Some Enchanted Evening: The Lost Princesses #1

by Christina Dodd

  “Magistrate Fairfoot is wi’ her right now.”

  Black rage blinded Robert for a moment. Damn Fairfoot to hell! He was going to pay. But Robert got himself under control. He allowed only an edge of irritation in his tone. “He started without me? By God, I’ll have his balls for this. How long ago did he go in?”

  Behemoth scratched his stubbled cheek. “Since the last strike of the hour.”

  Pounding on the oak with his pry bar, Robert pretended it was Fairfoot’s head. “Open this door. Immediately!”

  Robert’s authority got through to Behemoth this time, because the little window slammed shut, and after a few minutes the big door creaked open.

  “That’s better,” Robert snapped as he marched in, straightening his coat and hoping Behemoth didn’t demand to look through the saddlebags. “Now, lead me to the prisoner.”

  “I can’t leave me post, Colonel Ogley.” Behemoth closed and locked the doors behind them.

  Robert sighed an exaggerated sigh. “Is there no one in this place who can escort me?”

  “Um.” Behemoth scratched his whiskery chin. “If ye go straight across to the keep, there’ll be more guards. They’ll take ye.”

  No matter how much Robert wished, he couldn’t race across the lawn. Behemoth would be watching him, and perhaps the guards in the keep. So he nodded majestically and marched across the open area, finding an odd delight in imitating Ogley’s military affectations. A slim revenge, but that was all to be had right now.

  The door to the keep was locked, and he pulled out his pry bar and again used it to knock.

  The guard who answered this time was neatly groomed, older, and by his bearing a professional soldier who had been mustered out.

  In a word, suspicious.

  Robert burned to get inside, to get to Clarice before Fairfoot had his way with her, but he also knew how to play the game of soldier. He did it now with a stiffly erect posture and an expressionless face. “I am Colonel Ogley. I have come on Magistrate Fairfoot’s invitation to deal with the prisoner.”

  “What prisoner would that be?” the guard asked.

  “I’m not a fool, and I don’t mistake you for one. The only prisoner you’ve received today. The woman who claims to be a princess. Let me enter at once.”

  To Robert’s delight, the guard stepped back to let him in. “Aye, sir, but Magistrate Fairfoot didn’t mention ye would be coming.”

  Another guard stood close by, a flintlock musket held in his arms.

  The first guard continued. “So we’ll ’ave t’ check with ’im first. Usually, ’e likes t’ do these things alone.”

  Robert allowed a chilly smile to crease his lips. “Usually, he doesn’t have me to contend with, does he? But I understand. You have to do your duty.”

  The guard nodded and relaxed, recognizing in Robert a soldier who comprehended the fine points of protocol.

  “What’s your name?” Robert asked.

  “I’m Ranald.”

  “Well, Ranald, I’ll just follow you to the cell where she’s being held.”

  “I can’t allow ye do that, but ye can go wi’ me t’ the gate.”

  “That will do.” That would more than do. Once he knew where Clarice was incarcerated, he’d dispatch this fellow and the other guards, take out Magistrate Fairfoot, and he and Clarice would be on their way. A simple plan, working simply well.

  They climbed stairs up, then they climbed stairs down. And down. She wasn’t on the lowest level of the dungeons, but Robert’s gut burned at the thought of Clarice, with her delicate skin and her wonderful scent, at the mercy of every sort of vermin. At the mercy of Magistrate Fairfoot.

  Deliberately he stepped on Ranald’s heels, and when Ranald turned back in a huff, Robert snapped, “Double-time. I’m in a hurry, man!”

  Ranald marched briskly.

  They reached a central room, half buried in the castle. There, three guards stood or sat in various attitudes of attention and discomfort. One of them held a musket. The other two were empty-handed, but Robert didn’t make the mistake of thinking them unarmed. For a paltry town on the border, the men in Gilmichael Fortress were remarkably alert and well prepared, and Robert speculated that Magistrate Fairfoot was so completely despised that he feared the citizens might take it into their mind to dispatch him.

  Going to the guard with the musket, Ranald spoke in a low voice.

