by Maya Banks
When she was attired in the breeches, she took the discarded dress and tore long strips from the skirts. Wrapping the strips around her breasts, she secured the ends in front and tucked them underneath the binding. She threw the shirt over her head and shoved it into her breeches.
Bending over the small cot, she fumbled in the linens for the small piece of rolled up parchment she had loosened from the hem of her dress. She pulled at the collar of her shirt, reaching down to tuck the map underneath the tight binding over her breasts. She picked up her royal insignia ring, her hand closing reverently over the object of her heritage. Dropping it into a small pouch, she drew tight the strings and stuffed it just inside the waist of her pants.
They were all she had left in the form of valuables. Most of her money had been spent for information about Davide. And then, in one of life’s sick little ironies, she had read of his death in a newspaper of all things. Tucked away in black and white, seemingly unimportant, a mere tidbit of interest to the English.
She spared a quick glance over the room, making sure she left nothing to indicate her identity. After looking down at her ragged fingernails, she raised her fingers to her mouth and chewed the longer nails to a more acceptable length. As a last measure, she stuffed her hair into a floppy hat and strode from the room.
Careful to temper her walk, she mimicked a young boy’s stride as she headed down the street. She needed a place to think. Somewhere she could formulate a plan to get back home.
Instinctively, she walked in the direction of the docks. It would take her hours to get there on foot, but if she could hide on a boat, as she had done when she left Leaudor, she could gain valuable time to plot her course.
For now she must get as far away from Lord Merrick as possible.
With each block she passed, she kept careful watch to make sure no one was following her or that she drew undue notice. But then she looked no different from the other desperately poor citizens who hurried by in an effort to keep warm.
She blew on her nearly frozen hands then rubbed them on her breeches. Her feet were numb in the too small boots she’d stuffed her bare feet into, making walking agony.
An hour into her journey, she suddenly stopped. Her panic had nearly caused her to make a foolish mistake. Quickly turning around, she hurried in the opposite direction. Think Isabella, think! The docks would be the first place they would look for her. There were likely any number of people keeping a watch out for her, just waiting for her to board a ship.
As determined as she was to return home, she couldn’t afford to act with haste. And she’d allowed the earl to completely fluster her.
She chose smaller streets away from the main stretches. The cold was creeping into every pore of her body. She had to find a place where she would be safe for the time being. Some place warm.
God, why wouldn’t her mind function? Common sense and practicality had long been her strong points, but now they faded into obscurity as she struggled to figure out a plan to go home.
Unable to take another step on her frozen feet, she sank to the ground in a nearby alley, praying no one would take notice of the fact she was a woman. Even the guise of a young boy wouldn’t help her in this section of town, as she had quickly learned during her sojourn here. There were just as many ruffians who’d take pleasure in a boy as they would a woman.
Hugging her knees up to her chest, she rocked back and forth, trying to infuse warmth into her body. She laid her head down on her knees. Exhaustion had a firm grip on her. It called to her, lulled her deeper into its lair.
Think, she ordered, shaking off the fingers of despair. She couldn’t take a ship. It was too obvious. She couldn’t very well march to the palace and demand an audience with the prince. Someone in the royal ranks had already betrayed her once, maybe even the regent himself. She wouldn’t give him a second chance.
She’d have to go it alone. Dover wasn’t a possibility. She’d come into England through Dover and the ports there would be watched. And she’d be expected to go north in an attempt to cut down the voyage time to Leaudor.
South. That was it. She’d head south to Brighton. She could pawn her ring and use the proceeds to hire a ship to Leaudor. It would be risky, but if she offered enough money, she was certain she could find a willing captain.
Feeling a bit better about her plan of action, she closed her eyes for a moment. She just needed to rest a few minutes. Then she’d figure out a way to get to Brighton. Her eyes fluttered against her cheeks as she became numb to the cold. Yes, just a few minutes of rest.
The wind howled around her, lifting the hat from her head and blasting a shot of cold air down her neck. From the back recesses of her mind, alarm rose at the idea of her hair being exposed, but the allure of sleep drew her further into its embrace.
* * *
It began to rain and the wind increased, driving the biting cold through his coat as if he wore nothing at all. Simon retreated from the docks, his concern increasing as he remembered the lack of protection the princess’s meager wardrobe offered her.
He had gone immediately to the room she had been staying in only to find it empty. The only thing that had remained was the torn remnants of her dress. Frantically, he had searched the immediate area then went to the docks thinking she would attempt to secure passage home. But the missing princess had other ideas, apparently.
As he climbed into his carriage, he directed the driver to start a slow circle of the area. He would start with each street in a large radius around the tenement she had stayed in. She couldn’t have gone too far in the time since she had escaped his house.
He had to hurry. Darkness would be falling soon, and he had little chance of finding her in the shadowy alleys of the rookery. By dawn she could feasibly be miles away and with it his chance of finding her again. That is if she survived the night in London’s criminal-infested district.
