He didn’t like wanting her, but he was a pragmatist. If he had to be locked away, better to have a gaoler who moved with gratifying sensuality, whose downy skin courtesans would covet, whose eyes challenged and beckoned. In a meditative tone, he said, “Although you’re not the kind of mistress I prefer. I prefer a woman of submission whose life is devoted to making me happy. Yet your green eyes are quite out of the ordinary. I fear I would not have been able to resist taking you.”
Those green eyes narrowed dangerously.
“With the color and the exotic slant,” he continued, “they’re almost like a cat’s.”
Her hands curled into catlike claws. “Do you always catalog a woman’s assets aloud to her?”
“Never.” He poked at her with a verbal stick. “But I’m bored, indolent, without honor and scruples. Remember?”
When he threw her own words in her face, her eyes sparked and again he thought Lucretia Borgia must have had eyes that color. The color of poison.
This was a small retaliation for the humiliation of being chained, but he enjoyed himself excessively. “I suspect your hair, when unbound, is glorious.”
As he knew would happen, she lifted her hands to cup the thick black braid she had wound in a chignon at the back of her head. With that simple movement, she exposed her figure, her vanity, and most important, a womanly instinct she could not subdue.
He took ruthless advantage of the view, and scrutinized her curves. The backside he had earlier admired was matched by a small, high bosom and a narrow waist. “You have a fine figure.” Fortunately for his bored, unscrupulous self, she really did. “Although your gown is not at all the thing.” And what an understatement that was.
The style of the gown could have been his grandmother’s, with a gathered skirt, a bodice that was tight around her waist and up under her bosom, where it gathered it soft folds. The neckline was modest and made more modest by a draped shoulder scarf that hid even the hint of cleavage, and he found himself enmeshed in a flash of fantasy that involved his removing the scarf and sliding his hand inside the bodice…He caught himself and half smiled. Well, she was attractive and he was bored.
She suddenly realized that she posed for him—was it his smile?—for she dropped her hands to her side. “In what scenario of yours would I not be insulted to hear your judgment of my figure or my clothing?”
“As long as I remain here, I promise I’ll tell you my opinion.” His smile chilled. “It’s the least I can do to reward your hospitality.”
He could see she didn’t like that—that he would dare to turn the tables on her and speak his mind.
One morning spent without seeing the sun, chained by his ankle, had given him a new appreciation for the prisoners in Newgate. And the idea of spending an entire day here, an evening, a week, alone in a dim cellar with nothing to do, made him want to claw his way through the walls or go on a rampage that broke every piece of furniture in this room. But trying to claw his way through the walls would do no more than offer this wretched Amy creature amusement, and he’d already lost his temper once today. That resulted in a painful testing of the damned manacle’s strength when it jerked him off his feet. When he’d examined it, he’d seen a manacle that showed its age, but was stout enough to resist his every effort to knock it or saw it or pull it apart. He was definitely not going to test the health of his leg again. It still throbbed from the fall.
He wondered if she would get disgusted enough with him to let him go…but no, not this steely-eyed cat creature. Any woman who had imagined and executed so daring a scheme wouldn’t give way over a few words.
Instead she cast an eye about the room. With a grunt, she lifted the edge of the long table and dragged it so that she could sit at the end opposite his cot and be out of his reach. “Did you think I’d be shocked by your mention of a mistress and run away?”
“No.” He watched her lift the heavy weight and realized that for all her slight figure, she was strong. “You don’t hide your face or gasp in horror.”
“Every woman knows a man like you keeps a mistress.” Satisfied with the placement of the table, she dusted her hands. “Miss Victorine knows you keep a mistress.”
“But Miss Victorine would pretend she did not, and most certainly she wouldn’t allow the word to pass her lips. She’s a lady.” He watched Amy closely to see how the insult affected her.
It appeared to affect her not at all. “So she is.”
“You, on the other hand, may speak like a lady, but you haven’t been protected from the realities of life. As I talk to you, I learn so much about you.”