  Robert clearly heard the answer. “Are ye mad? It’s worth more than me life is worth than t’ go down there and interrupt ’im now. You know what ’e likes t’ do t’ the ladies when ’e gets ’em in there. ’Ang around, ye’ll ’ear the screaming start soon.”

  While he was speaking, Robert let his saddlebags slide to the floor. Leaning down, he cast a smile at the men, assessing their positions, and casually rummaged in the contents.

  Before the guard had finished his chilling speech, Robert had a knife in each of his hands. He sent one winging toward the biggest threat in the room: the man with the musket. He threw the other at Ranald, catching him in the throat.

  Both fell. The musket clattered on the stone floor. And while Robert pulled another knife from his sleeve and prepared to launch it at one of the two remaining guards, he was brought up short by the sight of a pistol held in Ranald’s hand.

  Robert’s luck had run out.

  Ranald was bleeding from his throat. He was wheezing. But Robert could see his own death foreshadowed in the military man’s gaze.

  Robert couldn’t die. Clarice needed him. As he dove to the side, a musket blast rocked the room.

  When he looked again, Ranald was dead, his head shattered by shot. Another of the guards had a knife in him—and Robert hadn’t fired the weapon or thrown the knife.

  In a smooth motion he kept rolling, came to his feet, and turned to the doorway.

  A man, a stranger, stood there. Tall, razor-thin, with dark hair and bottomless dark eyes. He wore black, and he’d wiped dirt across his face. He had broken into Gilmichael Fortress, and he moved like someone who knew what he was doing. He had taken the sort of action Waldemar would have—and Robert was ready to kill him.

  The stranger discarded the smoking musket but held a pistol in his hand pointed at the remaining guard. In a cool tone, with an accent that sounded very much like Clarice’s, he said, “Tie him up, will you? I’ll get the keys. We haven’t got a lot of time.”

  It appeared he was on Robert’s side.

  Unknown allies made Robert uneasy. They always had an agenda of their own. Pulling the rope from his saddlebags, Robert said, “Thanks, but who the hell are you?”

  “Don’t you recognize me?”

  Robert flashed him another glance—and did. “You were sneaking around before the ball. You’re the man I hunted—and couldn’t find.”

  “What the hell was that?” Magistrate Fairfoot dropped his fist but retained his hold on Clarice’s throat. “If those imbeciles accidentally shot off a musket, I’ll have their nuts to roast.”

  She saw stars, but she managed to croak, “I told you so. It’s Lord Hepburn.”

  Fairfoot’s grip tightened until she thought he would crush her windpipe, and he glared, his eye sockets dark holes in his shadowed face. Then he let her go as swiftly as he’d grabbed her.

  She sucked in air, one harsh breath after another, trying to fill her oxygen-starved lungs.

  She had been afraid he would rape her. Death before dishonor, Grandmamma would say. But in her long and regal life, Grandmamma had never been choked and punched, had never had to realize that she loved a man and anything, any humiliation, any hurt, was worth living to see him again.

  For Fairfoot hadn’t appreciated Clarice’s razor-sharp comments about his cowardice and his impotency, nor had he liked her assurances that Robert would come for her and snap his twiggy little neck. It was the last insult that had driven him to attack, and if that shot hadn’t sounded…

  Staggering, she sank onto the bed and stared hopefully at the bars.

&nb
sp; Was it Robert? Had he arrived in time?

  Fairfoot was more than a little concerned now. He stood at the door. Peered down the corridor.

  As her breath rasped in her throat, she tried to think of what to do now. How to help—herself and Robert. Should she attack Fairfoot from behind?

  Her gaze dropped to his belt. Could she take his keys and get out of there? She glanced around. She did have weapons of a sort. A bucket of water. A chamber pot. The candle, burning hot and bright.

  Then Fairfoot turned around, and she realized it was too late. He held a dagger, fourteen inches long and shining with a sharp edge and a glittering tip. He pointed it at her. “If it is your aristocratic lover, he’s going to have to get through you to take me.”

  She massaged her bruised throat, stared at the point of the dagger, her mind blank with misery. She didn’t want to be a human shield. Not if she had to protect Fairfoot.

