Some Enchanted Evening

by Christina Dodd

  But it wasn’t over. Not until Robert had had his say. “Clarice.” In the intermittent moonlight he could see dirt on her face. But when he tried to wipe it off, she pulled back and winced. He understood: He added another good trouncing to Fairfoot’s already bulging account. “What did that cockscum do to you?”

  Her smile was lopsided. “Not nearly as much as he wished to. Nothing…nothing…he didn’t hurt me. Not the way you think.”

  Robert had to embrace her again, in relief for her and relief for him—if Fairfoot had raped her, Robert would have gone to prison for the murder of an English magistrate. Holding her, he breathed deep of her beloved scent and treasured her as his most valuable possession.

  Too late.

  She didn’t let him hold her for too long. Not for nearly long enough. Easing herself free, she assured him, “Truly. Fairfoot is rather sensitive when someone insinuates he hasn’t the resources to satisfy a woman.”

  Shocked and appalled, Robert said, “You didn’t tell him that. Not when you were alone in the cell with him!”

  Lifting her chin, she replied, “Yes, I did. That was when he hit me, and I have to tell you—it was almost worth it to see him blush. I think I may be more right than I realized.”

  She filled Robert with pride at her courage, and fear for her well-being. He could keep her safe, but…he glanced at the prince, who stood far enough away to give them privacy. The prince who was not, as Waldemar had said, blessed with pretty-girl hair and a fancy lisp. This prince was tough and determined, and he appealed to the one thing against which Robert had no weapon—Clarice’s sense of duty.

  Too late.

  Robert plunged his hand into his saddlebags, all the way to the bottom, where the little wooden box rested. “Clarice, listen to me.”

  “No.”

  “I bought you a ring.” He brought it out, fumbled with the lid. “In Edinburgh. I want you to marry me.”

  She closed her eyes, turned her head away. “No. Don’t.”

  “I beg you to marry me.” He couldn’t believe she wouldn’t listen. He was the earl of Hepburn. He was the true hero of the Peninsula, and she knew it.

  He was hers.

  The moon floated in and out of the clouds. The light filtered through the leaves, showing him her anguish, her sorrow.

  He was hers. Together they had defeated Colonel Ogley, freed Waldemar, been more than they ever could be apart. Didn’t she know that? How could she not know that?

  “Look.” He opened the box. “The amber is the color of your eyes. The sapphires are the color of mine. The gold is what holds us together. Beautiful gold. Look.” He held it out, but he was doing this all wrong, for she didn’t look at the ring.

  Instead, she looked at him. “Do you know who I am?”

  “My lover. My wife.”

  She covered his lips with her hand. “Don’t say it.”

  He kissed her palm. He moved it aside. And added softly, “My dearest and only love.”

  She took a quivering breath. “I’m a princess. I didn’t ask to be, but I was born a princess. I’ve spent the last few years of my life waiting to go back to Beaumontagne and be a princess. Nothing ever got in the way of that dream…until you.”

  “Then being with me is the right thing to do.”

  “No. No, it’s not. Amy—my sister Amy, Miss Amy Rosabel—has run away. She doesn’t want to be a princess, and I am too fond and protective of her. I want her to be what she wants, not what some accident of birth made her.” Clarice swallowed. She dusted her fingers across her eyes. “But don’t you see? That leaves me to do the dutiful thing.”

  Savagely he commanded, “Stop saying duty.”

  She corrected herself. “The honorable thing.”

  “Stop saying honor.”

  She glared into his eyes. “I will when you do.”

  She had a way of silencing him.

  More gently she said, “You and I have things in common. Values in common. That’s why we’ve dealt well together. That’s why I…” She struggled to speak. Laid her hand on his cheek. A silver tear trickled down her face. “I love you.” She covered the ring, and his hand, with hers. “I love you.”

  He couldn’t answer. His heart, the heart he had thought was dead, broke.

  The soft sound of a horse’s whinny slipped through the air. Clarice’s head jerked around. “Blaize.” Without knowing his location, she walked to the place where Robert had tethered Blaize.

  “Oh, my pretty lad.” Threading her fingers through the horse’s mane, she dropped her head into his neck. “Blaize, my beautiful boy. You’re here.”

