A door opened behind them on the dais, and a short, stout gentleman stepped in, dressed in a uniform covered with medals and ribbons. King Raimund had a splendid mustache and bushy sideburns, and his blue eyes resembled his mother’s, except that they twinkled merrily at the sight of his children. He looked tired, as if the recent troubles in his kingdom had worn him down, but he opened his arms. “Come, my dears, and give your poppa a kiss.”
With cries of joy and a total lack of dignity, the princesses broke ranks and ran toward him. They embraced him all at once, babbling in girlish tones about their delight at seeing him.
Rainger was surprised to see the slightest smile tilt Queen Claudia’s thin lips. She looked almost…fond, and not at all disapproving of the loving display.
Then she clapped her hands, once, sharply.
The children broke away from their father and hurriedly lined up again.
“Mother.” King Raimund bowed to Queen Claudia, then came to her and touched his cheek to hers.
Rainger bowed to him. “King Raimund.”
“Prince Rainger.” With due solemnity, he bowed back.
Rainger suspected his show of dignity amused the king, for at one time, Rainger would have run to him, also. But Rainger was too old for such childishness. He was, after all, a Crown Prince.
Striding to the ancient, dark, carved throne, King Raimund asked, “Is all prepared for the reception?”
“Of course.” Queen Claudia looked at the small watch which hung from a gold pin on her bosom. “The footmen will admit the courtiers in five minutes.”
King Raimund made a sound, not quite a groan. Seating himself, he donned a simple, gold crown.
“Now.” Queen Claudia paced before the girls, and Rainger, once again. “How will you greet the French ambassador?”
With calm assurance Amy announced, “I’ll tell him to go back where he came from.”
Rainger, Sorcha, and Clarice gasped.
Queen Claudia fumbled for the chain around her neck, and lifted her lorgnette to view her youngest granddaughter in dismay. “What did you say?”
Amy repeated, “I said I will tell him to go away.”
“Why would you make such a statement to the man who is the ambassador from France?” Queen Claudia questioned in dire tones.
With impeccable logic Amy said, “Because you said he’s not the real ambassador, he’s only the ambassador for the upstart French government, and until they return their rightful king to power, we don’t like them.”
Sorcha and Clarice exchanged startled glances, then dissolved into giggles.
King Raimund laughed. “She has you there, Mother.”
Amy had no idea why everyone was so amused, but she grinned cockily, showing the gap where she had lost a tooth.
Sorcha rushed to defend her sister. “Amy is right, Grandmamma. You always say, ‘Tell me who you associate with and I’ll tell you who you are.’ ”
In a soft voice Clarice added, “That’s true. Should we, the royal princesses of Beaumontagne, associate with a French upstart?”
It was at times like this when Rainger remembered why he liked the princesses. Not even Queen Claudia, with her rules and her sayings, could squelch their spirits.
Queen Claudia fixed them all—Sorcha, Clarice, Amy, Rainger, and even King Raimund—with a grim eye, and made her final pronouncement. “I hope that someday each of you has a child just like you.”
Five
Why worry? It’ll only give ye wrinkles.
—THE OLD MEN OF FREYA CRAGS
Where did she acquire you, my lad?” Robert spoke to Blaize, low and soft, while he looked him over. Definitely a two-year-old colt, an Arabian of good lines, and far too strong and wild for a lady. Yet Clarice handled him with astonishing ease. “And where did your lassie learn to control a beast of such strength?”
Glancing at the closed door of the seamstress’s shop, Robert said, “I know what she would say. She would say she learned to ride from an expert horseman. Because she was a princess.”
Blaize snorted in reply and tossed his head.
“Yes. Exactly. Have you ever heard of princesses who are loose in Britain? No. Are the newspapers abuzz about lost royalty? No.” Robert walked Blaize around the square, still speaking to him in that low, gentle voice he used to tame the wild creatures. “God in heaven, I’ve heard my share of falsehoods in my time. My men told grandiose tales that changed to fit the circumstances.”
