Sorcha faced him, an angled shaft of sunlight illuminating her features, and the shock of recognition purified him.
Madam had spread the strands across her shoulders. It was as beautiful as Eveleen said. The colors glinted in the candlelight. Gold blended into bronze and bronze blended into copper, and he wanted to bury his fingers in the molten metals of her hair until he burned himself to cinders.
His heart halted its beat. His breath locked in his throat. He clutched the edges of the screen so hard the wood dug into his flesh.
And something lightly touched him on the shoulder.
He jumped. With his fists up, he whirled.
Helen stood holding the folded lace nightgown in her arms. As intimate as a touch, her gaze ran up and down his body—and stopped at the straining buttons on his trousers. She smirked. “Excuse me.” She slipped by him and into the kitchen as if a man standing behind screens and watching the ladies was nothing new to her.
And perhaps it wasn’t.
She stopped at the sight of Sorcha’s unbound tresses. “Ye could work here and make a fortune!”
Rainger wanted to strangle her.
Sorcha fingered the ends and grimaced. “But what has this to do with dressing like a boy?”
“The braid’s the main problem—difficult t’ disguise and no man wears a braid. But there’re things we can do—smudge yer face, for one thing.” Eveleen ran her fingers across the soot-covered fire poker and wiped Sorcha’s nose and cheek. “No woman leaves a smudge on her face.”
“And no man cares whether he’s got one,” one of the other ladies said.
Helen wrapped the nightgown in brown paper and tied it with string. “We can put her in a lot of old shirts and cut off the length so it looks as if she’s got bulk in the shoulders and arms. She’ll be warm, too.”
Rainger should have thought of that.
The ladies rose and, like vibrant butterflies, surrounded Sorcha, tweaking her clothes and all talking at once. Then they broke, fluttering in different directions.
He stood behind the screen, not hidden, but the prostitutes ignored him. They came and went, chattering about Sorcha, her royalty, her prince, and her misfortunes. From their conversation he gathered that these ladies in a bawdyhouse in a crime-ridden town four days’ hard ride from Edinburgh felt sorry for his princess. A sad turn of events, and one that someday he would be able to rectify.
Inside the kitchen, clothing flew.
Sorcha clucked out a constant stream of protests.
Madam rumbled with laughter.
And when the ladies separated to allow him a view of Sorcha, he blinked in surprise.
They’d performed a miracle. Her shoulders were bulky, her face dirty. Her hat covered her ears and was tied under her chin. She looked like a lad who’d been on the road, like a lad who’d weathered a rough life.
“No one will recognize you now.” Madam handed her a mirror. “Not even the nuns.”
Sorcha gazed at herself and laughed out loud. “That’s perfect! You’ve done a wonderful job of making me a boy. I’ll be safe like this.”
It was true. Sorcha and he could pass through Glenmoore and along the dangerous road to Edinburgh with no fears that assassins would target her there.
“We’ve got one other thing to keep you safe.” Madam gestured him in.
He acknowledged her right to test him. Madam wanted to be absolutely certain that Sorcha rode freely with him.
He adjusted the rag to cover his eye. Stepping around the screen, he called, “Sorcha.”
Startled, the crown princess of Beaumontagne looked around and saw him. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, hardened and changed from the vain boy she’d described.
Yet her eyes widened, then narrowed. For one moment he thought she recognized him. Knew he was Rainger.
He waited, wondered, wanted...
Then she passed her hand before her eyes. She looked again, and shook her head.
The moment passed.
He was still a stranger to Sorcha.
Chapter 12
Wind and rain.
Sorcha could scarcely remember a moment when she had not been wet and cold through to the bone—and now, on the third day out of Glenmoore, she was hungry. Today their provisions had run dry and the barren wilderness of the Scottish Highlands yielded no game, no shelter, no village, no light... only wind and rain. Wind and rain.
She stayed cheerful, and heaven knows Arnou never faltered in his belief they’d successfully make their way to Edinburgh. But what comfort was Arnou’s assurance when over and over again he’d proved himself to be a fool?
