger rose to his feet and stood toe to toe with the much larger, much stronger Alroy. “You’re disrespectful.”

“Before you came down, Father Terrance said we were to be your family. Well, I’m talking the same good sense to you I would tell my brother. Princess Sorcha is furious at you. Admit it’s your fault, beg her pardon, take her to see her sister, and crawl until she forgives you.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’ve never heard such nonsense.” More than that, when he’d escaped that dungeon, he’d sworn two vows—that he would go back, kill Count duBelle, and rescue his kingdom, and that he would never crawl again.

Certainly he had no intention of playing the penitent to his own wife.

“Sooner or later you’re going to want back in her bed, and an ice queen is a cold bedmate,” Alroy said.

“She’s not cold.” Of all the facts Rainger knew to be true, this was infallible. “I made sure of that.”

“Tell me that tomorrow morning, Your Highness.” Quick grins flashed around the room, and Alroy repeated, “Tell me that tomorrow morning.”

R
ainger leaned against the door of the bridal chamber and watched Sorcha placing a bottle of wine and brown paper packages in her saddlebags. “What are you doing?”

“I’m packing.”

So her fit of temper hadn’t faded yet.

“That’s a good idea. We need to get to Edinburgh before the assassins discover where we are.”

“I’m not going to Edinburgh. At least not yet.”

He straightened. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m going to see my sister. Remember? Clarice, the one who married the Scottish earl? The earl whose estate is only a day’s ride from Edinburgh?” Sorcha’s voice rose. “Did you think I would get so close to Clarice and not go to see her?” Her voice dropped back into the normal range. “Besides, once I get there, Robert will send an escort with me to catch the ship to France.”

“If you can get there safely,” Rainger injected, whipping scorn into his voice.

“I can get to Freya Crags as safely as I can get to Edinburgh. More safely, since I’ll be going in the opposite direction the assassins expect.”

She was right. Rainger didn’t like it, but in this she was right. “Did you imagine you were going alone?”

She faced him, hands on hips. “No, I’m pretty sure I can command a guard from this village. Oh!” She feigned surprise. “I suppose you’ll want to come along, too, to protect your investment. After all, you went through a lot of trouble to find the one princess who wasn’t
fluffing the sheets
with another man.”

He had come up here determined to make things right with Sorcha. To follow the men’s advice and apologize even though he was right. To convince her to see matters his way.

But when she stood there like that, so cocky and smart-mouthed, she sent his temper soaring. Where had his merry traveling companion gone? When had she turned into a shrew?

The men were wrong. Rainger needed to trust his own instincts. Last night, he’d made her his woman. Last night, he’d proved she could be softened with sex.

Now, using all the considerable intimidation he had at his disposal, he strode toward her.

She didn’t back up.

He loomed over her.

She maintained the same belligerent stance.

Wrapping his arms around her waist, he lifted her onto her toes and kissed her. Kissed her with all the skill at his disposal and the passion she roused in him.

At first she didn’t answer. She hung loosely, her hands dangling at her sides, her lips firmly sealed and unresponsive.

Gradually she came to life. Her fingers clutched his forearms, then slid up his biceps and pulled him tighter into her. Her lips softened under the probe of his tongue. She allowed him into the sweet cavern of her mouth, met his tender search, and, as if curiosity could no longer be denied, she even explored his mouth.

The sensation of her feminine form made his body leap to life. He remembered all the tender, passionate moments of the night before. He imagined all the fiery, exhilarating love bouts they would have in the future. He wanted her now so urgently he might never have had her. She had become his obsession. He started to back her toward the bed...

An alarm blasted through his brain.

They had to leave now.

But she was reacting to his desire.

They had to escape Scotland.

But she kissed him so sweetly.

The vultures were gathering and he and Sorcha had only a little time to save themselves and their countries.

For the first time in his life, he damned his duty and damned his country. He need an eternity to love Sorcha properly.

