The Prince Kidnaps a Bride (22 page)

Q
ueen Claudia, the dowager queen of Beau montagne, sat huddled in a blanket in her bedchamber, watching the snow whip across the courtyard below. She hated winter. She hated the wind, the snow, the cold, the icicles hanging off the eaves, the starving deer, the dead flowers... When she had finally finished her task here and turned the kingdom over to her granddaughter, she was going to move somewhere warm. Italy, perhaps, or Spain. She would sit on a veranda in the middle of winter. She would smell the roses and watch the peasants beg for money. If they impressed her with their story, she might even give them a coin or two.

She was an excellent judge of a good story well told. Since the rumors started whirling that Rainger and Sorcha had been married and were returning, the imposters had been scuttling out of the woodwork to tell their tales. She had heard more melodrama and nonsense in the past two months than any normal woman heard in a lifetime.

And why did she listen to them?

Because it was winter, it was cold, and nothing could heat her old bones except a good bout of laughter.

There. Outside at the gate. There was another young couple. They spoke to the guard and, as usual, the guard looked up at her for direction.

And, as usual, she indicated that the guard should allow the couple to cross the courtyard and enter the palace.

The strange man took the woman’s arm and pointed out where Queen Claudia sat.

The woman jerked her arm away from him and stalked along the shoveled walks.

Interesting. Either they were playing a different version of “Rainger and Sorcha are Reunited” or the female was fed up with the male.

Queen Claudia certainly understood that sentiment. A queen surrounded by males spent most of her time quashing grand male pretensions and petty male vanities.

But about the couple... she could judge nothing about them and their looks, for they were covered from head to toe in capes and hats and gloves.

The woman headed not for the grand and formal double doors that led into the foyer, but for the family entrance, a smaller door on the side of the terrace. A pretty bit of authenticity, and Queen Claudia was impressed enough to come to her feet, gather her cane, and hobble—these days, she always hobbled for a few minutes before she worked the kinks out—toward the door in her sitting room. It took more time than she liked. That infuriated her and made her rap on the wood harder than normal.

The door was opened at once by a young footman, still quaking from the last time she’d given him a tongue-lashing. He’d had the audacity to try and assist her when she had one of her spells. She had informed him that footmen did not touch the queen without permission.

Then she’d made him help her into her bed, thus assuring he would never lay a hand on her again.

She ought to have a bevy of ladies-in-waiting attending her, but she’d outlived them all and she didn’t have time to train new ones who were her age.

Besides, there was no one left who was her age.

Her gait was loosening now. By the time she got to the throne room, she’d be the freakishly healthy old crone feared and respected across Beaumontagne, Richarte, and beyond.

The footmen stationed at every door froze at attention as she passed. Peter opened the throne room for her and bowed as she entered. “Give me ten minutes, then show them in,” she told him.

He bowed again and shut the door behind her.

She eyed the throne and the steps leading up to it with virulent hatred. What short, insecure milquetoast of a king had designed those steps? And in marble. If Rainger and Sorcha didn’t appear pretty soon, Queen Claudia was going to fall down and break her neck. And then her grandchildren would have trouble, for she’d haunt them with a virulence that made her previous stringency seem like kindness.

Taking a breath and using her cane, she climbed the two steps, groaning from the pain in her hips, and lowered herself onto the throne.

Damn thing. It was covered with gold paint and colder than sitting on an ice sculpture. But it looked impressive, and when Peter opened the doors for the imposters, that was all that mattered.

The female stalked in first, head high, fists clenched, chin outthrust. She walked like the epitome of offended royalty—and Sorcha, dear, kind Sorcha, would never walk like that.

Queen Claudia’s heart sank. It always sank when she realized it wasn’t Sorcha, for no matter how much she denied it to herself, she always hoped that it was.

“Grandmamma—”

The girl’s voice was very good. Noble, clear, and she had a bit of an accent like someone who had lived in England too long and picked up bad habits.

“Did you really send that dilberry to find and marry me?” She pointed back toward the door, toward the rumble of two men’s voices.

“You sound like the princess Sorcha,” Queen Claudia said in a cold, clear voice. “You’ve only made one mistake. Sorcha would never burst into the throne room and speak to me in such a manner.”

“She would if she’d been through what I’ve been through.” The female removed her hat.

She sported hair the same color Queen Claudia’s had once been, and for a moment, a wave of memory dragged Queen Claudia back to the past.

“Darling, your hair... I must paint you, naked and glorious, with your hair draped around you. It is the color of sunrise.”