Blaize had a beautiful gait, and his temperament, while sprightly, was sweet. But wherever Blaize walked, the crowd observed the horse’s dancing hooves and moved aside, for the stallion eyed the men warily, as if expecting a blow. Robert wondered what had made the creature so distrustful—and thus a perfect confidant for Robert. “My men were criminals given the choice between the gallows and the army. What excuse does yon lassie have for telling a lie that dwarfs all those other lies?” Robert stroked Blaize’s nose and confided, “Although, I have to tell you, that makes her ideal for my plan.”
Blaize’s brown eyes considered Robert as if the horse were weighing his character. It should, perhaps, have been discomfiting, but in his life Robert had done worse things than blackmailing a princess. Worse things for worse reasons.
As they neared the alehouse, Tomas MacTavish called, “M’lord, bring the beastie over so we can see him.”
Robert grimaced. See the horse? Yes, the old men would want that. But more, they wanted to talk about the woman, for as he approached, they were grinning and rocking back and forth in their chairs like a gaggle of matchmaking grandmothers.
“Lovely stallion,” Gilbert Wilson said.
“Lovelier wench,” Hamish MacQueen quipped. “And ’tis proud o’ ye we are, m’lord, fer acquiring her so quickly.”
“I didn’t acquire her.” Not in the way they meant. “I’m taking her where I can watch her.” And use her.
“Eh?” Henry MacCulloch cupped his ear and turned to Tomas.
Tomas shouted, “He said he was taking her where he could watch her.”
“Aye, watch her, aye.” Henry elbowed Hamish in the ribs. “Watch her close, I say. Ye caught yerself a fair one, m’lord.”
“I have no interest in—” Robert hesitated.
Benneit MacTavish supplied the words. “Parting her beard?”
The old men’s cackling made the horse restive, and Robert walked him across the square, then walked him back. He didn’t know why he returned to the old men. Maybe it was because they, unlike any of the other people in this village and in society, had no pretences. Age, poverty, and loneliness had stripped them of their masks, and they said what they thought and they meant what they said. How refreshing after so many years of lies.
As he drew near, Hughina Gray stepped out of the alehouse, drying her hands on her apron. “Pay them na mind, m’lord. They sit and gossip all day like auld besoms, take up space, and buy scarcely a tankard of ale between them.”
Because they had no place else to go except home to relatives too busy to bother with them and no coin to purchase ale to wet their whistle. They looked shamefaced at her accusation, and shuffled their feet and played with their canes. Old farmers, old sailors, old merchants—when they finally died, everyone was relieved. Everyone except Robert, who could come here and listen to them natter about events and times gone by, and never have to talk about himself, or pretend to be whole, or hide the eternal midnight of his soul. “Then serve them up a tankard of ale apiece every day, Hughina, and send the charge to me.”
Hughina dropped her apron. “But, m’lord—”
He turned his gaze on her. “I’m good for it.”
“Of course ye are, m’lord. I didn’t mean t’ say…” She must have seen something in his face that frightened her, for she paled and stammered, “I—I’ll get them now, m’lord.”
As she hurried into the alehouse, Henry said, “Thank ye, m’lord. Ye dunna have t’.”
Benneit intervened before proud Henry could refuse. �
��But we’re grateful.” He stretched out his wrinkled hand to accept a dripping mug from the chastened Hughina. “We’ll toast yer health every day.”
Robert stroked Blaize’s nose. “That’s all I ask.”
The men lifted the mugs to him, then swallowed the rich, dark brew eagerly.
Hamish sighed with satisfaction. “Mither’s milk.”
Gilbert cast a dark glance at Hughina. “From a withered tit.”
In a flash Hughina recovered her bite. “Ye dunna have t’ take it if ye dunna like the source.”
Gilbert opened his mouth to retort, saw Robert slowly shaking his head, and swallowed more of the ale instead.
Visibly cheered by the liquid refreshment, Tomas clanked his tankard on the table. “Ach, m’lord, we’re all men here. Ye can’t expect us t’ believe ye have na interest in that fine and royal piece.”
Robert sidestepped the question. “She’s too young, and I don’t tangle with princesses.”
“How auld do ye suppose she is?” Benneit wondered.
