Some Enchanted Evening: The Lost Princesses #1

by Christina Dodd

  She smiled, giving him a glimpse of straight white teeth—and that mouth he planned to explore.

  Robert straightened away from the wall of the alehouse.

  Where in blazes had that thought come from?

  Hamish MacQueen was boisterous and amusing, his one arm gone in a long-ago accident in His Majesty’s Royal Navy. “Who do ye suppose she is?”

  A good question, and Robert intended to get an answer.

  “I dunna know, but I’d like t’ part her beard,” said Gilbert Wilson, his sly wit taking a wicked turn.

  “I’d like t’ give her a live sausage fer supper.” Tomas MacTavish slapped his skinny knee and cackled.

  Henry MacCulloch joined in the pastime. “I’d like t’ play dog in the doublet wi’ her.”

  All the old men cackled, remembering the days when they would have had a chance to woo a beautiful visitor. Now they were content to sit in the sun in front of the alehouse, comment on the doings of the town, and play checkers—or they had been, until she rode into town.

  Robert’s gaze narrowed on the female. He was smart enough, and in his travels had seen enough, to recognize trouble when he saw it. On the surface he appeared to be mildly interested in the doings in the square, but his every sense was alert for a trick. Indeed, he anticipated a trick. After all, the world was not so secure a place as anyone in this small village imagined. The world was full of liars and cheats, murderers, and worse. It was men like him, like Robert, who kept this place safe, and through his vigilance he would continue to do so.

  “Ye damned auld fools.” The alewife, Hughina Gray, stood with her apron wrapped around her hands and glanced between Robert and the stranger. “Canna ye see she’s na guid?”

  “I’d wager she’s verra guid,” said Tomas’s brother Benneit, and the old men laughed until they wheezed.

  “Ye shouldn’t talk so in front o’ the laird,” Hughina reproved with a sideways peep at Robert. Hughina was Robert’s age, attractive, and a widow, and she’d made it clear she had room in her bed for him.

  He hadn’t accepted the invitation. When the laird slept with the women of his lands, trouble was sure to follow, so when the urge was on him, he traveled over the hills into Trevor and visited with Lady Edmundson. She enjoyed his body and his driving sexuality without caring a crumb whether he loved her, and that made a very satisfactory arrangement for them both.

  Lately he hadn’t suffered from the urge.

  His hand crinkled the much-read letter in his pocket. He’d been too busy making plans, desperate plans, vengeful plans, and now those schemes had been set to naught because one woman failed to fulfill her promise. Damn her. Damn her to hell.

  But for the moment he was distracted as the exotic stranger circled the booths, giving everyone a chance to see her, and Robert watched his people watch her. Their expressions were suspicious or inquisitive, but she beamed them a friendly smile as if she had not a speck of intelligence.

  Her gaze found and considered the new seamstress.

  The seamstress stared back with all the hostility of a plain woman before a beauty.

  So for all her timid homeliness, Miss Rosabel had the sense the stranger did not. He glanced back at the still-guffawing old men. More sense than the men who’d lived here all their lives.

  The stranger rode right to the middle of the square, where a statue honored Robert’s ancestor, Uilleam Hepburn, who founded the town at the ford on the river. A raised platform surrounded the statue, and there she slid off her horse.

  Of course. Already Robert knew she liked to be seen.

  She tied her horse to the iron ring and lifted her saddlebags onto the platform that raised her above the multitude. The curious throng gathered. For one moment the female sobered, touched the silver cross around her neck, then took a breath and flung her arms wide. “Good people of Freya Crags, allow me to introduce myself. I am a princess in exile!”

  Robert stiffened in outrage and disbelief.

  Hughina gasped. “Oh, fer pity’s sake!”

  The female beside the statue lifted her chin and smiled blindingly. “I am Princess Clarice of the lost kingdom!”

  Hamish tucked the end of his shirt over the stump of his arm. The old soldier had his weaknesses, and a pretty woman was the main one. “Eh, a princess! We’ve got guid taste.”