The pain bit deep into Queen Claudia’s shoulder, pulling her back to the present.

What a hell of a time for the old body to betray her.

She breathed deeply, waiting for the spell to subside and staring at the girl’s stormy face. When she could, she slowly rose to her feet. The female’s complexion was chapped with cold, her blue eyes were furious, and she wore the expression of a woman who had fought many battles—and won at least a few.

This was not the Sorcha Queen Claudia expected to return.

But she was definitely Sorcha.

Thank God. Thank God.

In a voice that revealed none of her exultation, Queen Claudia said, “Yes, I did send a dilberry to retrieve you.”

As she spoke, Rainger stepped inside, and he groaned. “Already?”

With a lightning glance, Queen Claudia checked him out. Yes, it was definitely Rainger. “I sent a princely dilberry. I’m sorry, but he was the only one available.”

“Obviously.” Sorcha removed her gloves and cloak and cast them on a side table.

Queen Claudia hadn’t expected to enjoy her granddaughter. Sorcha had always acted as if she feared the south wind. Now she looked ready to embrace the north wind himself. “Come, greet me properly.”

Sorcha strode up the stairs to Queen Claudia, pressed her lips to each of the queen’s wrinkled cheeks, and offered her arm.

“I ordered refreshments to be laid in the upper drawing room.” Rainger stood with his hands behind his back and watched the two women descend the steps.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sorcha said. “Can’t you see she can’t climb the stairs to the upper drawing room?”

He looked at Sorcha as if he wanted to strike her.

No, wait.

That wasn’t fury. That was hunger.

How fascinating.

“Rainger always was a snotty little scion of a noble family.” Queen Claudia gave him a toothy grin.” So tell me, what has he done now?”

“He’s married me.” Sorcha glared at him. “And I want an annulment.”

S
pringtime came to Beaumontagne in a rush of color. The flowers bloomed, the birds fluttered and sang, the crops sprang from the ground—and the maps of war lay flat on the tables in the throne room while Rainger and his advisors talked about the strategy for invading Richarte. The discussion made Sorcha glad to sneak away from her ladies-in-waiting and into the garden just outside the castle walls. There she could sit alone and not hear the words “cavalry” “tactics” or “cannon.” Nor did she have to hear, “duty” “diplomat” or her least favorite remark, “With child?”

She walked the paths she had walked as a girl, breathed the air perfumed with familiar scents, and hoped that Rainger didn’t remember her favorite haunt. Because if he did, he would come to find her soon. He always did, insisting she stay at his side throughout the conferences of war, while the learned economists explained the workings of the treasury, and especially when the people came to welcome them back or plead a case for justice. He trusted her to tell him the truth, and needed her to learn while he learned so she could govern while he was gone.

To war, he meant, and especially if he didn’t return, she needed to know how to be queen.

The idea should have given her pleasure—she hated the man and, to the dismay of their courtiers, she didn’t bother to disguise her disdain. At the same time, at the thought that he would die on some lonely field fighting for his country... she almost died, too. It wasn’t fair, the way she felt about him, for he wanted her for three things—her country, her body, and the child he would receive from her womb.

After all, he’d made it clear enough that he needed to marry one of the Lost Princesses and she was the only one left. The words echoed in her mind and every night he made her realize anew how very much he meant it. Every night he—

“Your Highness!”

She pretended she didn’t hear the voice that called and continued down the gravel path.

“Your Highness, please, I want to talk to you and I can’t keep up.”

Marlon. Of course. Rainger’s companion from the dungeons, one of the men who entered with him—and the only one who returned alive.

Sorcha turned as if surprised and said, “Marlon! How good to see you. A lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?”

“It’s more of a hobble for me.”

She winced.

“It was a joke. It’s all right to laugh.” Marlon hadn’t died in the dungeon, but he had paid a price to get Rainger released. Marlon walked with two canes; his legs had been crushed and the constant pain drove deep grooves around his mouth and between his brows. Yet he bore his tribulations stoically and proved himself to be one of the brightest minds in their government.

He also made Sorcha uncomfortable. Not because of his disability, but because he made no secret of his deep admiration for Rainger, and because he had, more than once, hinted that he would gladly fill her in about the missing years of Rainger’s life.

She didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want anything to disturb the even tenor of her acrimony.

“Can we perhaps sit down?” Marlon asked. “Over there? I believe I heard Rainger say it’s one of your favorite places in the castle.”

“He remembers everything,” she said with irritation.

“He makes a point to remember what’s important to you.” Marlon took her arm.

