The Princess

by Jude Deveraux

  From Lavender Morning to Moonlight Masquerade, uncover the secrets of “the quaint, charming Southern town of Edilean” (RT Book Reviews) in eight thrilling New York Times bestsellers from Jude Deveraux!

  Praise for her marvelous Edilean novels

  “Exquisite and enchanting.”

  — BookPage

  “Quick dialogue, interesting settings, and plot twists.”

  —Deseret Morning News

  “Delightful. . . . A tale to read for the simple joy of a well-crafted romance.”

  —RT Book Reviews (4½ stars)

  “Deveraux brings to life the sort of sweet and spunky heroines who attract the muscular men her fans expect and enjoy.”

  —Booklist

  “Engaging, charming . . . with a surprising final twist.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  “Deveraux is a master storyteller, and her books fairly shimmer with excitement and adventure. . . . With strong characters, down-home charm, and an intriguing story, fans will enjoy catching up with the folks from Edilean.”

  —Wichita Falls Times Record News

  “Readers will find it hard to resist the charms of Edilean, the manor house, the town, the woman of many secrets and, of course, the series to come.”

  —Publishers Weekly

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  Chapter One

  Key West, Florida

  1942

  J.T. Montgomery stretched his long legs out in the motorboat, resting his injured calf against one of the crates in the bottom of the boat. He was the remarkably handsome product of generations of remarkably handsome people. His dark hair had been cut too short by the navy but that did not detract from his good looks: brilliant blue eyes, lips that could be as cold as marble or as soft and sweet as the balmy air surrounding him, a slight cleft in his chin, and a nose that on a smaller man would have been too large. His mother called it the Montgomery nose and said it was God’s attempt to protect their faces from all the fists aimed by people who didn’t like the Montgomery hardheadedness.

  “It still doesn’t make sense to me,” Bill Frazier was saying as he maneuvered the stick on the motor. Bill was a striking contrast to J.T. Bill was six inches shorter, hair already thinning at age twenty-three, and built like a stack of concrete blocks. Bill was grateful to have J.T. as a friend because, wherever J.T. went, the chicks followed. Six months ago, Bill had married the pick of the bunch.

  J.T. didn’t bother answering his friend, but just closed his eyes for a moment and smelled the clean salt air around him. It was heaven to get away from the smell of oil, from the noise of machinery, and away from the responsibility of taking care of others, of answering questions, of—

  “If I were a bachelor like you,” Bill was saying, “I’d be down on Duval Street having the time of my life. I can’t understand anybody wanting to spend time alone on one of these godforsaken islands.”

  J.T. opened one eye at Bill then turned and looked out over the ocean at several mangrove islands surrounding them. He couldn’t explain what he felt to Bill, who had grown up in a city. J.T. had grown up in Maine, away from the noise and confusion of people and their machines. And there had always been the sea. When other boys had bought their first cars at sixteen, J.T. had received a sailboat. By eighteen he had been sailing three-day trips alone. He had even dreamed of sailing around the world alone. But then the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and the war began and—

  “Hey!” Bill was calling. “Don’t leave this world yet. Are you sure that’s enough provisions? Don’t look like much to eat to me. Dolly says you’re too skinny as it is.”

  J.T. smiled at the mention of Bill’s pretty little wife. “It’s enough,” he said, and closed his eyes again. City people were never able to look at the sea as one long banquet table. He had brought a net, a fishing pole and hooks, a couple of pots, a small box of vegetables, and his mess kit. He planned to live like a king for the next few days. The thought of the silence, the solitude, and the lack of responsibility made him shift on the hard seat.

  Bill laughed, his very ordinary face crinkling. He was a man who would have made an excellent spy since he could have faded into any crowd. “All right, point taken. But I still think you’re crazy. Anyway, it’s your life. The commander wants you back next Monday and I’ll be here to pick you up. And Dolly said to tell you that if you don’t swear you’ll use that burn salve she’ll be out here tomorrow to apply it herself.”