  “Aye, and I’ll wager she tastes guid,” Gilbert said.

  All the old men cackled, wild with the joy of having such a colorful distraction in their sedate lives.

  Robert glanced at them, distracted by their surging excitement from the pageant in the center of the square.

  Then the larcenous wench of a princess made another outrageous claim. “I’ve come to bring youth, beauty, and joy to your lives!”

  His head snapped back toward the royal minx. The words of his aide, Waldemar, came back to him so clearly, Waldemar might almost have been standing beside him, speaking into his ear. Lor’ love ye, Cap’n, there’s ne’er a person what falls into yer life without a purpose. Ye just ’ave t’ discover wat that is, and use ’em like the instruments they are, and always ye’ll get yer way, see if ye don’t.

  And with the lightning-quick planning he had developed in the army, Robert realized why this female had arrived in his town, and what purpose she would serve. Yes, he would use her like the instrument she was. She would do as he instructed because she had no choice, and yes, he would get his way.

  Fortified with resolve, Robert made his way through the crowd toward the statue, and the princess.

  At long last, justice would be served.

  Two

  If ye canna see the bright side o’ life, polish the dull side.

  —THE OLD MEN OF FREYA CRAGS

  Princess Clarice Jayne Marie Nicole Lilly took a breath and waited as the curious throng surged forward.

  They stared at her, silent and dreary, dressed in brown or black. Here and there she could see a flash of red or blond hair, but the women wore scarves to cover their heads and the men wore hats. The place was clearly prosperous, yet she saw not one smile, not one colorful gown or frivolous hair ribbon. It was as if somehow they’d lost their spirit, as if they couldn’t see God’s good sunshine or smell the flowers sold in bunches in the stalls.

  It was true what they’d said in England. The Scots were dour and drab. These people needed her, needed what she had to offer.

  Again she rubbed the silver cross that hung around her neck. The cross was supposed to bring her luck—a luck that had signally failed in the last few months. Perhaps it was because the worry that continually nagged at her had turned to desperation, and the desperation seeped through her usual confident facade to color her voice, her smile, her poise. That was why she had crossed the border into Scotland; her welcome in England had worn thin, and she had to make a living.

  She couldn’t fail. Too much depended on her.

  Everything depended on her.

  With the skill of a born mimic, she allowed the slightest Scottish accent to slide into her voice. “Good people of Freya Crags, I can make a plain girl beautiful. I can cure her spots. I can bring a blush to her pale cheeks and make her the object of every man’s attentions. Of course, I can do the same for any gentleman who needs a bit of help in the romance department. But, ladies”—she winked broadly—“don’t you find that a little soap makes even the ugliest man irresistible?”

  A few of the older women grinned and nudged their men. The men grumbled and looked sullen.

  She smiled at them. She always smiled at them, no matter what, and usually the men eventually smiled back.

  “What’re ye sellin’, miss?” one plump, bosomy female called.

  “Happiness,” Clarice replied promptly.

  “I can buy that at the pub.” The young man was healthy looking, but his dirty, ill-sewn clothing told her only too clearly that he was not married. He jostled his friends and brayed with merriment, then, under her level gaze, his amusement faded and his color rose.

&nbs
p; “Can you indeed?” She lowered her voice to reach him and his compatriots. “And when you wake up in the morning and your mouth tastes like cobwebs and your bed is cold and lonely, come and tell me that you’re happy so I can laugh too.”

  His eyes shifted toward a pretty girl with a petulant mouth, who tossed her head and gave Clarice all her attention.

  The first of the hecklers subdued, Clarice settled into her pitch. “Who am I, you ask, to claim I can solve all your amorous woes? My name is Princess Clarice.”

  A gentleman of about thirty years was making his way toward the front, with a slow, disbelieving smile across his lips. At the sight, she forgot what she was doing. She straightened. She stood staring. Up there on the stage she had created, she was aware of only one thing—a man watched her with all his attention.

