Some Enchanted Evening: The Lost Princesses #1

by Christina Dodd

  Stepping back, he cleared his throat and brusquely fastened her buttons. With his hands on her arms he walked her toward a chair, turned her, and pushed her into the seat. She stared up at him, not comprehending his briskness as he backed away.

  Suddenly, without warning of any kind, she saw a blur of movement. A big man with sandy hair, dressed in a servant’s livery, leaped from the open window toward Robert, catching him around the waist. They went tumbling across the floor, and before her astonished eyes Robert tossed his attacker over his head. The attacker landed flat on his back, then with a “Ha!” he sprang to his feet and jumped at Robert. He was younger and bigger than Robert, but Robert rolled, catching him on the head with a close-fisted blow that made a sound like a muffled gong. As if it were nothing, the fellow shook it off and kept coming. The struggle was intense and silent, the two men punching and tossing each other with a careless disregard for anything but victory.

  Clarice shook with anxiety. It was just like yesterday. Would this end in blood, gore, and death too? She pulled her feet up, stood on the chair to stay out of the way…to jump on Robert’s attacker if necessary.

  She could think of nothing but Robert’s mad fury about the MacGees, and the man stalking through the night. This must be him; he must have decided to attack at last. But Robert in a rage was formidable, and she actually feared for his attacker. Robert would kill him.

  Then, to her astonishment, in a move so swift she didn’t see the details, the attacker rolled Robert onto his face and sat on Robert’s back, Robert’s arm twisted behind him. In an accent thick with cockney the fellow said, “Ah, lad, that was no fight. Ye’ve grown weak in yer old age!”

  “My shoulder,” Robert moaned. “You’ve dislocated my shoulder.”

  Jumping to the floor, Clarice picked up a vase and held it high over the attacker’s head, ready to bring it down and take him out.

  But the man let Robert go at once. “ ’Ey, man, I didn’t mean t’—”

  Robert rolled, caught him under the knees, and before Clarice could blink, Robert was on top, sitting on the attacker’s back and saying, “Old age and treachery will always win over youth and compassion.” He cranked his attacker’s arm up so high, Clarice winced. “Surrender,” he demanded.

  His attacker grunted, the muscles in his neck corded, his head lifted to ease the pain. “Ye silly fool, o’ course I surrender.”

  Robert let him go at once.

  The fellow rolled over and faced Robert. They stared at each other. Clarice held her breath, waiting for the recriminations to begin.

  But both men started laughing. They were laughing.

  The attacker had a smile so bright, he could start the birds singing. “Ye tricky bastard, I thought I ’ad killed ye.” Looking up, he saw Clarice posed with the vase still in her hands. “Ye’ve got a good woman there, Robert, she’s ready t’ defend ye with yer precious crockery.”

  Still laughing, Robert looked up at Clarice. Their eyes locked for a long while. His smile faded, and she could see nothing but him, tall and dark and so full of laughter and rage and sorrow, she could feel each emotion as it coursed through his veins.

  Inexplicably her eyes teared. She had thought he was in danger. Her heart thumped, her fingers trembled—and the fight had been nothing but a wrestling match between two friends.

  She’d been afraid for him.

  She lowered the vase.

  She’d been a fool.

  Dusting his hands, Robert stood and helped the fellow to his feet. With a formality at odds with his rumpled appearance he said, “Princess Clarice, this is the most worthless man in Christendom, Cornelius Gunther Halstead Waldemar the Fourth, formerly of London, formerly of Newgate Prison, formerly of the Peninsula, and my good friend.” He laughed. “My very good friend.”

  Somehow Clarice wasn’t surprised to hear Waldemar had spent time in Newgate.

  As Waldemar bowed low, Robert continued. “Waldemar, this is Princess Clarice of Beaumontagne, second in line to the throne and the lady who’ll free you ere the week is out.”

  And Robert was very free with personal information. She frowned at him in disapproval.

  Taking the vase, Waldemar kissed her fingers. “I appreciate yer efforts, Yer Highness, especially since it’s little liking I ’ave workin’ fer ’Is Nibs. But when the little colonel saw ye all dolled up like Senora Carmen Menendez, he was so scared, I scarcely kept from snorting out loud.”

  “Did he recognize her?” Robert asked urgently.