  Bill snorted when J.T.’s eyes flew open with a look of horror on his face. “Now that would be my idea of a visit to a island,” Bill said. “I’d lay in a hammock and have two beautiful—no, three—gorgeous dames feeding me mangoes.”

  “No women,” J.T. said, his blue eyes darkening. “No women, please.”

  Bill laughed again. “What happened with that little WAVE was your own fault. Anybody could see marriage was in her eyes. And why didn’t you marry her? I can highly recommend the state.”

  “That’s my island over there,” J.T. said, ignoring Bill’s comments about marriage.

  “Beats me how you can tell one island from another, but it’s your funeral. One good thing is you’ll be so lonely out here you’ll be glad to get back to work.”

  J.T. grimaced at that. Peace, he thought, that’s all he wanted. Nothing but the sound of the wind and the rain beating down on his tarp. And the food! No more navy chow, just fish, lobster, shrimp, conch, and—“Cut your motor,” he half shouted at Bill. “You’re going to hit the beach.”

  Bill obeyed and eased the motorboat onto the narrow white sand beach.

  Holding his left leg stiff in order to minimize the pulling of the burned skin, J.T. untangled his six-foot-long body and stepped out of the boat and into the shallow water. The heavy navy boots felt awkward on the slippery bottom and he suddenly couldn’t wait for Bill to be gone so he could get out of the stiff uniform.

  “Last chance,” Bill said, handing J.T. the first crate. “You can still change your mind. If I had time off, I’d get drunk and stay that way until I had to sober up.”

  J.T. grinned, showing even white teeth and making the cleft in his chin almost disappear. “Thanks for the offer and tell Dolly I swear I’ll use the salve and try my best to fatten up,” he said as he took the second crate ashore.

  “She’ll probably still worry about you and when you get back she’ll no doubt have twenty pretty girls lined up to meet you.”

  “I’ll be ready for them by then. You’d better go, it looks like it might rain.” J.T. couldn’t keep the eagerness out of his voice.

  “I can take a hint, you want me gone. I’ll pick you up on Sunday.”

  “Sunday night,” J.T. said.

  “All right, Sunday night. But you don’t have to live with Dolly. She’s going to worry me to death about you.”

  “All right,” J.T. said, stepping toward the boat. “Now you’ve made me a decent offer. I’ll live with Dolly and you stay here.”

  “Some joker,” Bill said, the smile leaving his face. His buxom little wife was the love of his life; each day he still marveled that she had married someone like him. For all that J.T. was his friend and had even introduced them, J.T.’s looks aroused Bill’s jealousy.

  J.T. laughed at his friend’s expression. “Go on, get out of here and don’t get lost on the way back.”

  Bill revved the engine and backed off the narrow beach with J.T.’s help.

  J.T. stood at the edge of
the water and watched his friend until Bill rounded another island and was lost to sight, then J.T. opened his arms and breathed deeply. The smell of decaying sea matter, the salt air, the wind on the mangrove trees behind him made him feel almost at home.

  In another minute he had grabbed most of his things and was heading north along the beach. Nearly a year ago when the navy had first sent him to Key West to supervise their ship repair operation, he had seen this island through binoculars from the deck of a ship. He had known then it was a place where he would like to spend time.

  Over the past year he had read a few books about the land around Key West and he had gotten an idea of what was involved in camping on a hostile mangrove island.

  Saying that the interior of a mangrove island was impenetrable was an understatement. The branches of the trees that had formed the island hung down to the ground, creating a prison of woody stems.

  J.T. removed his shirt, took up his machete, and began slashing a narrow path through the growth. He meant to reach the freshwater cut in the center of the island.