  Clarice was used to attention; indeed, everything she did and said and wore encouraged it.

  But this man was different. He wore plain clothes, but of a finer cut than most of the townsfolk. Clarice pegged him as a gentleman farmer, or perhaps a businessman from Edinburgh. He stood taller than the other men by a good three inches, and was completely, blazingly masculine in a way that challenged all that was feminine in her. His hair was black. Not dark brown, black, like black silk that absorbed nothing but the brightest sunlight and transformed it into glints of silver. His face was tanned from the sun, a harsh face that had seen too much of the world and liked little of it. He had a hooked nose and a strong jaw, and his eyes…ah, his eyes.

  She tried to look away, but she couldn’t break the contact.

  A woman could write poetry about his eyes. Clear, blazing blue like royal sapphires set in gold, they watched Clarice with the kind of confidence that said he understood what pleasured a woman and would use his knowledge ruthlessly, again and again, until he was exhausted, or she was, or they both combusted with mutual joy.

  She didn’t want his kind of attention. She didn’t need to fight that kind of temptation. She never indulged the flirtations and the frivolities of other young women; she dared not. So she would make sure she stayed far away from him.

  Dragging her gaze away from his, she said, “Yes. I’m one of the Lost Princesses. My country’s gone, my family scattered, but I can’t avoid my destiny—and, good people of Freya Crags, do you know what that destiny is?”

  She’d been doing this for almost five years, and now she saw that she had caught a few of the vulnerable in her net, for scattered throughout the crowd she saw heads shake in response. She told them, “A princess is bred for one purpose and one purpose only—to catch a prince.”

  Amusement rippled through the crowd. She saw smiles. Ugly, cynical smiles on the older, experienced faces. Bewilderment and a shy interest on the younger faces, and from a few, forlorn curiosity.

  “Can I help you catch a prince?” She stepped to the edge of the platform and made a play of lowering her voice. “Well, to tell you the truth, princes are a little thin on the ground these days.”

  The amusement grew louder and more open.

  “But from the time I was a wee child, I had a directive drummed into my head—find a prince and marry him. No other man will do. Since I can’t do that, I must turn to my other talent—helping you catch your prince. Ladies, these bags”—she pointed at the saddlebags her horse carried—“contain royal secrets from around the world! Of course”—she allowed her mouth to droop—“I have to charge you for them. Exiled princesses have to eat too.” Her voice strengthened. “But you can see by looking at me, I’m not making a fortune, and I guarantee my work.” She’d sold them all.

  Well, almost all. A few stood with their arms crossed over their chests. A handsome woman back by the alehouse. A short, middle-aged, mean-eyed man with a chip on his shoulder the size of an iceberg. A tall, sad-faced, round-shouldered lady. Those were the ones Clarice depended on to make trouble—and to help her clinch the sales.

  The fascinating gentleman watched her, apparently entertained. He was an unknown entity. Yet he felt far too familiar, as if she knew him from somewhere—a dream she’d had, or a wish unfulfilled.

  She did not like him.

  But she did her best to forget him as she smiled, inviting the comments she knew would come.

  The alewife shouted, “Ye’ve got a glib tongue, I’ll say that for ye. Let’s see ye do something.”

  From the center of the crowd the short man yelled, “She can’t do anything she claims.”

  The sad-faced lady said nothing, but she moved back as if distancing herself from the mob.

  “Can I not?” Clarice’s gaze landed on the homely seamstress, engrossed and standing close. “What’s your name, miss?”

  The seamstress glanced around as if hoping Clarice was speaking to someone else. “My…my name?”

  “Yes, don’t be timid,” Clarice urged. “Tell us your name.”

  “I’m…um…I’m Miss Amy Rosabel.”

  “Come up here, Miss Rosabel.”

  Miss Rosabel ducked her head and shook it as if she were shy.

  Clarice would have none of that. Appealing to the crowd, she said, “Come, good people! Let’s make the young lady welcome.”

  A few of the younger folk clapped for Miss Rosabel.