  Then, behind him, she saw rather than heard a movement, the merest whisper of motion. Was it Robert? Was it rescue?

  Distraction. She needed to create a distraction. The best she could do was croak, “Did I say you were a coward? It’s good to be right.”

  “Not a coward, darling. Smart enough to want to live and make you sorry.” Fairfoot flicked the blade at her. “Get up. Come here.”

  Keeping an eye on the corridor, she slowly stood, pretending to be more injured than she was, trying to get enough air in her lungs to make her move. She sidled closer to Fairfoot, closer than she ever wanted to be again.

  As she got within arm’s reach, she said, “This isn’t going to work. Lord Hepburn is going to kill you no matter how you try to hide.” And as Fairfoot made a swipe for her, she dove for the candle, knocking it over, plunging the cell into total blackness.

  “You stupid bitch,” Fairfoot roared, and she heard the clatter of keys as he tried to locate her. The steel of his blade struck the stones of the walls, the metal of the bucket.

  She kicked the chamber pot toward him. By his shriek, she knew she had scored a bull’s-eye. Crawling under the bed, she rolled into a little ball on her side. She prayed Robert was coming now, before Fairfoot located her, because she shivered with teeth-chattering fear. She was, she discovered, as big a coward as Fairfoot.

  Fairfoot thrashed about, making a sweep of the cell. He cursed her with all his crude vocabulary. He was coming closer. And closer.

  Above the noise of his footsteps and the sound of his voice, Clarice heard a thin, high whistle. She’d heard it before. Lifting her head, she strained to identify it—

  Boom!

  The explosion deafened her. The flash blinded her. She smelled the acrid odor of gunpowder. Sparks of red and gold shot everywhere, burning thin trails before her dazzled eyes.

  Fireworks. Fireworks like she’d seen at Robert’s ball. Fireworks for celebration.

  Fireworks for freedom.

  Without another thought she rolled out from under the bed and launched herself through the sparks and flame at the screaming Fairfoot. A bone-jarring tackle to his knees brought him down. He went over like a tall oak, cracking his head on the bedstead.

  He lay without moving.

  Cautiously she sneaked up on him.

  Still he didn’t move.

  Snatching the key off his belt, she made for the doorway. The sparks were still flying when she stuck the key in the lock.

  Down the corridor she could hear the pounding of feet. Above the roaring in her ears she had only one thought. It had better be Robert. After all this, it had better be him.

  And it was. He was holding a torch, and never had she loved the sight of him more.

  As she stumbled out of the cell, he wrapped his arm around her. “Are you hurt?” He ran his hand over her hair, over her body. “Did you catch a spark? Are you burned? On fire?”

  “No!”

  “Where’s Fairfoot?” He waved the torch in the cell. “Dammit! Did you kill him yourself?”

  “Knocked him out.” She slammed the iron bars shut and locked them. “Let’s go!”

  “You could have left him for me.” Grabbing her arm, he ran with her toward the light at the far distant doorway.

  “I was under the bed. It protected me.” She found that despite her recent strangulation, she could breathe well enough to run. Distantly she reflected that panic was a splendid encouragement.

  When they reached the guard station, she found the room in shambles with three corpses, a trussed guard—and a man, a stranger, dressed all in black and waiting for them.

  She didn’t like his face. It was too thin, almost aesthetic in its severity, and it reminded her of someone. Someone who made her very wary.

  She would have backed away, but Robert flung his saddlebags over his shoulder and said, “Let’s go, then.”

  And the stranger joined the escape.

  As they ran up and down stairs and through the grim corridors, Robert pulled a knife from his sleeve. The stranger did the same, and both men handled their blades with the ease of experience. Robert stopped her just before they reached the last room. Pushing her against the wall, he commanded, “Stay here.”

  The stranger rushed inside. Robert followed. And when fighting finished, she cautiously poked her head inside.

  A guard rested on the floor while the stranger tied his arms behind his back.

  Then they resumed their rush, out onto the lawn and into the blessed fresh night air. She had a stitch in her side, but she still ran. Nothing could keep her here at Gilmichael Fortress, so close to Magistrate Fairfoot and his damned gibbet.

