“She described the incident to me and has accused one of my men of stealing her jewelry that day. I’ve already confronted the man. He denies it, but he’s new. I don’t trust him yet. So I am also sending men to search his family’s farm. It is too late for them to leave tonight, so it may be several days before they return.”
“Thorough as usual,” Frederick commended. “You hope to catch her in the lie?”
“That, yes, but she also described an infant’s bracelet that was among her jewelry that was to prove her story.”
Frederick was given pause. “There was one bracelet I had crafted for her the day she was born, but there were others. So many trinkets she was presented with in the days following her birth, and so many went missing after Avelina died and the care of my daughter was shifted from the queen’s rooms to a new nursery wing. I don’t know if the bracelet I gave her was one of the ones that were lost. But it disturbs me that my enemy could know about it and use it against me, when only my most trusted advisers were aware of it. I want answers, Christoph. Use whatever means necessary to get at the truth without actually hurting this young woman—fear, even seduction if you have to. Find out who put her up to this, and we may finally have the name of my enemy.”
“Certainly, Highness.”
Christoph had had the same thought. His predecessor had dealt with the first three imposters. Mere children they’d been. One had been brought in by a swindler from a German principality. They’d been thrown out of Lubinia and told never to return on penalty of death. Another had been brought in by a money-hungry Lubinian. His tale had fallen apart as well, and he’d been imprisoned and the little girl sent to a convent school. The third pair had been the most convincing, but when the questioning had gotten tough, they had escaped, so the king’s guards had never found out who’d been behind that attempt, though Bruslans had been suspected.
Christoph had dealt with the fourth one two years ago. It had been almost comical. She claimed to be sixteen, the age the princess would have been, though she looked more like twenty. He’d no sooner begun his questions than she’d broken into tears. Considering her fearfully distraught, he left her alone, giving her the opportunity to depart with her foolish claim, though he stationed men to discreetly follow her. She took the bait immediately.
Her connection was traced to one of the nursemaids who hadn’t gotten the job of tending to the princess all those years ago. Despite her advanced age, she had claimed to still be nursing her own child, yet a few questions had revealed that child was long dead—and possibly what had addled her mind. After the royal theft had been made known, she had been heard to gloat that she could have protected the princess from being stolen, and that only she could have raised her properly. She set out to prove it by stealing a girl child from town and raising her to think she was royalty.
But the girl had had a harsh childhood, beaten by the old woman each time she questioned why a princess was being raised in such squalor. The girl didn’t have the courage to go through with the impersonation. She, at least, had not been part of the plot hanging over the Stindals.
But this girl who had shown up today was something else entirely. The others had been children or stupid. This one wasn’t either. But he’d already tried to frighten her, obviously not enough to get a confession yet, so he’d keep that in mind. But seduction? When he had never been anything but straightforward with his women? He was more than willing to get her into his bed, though, and with the king’s permission! And it would be interesting to see how she would react to a change in tactics. . . .
Chapter Seventeen
IF THIS WAS HOW they treated long-lost daughters, Alana could just imagine how they treated enemies. She was actually going to enjoy being a princess just long enough to put Christoph Becker in his place!
She had been contemptuous of this country before, but now she was starting to despise it. If lives weren’t at stake, she would withdraw her claim faster than the captain and his palace guards could blink. Closed-minded, primitive lout, how dare he treat her like this when she’d done nothing wrong? Well, she should voluntarily have surrendered her weapons sooner, she supposed, before he discovered them on his own. That did look bad. But he’d rattled her so much she hadn’t even thought to do so sooner!
She hadn’t grown up knowing any sort of fear. Poppie had taught her how to handle dangerous situations, but not how to deal with this particular emotion. Having her natural indignation over her treatment mixed in with it was a horrible combination that put a painful tightness in her chest.
She was afraid the captain had provoked this fear deliberately so she’d end up telling him exactly what he wanted to hear instead of the truth. God, she couldn’t let that happen. Lives depended on her steadfast resolve. She needed to regain her confidence. She needed a stronger emotion to outweigh the fear. Indignation wasn’t strong enough. She needed to get her anger back, she realized as she stared at the metal-barred cell door. She noticed that the bars were not narrowly set. A man couldn’t squeeze through them, but she might be able to.
But the servant Boris arrived before she could test that possibility. “You’re not going to shoot me, are you?” he called from the doorway in a jocular tone.
He couldn’t be serious. He had to know she no longer had any weapons, so she didn’t bother to answer him.
Grinning, he came forward to give her a small lamp first, already lit, thrusting it through the bars and setting it on the floor of her cell. It was welcome because now, in the evening, no light was streaming through the high-set windows in the outer room. The sconces at the door to the detention block, which wasn’t far from her cell, provided the only illumination.
Next she heard Boris grunting as he carried a large, heavy brazier, which he placed outside her cell’s door. After he lit it, he put a folding contraption around it that funneled the heat into her cell.
“If you hadn’t angered the captain so much, he wouldn’t have locked you in,” the servant told her, “and this could go inside your room.”
