“You are. You’re frightened of the caves.”
He gripped the end of the log with one hand, glad to have put some distance between them. “That’s an amusing theory, Lucy, but hardly one with any merit. I simply prefer not to spread my bedroll among such common people.”
“What happened to your mother and sister?”
“What have they to do with this?” His pulse pounded in his ears. Lucy followed him along the log. If he tried to move away from her again, he would find himself tumbled in a heap on the cold ground.
“The mountains in Santadorra—are there caves, as you told the boys?” Her hand slid down his arm, and her fingers claimed his. The warmth of her touch was his undoing. Or was it the warmth of her heart? Years of shame and humiliation mingled inside him and pressed against one another until they caught fire and burned in his breast.
“Yes, by Jove, there are caves.” Flames rushed through him, scorching him with the shame of his memories. “Miserable, damp, cold caves. Perhaps the soldiers were kind enough to leave my mother and sister’s bodies in one, but they were never found.” With a jerky motion, he rose on unsteady legs, bile rising in his throat. Lucy moved with him, catching his elbow and holding him upright, and heaven help him, he let her. He leaned on her.
“And you? Was there a cave there for you?”
Thank God for the darkness. It hid this unmanly display. Thick tears coursed over his cheeks, tears that he had not cried since that awful night.
“A cave for me? Yes. Of course. A small one. One that only a twelve-year-old boy could squeeze inside. The soldiers were less than a hundred feet away. They camped for the night there. I was afraid to breathe.”
She would try to comfort him. She would murmur platitudes. Nick waited in dread, but Lucy was silent, blissfully silent. He wiped his cheeks with his sleeve. If he were a stronger man, he would shake off her grip on his arm, but that light touch—perhaps he could bear that. If she had tried to embrace him or fawn over him, he could not have borne it. But the gentle pressure of her fingers just above the crook of his arm could be tolerated. It would be so much easier if he didn’t love her. Then he wouldn’t care what she thought of him.
“I’ve never told anyone about that night.” The words escaped before he could weigh their import. They echoed in his head and in the crisp night air, and he wished he could call them back. They revealed too much.
He could tell she was searching his face in the darkness. “Never told anyone? Not even Crispin?”
“No. Only my father.”
“How long ago did it happen?” They stood quietly in the darkness, the lights of Nottingham scattered below them like diamonds on a queen’s mantle.
Nick laughed bitterly. “Sixteen years. The poets like to deceive us by saying that time heals such wounds, but I have not found that to be the case.” No, time had no such efficacious powers. Wagers and drink and women possessed much stronger medicine.
“Time does heal wounds,” Lucy countered softly, “but only if we allow it to do so. You have kept this wound open purposely, Nick. No wonder it has festered.”
Her implied criticism stung, and Nick shook off her grasp as he stepped away from her. What could Lucy Charming know of wounds and their healing? She lived the life she wanted, in the manner she desired.
“What could heal this, Lucy? And why should it be healed? They were my responsibility, and I failed. There is little more to be said.” He wished he had never left the Selkirks’ cave. Confession would never bring the absolution he sought, and once she had seen his weakness, Lucy would have yet another reason not to sign her name to the marriage lines that lay tucked in his vest pocket.
“And so you became profligate. A thorn in your father’s side, so that he would not love you.”
Nick winced. “It required little effort on my part to achieve that goal.” The words had stewed inside him for so long that they were thick with anger. “My father is inclined to believe the worst of me. He does, after all, have history on his side.”
“And what—or whom—do you have on yours?” she asked softly.
Nick’s gut twisted. How could he answer that? He had Crispin, to some extent, but not beyond the bounds of the usual camaraderie between gentlemen. His tailor? No, for he had not paid his bills in some months. Not his boot maker either, obviously. Henny or Madame St. Cloud? For a price. The loyal subjects of Santadorra? It was their attempt to revolt, encouraged by the French soldiers, that had cost him everything he held dear. Whom did he have on his side? He supposed the former climbing boys in Mr. Cartwright’s care might be bothered to consult him on the design and construction of tree houses.
“There is no one, princess.” Grief rose up, inexorably, like a stream fed by summer storms, filling every empty place inside of him. He should have known this would happen. From the moment he had opened his eyes that day in Lady Belmont’s garden and had seen Lucy Charming hovering above him like some angelic visitation, he should have known this very moment would arrive, this confession would become necessary. “I am alone. It is what I like, and that is how I shall remain, even if I marry.”
He had used similar words before with women, said in much more self-deprecating tones. If given the right mixture of haunting tragedy and masculine indifference, most women tumbled at his feet. He hated that Lucy would become just another victim in a long succession of casualties. Like all the others, she would want to heal him. Her instincts for reform would engage, and he would become a project, not a person.
She hovered a few feet away. He would bed her, he supposed, when she came to him. They would be married soon anyway, and he ought to gain some recompense for his confession. Surely he was due some salve to his pride.
With a deep sigh designed to draw her to him, he turned and even opened his arms. In the dark, she was hard to see. In fact, he could not see her at all. He listened. He could not hear her either. The soft breathing that had driven him wild that night at Madame St. Cloud’s was not in evidence.