  As Robert watched her hug the horse she loved, he felt a hitch in his breath. She was saying good-bye. To the horse. To him.

  And he couldn’t fight her. She thought she was doing the right thing, and he suspected, he feared, that she was right. Carefully he put the lid over the ring, and over his dreams.

  “You brought him,” she said. “You rode him to my rescue.”

  Pocketing the ring, Robert walked to Blaize, to Clarice, and quietly reassured them both. “He wouldn’t be left behind.”

  “I did steal him, you know.” Her face tightened. “He’s Magistrate Fairfoot’s horse, and I can’t take him with me.”

  “I brought Blaize from MacKenzie Manor, and he’ll return with me. When I get done with Fairfoot, he’ll beg to sell me Blaize, and any other horse in his stable.” Robert wanted to comfort Clarice, but he didn’t have the right to touch her. Not anymore. Instead, he rubbed Blaize’s coat and stared at her, trying to soak in enough Clarice to last for the rest of his life. “Blaize will have a good life.”

  “Thank you, Robert.” Her thank-you echoed softly through the woods.

  He cleared his throat, trying to say the right thing. “You—Princess Clarice, you have a good life too.”

  She lifted her head. “And you, Robert.”

  Was she jesting? He shook his head.

  “Yes.” She was princess enough to put a royal imperative in her tone. “You have a good life. Promise me.”

  He didn’t want to promise that. He wanted to howl at the moon. He wanted curse at fate. He didn’t want to taste his food, smell the roses, mind his clothing, dance as if he heard the music. But she wasn’t going to let him get away with sulking. Somehow, he knew she would get her way.

  Which she did with a single word. “Promise,” she insisted. “It’s the one thing you can do to make me happy.”

  He capitulated. “I promise.”

  The prince called, “Your Highness, we need to leave.”

  How Robert hated the sound of that deep, accented voice. It was the voice of a nightmare made human.

  “Right away,” she called back. She stared at Robert. Lifted a hand toward his cheek. Pulled it back. Turned and walked to the place where the prince stood waiting with two horses.

  The blackguard had come prepared.

  Robert watched Clarice, the love of his life, ride away with the man she would marry, and he did nothing. Absolutely nothing, except wave a hand to her when she turned around for one last look.

  He couldn’t believe it. He was letting her go. Just like that. Because she’d used words like honor and duty. And because, well, he couldn’t force her to marry him against her will. For one single mad moment he’d considered it.

  Unfortunately the minister didn’t exist who would call a forced union a legal marriage. And even if one did, she would still say honor and duty until Robert relented and allowed her to go.

  So he watched Clarice ride away and wished he could do something. Something like smash his fist into the wall or get drunk or beat someone up. Something that would relieve some of this terrible clawing frustration in his gut.

  From Gilmichael Fortress, he heard a gigantic bang. The doors swung wide, and three men stood there, carrying torches and short iron clubs.

  Fairfoot, looking rumpled and furious, and his thugs.

  Robert smiled. He rolled up his sleeves. He stalked
back up the hill.

  His frustration wouldn’t have to wait long for relief at all.

  Thirty-one

  In the end, a princess must do her duty.

  —THE DOWAGER QUEEN OF BEAUMONTAGNE

  The summer sun was dipping toward the west when Robert walked across the village square to the alehouse and squinted down at the checkerboard. “Look at the dust on this board,” he said. “Is everybody in this village afraid to challenge you five hearty men?”

  “I dunna know why.” Old Henry MacCulloch widened his eyes innocently. “We ne’er cheat.”

  “Do you not?” Robert asked. “I’ve heard differently.”

  “Ye canna believe everything ye hear, m’lord,” Benneit MacTavish answered.

  “Fearsome, you five men are.” Seating himself on a stool before the board, Robert rubbed his hands. “So—who do I beat first?”

  The old men hooted in unison.

  “Think ye’re right clever, do ye?” Hamish MacQueen creaked to his feet. “I’m the man t’ take ye doon.”

  “First,” Benneit MacTavish added. “Ye’re the man who’ll take him doon first.”