Together they slowly made their way to the bench just outside the castle wall overlooking the valley. An arbor surrounded the bench and from here she could look down to the base of the hill where the
village
of
Prospera
looked like a cluster of toy houses. Beyond that, antlike farmers plowed their fields. And beyond that, the whole kingdom blushed with the pleasure of spring.

“Ah.” Marlon lowered himself onto the bench. “I see why you like it so much—but what I don’t see is why you dislike Rainger so much.”

Don’t interfere.
But no matter how much she wanted to snap at him, the dreadful disability he suffered kept her civil. Or at least—relatively civil. “That’s a wife’s prerogative.”

“But if you knew about the dungeon—”

“I don’t want to hear about the dungeon.”

Marlon ignored her protest. “In the dungeon, things were done to him. And he did things... things that made me despise him.”

She laughed bitterly. “That doesn’t surprise me.” But it did surprise her that Marlon admitted it.

“And things were done to him that made me... cry for him.”

“I don’t care.” She fervently did not.

Marlon continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “And things happened that... that made me worship him.”

“I just said I didn’t want to hear about the dungeon,” she said impatiently. “So why are you telling me this?”

“Because I can’t stand to watch you bring him such pain.”

“Bring him pain? I doubt that.” Every night Rainger tortured her with kisses on every part of her body. Every night she struggled to remain true to herself, and every night he broke her resistance, then brought her to climax. He did it deliberately, and no matter how much she struggled, afterward when she cried, he held her to witness his triumph. Damned if she would feel sorry for Rainger.

But she couldn’t tell Marlon that. She couldn’t tell anyone, so she smiled, a scornful twist of the lips. “I don’t intend to listen to you, so let me send someone to help you back to the palace and I’ll continue my solitary rambles.” She stood.

“Would you deliberately walk away from a man who can’t chase you down to make you listen?”

She paused.

“That seems unnecessarily cruel for a woman who has a reputation among her people as a most gentle princess.”

Marlon knew how to maneuver Sorcha, but she set her mind against him even as she returned to sit beside him. “So, speak, but please don’t be overlong about it. My duties fill my hours and I find little enough time to walk in the gardens... alone.”

Stoically, Marlon started his story again. “I don’t know what Prince Rainger has told you about his captivity.”

“He doesn’t talk about it.” And she didn’t ask.

“Because he’s ashamed.”

Now Marlon had piqued her interest.

“He was a vain young man who put his friends and his country at risk for the love of a woman.”

Digging deep into her memory, Sorcha remembered the gossip from long ago. “Countess duBelle.”

Marlon nodded. “The lovely Julienne, the most treacherous female the devil ever created. She betrayed him and all his friends and laughed as she did it.”

Sorcha remembered the woman. She had been so beautiful, so graceful, so sensuous, that while in her presence, Sorcha had felt like a clumsy peasant.

“While in prison,” Marlon said, “Rainger was beaten once a year.”

“The scars.” She swallowed as she remembered how they felt beneath her fingertips. “They are... brutal.” Then, ungraciously, she added, “And they taught him nothing but brutality.”

“He has
hit
you?” Marlon couldn’t have been more astonished.

“No.” She owed Marlon no explanation. Indeed, she suffered humiliation every night. She would never tell anyone the details.

Marlon searched her face, then sighed. “Something happened to him in that dungeon. I’ve never understood it, but let me tell you the story. He had five companions—Cezar, Hector, Emilio, Hardouin, and me. We were raised at his side and trained to always protect and defend him. As we grew, we accompanied him on his journeys and his... ” He hesitated.

“His liaisons,” Sorcha said.

Marlon bowed his head in agreement. “When Count duBelle’s guards took His Highness, we fought. Hardouin and Emilio were killed. The rest of us were dragged through the streets and thrown into the dungeon. Rainger was kept in a tiny cell by himself. The rest of us were together. But before we were thrown in, Count duBelle hung Rainger up with chains and beat him with a cane. He made us watch. It was a brutal beating, but His Highness never made a sound. We were horrified. We were proud.” Marlon’s hand shook as he clasped the edge of the bench. “We were next. Count duBelle told us this was our punishment for failing to join him in his bid to topple Richarte’s royal family, and when he was done, he joked about the aching in his arm.”

She had known Count duBelle was a villain. More than once, he’d tried to have her killed. But to complain that beating four men had wearied him—that was sarcasm most cruel.

