Taken by the Prince

by Christina Dodd

  We simply do as we are told as quickly as possible.”

  Saber cast him a look of alarm.

  Thompson had a hard hand with a cane and demanded total obedience when teaching etiquette, but his time, as Saber passed him on the way to Grimsborough’s office, he placed a comforting hand on Saber’s shoulder.

  So whatever it was, it was bad.

  Saber searched his mind, trying to remember what he’d done that warranted a visit to his father. Since his arrival, he’d seen Grimsborough only from afar, and that was enough for him. He’d learned his father terrified everyone in the house: his wife of fifteen years, his daughters, his estate manager, his servants from Thompson on down to the lowliest scullery maid. Grimsborough wasn’t an unusually cruel master; nor was he a lecher or a pervert. He seemed uninterested in anything but his own enthusiasms— collecting books, observing theatrical melodramas, and horse racing. Yet he carried with him a darkness. Wherever he walked, the sunshine seemed to dim, the air to cool. When he turned his attention to an unfortunate culprit, that person, noble or common, shrank away, trying to avoid the touch of his shadow.

  Saber wasn’t afraid of him, or so he told himself. And in a way, it was true. He was far too busy to be afraid of his father: He had discovered that he really was the ignorant savage Grimsborough had called him. He spoke Moricadian, English, Spanish, and French, but he was illiterate in every language. He knew how to barter, how to do figures in his head, but not how to read the numbers. He knew how to tell a story that had his sisters hanging on his every word, but not how to write it down. He could sense north and south, east and west, but didn’t know how to read a map.

  He knew how to ride… . Ah, now, that he did better than anyone, and he quickly discovered his father’s Thoroughbred horses carried the wind under their hooves.

  So for three months he had absorbed, gulped, feasted on learning, driven by the belief that the sooner he knew how to be the military leader who would destroy the evil leaders of Moricadia and allow him to take over the throne, the sooner he could go home.

  He’d also been driven by simple competiveness—even his youngest sister knew more about history, art, literature than he did.

  He couldn’t bear that.

  He had also been taught the social arts: bowing, dancing, mincing, this fork, that spoon, flowers, smiles, the Correct Phrase for Every Occasion spoken in the Correct Tone.

  He despised every bit of it.

  But Ella, his eldest sister, had pointed out that a prince needed to know diplomacy, that after the battle was won, he would have to bow, dance, mince, eat, and flatter.

  He hated that she was right.

  The girls made his life bearable. That was all. Bearable.

  For every night, his heart ached for his homeland, for the wild Pyrenees mountains. He dreamed of his grandfather’s stern face as he enjoined him to run away to England and live another day. He remembered his mother’s comforting scent as she held him one last time before putting him on the horse and waving good-bye.

  Every moment he was not busy, he longed for his house in the woods, decrepit and tumbledown, for the spicy smell of pines, for the wild winter storms and the grand summer days, for the vistas that stretched across mountains and glaciers.

  No one ever knew, but at night, he cried. He, Saber of the royal and honored House of de Barbari Jinete.

  And now he was walking to see the man who had created all this hell— his father.

  Thompson rapped on the tall, dark door of the study, then opened it and stepped back to allow Saber to precede him.

  Saber stepped into the room. The door closed behind him.

  He was alone with his father.

  As before, Grimsborough sat behind the desk, writing on some papers spread before him, but today the curtains were open and the watery English sunlight was shining from over his left shoulder, leaving him in silhouette. He looked up and motioned for Saber to come and stand facing him, the wide expanse of the desk between them. “I got a letter today.” He lifted the smudged, torn paper off the pile of other smudged, torn papers, and read, “ ‘My lord, if you would find it in your heart to convey this news to my beloved son, Saber.’ ” He looked up, his green eyes cold. “She doesn’t realize your name is now Raul Lawrence.”

  Anxiety coiled in Saber’s belly, and he didn’t protest this insistence on his English name. All he cared about now was the contents of that letter. “Please, my lord.

  What does she say?”