It was a cell, not a room! she wanted to scream, but she held her tongue. Actually, if not for the barred door, it could be considered a room. It was larger than the other cells she’d passed, and it had been made somewhat comfortable, so she assumed it was for special prisoners of rank or importance. The bed was narrow, void of bedding, but the mattress was softly stuffed. She’d tested it. An oval rug was on the floor, with a pedestal table and that odious chair that she’d left right where the captain had put it before he’d shoved her down in it.
Boris appeared to be waiting for her to reply to his comment. A young man, he was as cleanly shaven as his master, with curly, brown hair worn a little long. His eyes were light blue, sharp with intelligence.
“I expect no less of a barbarian,” she retorted.
“I wouldn’t say that to him if I were you.”
“Why not? He’s blind and stupid and doesn’t recognize the truth when it smacks him over the head.”
Boris laughed and left her alone. Fully dressed now, she had been managing to ward off the chill in that prison block by pacing the floor. She welcomed the heat from the brazier, but not for long.
The room quickly got too warm. She rolled up her sleeves. She opened the bodice of her gown a bit. She took off her boots and stockings, even her heavy petticoats. Still she felt uncomfortably warm. When it occurred to her that this was a deliberate tactic intended to bake a confession out of her, her anger rose with the temperature.
She welcomed her anger. She could control it. Poppie had taught her to control all of her emotions. Look how well she’d done during that outrageous interrogation. Becker wouldn’t even see her anger, she could hide it so well. But this heat was too much!
She thought about shouting for Boris, but he wouldn’t come back if this intense heat was deliberate, and she was now sure it was. No one in his right mind would funnel this much heat at her by mistake. She thought about trying to knock over the brazier’s shield, bu
t it appeared to be out of her reach, and she was afraid she’d get burned if she tried to get close to it. So she stayed as far back in the cell as she could, her back to the heat, and used her petticoat to wipe the perspiration off her face and neck.
Unfortunately, the heat soon exhausted her, draining away her anger. She lay on the bed, and soon the sweat on her cheeks was mixed with tears. Despite what the captain had said, she was afraid he wasn’t going to let her out of that cell. But soon she couldn’t even summon the energy to feel sorry for herself. She knew she was becoming dangerously listless, but she couldn’t muster the gumption to try to counter it.
She was almost asleep when she vaguely heard the door to the detention block open and heavy, military-brisk footsteps approaching. She tried to sit up, but couldn’t quite manage it and gave up the effort. She was utterly wilted, soaked with sweat. She opened her eyes only a smidgen to make sure it was the captain. It was, and he looked even bigger and more intimidating because he was wearing a long, shapeless military coat.
She saw him stop next to the brazier and heard him swear, knocking the shield to the floor, where it opened flat, then he shoved the brazier away from the door with his foot. That done, he glanced in the room at her—and drew in his breath sharply.
The long string of oaths that followed were so foul, Alana didn’t even recognize them. Not that they would have made her blush when her face was already so flushed from the heat. She knew she should brace herself. He was unlocking the door to come inside. But she was still too drained to care.
He picked her up and carried her out of there. That was at least alarming enough to make her find her voice, albeit barely a whisper, “Put me down.”
“I’m taking you to cool off.”
“So you didn’t mean to melt me?”
“Not like that.”
Remembering his earlier remark about her melting on him like butter, she actually understood he wasn’t talking about that brazier. The cool air from his brisk passage through the storage room didn’t pull her out of her stupor either. But the snow did, opening her eyes fully. He’d taken her outside to the ward, just outside his quarters. Darkness had fallen and with it, a steady stream of snow. It melted on her instantly, wouldn’t even stick to her warm clothes as it did to his. But that would change soon enough as cold as it was outside.
“You want me to catch my death?” she gasped.
He snorted. “If it wasn’t so early in winter, there would be a pile of snow out here for me to drop you in. It’s a healthy way to cool off.”
“It’s nothing of the sort. Now put me down!”
“In your bare feet?”
Only now was she reminded that she wasn’t wearing her boots, though she was more properly attired than when he’d last seen her. But with the snow falling about Christoph’s face, she was also reminded of that other time they’d been in the snow together. Good God, he was the brute from the mountain pass! This was whom she had to deal with? A man who would touch her so inappropriately just to amuse his men? Of course! She should have known by the way he’d been manhandling her all day! And he knew. Why hadn’t he said anything when she’d described that encounter to him and told him her bracelet had been stolen by one of his own men?
He didn’t wait for her to answer or didn’t expect one, but he did carry her back inside before she did actually catch a chill. He continued down that little hallway off the parlor. She started to stiffen, but he wasn’t taking her back to the cell. He stopped between the two doors in the middle of the hall, one of which was open. She only got the briefest glance into the kitchen. The cook saw her and raised a brow. Boris was there, too, leaning against a worktable. She didn’t have time to give him a fulminating glare for what he’d done before Christoph opened the door to the other room and set her down inside it.
It was a bedroom, his bedroom. Nothing about it was Spartan or military. Richly appointed, it could have been a bedroom in a mansion, if on a smaller scale. It reminded her that he was a member of the nobility here and was obviously so rich he could build his own lavish quarters in the palace while he served the king. Too bad his behavior didn’t live up to his title.