As the carriage slowly rolled up one street and down another, he kept a trained eye on every movement, every person. He saw things most others would overlook, but then he’d had years of practice. In his line of work, a careful eye could mean the difference between life and death.
As the shadows grew longer, his impatience increased. She should be safely ensconced at the royal palace by now under the protection of the regent. Instead she had run and could even now be in serious danger.
The idea of her coming to harm tightened his gut and made his resolve to find her even stronger. She didn’t know it yet, but he was her best hope of remaining alive.
“Stop!” he shouted. He was out of the carriage before it came to a complete stop. He sprinted into the alley, praying what he thought he saw was reality.
Curled into a tight ball lay the princess, her ebony hair streaming about her. She was clad in trousers and a man’s shirt, but her hair was the dead giveaway. To the side lay a tattered hat, likely the completion of her disguise.
He knelt beside her, his concern growing as he took in her pallor and felt the coldness of her skin. He shook her gently, but she didn’t stir. Fear settled in the pit of his stomach. Scooping her up in his arms, he hurried back to the carriage and shouted the direction of his town home.
During the ride, he wrapped his coat around her and rubbed her arms, trying desperately to warm her. Her breathing was shallow, her chest barely rising with the effort. She looked vulnerable and defenseless in his arms.
The bones in her face were daintily structured, her lips full and the loveliest shade of rose. Her dark lashes rested on the faint smudges that signaled her fatigue. She was a woman who made a man instinctively want to protect her, a feeling that did not sit well with him at all. In his position, he couldn’t afford such a weakness. The sooner she was out of his care and safely delivered to the regent, the better.
Moments later they pulled to a stop in front of his home, and he hastened inside, bearing her slight form with him. He barked a series of orders to Timmons and Mrs. Turnbull, and they s
curried away to do his bidding.
Bypassing the room he’d locked her in earlier, he shouldered his way into his room and laid her on the bed. A fire blazed in the hearth, and the warmth seeped into his bones. He only hoped it would warm her quickly enough.
“We should summon the physician,” Mrs. Turnbull said as she bustled into the room with a tray of hot soup and tea.
“No, we can’t,” Simon murmured.
She looked at him aghast.
“I needn’t remind you that in my line of work discretion is of the utmost importance.”
“But the poor little mite is near frozen to death!”
“You’ve plenty of medicinal skill. I trust in your abilities. I’m sure you will have Beth in the pink of health before the morning.”
The older woman’s cheeks reddened slightly, and a pleased smile spread across her face. “Yes, well, of course I can. I’ll require some privacy. It wouldn’t do for you to remain.”
She stared pointedly at him, and with a sigh, he rose. “I’ll be below stairs in my office. Summon me if you have need of anything. If she regains consciousness, notify me at once. And do not, under any circumstances, leave her alone,” he warned.
In his study, he poured a brandy and stood warming himself by the fire. The princess had proven a much more difficult task than he had thought. In fact, he had imagined her falling into his arms in relief and begging for his protection. Instead, she had run from him.
A frown tugged the corners of his mouth. Gaining her trust could prove impossible. And her trust was essential if he was to carry out his mission. England’s security was the uppermost priority. And until he could discover the reason behind her family’s assassination, he could ill afford to be remiss in his duty.
“My lord, Mr. Kirkland is here to see you,” Timmons called from the door.
“Show him in.”
Simon rubbed the back of his neck and straightened his stance as he waited for Kirk. Seconds later, Kirk strode through the door, a frown marring his face.
“Where have you been?” Kirk demanded.
“It’s a long story,” Simon muttered. “What news do you bring from the palace?”
“His Majesty wants you to present the princess to him in the morning.”
Simon grimaced. It meant she would be spending the night under his roof, and he’d get little sleep making sure she didn’t escape again.
“Inform His Majesty that I will personally present Her Highness in the morning.”
Kirk nodded. “I’ll convey your message to him directly.”
He turned and strode purposefully out of the room, leaving Simon standing by the fire.
Simon turned away and set his drink on the desk. Whether Mrs. Turnbull allowed it or not, he was going up to see how the princess was faring. It was time they had a very frank discussion.
He walked up the stairs to his bedchamber and knocked softly on the door. Not waiting for an answer, he opened the door and eased in.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” Mrs. Turnbull scolded from her perch on the bed beside the princess.
“How is she?” Simon asked, ignoring the woman’s remonstrations.
“Ask her yourself.”
Slowly the princess’s head turned, and she looked at him with her ocean eyes. He could read nothing in their depths, no clue as to what she was thinking. He crossed the room to stand at the bedside. “Excuse us for a few moments, Mrs. Turnbull.”
Mrs. Turnbull started to protest, but he silenced her with a stern look. Grumbling beneath her breath, she took her leave, but left the door open.
He turned his attention back to the princess. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” she said tightly.
“Then, Your Highness, I think we have much to discuss.”