That evening, for the first time, they didn’t even find a shack or a barn to keep them off the ground. As they huddled together beneath the bare overhang of a rock—the shelter could scarcely be called a cave—she tried to think of conversation. Anything that distracted them from their misery, from the fire that barely smoldered and the cold ground and the damp blankets.
Weighing the heavy braid in her hand, she frowned at its color. “At the next village, I’m going to cut my hair.”
Arnou whipped around and glared. “What did you say?”
“I’m going to cut my hair. It’s a bother, traveling with it, and Eveleen said that the braid was the thing that gave me away as a woman.”
“No man has recognized you since they dressed you.” With the dark stubble of three days’ worth of beard on his chin and a gaunt cast to his face, he looked as desperate and as dangerous as any assassin. His dark eyes were harsh, and he clipped his words as if his lips were stiff. He must really be cold.
“That’s true,” she conceded. “But it would certainly help my disguise if I—”
“I forbid it.”
Arnou’s flat, imperious tone sounded not at all like the fisherman she knew. “What do you mean, you forbid it?” She was laughing as she asked, but as he fixed his eye on her, her laughter faded. He looked almost... intimidating.
Then the image faded. He dropped his gaze, tugged his forelock, and sighed heavily. “I just meant... your hair’s so pretty, like the sunrise that lifts night’s shadow.”
“How poetic.” She didn’t know what to say—or what to think. In the space of a minute, she’d seen two different faces to Arnou, and she recognized neither one. “But I thought you said my hair looked like carrots.”
He grinned. “Carrots are good for you, so my mother always told me. Don’t cut your hair. Trust me, I’ll take care of you. I’ll give my life before I’d allow anyone to hurt you.”
“I know.” Uncertainly, she dropped her braid. The cold pinched at her earlobes, and she shivered. “It just would be easier.”
“I’ve got to check on the horses.” He started out from beneath the rock, then he came back. He tucked her hair beneath her collar, straightened her coat, and pulled her hat over her ears. “Give a man something to dream about, Sorcha.”
That night, as she lay wrapped in all the blankets they’d brought, with Arnou’s arms wrapped around her for heat, his odd behavior came back to haunt her. She didn’t understand what he meant—give a man something to dream about.
Did he dream about her?
She’d never inspired dreams in a man before. No one had ever valued her for her appearance, and most certainly not for her carroty red hair. Rainger had made that clear.
Yet Arnou seemed taken with her looks and her hair, so taken he had vowed to die for her—and that sent a secret thrill through her.
Not that Arnou was in any way appropriate. But when he was washed and didn’t smell of fish and filth, and when he didn’t slump and grin like an idiot, and when she could forget his poor scar and vacant eye socket, why, then she thought he was rather attractive... in a rough sort of way.
And he liked her hair enough to get sort of arrogant about it. She certainly liked that.
She liked him.
More important, she trusted him.
Arnou was honest and true, without pretense or deception
, and she knew from Grandmamma’s lessons how rare it was to find a man with those virtues.
But Arnou was a simple man. Sorcha had found a rare gem—a cavalier dedicated to her service. He would never betray her.
Plus, when she thought of him, of his strong, rough hands, his broad shoulders, his long legs, inside she felt sort of warm and gooshy.
She didn’t know what that meant, but her reaction made her feel alive.
With a smile, she drifted off to sleep.
The next day Sorcha woke to find Arnou already awake, speaking softly to the horses. She peeked out from beneath the blankets and saw a skiff of snow in the cracks of the rocks.
Winter.
She groaned. Winter had caught up with them.
Arnou came and peered under the stony overhang.
“Do I have to get up?” she joked.
“No.” He offered his hand and, fatally cheerful, said, “You can stay here and starve.”
“If those are my choices... ” Taking his hand, she marveled at its warmth. How could he be warm when every part of her was chilled?
In stages she rose to her feet.
As she stretched out the kinks, he supported her and said, “But be merry! The clouds are gone and the sky clear-washed. Look, the sun is rising!”