  It took him four hours of hard work to reach the cut and by that time he was down to his skivvies. Dolly was right in saying that he was too thin. He had lost weight in his three weeks in the hospital and the burns on the left side of his body were still pink and now beginning to itch from sweat. He stood panting for a moment and looked about him. He was completely enclosed on three sides by the short, glossy-leaved mangrove trees, but in front of him was the cut of water and a small area of land and sea debris. The water flowed out before him, its source hidden under the trees. There was room here for his tarp tent, a campfire, and his few provisions; it was all he needed.

  He wiped the sweat from his face and turned back down the path he had just made. The track had many twists and turns, and twice he had let it lapse, crawling under the looping, low branches for a while before starting to hack away again. He didn’t want a freshly made path leading to his sleeping area. Several times German submarines had come into the Keys and J.T. had no desire to awaken one night to a bayonet at his throat.

  It was sundown by the time he dragged all his things down the serpentine path, then, wearing only his shorts, boots, and a knife about his waist, he grabbed a johnny mop from his kit and went back to the beach. He removed his boots and walked into the warm water.

  “There are definitely things to recommend this place,” he said aloud, remembering the cold Maine water of his hometown.

  When he was in water to his chest, he dove and easily swam underwater to the nearest bit of wreckage protruding from the water. Unfortunately, the war had left the shallow water near Key West littered with debris. The water was dark but J.T. could see the deeper shadows. He stuck the mop into a hole in what had once been part of a ship and twisted. When he pulled the mop out, the antennae of four lobsters were entangled in the threads of the mop.

  One lobster got free before he got it to shore but he quickly pegged the claws of the other three and carried them back down the path.

  Moments later he had a fire going and a pot of water boiling. Deftly, with a practiced gesture, he pierced the spine of each lobster before dumping it into the water. These lobsters were different from the ones he had grown up with, smaller, with spotted shells, but they turned red when cooked just the same.

  An hour later he tossed the empty shells into the water and smiled as he climbed into his hammock strung between two trees. The air was balmy, the wind just barely moving. The water was lapping at the shore and his belly was full. For the first time since he had left home, he was at peace.

  He slept soundly, more soundly than he had in a year, and dreamed of mounds of shrimp for breakfast. For the first time in weeks he didn’t dream of the night he had been burned, didn’t dream of being surrounded by fire.

  The sun rose and J.T. kept sleeping. Somewhere his mind was rejoicing that there were no starched nurses shoving stainless steel trays under his nose at five A.M. and saying, “And how are we this morning?” He smiled in his sleep and dreamed of yellowtail snapper roasted over an open fire.

  When the shots came, he was too deeply asleep to even hear them, much less recognize them. He had slept knowing that he was safe and now he somehow knew the shots were not aimed at him.

  When he did awake, it was with a jolt, sitting upright. Something was wrong, he knew it, but he didn’t know what it was. He leaped from the hammock, ignoring the pain on the left side of his body, pulled on his boots, laced them as fast as possible, grabbed his rifle, and left the clearing, wearing his shorts and knife.

  When he reached the beach and he still had heard or seen nothing, he began to laugh at himself for being skittish. “It was a dream,” he muttered, then started back toward the path.

  He heard another round of shots before he could take another step.

  Crouching low, staying at the far edge of the beach, he began to run toward the sound. He had not gone far when he saw them. Two men were in a motorboat, one sitting by the motor, the other standing, aiming a rifle at something in the water.

  J.T. blinked a few times then saw the dark, round shape in the water dive. It was a human head.

  J.T. didn’t consider what he was doing. After all, it was wartime and perhaps the head in the water was a German spy who deserved to die. All he thought was that two against one was unfair. He put his rifle behind a tree, flung off his boots, and eased into the water.

  J.T. swam as quietly as he could, trying to watch the men and the head. When the head went down and didn’t surface, he dove, swimming under the tip of the boat and heading downward.

  “There!” he heard above him just as he dove. Moments later bullets came zinging through the water, one of them cutting into his shoulder.

  He kept diving down, down, his eyes wide as he searched.

  Just when he knew he was going to have to resurface for air, he saw the body, limp, bent over, and floating downward. He kicked harder as he dove deeper.