  “ ‘His grandfather was killed by the de Guignards while out foraging in the woods.’ ”

  A fist squeezed tight around Saber’s heart.

  “ ‘Tell him the dirty thieves used him like prey, chasing him down, stabbing him with spears— ’ ”

  Saber couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He saw red.

  He felt faint.

  “ ‘— then hung him from a tree and cut out his entrails. I waited until it was dark and cut him down.’ ”

  A shriek built in Saber’s brain. Didn’t she know how dangerous that was?

  Of course she did. She knew what the de Guignards would do to her if they caught her.

  “ ‘I buried him in the graveyard next to the castle where the last true king rests— ’ ”

  The shriek built and built, and at last burst forth.

  Saber sank to his knees, screaming out his rage at the murdering de Guignards , his grief at his grandfather’s death, the terrible images in his brain. He tore his hair; he ripped his clothes; he beat on his chest: He did what was proper in Moricadia for the death of the beloved leader of his renegade family.

  Vaguely he heard the door fling open. Thompson’s voice, urgent and concerned.

  An answer from his father.

  Then … the kick to his ribs caught him by surprise.

  Pain exploded across his chest. He flopped like a rag doll over on his side, robbed of his breath and aware of only one thing— the agony of broken bones.

  Another kick followed to his rump, dangerously close to his balls.

  Instinctively, he rolled, protecting his equipment with his hands.

  Another kick to his thigh.

  He scrambled away.

  Another to his ribs. Another. He felt hard shoe leather and heard a hateful voice saying, “Never. Never.

  An Englishman never— ”

  Through the roaring in his head, Saber couldn’t comprehend the words.

  Another kick, to his shoulder this time, then Thompson speaking, begging—

  Abruptly, Grimsborough grabbed Saber by his torn shirt, half lifted him off the floor, and stared into his eyes. In his usual cool, precise, crisp tone, just as if he hadn’t almost killed his son, he said, “Do not ever let me hear such a sound out of you again. Englishmen do not wail like heathens. They do not cry like women. They show no emotion. They feel no emotion.” He shook him.

  “Do you understand?”

  Saber stared, mouth open, trying to get air, trying to comprehend the kind of beast who held him, who bred him, who counted it a crime to mourn a beloved grandfather.

  “Do you understand?” Grimsborough repeated.

  Saber knew he should defy him, should stand up for his right to grieve. But he coughed and tasted blood.

  Each breath was an agony. He was barely conscious, and all he could see were those compelling eyes, so like his, yet like a viper’s, cold and soulless.

  He nodded.

  Grimsborough dropped him.

  Pain streaked along his nerves, but he remembered.

  He made no sound.

  “Get him out of here,” Grimsborough said, then turned his back and walked away.

  Murmuring encouragement, Thompson slipped an arm under Saber’s shoulders, helped him get to his feet and out of the room.

  In the corridor, Saber collapsed in shock and agony.

  He learned a lesson that day, a hard, brutal, painful lesson. A lesson ingrained for life.

  Conceal your feelings. Never give in to em
otion.

  For Grimsborough wanted a son only if that son was like … him.

  So when, five months later, Grimsborough called him in and read him another smudged letter, Saber didn’t make a sound.

  What was the point? He had lost the most important thing in his life.

  His mother was dead.

  Ten years later

  At the top of the hill, twenty-one-year-old Raul Lawrence sat straight in the saddle and with a slight smile observed the charming scene.

  Young women from Belle’s boarding school floated like colorful dandelion puffs across his father’s lawn at Grimsborough Abbey, twirling their parasols of pale pink, yellow, and blue. He recognized Belle from afar; she led the largest group on a tour of the gardens, pointing out the climbing roses, the paved paths, the tree swing he’d built for his sisters not long after he’d arrived from Moricadia.

  That had been ten years ago, and every moment he was absent from his home was a heartache to be borne stoically, alone and in silence.

  Yet although he never imagined it possible, there were things about England he loved. His sisters, his friends, his horses, Thompson, even his stepmother …poor woman. They had made his exile bearable, and he was heartily glad for each and every one.