  “Recognize ’er?” Waldemar rocked back on his heels and grinned. “Aye, that ’e did. Almost expired right there on yer fancy rug. Thought ’e’d seen Carmen fer sure, and ’e didn’t like it one bit.”

  “He thought it was Carmen even when she turned her head and looked at him?” Robert demanded.

  “Robert, don’t worry.” Waldemar still grinned. “ ’Is complexion was green.”

  Robert looked at her. “You did it. You duped him.”

  “From a distance,” she said. “We shall see how I do closer up.”

  “A woman wi’ courage. I like that. Yer ’Ighness, if ye ever decide t’ get shed o’ this idle fellow, this ’Epburn, I beg ye remember, I’m the man fer ye.” Looking sideways at Robert, Waldemar added, “I’ve got better ancestors.”

  “All of whom you’ve made up.” In a display of jealousy she knew to be fallacious, Robert took her fingers away from Waldemar’s. “She’ll never want anyone but me.”

  Which Clarice feared was true, but she didn’t need Robert telling everyone. Pointedly she removed her hand from Robert’s and held it with the other, close to her waist. “I don’t understand. Waldemar, why did you attack him?”

  With an elegant flourish Waldemar escorted her to her chair and seated her. “ ’E needs t’ keep on ’is toes. Livin’ ’ere in ’is ’ome, being at one wi’ the birds and the flowers, makes a man soft. And our friend Robert can’t afford t’ be soft. Not wi’ the ol’ pillager in the ’ouse.”

  For the first time, the laughter between the men stopped, and they stared grimly at each other.

  “Colonel Ogley, you mean,” Clarice said. “Isn’t this dangerous?”

  “No,” Robert said.

  “Aye,” Waldemar said at the same time. Turning on Robert, he argued, “Don’t lie t’ the lass! She needs t’ know the truth about ’im.”

  “Ignorance is not bliss,” she argued.

  Robert inclined his head in reluctant agreement. “Colonel Ogley is not very bright.”

  “But ’e’s sneaky, and ’e’s underhanded, and ’e smells trouble miles away.”

  Robert hitched his trousers at the knee and perched on the edge of a table. “He’s selfish right to the bone, and he thinks I’m doing what he would do in my place. He thinks I’ve brought him here to declare the truth so the world knows who the true Hero of the Peninsula is…when in fact I don’t give a damn.”

  Wiggling his eyebrows at Clarice, Waldemar waggled his thumb at Robert and mouthed, “The ’ero.”

  Clarice nodded and mouthed, “So I comprehended.” Aloud she said, “I think I deserve to know. What are we attempting to achieve? What is my role? Who am I playing?”

  Robert didn’t stop Waldemar when Waldemar plunged into explanation. “Ye’ve done a fine job o’ being the woman called Carmen Menendez, a lady o’ Spain who ’ad fallen on ’ard times. Ogley wanted a woman t’ warm ’is bed, so ’e told ’er ’e was unmarried, promised t’ bring ’er t’ England when he returned and marry ’er there. O’ course, when it came time t’ leave, ’e abandoned ’er wi’out a backward glance. ’E’s got a wife. She worships ’im, and ’e’s damned careful not t’ upset her.”

  “Because she has the money,” Clarice guessed.

  Waldemar pressed his finger flat on his nose. “Ye’re a smart one, fer a princess.”

  Oddly she didn’t feel insulted. Rather, she considered herself to be accepted by this man Robert called his friend. “So I’m playing the part of Colon
el Ogley’s used and abandoned mistress to force him to…do what?”

  “To do what he promised.” Robert’s mouth was grim.

  “I don’t blame ye,” Waldemar said. “Ye know that.”

  “I was stupid,” Robert answered. “I believed he would keep his word.”

  Waldemar challenged Robert with his stance and his words. “If this doesn’t work, I’m goin’ anyway.”

  Robert said, “It will work. I swear it will.”

  Frustrated with their talk that told her nothing, Clarice demanded, “What did Colonel Ogley do?”

  Robert sat very still, a dark shadow in the room. “Ogley promised that if Waldemar went on a last mission with me, and we survived, he would release Waldemar from the army with a commendation for bravery.”