  He caught the body about the waist and started clawing his way upward. He could see mangrove roots to his right and tried to reach them. His lungs were burning, his heart pounding in his ears.

  When his head broke the surface, his only concern was air, not the men. Fumbling, he grabbed the hair of the person he held and pulled the head out of the water. As he tried to determine his position, he knew he heard no gasping of air from the body he held. The men had shut off their motor and were now only a few feet from J.T. but their backs were to him.

  Silently, J.T. swam into the tree roots. Involuntarily, he gasped as a razor clam clinging to the roots cut into his burned side. But he made no more sound as he backed further into the roots, the clams cutting into his skin. The men used oars to maneuver the boat.

  “You got her,” one man said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “I just want to make sure,” the man with the rifle said.

  Her? J.T. thought, then turned to look at the face of the head lolling on his shoulder. She was a delicate-featured young woman, quite pretty actually—and she didn’t seem to be alive.

  For the first time J.T. felt anger. He wanted to attack the two men in the boat who would shoot at a woman, but he had no weapon except a small knife, his body was covered with half-healed burns, and he had no idea how deep the bullet wound in his shoulder was.

  Impulsively, he pulled the woman closer to him, shielding her slim body from the razor clams, and encountered the curve of a female breast. He suddenly felt even more protective of her, holding her to him in a loving way.

  He glared at the backs of the men who searched the water.

  “I hear something. It sounds like a motor,” the seated one said. “She’s dead. Let’s get out of here.”

  The other one shouldered his rifle, sat down, and nodded as the first man started the motor and they sped away.

  J.T. waited until the boat was out of sight then protected the woman’s body as best he could with his own as he made his way out of the jungle of roots and into the op
en water. He held her with his injured arm while swimming with the other until he reached the beach.

  “Don’t be dead, honey,” he kept saying as he carried her to the shore. “Don’t be dead.”

  As gently as he could, he put her on her stomach on the beach and began to try to pump the water from her lungs. She was wearing a long-sleeved, high-necked, full-skirted dress, her dark hair coiled and pinned about her head. The dress clung to her in a way that allowed him to see that she had a beautiful body: tall, slim-hipped, a waist he could span with his hands, and big breasts that swelled against the fabric. Her face was turned to one side, her eyes closed, thick, dark lashes lying against a cheek as pure and pale as porcelain. She looked like some rare, precious flower that had never been exposed to sunlight. How could anyone have tried to kill this delicate beauty, he thought with anger. All his protective instincts rose within him.

  “Sweet lady,” he said, squeezing on her ribs in a way that was half caress then lifting her arms. “Breathe, baby, breathe for Daddy Montgomery. Come on, sweetheart.”

  Blood ran down his shoulder from the bullet wound and more blood flowed from half a dozen cuts from the razor clams, but he didn’t notice. His only concern was the life of this beautiful young woman.

  He prayed, asking God to spare her.

  “Come on, sweetheart, please try,” he begged. “You can’t give up now. You’re safe now. I’ll protect you. Please, baby. For me.”

  After what seemed to be hours, he felt a shudder run through her body. She was alive!

  He kissed her fragile-looking cheek, felt the cold skin, then resumed pumping with increased vigor. “That’s it, honey, just a little more. Take a big deep breath for Daddy. Breathe, goddamn you!”

  Another shudder passed through her body and she gave a great gagging heave. J.T. felt so much empathy for her that his own sides tightened. A huge amount of water came from her mouth and she began to cough as she struggled to pull herself upright.

  J.T. smiled, feeling a great joy flood through his veins, and thanked God as he pulled her into his lap. “That’s it, baby, get it all out.” He stroked her damp hair, caressed her small, frail back, and felt as God must have when He created man. J.T. didn’t know when anything had made him feel as good as saving this girl. He caressed her pretty cheek with the back of his fingers, cradled her like a child, and soothed her more. “You’re safe now, sweetheart. Perfectly safe.” He held her face against his neck.