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 firep
lace 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.
Chapter 6
With great care, Amy opened the cellar door. With ladylike demeanor, she descended the stairs. And as her reward, she had the satisfaction of catching His Mighty Lordship sitting on the cot, his knee crooked sideways and his ankle pulled toward him, cursing at the manacle.
“I got it out of your own castle,” she said.
Northcliff jumped like a lad caught at a mischief. “My…castle?” At once he realized what she meant. “Here on the island, you mean. The old ancestral pile.”
“Yes.” She strolled farther into the room. “I went down into the dungeons, crawled around in among the spider webs and the skeletons of your family’s enemies—”
“Oh, come on.” He straightened his leg. “There aren’t any skeletons.”
“No,” she admitted.
“We had them removed years ago.”
For one instant, she was shocked. So his family had been ruthless murderers!
Then she realized he was smirking. The big, pompous jackass was making a jest of her labors. “If I could have found two manacles that were in good shape, I’d have locked both your legs to the wall.”
“Why stop there? Why not my hands, too?” He moved his leg to make the chain clink loudly. “Think of your satisfaction at the image of my starving, naked body chained to the cold stone—”
“Starving?” She cast a knowledgeable eye at the empty breakfast tray, then allowed her lips to curve into a sarcastic smile.
“You’d love a look at my naked body though, wouldn’t you?” He fixed his gaze on her, and for one second she thought she saw a lick of golden flame in his light brown eyes. “Isn’t that what this is all about?”
“I beg your pardon.” She took a few steps closer to him—although she remained well out of range of his long arms. “What are you talking about?”
“I spurned you, didn’t I?”
“What?” What? What was he going on about?
“You’re a girl from my past, an insignificant debutante I ignored at some cotillion or another. I didn’t dance with you.” He stretched out on the cot, the epitome of idle relaxation. “Or I did, but I didn’t talk to you. Or I forgot to offer you a lemonade, or—”
“I don’t believe you.” She tottered to the rocking chair and sank down. “Are you saying you think this whole kidnapping was done because you, the almighty marquess of Northcliff, treated me like a wallflower?”
“It seems unlikely I treated you like a wallflower. I have better taste than that.” He cast a critical glance up and down her workaday gown, then focused on her face. “You’re not in the common way, you must know that. With the proper gown and your hair swirled up in that style you women favor”—he twirled his fingers about his head—“you would be handsome. Perhaps even lovely.”
She gripped the arms of the chair. Even his compliments sounded like insults! “We’ve never before met, my lord.”
As if she had not spoken, he continued, “But I don’t remember you, so I must have ignored you and hurt your feelings—”
“Damn!” Exploding out of the chair, she paced behind it, gripping the back hard enough to break the wood. His arrogance was amazing. Invulnerable! “Haven’t you heard a single word I’ve said to you? Are you so conceited you can’t conceive of a woman who isn’t interested in you as a suitor?”
“It’s not conceit when it’s the truth.” He sounded quite convinced.
She couldn’t believe him. He imagined he was gold-plated. “I’ve told you the truth. We’ve kidnapped you as just retribution for your thievery and your neglect.”
“I am not a thief.” He spoke through his teeth, so at least he had enough honor left that he was insulted. “I did not steal anything from Miss Victorine, and even if I did, what difference would it make? A beading machine? Of what value is that?”
Oh, he was so ignorant. So smug. Amy wanted to put him in a factory and let him stand there for fourteen hours a day making lace while cotton flew threw the air so thick it choked the lungs. For just one day, she wanted him to work for a living.
Taking Miss Victorine’s ball of twine and shuttle from the table, Amy dangled the tiny bit of beading and lace before him. “Ladies pay for beaded lace for their gowns and their reticules. The designs are intricate and difficult to learn. Do you know how long it takes to create an inch of beaded lace?”
“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.” He couldn’t have sounded more bored.
“Miss Victorine is a very accomplished, and it takes her two hours.”
He pulled a long, scoffing face. “You exaggerate.”
“Do I?” Amy was starting to have fun. “Let’s see how quickly you can bead.”
“I do not bead.”