  Reluctantly she climbed up to stand beside Clarice. She was at least two inches taller than Clarice, but she hunched her shoulders so much, she looked shorter. Her dark hair was pulled tightly back from her face, accentuating the thrust of her narrow nose and her pointed chin. She had dark rings under her eyes, and her complexion was pasty white. Her brown wool gown was appalling.

  Clearly to every eye, she needed help. “Miss Rosabel, I’m going to make you beautiful,” Clarice said.

  Miss Rosabel pulled her tattered shawl closer around her shoulders. “Nay, miss, but thank ye.”

  The bandy-legged, mean-eyed, red-cheeked fellow sniggered. “Guid luck with that one. She’s fair ugly, and that’s na likely to change.”

  Miss Rosabel drew her shawl over her lips.

  The other women winced on her behalf.

  Clarice wrapped a supportive arm around her. “Sir, I’ll wager you ten pounds I can make her beautiful.”

  He stepped up to the front. “Done! Let’s see ye make her beautiful”—he looked around with a sneer—“right here in the square.”

  He had said exactly what they all said. Exactly what she wanted them to say. Leaning forward, she asked, “What is your name, sir?”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Billie MacBain, an’ what do ye care?”

  “I was wondering, Billie, if you’d like me to make you beautiful too.” The roar of laughter was gratifying, proof that she’d not lost her timing or her reading of character. Billie’s lack of height and his looks had made him hostile and belligerent, and no one in town liked him. She saw his fists bunch, and added, “But no. You’re a fighter, you are, and the best in Freya Crags, I’ll wager.”

  His hands loosened. His chin rose. He puffed out his chest, but his squinty eyes didn’t waver. “Aye, that I am, and ye’d be wise t’ remember it, missy.”

  She allowed her hand to flutter to her chest. “And a bully to boot, I see.” She made him angrier, but the women grinned and nudged each other. She’d made allies of them, and they were, after all, her first and best customers.

  Billie started toward her, fury in his eyes, pain in his fists.

  Her heart leaped to her throat, and for a moment she thought she had gone too far.

  Then the fascinating gentleman put a restraining hand on his arm.

  In a rage Billie swung around, ready to kill the one who halted him. But when he saw who accosted him, he dropped his fist and glared.

  The gentleman shook his head.

  Billie backed away.

  So. The gentleman must be good with a roundhouse. Handsome, tough, and dynamic. He commanded respect—and perhaps some fear.

  Clarice shivered. Certainly he commanded fear from her. She really, really must stay far away fro
m him.

  Her fingers were shaking slightly as she opened her saddlebag and brought forth a soft cloth and a clay jar. Holding up the jar, she announced, “This is a powerful extract of herbs and roots in a gentle cream that refreshes the complexion and brings the first tingle of beauty. Watch as I apply it.” Miss Rosabel tilted her chin up as Clarice smoothed the cream on and rubbed it in. “It has the lovely scent of rosemary and mint, and a special secret ingredient known only to the women of my royal family.”

  “Gold, frankincense, and myrrh,” the alewife mocked.

  “You’re only partly right,” Clarice responded, “Of course, my kingdom is far from Bethlehem, but the trade routes were established long ago, back in the mists of time, and my country is known for its mountains, its treasures, and its beautiful women.” She laughed at the old men who stood under the eaves of the alehouse, craning their necks to watch her.

  Five identical, almost toothless smiles shot back at her, and one ancient fellow collapsed against the wall, his hand on his chest in faked spasms.

  The alewife smacked him with her shawl.

  Like some peculiar Greek chorus, the other old men chortled in unison, amused by their compatriot and charmed by her.

  She loved old men. They said what they thought, they laughed when they wanted, and they always liked her, no matter what. Always.

  With the cloth Clarice gently wiped the cream off Miss Rosabel’s face. She urged Miss Rosabel to stand straight with her shoulders back, gentled the severe line of hair around her face, and pushed her toward the front of the platform.