“What do you mean? Why should you care to learn about me?” She was disconcerted. Indignant.
He sat up slowly, allowing her to look him over, to contemplate how very much larger he was than she. “When I’m free and I capture you and send you to your hanging, I would like to know the type of female you are, so in the future I may avoid that female.”
If the mention of hanging terrified her, if his gathering of forces impressed her, she hid it beneath a nonchalance that indicated confidence—or stupidity. And he feared it wasn’t stupidity. “I can almost promise that you’ll never meet another female like me.”
“You imagine you’re unique?” More and more fascinating. Most ladies he knew did everything in their power to look like everyone else, be like everyone else.
“I don’t imagine anything. Imagination is a luxury I can’t afford.”
So. She was a pragmatist. Avery young pragmatist. “I have an imagination. As I look at you, it’s quite active.”
“Imagining my hanging, my lord?”
“No. Imagining you as my mistress.” He laughed aloud at the derision she displayed—and at the truthful, unguarded moment when her gaze flew to his and recognized the truth.
He was a man. She was a woman. They were alone together with no chaperone, talking of matters no ordinary gentleman and lady would discuss. No matter how much they disliked each other, the primal urge sparked between them—and he knew that with a little coddling, the spark could become a roaring blaze.
The question was—did she know? He couldn’t tell. She wasn’t an ordinary doxy, nor was she the typical servant, and certainly she wasn’t a real lady. She eluded his analysis because he’d never had to work at understanding a woman.
From the first moment he’d stepped into society, ladies and opera singers alike had bent their wills to his. They took care not to bother him with their own desires, their own needs. If he needed quiet, they didn’t chatter. If he wished for song, they played and warbled. Not once had he had to bother deciphering a woman’s purpose, for her purpose was always the same—to please him.
Now an enigma stood before him, one who had already outfoxed him.
That would never do. He would beat her at her game. “As a rule,” he drawled, “I don’t take mistresses under the age of twenty. There’s a marvelous enthusiasm but no finesse. No skill.”
She didn’t flinch at his brutal honesty. “I can imagine that would distract from your search for new forms of depravity.”
“So while I can spin my fantasy whenever I wish, I’m afraid you wouldn’t do for me.”
Sarcasm dripped from her every word. “You’re good at imagining, so pray imagine my heartbreak.”
So. She wasn’t yet twenty.
He was twenty-nine.
The need to outsmart this trifling adversary grew more imperative.
“The more I know you, the more I wonder who you are.” He counted off her qualities on his fingers. “You have the accent of a lady. You dress like a peasant. You shoot like a marksman. You view the world cynically, yet you venerate Miss Victorine. Your face and body would be the envy of a young goddess, yet you sport an air of innocence. And that innocence hides a criminal mind and the cheek to pull off the most outrageous of felonies.”
“So I’m Athena, the goddess of war.”
“Definitely not Diana, the goddess of virginity.”
&nbs
p; As the last shot hit home, he saw Amy’s mask slip. Blood rushed to her face. She bit her lip and looked toward the stairs as if only now realizing she could have—should have—left this whole discussion behind.
He laughed softly, triumphantly. “Or perhaps I’m mistaken. Perhaps you have more in common with Diana than I thought.”
“Pray remember, sir, that Diana was also the goddess of the hunt.” Amy leaned across the table, intent on making her point—but the blush still played across her cheeks. “She carried a bow and arrow, and she always bagged her quarry. Have a look at the bullet hole in the rock behind you and remember my skill and my cynicism. For we do know things about each other. I know that if you escape, you’ll make sure I’m hung from a gibbet. You know that if I catch you escaping, I’ll shoot you through the heart. Remember that as you cast longing glances toward the window.” With a flourish, she picked up the breakfast tray and walked up the stairs.
Jermyn had learned something else about Amy.
She liked to have the last word.
Chapter 7
Who was she? Where was she from?
At the top of the stairs, in the kitchen, Amy stopped and clutched the silver cross that hung on a necklace around her neck. The necklace that united her with her country and her sisters.