“Of course not. You’re a man and a lord. You have better things to do. Ride, box, hunt, smoke, drink, dance…” She glanced around the cellar. “What are you doing now?”
His white teeth snapped together like a shackled dog’s. “I can read…if you have a book.”
“Oh, we have a book. We have several. They’re old, well-read, and treasured. What we don’t have is money for precious beeswax candles.”
“Are you saying tonight I’ll sit here in the dark?” He sat up, his feigned relaxation gone.
“I’m saying Miss Victorine will sacrifice her lamp to you rather than allow you to sit in the dark, but it’s a dim, sputtering light at best, not at all what you’re used to. That’s why we bead. Once you learn, you can do it in bad light.”
“How difficult can it be if you can do it in the dark?” He laughed with light contempt. “But of course. It’s women’s work. It’s not difficult at all.”
It was obvious he held her gender in disdain, and not the condescending disdain so many men displayed. His contempt was pointed and angry, and she pitied any woman he chose as his wife. “Don’t be afraid, my lord. You needn’t worry you’ll make a fool of yourself.” Amy shook the small piece of lace and beads again. “We’ll start you out with the simplest design.”
He ignored her with arrogant indifference, slithering back on the cot like a snake settling onto a warm rock. “Tell me the truth. Did I break your girlish heart?”
“My lord, I don’t have a girlish heart to break.” She cast a critical eye over his lounging figure. “And if I did, it would not break over one such as you. Bored, indolent, without honor or scruples—”
“So I take by your scorn you really weren’t ever a debutante.” He had never been so insulted in his life, and by this girl, this creature…. Who was she who dared imprison and disparage the marquess of Northcliff?
Without the key for the manacle or a weapon for enforcement of his will, he couldn’t escape, so he bent his mind to discovering who this Amy creature truly was. If he discovered her weaknesses, he could escape. If she had no weaknesses, at least he would be entertained.
He lolled back on the cot, consciously cultivating the very picture of lazy decadence…because he enjoyed watching Miss Upright-and-Righteous get that sour-lemon look on her face. “Then who are you? Where are you from?”
“I’m Miss Amy Rosabel and I’m”—she hesitated, smiling slightly—“not from here.”
“No. You’re from Beaumontagne, I believe Miss Victorine said.”
He had the satisfaction of seeing Amy’s eyes widen in horror. “She told you that?”
“How else woul
d I know?” Was she guilty because she had lied to Miss Victorine about her origins? Or was she appalled that he had discovered the truth? “You do have a trace of an accent, but I don’t recognize it.”
“What else did she tell you?” Amy leaned across the table at him. “What else?”
“Nothing else. Why?”
“For no reason.” Amy leaned back. “I just thought—”
“You thought she had betrayed all your secrets.” At the revelation, he almost purred with delight, and he experienced more delight when she betrayed herself with the smallest shake of the head. “Or…not all your secrets, but the one big one.”
“I assure you, if I have a secret, it will do you no good to know of it.” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
“Not while I’m chained, anyway. But it gives my mind a puzzle to work on. Let me think, what do I know about Beaumontagne?” He delved in his mind for every tidbit of information about a country he had previously dismissed as insignificant. “There was a revolution there about ten years ago. The king was killed in battle. The country has been recovered by the dowager queen, but she’s so old, speculation exists she may be controlled by someone behind the scenes. A usurper of some kind.”
Amy folded her arms over her stomach as she listened.
So he was giving her a gut ache. Good. “There were children, but they disappeared during the furor and are assumed dead so even if the queen is in charge, there’s no one to inherit the throne.” As he thought, he tapped his lips with his finger. “And I suppose you might be”—he watched her tense—“a refugee.”
“I might be. Or I might be a wonderful actress who has turned my talents to imagining a past for myself that doesn’t exist.”
“Not an actress, I don’t think. If you had been, I would have moved every obstacle to make you my mistress.”
“You really are a swine.” Her lips might sneer, yet still they promised sensual pleasure.
“And you can’t have been one of my mistresses. I would remember that.” In fact, the whole of Amy sang to him like a siren luring a sailor onto the rocks.
The Barefoot Princess Page 5