“The first year, we didn’t understand. We waited for rescue. We thought we could appeal to the noble nature of the guards and they would help us escape. Prince Rainger commanded them as their sovereign to release us.” Marlon laughed at his own naïveté. “The guards didn’t have a noble nature. They lived in the dark and they liked it. They liked cruelty. They cared not at all if we were hungry or thirsty. Illness and death meant nothing to them—they saw it every day. Hector was the first one of us who realized we had no hope. When they took us out of the cells after the first year to beat us, he was gone. Dead of a fever.”

She bled for Marlon’s sorrow—and for Rainger’s. “He was your friend.”

“Yes. The second year we learned to communicate with His Highness by tapping on the grilles. We never talked about it, but I spent every day desperately wanting my mother. And I was so afraid of the beating. I was no longer a man. But no matter how I fought the passage of time, the day came. The guards threw blankets over our heads. They pulled us out of the cell. During the beating, His Highness cried from pain, but he never begged. Neither did Cezar. Neither did I. Then it was back into our cells for another year.”

She couldn’t imagine. She didn’t dare try.

“After that, we started digging. Cezar had found a weak chink in the floor. The prison was far below the castle. The castle was on a cliff. No one ever escaped, but we had never been imprisoned there before and we didn’t know that. It was grueling work, but at first we were relieved that we were doing something to help our prince. The rats nibbled on us—and if we were lucky, we nibbled on the rats. Yet the digging took so long. We used our shoes. We used spoons. We used our fingers.” Marlon held up his hands. His middle fingers had no fingernails. “And all the time the prince was alone. He had no idea what we were doing. He had no hope. And again Count duBelle had the guards throw a blanket over our heads, drag us out, and beat us.”

“Did he complain about his arm?”

“After the first year, he had the guards beat Cezar and me. We weren’t important enough for him to weary himself. But he still beat Rainger. He enjoyed beating Rainger.” Marlon shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His gaze dropped. He took a long breath. “The last year, Rainger... Rainger couldn’t... he wasn’t able to... ”

“He wasn’t able to... ” And she realized what Marlon meant. “He begged.”

“It had been seven years. He’d been alone in the dark. His cell was small. Almost a coffin. He hadn’t talked to anyone.”

Terror branded her. What would she do if she lived in a cell for seven years, alone in the dark with only the promise of pain to look forward to? “I would have broken much sooner,” she whispered.

Marlon nodded. “But what you must know is—Count duBelle listened to him. Encouraged him. Made him admit his fear to us. To his friends. We were embarrassed for him. We felt as if we’d been loyal to a prince who deserved no loyalty. We went back to our cell. We still dug, but although we didn’t admit it to each other, it was for ourselves now.” Marlon closed his eyes to hide his tears, but one escaped and trickled down his cheek.

He was in pain. He was in pain, but he bore that pain to tell the tale of his prince. He had laid his life down for Rainger. He had sacrificed his health, and now he sacrificed his pride, too.

She didn’t want to hear. She didn’t want to feel Marlon’s pain or understand Rainger’s character, because she didn’t want to give up her sense of grievance and her anger.

But how could she not listen when Marlon suffered so in the telling?

“Cezar and I dug with all our strength and we began to smell fresh air. We knew we were close. We didn’t know where we would come out. But it didn’t matter. For the first time in seven years, we had hope.” Marlon opened his eyes and gazed into hers with such intensity, she couldn’t look away. “Except that our prince had stopped tapping. He wasn’t dead. We knew that. We could see through the grilles on the door and we hadn’t seen the body go past. Yet he wouldn’t answer us and we feared... madness. And something did happen in the dark, for the next year, when the guards covered His Highness with the blanket and dragged him out of his cell, he was different. He didn’t fight. His fear was gone.”

With an insight that proved she knew Rainger far better than she wished to, she said, “When he begged for his life, the worst had happened.”

“Exactly. His Highness had reached the bottom.” Marlon’s face grew hard and twisted. “That day, Count duBelle taunted Rainger with the cane, then with a whip. Rainger did nothing. Said nothing. He simply looked at him and the expression on his face—sometime in the last year, he had become a king. Nobility shone from him. Count duBelle went berserk. He beat the clothes off His Highness. He beat his back until the blood ran and we couldn’t see the skin. He beat his buttocks. He beat his legs. Cezar and I were fighting our chains, begging duBelle to stop, then trying to stop him. The guards were muttering—it was even too much for them. We knew all Rainger had to do was beg or cry and Count duBelle would have quit. But Rainger wouldn’t say a word.” Anguish tumbled from Marlon. “And he was conscious. His eyes were open, but... he just didn’t care.”