Chapter Three
Isabella blinked in surprise but quickly attempted to mask any reaction she had to his statement. Her heart beat thunderously in a rapid staccato, but she forced a note of puzzlement into her voice. “My lord, I fear you have been more affected by the cold than I. Why do you address me so?”
“Let’s not prevaricate, Your Highness. Too much is at stake. I know who you are. I’ve known since before I intercepted you on the bridge.”
He stared at her, his earlier air of harmlessness gone. Intense brown eyes, nearly as dark as his hair, assessed her broodingly. She shivered involuntarily. The man who she was so confident she could escape from earlier was gone. In his place stood a formidable adversary, one capable of stripping past the layers of deception she had constructed.
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but I feel you must have mistaken me for someone else.”
He sat down on the bed beside her, and it took every ounce of self-discipline not to shrink away from him. “It is imperative that we indulge in honest dialogue. Not only is your life at stake, but the security of my country could very well be in jeopardy.”
“Are you threatening me?” Forgotten for a moment was her choking fear, and in its place a simmering anger took control. She would not be bullied or intimidated. She had lost far too much to cower like a hapless maiden. If this Englishman thought she was a weak, helpless woman, then he was in for quite a shock.
His face hardened. “Indeed not, Your Highness. I seek to protect you from those who would do you harm. I should have been more forthcoming, but I didn’t want to frighten you until I was absolutely certain of your identity.”
“Forgive me if I don’t fall at your feet in gratitude,” she said sharply. “I trust no one.”
“In your position, neither would I.”
“Enough of your coaxing. If you feel I am the princess you speak of, there is nothing I can do to persuade you differently. It matters not to me who you think I am. And while I appreciate your aid, I must take my leave at once.”
“I never said I thought you were a princess,” he said mildly.
Damn her slip, and damn his quick pick-up on her mistake. She looked hastily around the room, assessing her possibilities.
“I wouldn’t advise going out this window,” he said with a slight smile. “The rose bushes below would not afford a nice landing.”
“You intend to keep me prisoner then?”
“If necessary.”
She raised an eyebrow. “By whose authority are you holding me against my will?” Her mind raced as she sought to distract him with her questioning. How could she escape? This man could very well be sent by the regent to do away with her. But why would he have delayed? He could have easily killed her before, but instead, he had seemed more concerned with her welfare.
Unless he wanted to extract information from her before killing her. She set her lips in a firm line. He clearly had no idea who he was dealing with. He would get nothing from her, but neither would he be successful in his attempt to end the rule of the Chastaines. She was queen now, and with her dying breath, she would serve her people and continue the legacy of her father’s reign.
“Clearly we’ve gotten off to a very bad start. I intend you no harm. Quite the contrary. I have been desperate to find you so that I could keep you safe. I only regret that I did not find your brother in time.”
Raw agony ripped through her chest. Her swift intake of breath made her lightheaded, and she bit the inside of her cheek to control the rush of tears to her eyes. For several long seconds, she struggled to regain control of her emotions.
“What do you know about my brother?” She meant it to be a demand, but it came out as a plea, and she winced at the pain she heard in her voice.
To his credit, he didn’t taunt her sudden reversal of denying her identity. His eyes were soft with pity. He reached a hand out to cover hers, and she yanked back as a warm sensation raced up her arm.
She looked guardedly at him, waiting for his answer, dreading what he had to say.
“I only know he was killed as he got off a ship in Harwich.”
His tone reflected sympa
thy, but then it could very well be an act to gain her trust.
“We had thought you both had fled to America, but when we found the prince’s body, we realized you were probably here.”
“Who exactly is we?” she asked, her suspicion of him growing by the minute.
“The people I work with.”
“And who would they be?”
He stared at her for a long moment as if trying to decide whether to trust her. She nearly laughed. He had nothing to fear, while she had everything to lose.
“I work with a small branch of His Majesty’s Secret Service. We take directives from the regent and have only the best interests of England as our goal. Our branch was developed by King George just after Bonaparte was named consul for life in 1802. Two years later, I was recruited and began my career with the agency.
“Our main purpose was to monitor Bonaparte’s activities and call to the attention of the crown any plots that could potentially undermine the English throne. Perhaps, you can now see why what happened in Leaudor has captured our attention.”
“Indeed,” she said bitterly. “Far be it for England to be concerned over the assassinations of the royal family if it doesn’t threaten them in some way.”
He remained silent, not defending or agreeing. She had said far too much as it was. She stole a glance at the window. Rose bushes or not, escape was paramount.
“His Highness, the prince regent, is concerned for your safety and wishes an audience with you in the morning. It is my responsibility to convey you to the palace and to see to your safety.”
She snorted. “I do hope you do not take your duty too seriously.”
He raised an eyebrow, evidently surprised by her outburst. “I’m not sure I understand your meaning.”
“Let me be clear then. I have no intention of going anywhere with you. Especially not to the palace.” She struggled to sit upright in the bed, pushing at the heavy covers. She let out a hiss of annoyance as a surge of weakness hit her, leaving her shaky and breathing heavily.