Sorcha did look. “A miracle.” The kind of miracle only wet and weary travelers could truly appreciate. The sky clothed itself in gold, then blushed with pleasure to see the sun after so many days. The purple mountains turned ruby and orange in anticipation of warmth, and Sorcha found herself observing each ripple of color and wondering which one Arnou thought matched her hair.
But when she turned to him, he wasn’t watching the sunrise, he was watching her. And he said, “All the colors.”
Just as if he knew what she was thinking!
“You’ve got pretty eyes, too,” he said.
That swell of unwilling pleasure he’d caused her only yesterday lifted her again. Flustered, she tried to pretend she was used to such compliments. “Courtiers... I mean, some people told me I have my grandmother’s eyes.”
“Do you?” His one eye was dark and, in this light, looked interested and intelligent.
“No.” She gathered the damp blankets from their shelter and folded them. “Grandmamma’s eyes are so cold they pierce one like a chill wind.”
He laughed. “She sounds like a scary one, your Grandmamma.”
“Puppies and young children flee from her.” Sorcha was only half joking.
“Do you have family other than her?” Arnou had taken the horses from their shelter, wiped them down, and tethered them in the green grass.
“I have two sisters, Clarice and Amy. I’m on my way to see them now.”
“Are you?”
She took a long breath. “I hope so. Amy was only twelve last time I saw her. Clarice was beautiful and she’ll be more beautiful now, I know it. And I miss them... .” Sorcha realized she must be weakened by hunger, for an unexpected surge of loneliness brought tears to her eyes. When she had control, she said, “I, um, had letters from them, the best company I could ever have. That fire... that fire at the convent burned the letters, and I feel like I was burned, too.”
His gaze dropped. He adjusted the rag over his eye.
She sniffled. “I feel like there’s a small, hot coal where my beating heart used to be, and until I see my sisters, until I know they’re well, I won’t be truly alive again. Silly, aren’t I?”
“Not at all. Your affection is inspiring and not necessarily common.” His words were kind and surprisingly sensible. “Sisters don’t always love each other so well.”
“We can’t fight when we’re apart.” She wiped her eyes.
As if the subject made him uncomfortable, he changed the subject—but what did she expect from Arnou? Tact?
“After you went to sleep last night, I explored ahead. There’s a village not far up the road. We’ll circle around it, then I’ll go back and buy supplies.”
At the idea, her empty stomach rumbled. “Food?” she asked eagerly.
“Most certainly food.” He smiled at her, a warm smile quite unlike his usual foolish grin. “You’re a trooper, Sorcha. You don’t complain no matter how hungry or wet or cold you are.”
“What good would complaining do?” she asked, surprised. “You’re as hungry and cold and wet, and there’s nothing to be done about that, either.”
Still he smiled at her as if she’d said something remarkable, until that warm, gooshy feeling spread through her insides again and she found herself glancing down in a sudden excess of modesty.
He said nothing more, and when she peeked at him, an uncertain frown knit his brow. The old Arnou was back—yet not the old Arnou. This Arnou seemed less of a fool and more of a... a what? A genuinely confused man.
“Come on, let’s make the most of this weather.” He helped her into the saddle.
They rode, leaving the path to take the long way around the village. When they were clear, he stopped. “I’ll go in and barter for food. Over this rise, there’s a long valley that parallels the road. Ride there, you can’t get lost, and I’ll catch up with you within two hours.” His voice became stern. “Keep a lookout. If you see anyone—a farmer, a farmer’s wife, a dog—don’t stop to chat with them. If you see a man on horseback, don’t assume he’s your friend. He could very well be another assassin.”
“All right,” she said, offended. “You don’t have to be nasty about it.”
“Nasty?” He reared back as if she’d insulted him. “Woman, you ate a meal at a house of ill repute and by the time you were done, you knew all the prostitutes’ names.”
“Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I?”
He seemed to be trying to answer that, but she noted with satisfaction he could come up with nothing, because nothing he could say would make sense. Finally, he pointed a finger at her. “You will please remain hidden and silent.”
“I know there are men after me, and I’ll be prudent,” she assured him.
“Your idea of prudence and mine do not mesh.” As he rode away, she thought she heard him add, “Thank God.”