  Waldemar poured them all glasses of port, and when he gave Clarice hers, he confessed in a low voice, “Robert’s pop ’ad died, and Robert ’ad already bought ’imself out o’ ’is commission. ’E didn’t have t’ go on the mission. ’E did it fer me.”

  Robert watched them. “Dammit, Waldemar, we’re in the same room. I can hear you talking.”

  “Despite ’is advanced age, ’e’s not deaf yet,” Waldemar added still in an undertone. Then he took up the story in a louder tone. “We survived, barely, and o’ course, Colonel Cockscum laughed in Robert’s face when ’e asked fer me freedom. Told ’im that promises made t’ one such as I were no promises at all, and told ’im ’e done ’im a favor by teaching ’im about ’ow t’ treat a servant—dangle a carrot at the end o’ a stick and when ’is servant reached fer the carrot, use the stick on ’im.”

  The story made Clarice sick. She faltered. “I liked thinking there was a hero in this world.”

  “There is,” Waldemar said. “Only a few, and I’ve met them all.”

  “You’re one of them,” Robert said.

  Waldemar ignored Robert, shrugging at Clarice. “It’s just not Ogley.”

  “Colonel Ogley, that was wonderful!” Lady Millicent led the applause at the end of the presentation. “You speak so vividly, I feel as if I were there during your heroism in the French prison. Won’t you please tell us who it is you rescued?”

  Ogley looked around the drawing room at the well-dressed aristocratic guests. Brenda was there, beaming her pride. Princess Clarice was there too, dressed in a fetching off-the-shoulder evening gown of pale green velvet. Smiling wryly, Ogley shook hands with the gentlemen. “I cannot. That wouldn’t be the act of a gentleman, would it, to tell the truth about a fellow officer’s rash act?”

  The crowd murmured their approval while Ogley kept a respectful distance from the ladies, even the lush and ready Miss Trumbull, who smiled at him with such sultry invitation. With Brenda sticking so close to his side, he didn’t dare show interest.

  Besides, the skin between his shoulder blades itched as if he had a gun aimed at him. His eyes darted around the drawing room, searching, searching…

  Carmen couldn’t be here. It was impossible. How would she get here? Why would she come?

  Well…revenge for ruining her reputation, of course, but what would she hope to gain? And as to how she got here—would Hepburn have brought her?

  Ogley paled at the thought. Of course. Hepburn. On the Peninsula, Ogley had claimed Hepburn’s life and made it his own. How much Hepburn must hate seeing Ogley get the adulation that Hepburn deserved! Even now Hepburn watched with an ironic smile while Ogley was treated with a respect he had previously only dreamed of having.

  Ogley pushed through the crowd, determined to confront Hepburn right then. But Hepburn was speaking to his butler and signaling to Lady Millicent, who nodded.

  It was time for dinner, a very formal dinner meant to honor Ogley and Ogley alone. He couldn’t get to Hepburn now.

  Was Hepburn dodging him…?

  No, he was performing the duties of a host who wished his guests to be comfortable. He couldn’t have fetched Carmen from Spain to Scotland. It was too absurd to think he would go to all that trouble.

  That afternoon, had Ogley been dreaming? Waldemar had claimed to see no one on the lawn, and when Ogley had looked again, she was gone.

  They didn’t think they could drive him crazy, did they?

  He ran a finger around his suddenly tight collar.

  “Won’t you walk this way, Colonel and Mrs. Ogley? Dinner is served.” Lady Millicent led the group into the dining room. The long table bore shining white linen, sparkling silver, and bouquets of flowers. “Please, Colonel Ogley, we beg that you take the place of honor.”

  Usually, in all the celebrations that had been given for him, he enjoyed the compliments more than anything. Now he didn’t wish to sit at the head of the table with his hostess, Lady Millicent, on his right hand, and Princess Clarice on his left. He didn’t even care that Princess Clarice’s bosom rose in fine, curved mounds from the neckline of her gown, and when she moved, they jiggled in a most enticing way. As he looked down the table at Hepburn, Ogley felt like the old Greek Damocles, who had sat in the king’s chair only to notice that a sword dangled over his head attached by a hair.

  The sword would drop. The only question was when…and would Ogley be fast enough to dodge the fatal blow?

  Twenty-one

  Life is too short to dance with an ugly man.