“Lucy?”
No answer. And then he saw her, farther down the hill. She stood poised at the top of the makeshift stairs.
“Lucy?” Damn, but there was the slightest hint of panic in his voice.
She looked back over her shoulder, and he couldn’t read her expression. He had chosen the darkness to conceal his own feelings, but they hid hers as well.
“Where are you going?”
She stood silhouetted against the night sky by the lights from the caves below. “I’m returning to the Selkirks, as you wished. In my opinion, self-pity is more effective as a solitary occupation.”
Self-pity? Her words hit him with the force of a blow. Nick stood stunned. How dare she? How dare she trivialize his most intimate secrets?
Suddenly, he was moving down the hill. He caught her on the stairway and grabbed her arm. “That is your response to my revelations? You walk away?”
She stopped and glared first at his fingers that held her prisoner and then into his face. They stood close enough now that even in the dim light he could see the color of her eyes, the blue of a Santadorran lake.
“Your Highness, I am mortally tired of being grabbed like some barroom doxy.” She shook off his grip. “Do you never tire of trying to control me? Surely the sport must lose its freshness.”
Nick stared at her in confusion, his heart aching. “I have never deceived myself, Lucy, into thinking I might control your behavior. I have only sought to remedy some of the damage you inflict upon yourself.”
“And what of the damage that you bring upon yourself? Who will remedy that, Nick?” A soft night wind blew her curls into her eyes. He reached out to brush them back but she pushed his hand away. “I am sorry for your loss, but you are not the only person in the world who has ever suffered. You lost your mother and sister. I lost my father. The Selkirks lost their older son when so many of the Luddites were transported to Australia. We have all suffered, Nick, but you have had the comfort of money and position. You h
ave had the security of education and breeding. You and I have never known day upon day of hunger. Nor have we watched our children starve before our eyes. Yes, our sufferings are real, but they are very little when compared with what occurs in the width and breadth of the world.”
Nick wanted to breathe, but his lungs did not seem to be working. He wanted to protest, to defend his right to his pain, but the truth in Lucy’s words rendered him speechless. He had indeed sought heedless self-indulgence as a remedy to his pain, while she had taken on the cause of reform. He had thought her foolish, but, not for the first time, he saw that he was the one who had been a very great fool.
Her expression was as hard and cold as the rock that surrounded them. “I bid you good night, Your Highness. You need not stay in Nottingham. I’m sure you will prefer to return to London in the morning. This wager is a charade that need not be played to its conclusion.”
He would lose her. Nick knew it, felt it in the hollow ache that had taken up residence in his chest. If he let her go now, she would disappear from his life forever.
“No. I desire no such release. The wager still stands. Either you convince me of reform, or you marry me.”
“You will not release me from the wager?” she asked in disbelief. Their gazes held, locked in combat, but Nick refused to relent.
“No. I will not.” He had already lost too much in his lifetime. He would not let her escape him so easily.
“Very well, then,” she conceded, more graciously than he might have hoped. Was that relief he saw in her eyes? “I will see you at breakfast.” She started down the stairs, and Nick stepped back to collect his rucksack and followed her.
“You need not see me to the door,” she snapped, but Nick did not stop. He felt lighter somehow, as if by sharing his memories, he had divested himself of a physical burden. The prospect of the Selkirks’ cave-like abode suddenly seemed less daunting now that he had shared the truth of his fears with Lucy.
“I’m not following you, princess. I’ve merely changed my mind about the desirability of a night among the trees. If the Selkirks will have me, I will make up a pallet on their floor.”
His reward for his courage was the startled expression, and a dawning look of approval, in Lucy Charming’s eyes.
Chapter Fifteen
FAINT MORNING light stole through the slats in the wooden shutters, rousing Lucy from slumber. With the ease of much practice, she stole from the bed where Mrs. Selkirk lay sleeping. In the dim light, she pulled on the dress and stockings she’d brought in her rucksack and collected her half boots. Eager to meet the new day, she peered through the doorway that separated the sole bedroom of the cottage from the main room. The larger area held the three sleeping men: Mr. Selkirk, Tom, and Nick.
Lucy shivered in the cool air of the cave and reached for a shawl on a peg just inside the bedchamber door. Nick snored lightly, she noticed, apparently able to transcend the discomfort of cold night air and an even colder bed. For all his trepidation about the cave, he must have found some peace in the night, and she was glad for his sake. Perhaps she should have shown Nick more pity, but he seemed to have already ladled a generous helping into his own dish. Her heart had nearly broken at his story of that disastrous night in the mountains of Santadorra, but Lucy knew from experience that no matter how tragic one’s history, life must go on.
Half boots in hand, Lucy slipped past the sleeping men and let herself out the front door. The summer morning lay fresh on the hills, where the sheep had yet to devour the new grass, and overhead the sky stretched like an enormous aquamarine dome. A good omen, she hoped, for such an important day, for by sundown she would settle her wager with Nick one way or another. Either today’s reform rally would convince him of the need for such measures, or she would agree to become his bride.