  Robert waited while Hamish settled himself across the board.

  “I’ll be takin’ me turn before ye, o’ course,” Hamish said. “Ye’ll be feelin’ pity on an auld soldier wi’ only one hand.”

  “I’m a busy man.” Robert shoved a black chip out. “I don’t have time for pity.”

  The other old men hooted again and pulled their chairs closer to watch the action.

  As if in an aside, Benneit’s brother, Tomas, said, “M’lord, we chased Billie MacBain oot o’ Freya Crags.”

  “Now, Tomas, ye know that’s na true,” Benneit chided. “After his folly in turning Princess Clarice over t’ that colonel and that English magistrate, we encouraged him t’ leave toon.”

  “Encouraged him?” Robert suffered a pang at the mention of Clarice, yet he almost welcomed the pain. In the three weeks since she’d walked out of his life, he’d come to yearn to hear her name, to speak to someone who knew her. The truth was, he would rather miss her than never to have known her.

  “When ye live as long as we ha’e, ye hear things aboot a man.” Henry’s wrinkled mouth twisted as if he tasted something nasty. “Things he’d dunna like t’ have noised aboot, if ye know what we mean. And so we pointed that oot t’ Billie.”

  “I see.” Robert kept his gaze glued to the board as Hamish moved a red piece. “I’m glad to hear you helped him see the right thing to do. I fear I would have been rough on him had I found him.”

  “It gets worse for Billie.” Gilbert Wilson made a tsk. “We hear he was drinking in a tavern at Edinburgh when the king’s sailors did a bit o’ conscripting. It seems Billie has gone t’ sea.”

  Benneit nodded peacefully and folded his hands over his small belly. “Wi’ his disposition, the fresh air will do the lad guid.”

  “Eh?” Henry cupped his ear and leaned toward Tomas.

  “He said,” Tomas shouted, “that the fresh air would do Billie guid.”

  Henry nodded. “Na doubt, na doubt.”

  “Got a few bruises there, lad.” Tomas pointed at Robert’s face. “Been fighting, ye ha’e.”

  Robert gingerly touched the mark left when his face had smashed Magistrate Fairfoot’s fist. “This is nothing. You should have seen the other fellow.”

  “Did ye trounce him guid?” Gilbert Wilson asked.

  Robert thought back on the carnage of that night. “Fairfoot’ll be no good to any woman ever again. Neither will his friends.” And Robert felt a great deal of satisfaction knowing that—that the guards who supported Fairfoot and Fairfoot himself would long remember the name of Hepburn, and never, by God, ever imagine they could come onto his lands, into his village, and seize something which was his.

  But Clarice was his no longer.

  Hughina stepped out of the alehouse, four dripping mugs in her grasp. “M’lord.” She distributed the ale to the old men. “I didn’t know ye were here. I’ll get ye an ale.” She patted Gilbert on the shoulder. “Aye, I’m getting yers too, Mr. Wilson.” With a smile and a nod she disappeared into the dimness of her shop.

  Robert stared after her in surprise. “What happened to her?”

  Henry MacCulloch whispered, “We thought Brody Browngirdle from over on the River Raleigh would mayhap cheer her, so when he came int’ town, we told him Hughina gave out free ale t’ travelers.”

  Wonderment colored Robert’s voice. “Why, you old charlatans. You didn’t.”

  “Sure, and we did,” Hamish said.

  “What I could have done on the Peninsula with a regiment like you five,” Robert said admiringly. “So your plan worked.”

  “By the time they got it straightened out, they were talking fit t’ kill.” Henry pulled a long face. “O’ course, he never got his free ale.”

  Hamish cackled. “Nay, it’s na ale he’s getting.”

  Setting down his chip, Robert laughed aloud. When he got done, he noticed the silence and looked around at the old men. They were staring at him as if they didn’t recognize him. He held out his hands, palms up, and spread his fingers. “What?”

  In a carefully neutral tone Henry said, “So I suppose it’s true.”

  “What’s true?” Robert asked.

  Henry exchanged glances with the others. “We thought ye were fond o’ the princess, but there’s some in the village who say ye sent her away because she catered t’ the sin of vanity.”