  As he watched, a young lady strolled arm in arm with Belle, gazing bemusedly at her friend.

  Raul understood that. Belle, with her soft, dimpled smile, her kind heart, and her unexpectedly clever mind had a tendency to bemuse them all.

  He had been spotted, for one of the servants hurried up the hill toward him.

  Raul dismounted. He pulled his present for Belle out of the saddlebags, handed over the reins, and started down toward the gardens.

  As he got closer, the young lady with Belle glanced up toward him.

  He stopped in his tracks.

  She was the most beautiful woman Raul had ever seen. Above medium height, with a generous bosom and tiny waist. Golden skin that glowed beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Cornflower blue eyes surrounded by dark lashes. Thick, blond hair, the color of ripe wheat, coiled in a bun at the base of her neck. Lips meant for kissing, for lascivious action, and a dark beauty mark set close to the left corner of her mouth.

  She was perfection.

  Then he noticed the flared nostrils, the narrowed eyes, the pursed lips as she surveyed him… .

  He knew what that meant. She didn’t approve of him, of his parentage, of his reputation.

  Whoever she was, she was a prig.

  Belle followed her friend’s gaze and squealed,“Raul!”

  Opening her arms, she rushed toward him, embraced him, laughed and cried at the same time. “I have missed you.”

  “And I you, my dear girl.” He hugged her hard, cherishing her for the moments they had left. “While I was up at Oxford, I searched for exactly the right gift for your eighteenth birthday, and I found it … here.” He presented her with the flat silk sack.

  She pulled the strings apart and removed the Kashmiri shawl, its colors softly glowing in harmony, brilliance, depth. “Oh … Raul,” she whispered, smoothing her hand across the material. “This is beautiful. So special to me.” She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears. “Thank you.”

  She knew. Somehow, she knew.

  But Belle was always the sister who could read his heart.

  Taking it from her, he shook it out and wrapped it around her shoulders, then offered her his arm. “Shall we greet your guests?”

  She put her hand on his, and as they turned, her face lit up. “Victoria, this is my brother, Raul Lawrence.”

  Victoria blinked as if startled. “Your brother?” She flashed him a look from the top of his top hat to the gleam of his shining boots. And she dropped into a curtsy. “Mr. Lawrence, an honor.”

  So. She had disapproved of him even before she knew his true identity.

  Ah, a challenge.

  He enjoyed a challenge.

  “Raul, this is my dearest friend forever, Victoria Cardiff.”

  “Miss Cardiff.” He bowed, his lips unsmiling. Yet his eyes were amused, and that, he was pleased to note, quite annoyed young Victoria.

  “Victoria and I met at school and she is an absolute dear of a soul,” Belle told him.

  “You do me too much honor, Belle”— Victoria lowered her gaze— “for you are so sweet it’s easy to be kind.”

  “She is, indeed.” He heard a shriek from across the garden, looked up, and saw Arianna and Lucy bearing down on him at a run, while Madeline and Ella followed at a more sedate rate. “Excuse me, ladies.” He strode toward his two youngest sisters, grinning broadly.

  Arianna was now sixteen, with her mother’s blond hair and blue eyes. She looked like an angel.

  Raul knew she was not.

  Lucy was fifteen, the tallest of the sisters, with her father’s dark hair and eyes, a girl who covered her tension with a hard-earned air of serenity.

  After a round of kisses and hugs, he greeted the two eldest girls.

  Now Belle joined them, and all his sisters stood together, looking at him, laughing with the pleasure of having him home.

  Always he was aware, in the midst of the bacchanal of joy, of Victoria, watching gravely, observing as if he and the girls were exotic birds and she a scholarly eyewitness.

  Gathering his sisters close, he herded them toward Belle’s dearest friend forever.

  She was not dressed as well as the other girls at the party. Her gown had been turned and remade, with dark marks at the seams. The style was from five years ago, and her bonnet was … well, the brim shaded her fair complexion, but the straw drooped as if it were weary.