  As they approached the outer guardhouse, they slowed. Robert held up his hand for silence, and the two men again indicated she should wait while they cleared the guardhouse.

  She was content to let them. Her throat hurt, she didn’t know if she would ever get enough air, and various bruises were starting to make themselves known, including a painful one on her cheekbone made by Fairfoot’s fist. With a wry sense of humor she reflected that she must be feeling better, for she didn’t relish looking in the mirror tomorrow. Vanity was once again rearing its head.

  But she did relish going home with Robert.

  Her gaze rested on him as he sneaked up on the gatehouse. Nodding at the stranger, he freed the latch and the two men charged in. She heard a thumping, a single shout, then silence.

  Robert came to the door and gestured her in, and she went gladly. He had saved her. Nothing in her life could compare to this moment. For too long she’d had to get herself and Amy out of scrapes. Now Robert had rescued her as if she were a delicate princess, and she was enchanted with her role. And with him.

  Inside the gatehouse the stranger was removing a cudgel from one unconscious guard. One very large, very dirty, very unconscious guard.

  With a sigh of relief she walked into Robert’s arms.

  He held her so tightly, their flesh seemed to meld into one being. He rubbed his cheek on the top of her head. She snuggled into his chest, listening to and relishing the beat of his heart. The musky scent of him enveloped her, and she wanted to stay there, in his arms, forever.

  But the stranger noisily cleared his throat.

  Robert lifted his head, and as if the stranger had spoken, he said, “He’s right. We need to get as far away from here as possible. When the guards struggle out of their bonds and let Fairfoot out of that cell, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

  “I know.” She reluctantly drew away. “I know.”

  The stranger was watching them calmly, his face an inscrutable mask, and again something about him caught her attention and made her eye him warily. She knew him. She would swear she knew him. In the light of the gatehouse the conviction grew in her, and some compulsion dragged her toward him. Stepping in front of him, she demanded, “Where have I seen you before?”

  “Three nights ago, on my estate, sneaking through the trees,” Robert said.

  “No.” She shook her head, and a knot twisted in her stomach. “That’s not all.”r />
  “No, that’s not all.” The stranger’s deep, dark eyes scorched her. “Remember, Clarice. Think back…to that day your sister Sorcha was given the title of Crown Princess and betrothed to—”

  “To you.” She whispered because she couldn’t bear to speak aloud. “You’re Rainger. You’re the prince of Richarte.”

  Thirty

  It is just as easy to love a prince as a pauper.

  —THE DOWAGER QUEEN OF BEAUMONTAGNE

  Too late. Robert stared at Clarice, at her prince, and thought, Too late.

  He’d waited too long to tell her that he loved her. Now her prince was here, ready to sweep her away to Beaumontagne, and she would go because—

  “No,” he said. “No, listen!”

  Prince Rainger turned his head as if hearing something from the depths of the keep. “We’ve got to get out of this fortress.” He offered his arm to Clarice.

  Presumptuous bastard. On her other side, Robert offered his. She looked between them both, then laid her hand on Robert’s arm.

  The prince stepped back, not vanquished, but waiting.

  “Can you run some more?” Robert asked her.

  “To get out of here, I could run all the way back to—” She stopped.

  Back to MacKenzie Manor? Say it. Back to MacKenzie Manor.

  But she didn’t. Instead, she amended it to “Yes, I can run.”

  He supported her as they raced out the door. He didn’t have to. She was holding up well. But he wanted to touch her, to assure himself she was still his.

  He’d waited too long to lay his claim.

  While Robert and Clarice ran, Prince Rainger slammed the door to the gatehouse with a solid thunk.

  About halfway up the wooded hill opposite the fortress, Clarice began to gasp. She hadn’t recovered from her ordeal, poor lass, and Robert pulled her to a halt. They were out of sight of the gatehouse, and somehow he didn’t expect to see Magistrate Fairfoot coming out. Not yet.

  The prince didn’t join them. Perhaps he was sensitive to atmosphere. Or perhaps he knew how much Robert hated the price he was exacting for his assistance.