Both eventualities seemed as unlikely as rain clouds appearing in the crystalline sky, but somehow, Lucy knew she must win the wager before her love for Nick led her astray from what she knew was right. If she won the wager and convinced Nick of the necessity of reform, then he would be able to accept her but no longer be bound to marry her. And if she lost, then she would be forced to marry a man she loved who would never accept her for herself. Either fate seemed untenable, and yet Lucy knew that she could only make the one choice. Life without the man she loved would be far preferable to life with a man who did not love her.
“Good morning, Lady Lucy.”
Lucy jumped at the sound, and her heart pounded until she realized that it was not Nick who had stepped through the doorway to join her in the sunlight. Instead, Tom Selkirk appeared, tucking his shirt into his breeches. Lucy was both relieved and disappointed.
“I’m too excited to sleep properly,” she confided to Tom. Instinctively, they set off down the rutted road, two young people accustomed to each other’s company. For a moment, the years fell away, and they were again the best of friends, tramping through the woods and walking the smoother paths near Charming Hall.
“‘Tis a shame your father’s not here to see this day,” Tom offered as they followed the track past dozens of other abodes. The little village of caves would begin to stir soon, its inhabitants eager to descend on the Market Square in Nottingham for the day’s festivities.
“Yes, ‘tis a pity.” Her joy in the day faltered at the thought of her father. He had believed reform the only means for averting in England what had happened in France. In truth, he’d been rather traditional as an aristocrat. He’d not been hesitant to lend his strong back during the sheep shearing or lift a pint in the village tavern with his field laborers. He had known his station, but he had not looked upon the common folk as his inferiors. In a world where noblesse oblige was fast disappearing, her father had been a man who honored the responsibilities of his position.
Lucy’s throat tightened as her last sight of her father rose in her mind, his body prostrate on the floor of the library, blood everywhere. Her stomach roiled, but her heart protested her even entertaining the possibility that her father’s gunshot wound had been self-inflicted. He would not have committed an act of desperation as her stepmother insinuated. He held his principles too strongly. And yet . . . She had seen the growing despair in his eyes in those last weeks, when it became clear that reform was an impossible dream in Nottingham. And she knew that her dependence upon her father had left her exposed and vulnerable to the machinations of her stepmother. Never again would she depend on anyone, she’d sworn, and until Nick, she would never have imagined any difficulty in keeping her oath.
“Your father might have been the duke, but he never forgot his people,” Tom said. The words caused a tightening in her throat. Yes, indeed, her father would have enjoyed this day, and Lucy felt both sorry and angry that he was not there to see it.
She did not reply, and Tom respected her silence, offering her his hand as he had done from childhood. Lucy grasped it, and they continued forward, each preparing for the coming day. They were still hand-in-hand when they returned to the Selkirks’ doorway, only to be met by a frowning Nick.
“Your mother wants you,” he said to Tom, and the boy blushed at Nick’s choice of words. Lucy frowned at Nick, but he ignored her expression. Tom gave her hand a squeeze and ducked through the doorway into the house.
“Tom is sensitive about his age,” Lucy began, but Nick only rolled his eyes.
“He is but a boy.”
“He’s far older than you were when you fled to the Santadorran mountains.”
Nick flinched, and at this sign of a direct hit, she scaled back the tirade she might have delivered. “There’s no reason to torment Tom.”
“You are a great defender of his.” He sounded miffed, and even—could it be?—jealous.
“Tom will be a leader in the movement someday. He is intelligent and eloquent, two necessary skills for the job.”
“In the meantime, he has you to hold his hand and coddle him.” Nick sounded more like a petulant schoolboy than a worldly prince.
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��You are jealous,” Lucy said in wonder, delighting in the words as they rolled off her tongue. How ridiculous, but how satisfying, too. The Crown Prince of Santadorra jealous of an unseasoned Nottingham youth.
“I would never stoop to jealousy,” Nick snapped. He looked wonderful in the golden morning light. Dark stubble covered his jaw, giving him the air of a pirate, and his clothes were rumpled. It was hardly fair that men should look so attractive first thing in the morning while women must spend time at their toilette merely to appear presentable. Then again, Lucy had spared no time at her toilette that morning. She lifted a hand to her hair. The results were probably quite evident.
“Of course you’re not jealous,” she agreed in false, bright tones. “Is it time for breakfast?”
A disgruntled Nick nodded. “I came to fetch you. Mrs. Selkirk has the porridge ready.” She could hear the underlying resignation in his tone and wondered when was the last time that His Highness had eaten porridge. She almost asked but thought better of it. She had unearthed enough unpleasant memories from him the previous night. The day would be reserved for happier pursuits, or at least less haunting ones.
In less than an hour, they had eaten their meal, tidied the Selkirks’ home, and begun the descent into Nottingham. Lucy walked with Tom, Nick trailing a few steps behind. As they drew closer to the town proper, the throng of people grew, swelling to fill the dusty road. The excitement in the air lent a spring to Lucy’s step, but Nick’s boots began to drag. For the first time, she thought about what it might feel like for a prince who’d been chased by a mob, and then by soldiers, to willingly join in such a mass of people. Her heart skipped a beat, and she slowed her pace, allowing Tom to move ahead and Nick to fall into step with her.
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