He didn’t have eternity, so sternly he brought to mind why he’d started this—to thoroughly remind her how much she loved him. He had done that. Yes, he had done that very well.

In stages he drew back. Then kissed her eyelids, her forehead. Then drew back again.

At last she stood on her own two feet.

She swayed for a moment, then straightened her bodice, smoothed her skirt.

He had made an important and inescapable point—she couldn’t resist him.

But when she looked up, her face was still and set. “If you’re done slobbering on me, I’d suggest you get packed. I’m leaving within the hour and I’m not waiting for you.”

He hoped he didn’t look as stunned as he felt. He groped for his lost authority. “We’re going to Edinburgh.”

“
I’m
going to see my sister. You can go to Freya Crags, you can go to Edinburgh—or you can go to hell.”

The winding road to Freya Crags was better than any road Rainger had yet traveled in Scotland, but that didn’t improve his temper worth a damn. For one thing, there were inns where assassins could stay in comfort and watch for them. There were places assassins could prepare an ambush: barns, rocky outcroppings, lonely stretches. He’d been watching for danger for so long, he felt taut and stretched, and despite the fact every male villager from New Prospera who owned a horse rode with them, he felt as if disaster was poised to descend.

The men would tell him it already had in the person of his bride, one Princess Sorcha.

Rainger eyed her. She rode boldly astride, her breeches beneath her fluttering skirts. Their escorts surrounded her, not only to keep her safe but so they could bask in her attention.

The men, of course, were exhausted after celebrating the wedding far into the night, but they valiantly followed her wherever she led. She enchanted them, she urged them forward with smiles and bribes of sweetly sung songs, and they would do anything for her.

She didn’t bother to extend her enchantment to Rainger. She didn’t bother to look at him. And he found himself jealous of the other men.

The other men—old Montaroe, blushing young Adrian, stout Chauncery, girlish Savill, hulking Alroy, his brother-in-law Vernon, and six other men. It didn’t matter that none of them were a match for Rainger in youth and strength of character, or a match for her in position and nobility. Every smile she sent their way, every virtue of theirs she extolled, every song she sang for them infuriated Rainger.

At last, after three hours, he could bear it no more. The horses needed a breather. The men needed a rest. And he needed to recapture Sorcha’s attention in any way he could.

Before them loomed a gorge where the road wound through low cliffs, and before they entered, he needed to know what these men could do.

Or so he told himself.

“Halt!”

The men pulled up and faced him inquiringly.

She shot him a glare that clearly told him her opinion of his character.

Sadly he considered that better than being excluded.

But he ignored her malice and pointed at the road. To the troop, he said, “This place reminds me of Speranza Gorge in Richarte.”

The older men looked it over and nodded.

“A lot of robberies and murders happened in Speranza Gorge,” Montaroe said.

“Exactly,” Rainger said. “Before we go in, I’d like to see what you can do with your weapons.” If these men were like the rest of the men in Richarte, they were deadly shots, especially with the crossbow. In Beaumontagne and Richarte, on the edge of the mountain wilderness, a man learned to protect his family and property.

Grinning, the men drew their armaments—their pistols, their muskets, their crossbows—from their saddle holsters.

A slab of rock stretched long in the meadow. A lightning-struck tree stood nearby.

“You men with the muskets, shoot at the center of the rock. You men with the crossbows, shoot at the center of the trunk.” Rainger pulled his own crossbow. “I’ll pay five guineas to the man who hits closest dead center.”

“Who’s going to decide the winner, Your Highness?” Alroy asked.

Rainger grinned. “I am.”

The men looked at the crossbow in Rainger’s hand. They groaned and laughed.

Rainger laughed with them.

They lined up to shoot anyway. These men shot for the pleasure of the game, not for the prize.

“Keep a lookout,” Rainger told Sorcha. That should put her in her place.