Despite his having seen her in her underclothes before, she still pointed out, “This is highly inappropriate!”
“What is? That I give you a room where you can repair yourself? Or did you think I was going to stay and watch?”
She abruptly gave him her back again. He snorted, adding, “There’s water on the washstand. Return to the parlor for dinner when you are done.”
The parlor for dinner? Not back into a locked cell? Well, that was encouraging. But still she was forced to admit, “I will need something to wear. My dress is soaked and will need washing. I actually need a bath. And my boots—”
“Enough. Make do with something in my wardrobe.”
She turned again to tell him she wouldn’t wear his clothes, only to see the door close behind him. Very well, she didn’t exactly have much choice. At least the door had a latch she could turn to be assured of privacy.
With her energy returning, she moved quickly to the wash-stand, dropped her remaining clothes at her feet, and drenched herself with cool water. The discarded clothes kept a puddle from forming on Christoph’s fine carpet. She even poured the last of the water over her head before she ran a towel briskly over her body.
She heard something fall loudly to the floor in the next room, but assumed the cook had dropped something in the kitchen. She was too occupied rummaging through the wardrobe to even start at the noise. Uniforms, shirts, pants that were much too long for her, another winter coat thicker than the one she’d just seen him in, a white robe. She sighed over her choices.
She tried on one of his shirts, which only fell just above her knees. She needed something longer like a nightshirt, but couldn’t find one in the wardrobe or the bureau next to it. The white robe and the shirt would have to do. She buttoned the shirt up to her neck and folded the cuffs of the sleeves several times to get them off her hands. Christoph had taken all of her hairpins, so she couldn’t repair her coiffure, but she found a comb on the bureau, with which she got the tangles out. She was afraid to find out what she looked like when she was finished, so if there was a mirror in that bedroom, she didn’t try to find it.
She took a deep breath before she opened the bedroom door. She had to show that man confidence or he’d never believe her. He needed to see her heritage, not that frightened mouse he’d made of her in that cell. Unfortunately, being dressed in his clothes didn’t exactly make for a royal bearing. But the outer shell was superficial, she reminded herself. She knew who she was.
Chapter Eighteen
WHEN ALANA STEPPED INTO the parlor, it was empty, but only for a moment. “I could cut off the edge of that robe if you like, so it doesn’t drag on the floor,” Christoph said from behind her.
She swung around to see him coming down the hallway toward her with her boots in one hand. But he paused, his eyes slowly moving over her attire with interest. Her neck and chest were covered with his shirt, but she still felt the need to hold the edges of the robe closed tighter over that part of her body. He suddenly grinned, as if he knew how nervous he could make her with just a look.
She had left his room feeling composed, if a little bit angry, and a little embarrassed over her attire. Yet after his slow perusal of her, she felt something more. His attraction? Hers? Suddenly it was the most powerful emotion in the room, and it shouldn’t even be there!
“That won’t be necessary,” she said stiffly.
“You’re sure? I don’t think I’d mind kneeling before you—to do that.”
So he could see her bare legs under the robe, she didn’t doubt, but she promised him, “Someday you will kneel before me—as your princess—and regret your treatment of me.”
He just chuckled and tossed her boots on the sofa. He had removed his coat and the jacket of his uniform. She wondered if that meant he was off duty now? This certainly wasn�
��t the man who had slammed a cell door shut on her. It would be nice if they could start over, but she didn’t think that was possible.
But just in case it was, she offered, “There is a pepperbox pistol in my purse, if you didn’t find it yet.”
“I have it.”
So much for her olive branch. She resisted the urge to check her purse to see if he’d confiscated her money, too, and merely moved to the sofa to put her boots back on. She found her stockings stuffed inside them. She had removed them before they got damp with sweat so she turned her back on the captain to put them back on. Oh, God, this was even worse, wearing boots with a bedroom robe! Could she look any more ridiculous?
Her confidence having fallen a notch, she stood up to find him sitting at the dining table. He extended a hand to indicate she should use the chair beside him. Such a civil gesture seemed wildly out of place in this situation, which was anything but civil.
Before she approached the table, Boris entered the room with two bowls of soup—and a black eye. She wondered if the servant’s falling to the floor accounted for the loud noise she’d heard.
Boris gave her an abject look, then abruptly dropped to one knee, incredibly, without spilling the soup. “I swear, lady, I was worried you wouldn’t be warm enough even with the heat I brought. That room is cold even in summer.”
“She doesn’t want to hear what an idiot you are,” Christoph snapped at the servant.
No, she didn’t, but the man’s guilt could be useful. “You can make amends by finding a laundress to clean my clothes,” she suggested.
“I will do so myself.”
“No, a woman—”
“It will be my honor!”
She gave up and just nodded stiffly. But as soon as he set the soup down and left, she said to the captain, “You didn’t have to hit him.”
“Yes, I did.”
“It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t put me in your prison. Try giving yourself a black eye!”
When Passion Rules Page 11