  —THE OLD MEN OF FREYA CRAGS

  All the drapes in Robert’s bedchamber were open, allowing the waning moonlight to flood the room with its unearthly white. As Clarice stepped in, it was surprisingly bright. She could see the shapes and details very well, yet the pale illumination bleached the colors from the carpet, from the duvet and the bedcurtains. It turned the dark wood furniture and the doors into square blocks of black and the pictures into faded imitations of reality.

  And on the bed she could see Robert’s outline, leaning against the pillows as he waited for her.

  He could see her too, she knew. She still wore the light green velvet gown Lady Millicent had had made over for her. The fine material hung in perfect folds around her, fitting like a dream. This evening, during the long hours of waiting and socializing, she had stroked the velvet, taking delight in its luxurious texture. Robert had watched her, his gaze hooded and distant, yet she had known that every moment he wanted her.

  Now she smiled, a small, secret smile of triumph. Yes, she was being foolish, leaving her bedchamber and making her way to him. Yes, heartbreak would undoubtedly follow. But someday, when she was back in Beaumontagne performing the role for which she’d been bred, she would have the memory of this night, and whatever nights were to come.

  Rising from the bed, he paced toward her, a large, graceful, shadowy figure of a male. He wore trousers, but his feet made no noise on the hardwood floor; he was barefoot.

  When he stopped a few inches away from her, her heart leaped into her throat. She wasn’t afraid of him; she no longer believed him mad, and she understood his insistence on his charade. But now he stood so close, she had to tilt her head to look up at him. He was very tall. He was very strong. He fought brutally. More important, last night he had taken her in a flurry of desperation and need. He hadn’t meant to, but he had hurt her with his size. And tonight she had come to him again.

  But she was not helpless. She was a princess, born to rule, and tonight…tonight she would discover the potency of her authority. Tonight she would take charge.

  “I feared you might change your mind.”

  His shirt was open at the throat, and in the deep V of his neckline she could see the dark froth of hair that covered his flesh. “I gave my word.”

  “And a princess never fails to keep her word.” He sounded as he had sounded when she first met him: neutral, mildly interested in her reply—and implacable.

  She breathed in the scent of him, the scent she had come to know so well, and her pulse leaped. Hepburn had marked her with his passion—would mark her with his passion—but she would mark him too. “I do my best.”

  The silence stretched between them
, a silence not of discomfort but of questions.

  “Is that why you’re here?” His voice was a rumble in the darkness. “To keep your word?”

  He was so absurd, she wanted to laugh at him. She didn’t; he wouldn’t like it, he wouldn’t understand. But she could tease him, and she did. “Robert, have you ever looked in a mirror? Larissa declared you the Catch of the Season for more reasons than your title and your wealth. The way you walk, that cutting blue gaze, that dark air of smoky opulence…you have a way about you that makes a woman look twice and want to follow you wherever you go.”

  In the darkness his eyes glinted with black sparks. “Some women manage to resist my charms very well. I seem to remember that when you first met me in Freya Crags, you couldn’t wait to get away.”

  “Because I knew this is where I would end up.” Cupping one hand over the jut of his shoulder, she rubbed away the tension beneath the skin. “Wanting you with all my body and soul. Offering myself for the time we have…what woman wants to find herself reduced to begging? But here I am.”

  His voice warmed. “I haven’t heard you beg.”

  “Please,” she said. “Please.”

  At last he stirred from his immobility. Swinging her into his arms, he strode toward his bed.

  He placed her across the sheets and followed her down, pressing her weight into the mattress. She delighted in the heavy sensation, in the scent of him settling about her, in the determination of his grip. He kissed her, a slow, deep, thorough penetration that gave her time to adjust, to enjoy the savor of his essence, and deep inside her body delight began its shift to the desperate, clawing passion he so easily roused in her.

  She nipped at his lower lip.

  Lifting his head, he groaned.

  She thrust her hands into his hair. The strands slipped through her fingers, black silk of the richest texture. She pulled him back down and soothed the small wound with her tongue. Opening his lips over hers, he devoured her as his hips moved against hers. It was too much, overwhelming her senses, yet not enough. She wanted more of him, more of his taste, his weight, his strength—until it was over. Until she was gone.