Lost. All lost.
Who was she? Where was she from?
Northcliff demanded answers as if he had the right to know. That attitude Amy was used to facing. That attitude she always defied.
But never had she met a man who evinced the interest to subtly probe her mind and discover her secrets. She didn’t like that. She didn’t like him. She didn’t trust him with his open talk about mistresses and his frank admission of fantasies.
About her!
Who was she? Where was she from?
She knew very well she was attractive. She’d known that since she was fourteen. A good number of the years she’d spent on the road with her sister Clarice had been spent transforming her through the use of cosmetics from a drab into a female worth a second look. But Clarice was the handsome daughter. She’d been the one who could charm every man and woman in any village and sell their products and keep them fed. It was Clarice everyone adored. Not Amy.
But to hear Lord Northcliff inform her he would have moved any obstacle to have her as his mistress…
He was jesting. Or a single day without indulging in debauchery had left him ready to be pleased by any female at hand.
But if that was true, what kind of lustful beast would two days create?
And why did she feel a warmth within her, a melting, a stretching of all that was instinctive and female?
Who was she? Where was she from?
Dear Lord. She hardly knew anymore.
Beaumontagne, twelve years ago
With a reckless glance behind her, seven-year-old Amy skidded across the marble floor in the royal antechamber. She flung open the door of the wardrobe. A tall, broad, ancient piece of fine furniture, it housed the king’s ceremonial capes. In a desperate hurry yet equally desperate to keep quiet, she dived inside. The wood creaked beneath her, and she froze. Because if she didn’t keep quiet…
Footsteps in the corridor.
The light, sharp sound of high heels accompanied by the tap of a cane.
Firm, heavy footsteps, several sets.
“That child is incorrigible.” Grandmamma’s voice. The Dowager Queen Claudia. Coming closer. Entering the room.
It was dark in here. It smelled of cedar. And Amy’s heart beat so hard, she feared Grandmamma could hear the pounding.
With her long, skinny nose and uncanny accuracy, Grandmamma sniffed out Amy’s larks. Would she somehow know Amy was there?
“Do you know what your youngest daughter has done now?” Grandmamma snapped.
“Has she once again slid down the grand banister and landed on our master of the horse?” Amy’s father, King Raimund, sounded patient.
“No, sire.” Sir Alerio whispered like a man who constantly worked with edgy beasts and took care never to startle them. “Princess Amy hasn’t knocked me over for a fortnight.”
Moving with great care among the velvet and silk and fur, Amy put her eye to the knothole in the wood. A cold rain streaked the windows. Footmen moved silently from one candle to another, lighting each one in a vain attempt to alleviate the dim grayness. The usual group of courtiers surrounded her father. Lord Octavio, the lord chamberlain. Sir Alerio, the master of the horse. Lord Carsten, the castle steward. Lord Silas, the prime minister.
Except for Sir Alerio, Amy didn’t like the courtiers. Sorcha said they were important, but Amy thought they were staid old men with droopy chins and droopy noses and no equanimity when faced with three active young princesses.
“I’m glad to hear that, Alerio.” Poppa wasn’t as tall as the other men, and he carried an impressive weight around his middle. His luxuriant mustache and sideburns gave his round face a jolly expression, and his purple cape provided a grand sense of royalty.
Amy loved her poppa. She loved him more than anyone else in the world, and right now, she wanted his arms around her. If only the others would go away. If only she could put her head against his shoulder and have him make her world right.
“So, Queen Claudia.” Poppa removed his crown and placed it on the purple cushion Lord Carsten offered. The footman in charge of the crown whisked it away to the safe place, accompanied by two other footmen and Lord Carsten. “Has Amy again climbed the tree along the drive and dropped into the duchess’s carriage?”
Faint chuckles erupted from the courtiers.
Grandmamma turned on them and frowned, and the chuckles became faint, apologetic coughs.
No one could confront Grandmamma’s wrath with composure. She was gaunt and tall, with fierce blue eyes that pierced right through to Amy’s sinful soul.