But that didn’t make any sense at all, so she rode over the rise, fighting the ever-present wind, and dropped down into the long valley. Here, autumn’s sun warmed her back, the wind whistled overhead, and the pleasure of the day brought a smile to her face. Around her, the land fought off winter’s early effects, holding wisps of green grass in hallows protected by tall, gray, craggy stones. No scent drifted on the breeze; the air was so fresh it cleansed her lungs. She wandered along, taking her time, cherishing these hours for their peace. Small birds settled on the warm rocks, preening and chirping, so sweet and comical she laughed out loud.
Before she expected it and not far ahead of her, Arnou rode out from behind a boulder. “What’s so funny?”
She jumped at his sudden appearance. “You scared me!”
“The road was smooth and fast.”
She looked at his bulging saddlebag. “Did you get us something to eat?”
“We have a veritable feast.” He searched her face. “Now—why were you laughing?”
“After so many awful days in a row, doesn’t this make you want to dance and sing?” She threw out her arms to embrace the whole world.
He stared at her with that confused frown again. Then, as if he couldn’t help it, he smiled. “It makes me want to eat.” He pointed to a small rise surrounded by a ring of rough stones. “We’ll sit there. We can see anyone who rides along the valley long before they get here, and—”
“Yes! That looks lovely.” Sliding out of the saddle, she took her horse’s reins and bounded toward the stone circle.
The boulders were huge, at least twice her height, and most of them still stood upright, reaching toward heaven like silent witnesses to the ages. She stared up as she passed between two of them, calculating how many men it had taken to stand them upright—when Conquest balked. Setting his hooves, he refused to
enter the circle, and his abrupt refusal almost jerked Sorcha off her feet. “What is it, boy?” She backtracked, petting his nose, speaking softly to him, but although he accepted her comfort, still he refused to step between the stones. Brow puckered, she looked at Arnou.
“We’ll have to tether the horses outside the circle,” he said.
“But why?”
“I’ve seen stones like these before.” He scrutinized them: tall, gray, covered with orange lichens and green moss. “The locals always tell me the fairies built the circle, or the goblins, or the priests of the old religion. I suppose the horses sense there’s magic here.”
She glanced around in astonishment. “The only magic comes from the beautiful day.”
He studied at her, posed above him on the hill. “Tell the horses.”
Did Arnou believe in fairies? Such faith from her fisherman-protector seemed absurd in the extreme, yet he set about tethering the horses in the good grass beyond the circle with cheerful acceptance. How odd.
Once again, but with more caution, she stepped into the circle.
She sensed nothing. No otherworldly wonder struck her, and that was good. When Arnou joined her, bag in hand, she said, “Grandmamma told me time and again no evidence of magic exists.”
“Your grandmother doesn’t know everything.” Arnou’s mouth puckered as if he tasted a particularly tart lemon.
“Do you really believe the fairies made this place?” Silly Arnou!
“The tales say that time stops in the land of the fairies. That they control the weather. That it’s always spring there.” He waved a hand at the nests of yellow flowers bobbing in the shadows of the stones. “For myself—I feel we’re safe here. Don’t you?”
Unreasonably, she did. “Of course, but because we’ve been cautious and this place is a lookout.”
“Of course.” He sounded amused and indulgent.
For the first time in days, she felt warm enough to strip off her cloak and her hat and peel off her top three shirts. Maybe, she thought in amusement, the fairies really did create this lovely weather.
Climbing to the highest point within the circle, she looked out to the countryside. To her surprise, the mount was higher than it looked. From here she could see the Highlands that stretched for miles in every direction. The sun stretched shadows across the land. Purple mountains and blue rivers dwindled into the pale horizon. She almost felt that if she concentrated, she could look toward the southeast and view Beaumontagne. The breeze whispered softly in her ears, urging her to try, and she strained, lifting her arms as if she could fly, wanting so badly to see Grandmamma, to hear Grandmamma’s voice, to know the truth about her father, her sisters, the men who chased her... .
The Prince Kidnaps a Bride Page 11