  “Because she peddled creams and potions, do you mean?” If it had been anyone but these men questioning him, Robert would have snapped off their heads. As it was, he said gently, “Is it a sin to make people happy? Because that’s what she did. She gave a whole company of scared debutantes confidence in themselves, and that’s a gift that few can top.” Millicent, too, had changed, although he suspected it wasn’t her appearance that gave her such confidence. No, it seemed that all she had needed was someone to express confidence in her—and he had. He wouldn’t have done it, though, if Clarice hadn’t torn the hide off him, so she could be given credit for Millicent’s transformation also.

  At the same time, his people had learned a valuable lesson about following the lead of someone from outside Freya Crags. A few of the men and women had come to him on his return and fervently begged his pardon for their part in capturing Princess Clarice. And that was as it should be. He wouldn’t persecute them. Neither would he forget.

  Stepping out of the shop, Hughina handed Gilbert his ale, then with a glance at the serious faces, she scuttled back inside.

  Gilbert took a long drink. “Yet the princess is gone, and ye’re happier than ye’ve been fer a long time.”

  “I love her.” Robert looked around at the old men, pinning each one with his gaze. “And she left me. Did you know that? She left me to return to her country. She’s going to marry a prince.”

  Tomas sputtered. “I though better o’ her. What did she think she could find in some foreign country that was better than in Freya Crags?”

  “She’s in fer a sad surprise if she thinks some sissy prince is better than the earl o’ Hepburn,” Benneit said indignantly.

  “She didn’t do it because she wanted a prince. She wanted to stay here with me, but she has to do her duty. It was a matter of honor.” Robert said the words easily, without bitterness. After all, he had made her a promise.

  “Eh?” Henry cupped his ear and turned to Gilbert.

  Leaning forward, Robert shouted, “I said, it was a matter of honor.”

  “Ye are taking it well,” Henry shouted back. “We thought ye’d be as ye were when ye came back from the war.”

  Robert looked around the square. Life in Freya Crags proceeded just as it always had. The women came to the well for water. The children played in the puddles left by the rain, the old men rocked in the sun…nothing had changed, and he took comfort in the continuity. “But then she wouldn’t have taught me anything, would she?
Then there’d be no sign of her passing, no sign at all.” He made a move on the checkerboard.

  Tomas sighed and intoned, “Sometimes life smells like a cabbage rose, sometimes it stinks like cooked cabbage.”

  “A man’s got na right t’ complain as long as he’s got thirty-two teeth and the sense God gave him,” Gilbert added.

  Henry grinned, showing the gaps in his own teeth. “Which between the five of us, is aboot what we’ve got.”

  The five old men started laughing, and laughed so hard, Benneit wheezed.

  Robert slapped him gently on the back to start him breathing again, and heard a commotion across the square. Heads were turning, voices were rising. He couldn’t quite see what was happening, and the events of the last months had made him wary. Standing, he squinted toward the bridge where everyone was pointing.

  And saw, on a small white mare, a woman dressed in a black-and-red riding costume. Her hair was blond and loose about her shoulders, her mouth was smiling, her amber eyes were searching…and when her gaze found him, her smile exploded into pure joy.

  Clarice. It was Clarice. He stood with his hands hanging at his sides, the sun on his face, an odd ringing in his ears. He couldn’t believe it. He thought that by now she would be across the Channel. He had tried not to worry about the French troops. Prince Rainger had proved to be a capable man, and if he failed, Clarice was remarkable at surviving and prospering. So everything would be all right on her journey through Spain toward Beaumontagne.

  But she wasn’t in Spain or Beaumontagne.

  Faintly he heard the old men babbling behind him, and it sounded as if they were saying, “Praise God. Praise God.”

  She was here, in Freya Crags, her body lush and desirable, her complexion a little more golden, her pleasure palpable.

  And Robert MacKenzie, the officer who had done all the things that a hero must do: developed stratagems for attack, performed rescues from the most guarded of English fortresses, detonated the French ammunition depot and did it on a moment’s notice—he could think of nothing to say, nothing to do as the woman he loved rode across the square toward him, her gaze fixed on him as if he were the lodestar.