  They surrounded her, laughing, drawing her into the center of the family. They liked her, it was easy to see, and that was interesting, for he had great respect for his sisters and their judgment. They had, after all, grown up in his father’s household, where acute observation of temperament meant the difference between receiving Grimsborough’s attention and being neglected.

  Neglect was much preferred.

  Yet Victoria treated his sisters with reserve, as if she didn’t dare trust their friendship, as if all her life, she had stood by herself, on the outside looking in.

  Bleakly amused at his insight— or was he simply assuming she was the same as him?— he flashed Victoria a sharp predator’s grin.

  Deliberately, she took a step back.

  The two of them spoke quite well without words. And no one else realized they were communicating at all.

  “It’s time for us to dress for the ball tonight.” Belle grabbed Victoria’s arm. “Come on, Victoria, it’ll be fun!”

  For the first time, Raul saw Victoria waver uncertainly. She seemed not to agree, and yet a wistful longing settled on her features.

  The other girls surrounded her, called a farewell-until-later to Raul, and carried her away.

  All except Ella, who stepped to his side and placed her hand on his arm.

  He put his hand over Ella’s and they strolled after the hurrying, chattering girls.

  For him, Belle and his other sisters had been the cushion that had softened the shocks of his existence, and in turn he had done what he could to cushion them.

  He was the son, and the focus of Grimsborough’s attention, but with a father like theirs, the girls had been ignored, insulted, exposed to cruelties. Grimsborough’s careless contempt for his daughters, based on nothing more than their gender, had left its marks.

  Their mother had done what she could, but during Raul’s sojourn in England, she’d suffered at least two miscarriages as well as a stillborn birth, all boys. The strong, handsome, scornful aristocrat he had first met had faded into a thin, sad woman beset with grief for her lost sons.

  So as the eldest, Ella had taken responsibility for protecting her younger sisters and, when she could, Raul. She mothered and worried about and tutored her younger siblings. He respected her goodness even while he wondered how she could stand sacrificing so much of her youth for her
family.

  Now Ella said, “Belle convinced Miss Cardiff to allow the girls to dress her in one of Lucy’s as-yet-unseen gowns. They are the same height, and with a few adjustments for Miss Cardiff’s figure and greater maturity, she will be charming tonight, don’t you agree?”

  “Indeed, she will.” He would readily admit that. “But does she have no gowns of her own?”

  “She does, and they’re all in the same pitiful condition as the dress she’s wearing. Her stepfather has had his own children with her mother and begrudges every dime spent on her.”

  Ah. That explained the practiced reserve.

  Ella continued. “When it came to a choice between clothes and school, she took school. She is to go to the Distinguished Academy of Governesses and learn to earn her living. She has a true talent for languages, a strong will, a good sensibility, and I believe will have a successful life in service.”

  He nodded. He’d heard of the Distinguished Academy of Governesses, owned by Adorna, Lady Bucknell.

  “A bastion of female career guidance and education.”

  “Indeed. Her mother, who is, I think, a poor creature quite cowed by the stepfather, took a stand and insisted Miss Cardiff be allowed to go, rather than stay home and tend to her siblings.”

  So he’d been right about Victoria. She was used to being on the outside looking in. “No wonder Miss Cardiff has that excessively upright backbone.”

  “I think it more likely she’s the type who responds to a challenge by growing a shell.”

  “And pincers? Like a crab?” Suspicion struck him.

  “Why, my dear Ella, are you telling me this?”

  “I wanted you to know she has nothing to look forward to, and you could perhaps cease your peacock posturing.”

  He turned to her with a laugh. “Is that what I’ve been doing?”

  Ella did not laugh back. “Miss Cardiff is very beautiful, yet she has a reputation that must remain polished beyond dispute.”

  He understood her warning. He didn’t like it, but he understood it. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of besmirching her with my inglorious addresses.”

  “Inglorious, are you? I hardly think that. Nor do you.”

  As always, Ella saw him and his character far too clearly.