“Seventeen. Eighteen,” Robert said. The same age as his youngest sister, Prudence, and too young to be lying and swindling.
“Two-and-twenty if she’s a day,” Hughina said. “May I get ye a tankard too, m’lord?”
“I thank you.” He didn’t want it, but she’d worry if he didn’t take it. Worry that he was truly displeased with her when in fact he cared about her not at all. He did care about Clarice’s age, and about Hughina’s certainty. Was Hughina jealous of the younger woman? Is that why she claimed Clarice was older? Or did she see something he did not? For if it was true, if Clarice was indeed two-and-twenty…
He himself was one-and-thirty, and after the battles and the smells and the death and the hunger, he felt older than dirt. He wouldn’t debauch a young girl, but if Clarice were older, with a bit of experience under her belt…that changed how he would approach her. There were ways to cajole women that had nothing to do with blackmail.
All the old men’s cackling stopped at the same time, and their faded eyes were glued to a spot behind Robert.
The princess must have stepped back into the square.
In a hoarse voice Tomas said, “She’s headed right fer us.”
“My chimney’s smokin’,” Benneit whispered.
“Hell, my chimney’s afire!” Henry’s voice carried halfway to the English border.
While the other old men hushed him, Robert turned to face the square. Yes. Here she came. Clarice looked like an angel and deceived like a demon, and yet when he gazed on her his body stirred. Not because he’d been too long without a woman, but for her. Her smile, her walk, her hair, her body…that body.
Her blond hair was cradled into a net snood at the nape of her neck, and artfully arranged wisps escaped and fluttered around her face and down her back, catching the heat of the sun and warming the blood of every male in sight. Her dark brows arched over amber-brown eyes that glinted with good humor and a lazy sensuality that each man believed she meant for him.
Hughina made a disgusted sound and with a rustle of skirts disappeared into the alehouse. Sticking her head back out, she snapped, “There’s na fool like an auld fool.”
As she disappeared again, the men sadly shook their heads.
“That one needs some honey,” Gilbert said.
“A honey,” Hamish said.
“A husband,” Tomas agreed.
Then, in unison, they lost interest in Hughina, for the princess stepped up and cast a merry smile at the old men who were creaking to their feet. “Lord Hepburn, would you introduce me to these handsome gentlemen?”
The old men’s papery complexions suffused with color, and Gilbert almost tottered over in an elegant bow as Robert introduced him.
Clarice firmly clasped Gilbert by the arm, and as if she hadn’t noticed his unsteadiness said, “Good day, gentlemen. How go the games?”
“Guid.” Tomas puffed out his thin chest. “I won.”
Benneit retorted, “If ye can call cheating winning.”
The princess extended her hand to Tomas. “I’ve not had a challenging game of checkers for many a long day. Perhaps when Lord Hepburn allows me time free of my duties, I could come and play a game.”
“That would be grand, Yer Highness.” Tomas cherished her hand between his arthritic fingers.
“I’m na mean cheater meself, Yer Highness,” Henry said.
She threw back her head and laughed, a merry laugh without artifice, and the old men’s eyes glowed.
Benneit pleaded, “M’lord, ye’ll let her come, won’t ye?”
Never. Never was Robert letting her out on her own. He would bribe her, of course, and seduce her, and finally blackmail her if it came to that, but she might balk at taking part in his scheme and he couldn’t afford to lose another woman. Not so soon before the ball. “I’ll bring her myself.”
She flashed him a disdainful glance.
“The road between MacKenzie Manor and Freya Crags can be lonely,” he explained gently.
Smoothly she removed her hand from Tomas’s grasp and came to Robert. Looking up into his eyes, her gaze direct and accusatory, she said, “Perhaps, my lord, you should police the road for the safety of your people as well as for that of your family.”
She wasn’t afraid of him. She wasn’t afraid at all. Robert’s blood warmed like brandy over a flame, and he felt the heat of intoxication. He had thought the next few days would be hell. Perhaps so, but he had his own private angel to enter the flames with him.
She reached for Blaize’s reins.
Robert let her hands brush his. “Your advice is sound. I shall take it under consideration.”