She didn’t look as if she were in her place. She looked impatient. “How long is this going to take? Because I want to reach MacKenzie Manor
tonight
. I want to see Clarice
tonight
.”

“This is for your own safety,” Rainger said.

“I thought it was so you could boast about your shooting abilities,” she answered.

“I am the prince. I do not need to
boast
.” Although perhaps that she would be impressed with his mastery had crossed his mind.

Certainly it had crossed the minds of the villagers, for as they shot they taunted each other.

“Give it up, Montaroe. You’re so old and shaky you’ll aim at the tree and hit the rock.”

“Hey, Octavius. The day you shoot dead center is the day you’re aiming at your mother-in-law.”

“Duck, everyone, duck! Savill holds a loaded musket in his hand!”

But the shots were good and true, and Rainger would have trouble deciding which of the men should have the prize.

But first he had his chance to shoot. He moved his horse up to the line. He lifted his crossbow.

“Rainger.” Sorcha’s voice was low and urgent.

Now that he ignored her, she wanted his attention.

“In a minute.” He squinted and aimed.

“Rainger, there are men coming down the rocks.”

He whipped his head around just as a bullet whistled past his ear.

In less than a second, he assessed the situation. As he feared, the enemy had been waiting for them. It would have been best for their foes to remain in the gorge, but when they heard the shots they imagined someone else had attacked their prey. Now they descended toward the villagers, moving with stealth and precision, slipping from one cover to another, trying to make every shot count. They were professionals, mercenaries hired for one purpose—to kill Sorcha, or Rainger, or both.

But the men of New Prospera responded immediately, wheeling their horses with a ululating cry and riding in a circle around Sorcha.

She, smart girl, bent down over her horse’s neck and rode in the circle in the opposite direction. Some of the enemy shots might hit a target, but not easily and not the target intended.

Rainger’s men used their shots wisely, bringing first one mercenary, then another tumbling down the rocks.

“Ride, Highnesses,” Montaroe shouted, “ride for Edinburgh. We’ll keep them off your tail.”

Rainger saw Sorcha’s rebellious glare, but when he indicated that she lead the way, she rode as commanded.

“It’s us they want,” he shouted. “When we’re gone they’ll be trying to follow us and our men can pick them off.”

She nodded and kept riding as hard as she could back up the road toward Edinburgh. They passed through a village, then out onto the flats.

Before them, Rainger saw a barn on one side of the road, a grove of trees on the other, and when he saw movement in the trees he recognized the place they’d find a second ambush.

He loosened his pistol in his belt. He kept the crossbow in his hands.

Two horsemen charged from the barn side, one from the grove.

“Head for the trees,” he shouted at Sorcha.

But she’d anticipated his command. She raced into the grove, deftly dodging branches, using the trees as cover.

One of the horsemen chased after her.

Two rode at Rainger, one from the left, one from the right.

He squeezed off his arrow. He didn’t watch to see it land, but he heard the scream, abruptly cut off. He bent low in the saddle and off to that side. A pistol shot roared close at hand. He felt the heat as the bullet creased his horse’s neck.

Alanjay flinched and danced in a rearing, furious circle.

“Gently, boy, gently!” Rainger said, and held on.

How many shots did the mercenary carry?

“Gently, boy. Good boy!” He regained control—and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of gunpowder in the trees.

As another shot whipped past him, he used his reins, his knees, and the gelding’s affection for him to turn him toward the grove. “Sorcha!”

“Sorcha. To me!”

At the sound of her name and the words called in her own language, Sorcha automatically checked. But although she recognized the voice, it wasn’t Rainger’s deep rumble.

Who was it?

The trees rushed past her. She dodged branches, cutting in and out, making herself a difficult target to hit. Leaves whipped at her face. Her breath burned in her lungs. But her hands on the reins were sure, and Conquest responded beautifully, twisting and cutting without slipping at all. They were still alive, but they were coming to the end of the grove.

Her pursuer was herding her into the meadow. There she would be an easy target.