“When Amy dropped into that carriage, she made the duchess faint!” Grandmamma said.
The gentlemen of the antechamber clucked like a bunch of peevish old hens.
“But she did land exactly in the seat opposite the duchess, and you must admit that is no small feat,” the king reminded her.
Besides, the duchess faints all the time. Amy sat back on her heels in the stuffy wardrobe and nodded fiercely in the dark. That’s why the duchess was so much fun to tease. The fainting, and the fact she was a widow who had designs on Poppa’s hand in marriage. If she kept visiting the palace on flimsy pretexts, Amy would land right on her next time.
“The duchess has such a delicate constitution, one is forced to wonder if she is entirely truthful about her reaction,” Poppa said gently.
Amy barely caught back her shouted agreement.
“That is hardly the point,” Grandmamma said.
Amy stuck out her lower lip.
“What did Amy do this time?” Poppa asked.
Amy was surprised to hear a note of weariness in her father’s voice, almost as if he couldn’t bear another crisis.
Was he tired of dealing with his troublesome daughter? With her?
“She blackened Prince Rainger’s eye!”
The silence that followed was so full of portent, Amy leaned forward to put her eye to the knothole again—and accidentally bumped the door. With a click, the latch opened. The door swung open. Amy scurried to catch the edge with her fingers. The anteroom flashed before her gaze. Lord Octavio, Lord Alerio and Lord Silas stood with their backs to her, facing the king. Grandmamma paced away from the little group, her cane tapping on the floor. Only Poppa could see Amy. His gaze flashed toward the wardrobe, but he didn’t react.
He seemed preoccupied with her crime.
“She blackened Prince Rainger’s eye!” Grandmamma repeated, as if the report was so dreadful it needed to be reiterated.
Amy got the door closed with barely a sound. She leaned back among the cloaks and calmed her racing heart. It was stuffy in here, but so much better than the alternative—an open door and exposure.
The
silence drew out so long that Amy at last cautiously looked out again.
Grandmamma’s blue dress was without wrinkle. Her white chignon rested in perfect order on her head. Her thin lips pressed together as she considered her son. “Do you understand, Raimund?”
“I believe I do. You’re saying that my seven-year-old daughter punched—I assume she punched?” He looked to Grandmamma for guidance.
“What difference does it make?” Grandmamma demanded. Then, “Yes. Yes, she punched him.”
“My seven-year-old daughter punched Prince Rainger—”
“My godson!”
The courtiers backed away from the scene as if fearing incineration.
“Yes. I know who he is. Rainger is your godson and my eldest daughter’s betrothed. He is also sixteen years old, and you’re saying my seven-year-old daughter punched him in the face hard enough to blacken his eye.” King Raimund laughed briefly and rubbed his forehead with his fingers. “What a fighter she is!”
“I did not bring this to your attention so you could admire the child!” Grandmamma’s voice did not rise with irritation. Rather it grew colder.
Amy huddled back in the wardrobe among the ermine trimmings. She shivered.
“No, of course you didn’t. And I’m not admiring her.” Poppa laughed again. Cackled, in fact. “I’m wondering what we should do to toughen up Prince Rainger.”
“Toughen up…! I never!”
Amy had never heard Grandmamma sputter before, and she rather enjoyed it.
Poppa got control of himself. Stopped laughing. “You have my word.” Putting his arm around Grandmamma, he led her toward the door. “I’ll take of the matter.”
The gentlemen of the antechamber all nodded pontifically.
“But Raimund.” Grandmamma’s thin, penciled-in eyebrows winged skyward. “I’ve always taken care of disciplining the girls.”
“You brought me this problem. Obviously you want me to handle this,” Poppa said. “I’ll take care of the matter.”
Oh, no. Amy sat back in the wardrobe. Poppa was going to take care of the matter, that matter being her. He had never taken care of the matter before. Now Poppa was going to…oh, no.
The Barefoot Princess Page 6