As he stared back down at her and allowed his touch to linger, he saw her swallow. She didn’t look away.
Good. Good.
Then Blaize nuzzled her ear as if whispering a secret, and she led the horse a few steps away, leaving a fresh scent behind her. Like…like fresh flowers and homey spices. Robert liked her perfume.
“Ach, Yer Highness, it’s na so bad as all that.” Henry, a withered, stooped man who had once been the mayor of Freya Crags, leaned on his cane. “A couple of highwaymen are preying on travelers when they’re t’ be had and crofters when they’re na. Bullies, both o’ them; they’ve got a way wi’ a cudgel and as long as the odds are in their favor, they’re na afraid t’ lay aboot them. But Lord Hepburn has put oot a patrol and that’s chased them doon the road toward Edinburgh.”
Clarice cast a triumphant smile at Robert. “Then I can ride into Freya Crags without worry.”
“I fear with the advent of rich coaches on the road to MacKenzie Manor, they’ll find the pickings irresistible, and return.” Robert did fear that. He also rather hoped they would return, and on one of the many nights when he found sleep elusive. He would like to encounter them and explain, in exquisite, painful detail, why they should find another career. “So you see, Your Highness, why I must accompany you when you come to Freya Crags.”
“Young buck,” Gilbert grumbled. “Ye’re afraid we’ll steal her away from ye.”
Clarice’s smile froze on her face. “I’m not his.”
Robert almost—almost!—grinned. Let Gilbert get himself out of this one!
“Nay, I didna mean that, Yer Highness, I meant…” Gilbert glanced frantically at his cohorts.
Hamish rescued him. “Ye must know fascinating stories, Yer Highness.”
She glowered at Robert as if this were his fault.
He raised his eyebrows in studied innocence.
“For instance,” Hamish persisted, “how did ye come to own such a magnificent horse?”
“Isn’t he beautiful? He’s part Arabian, part Beaumontagnian, and one of the finest beasts I’ve ever been privileged to ride.” She petted Blaize as if he were a large dog and not a gigantic horse whose hooves could crush her into the ground. “He was a gift from my father, the king.”
The falsehood rolled off her tongue, Robert noted, with the ease of p
ractice. That pleased him, as did the faint, indefinable accent and the husky note he found—indeed, every man must find—so appealing. She was a liar, an accomplished liar, and he needed her to complete his mission.
Her gaze rested on Henry, who was swaying as if standing for so long had exhausted him. Turning to Robert, she said, “I’m ready, my lord.” She was solemn when she spoke to him, a marked difference from the gaiety she shared with the old men. Turning back to her new friends and advocates, she said, “I’ve ridden far today and have need of rest. So if you would excuse us, gentlemen…”
“O’ course, o’ course.” Henry grinned, and like a mad Greek chorus the other men grinned too. “Ye two young folks go on now t’ MacKenzie Manor. ’Tis a beautiful place, Yer Highness, and I know m’lord will make ye feel at home there.”
The old men nodded encouragingly at Robert, behaving as if Clarice were his last chance of salvation.
When in fact she was his last chance for revenge on the enemy who had stripped him of honor and of friendship.
Sweet, glorious revenge.
Six
The hungry wolf and the wee lamb might lie down together, but the lamb had best sleep with one eye open.
—THE OLD MEN OF FREYA CRAGS
Millicent rode beside Princess Clarice and her brother down the curving, hilly road to MacKenzie Manor and watched with mute contentment as the princess sparred with Robert.
“Lord Hepburn.” Princess Clarice held her spirited stallion to a walk without seeming effort, a lively, pretty woman dressed with the kind of dash to which Millicent could never aspire. “I understand you have been home from the Peninsula for but a short time. Tell me, where did your travels take you?”
The day was still and almost warm, the breeze blowing hints of spring into their faces. Dust puffed beneath the horses’ hooves. Millicent’s hack was perfect for a lady, amiable and spiritless, not at all like the princess’s Blaize or Robert’s giant golden gelding, Helios. But of course, Millicent was no horsewoman. Not like Princess Clarice.
Some Enchanted Evening Page 5