by Darcy Burke
Ne rien. He’d heard that before, and quite suddenly he knew exactly where she was from. Ne rien was a Glennish phrase meaning never mind or forget it. Glennish was the mix of Gaelic and French spoken in the Kingdom of Glynaven.
He’d read reports of recent unrest in Glynaven. Another revolution ousting the royal family.
“Oh, bloody hell,” he muttered as another thought occurred to him. He turned just in time to see her stumble. In two strides he was beside her, his arms out to catch her as she fell.
He lifted her unconscious body, cradling her in his arms. She’d barely made it three feet before she’d collapsed from what he’d hoped was only exhaustion and not something more serious. She might smell of manure and rotting vegetables, but with her head thrown back, he could see her face more clearly now. The high forehead and sculpted cheekbones, the full lips. She had all the features of the royal family of Glynaven.
But the unusual color of her green eyes gave her away—Her Royal Highness, Princess Vivienne Aubine Calanthe de Glynaven.
“Welcome to England,” he said as he started back toward the house. She was light as a spring lamb, but he knew under the bulky clothing she had the full, supple body of a woman.
A beautiful woman.
She hadn’t even recognized him. Other women might swoon at the sight of him, but her gaze had passed right over him, just as it had when they’d first met.
“You’re in danger,” he remarked to himself as he left the pond behind and started across the lawn. Not toward the house. He didn’t dare take her to the house. One of the outbuildings. His gaze landed on a small shed, most probably a boathouse. He’d tuck her there and then fetch Sedgemere or his duchess.
“Princess Vivienne.” He gave a rueful laugh. “Bet you never thought I’d be the one to save you.”
Chapter 2
She opened her eyes and blinked at the darkness. No, not darkness, she decided, but somewhere cool and dim. She hurt, everywhere. Her head felt as though encased in a helmet, and her legs and arms were leaden weights. She needed to sleep. She could sleep here in this cool darkness.
She closed her eyes again and everything rushed back at her—the revolution, the assassins, Masson’s blood pumping out of his body...
She had to run, to hide.
She jerked up, thankful she’d been lying on the floor, because her head spun. She rolled to her side, bracing her palms on the cool dirt and hung her head. Slowly, she gained her knees and began to push to her feet.
“Where do you think you’re going?” a voice asked.
Vivienne jumped, her arms buckling and almost collapsing beneath her.
“You can’t even stand. How far do you think you’ll be able to travel?”
She turned her head, searching for the voice’s source. He stood in a corner beside a row of oars that had been hung neatly on a wall. This wasn’t a prison then. She glanced quickly about her, noting the watercraft. This must be where the nobles stored their boats, little more than rowboats, which made sense, as the pond was too small for anything more substantial.
She put the pieces together, her head throbbing with the effort. She’d fainted—how absolutely mortifying! She had never fainted in her life. But she was so weak now and losing strength. As humiliating as it was to realize it, she knew he must have carried her here after she fainted.
Why? To keep her until the assassins could be contacted?
She studied him again. No, she didn’t think so. He was an Englishman. That didn’t mean he couldn’t be in league with the assassins. They must have some Englishmen on their side, or at least willing to aid them for a handful of coins.
But this man was no farmer, no innkeeper. His clothes were too well made—a blue coat of superfine, a pale green waistcoat, a white linen shirt with an expertly tied neckcloth. He wore fawn-colored breeches and polished riding boots. The breeches were tight enough to mold to muscled legs.
She’d noticed that before—his broad shoulders, slim body, firm buttocks. But all of that was nothing when one took into account his face. He had the face of an angel. His skin was bronze, his cheeks smooth and, she imagined, soft and free of any stubble. His sunny blond hair fell over his forehead in a dashing sweep. His blue eyes were the color of the Mediterranean Sea before a storm and were framed by lashes several shades darker than his hair and thick enough that they provided a picturesque frame for eyes already striking.
No man should be so beautiful. She hunkered on elbows and knees before him and felt like the lowest worm. She would have felt lacking beside him even had she been wearing her tiara and finest gown. She didn’t like pretty men, didn’t like men too vain to dirty their hands.
“Do lie back down before you fall,” he said.
She shook her head. “I must go. I’ve lost too much time already.”
“You’ll lose even more if you collapse on the road.”
This was true. Perhaps he did want to help her, and she would be wise to accept food and water. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning and then only a crust of bread and weak wine.
“If you would be so kind as to gift me bread and cheese, I would be grateful. I have no money, but perhaps when I reach London, I could send you—”
He waved a hand, looking quite offended. “I don’t want your money. I’m trying to keep you alive, Princess.”
She started and fell back onto her behind. She would have been embarrassed if she hadn’t been so shocked at his use of her title.
“How do you—?”
“You don’t remember me?” He stepped away from the wall, into a thin shaft of light that made a weak attempt to penetrate the spaces between the wooden boards that comprised the building’s walls.
She didn’t need the light to know his features. Should she know him? He did look familiar, now that she considered the possibility they’d met before. Not recently. Years ago, perhaps. But then, she met so many people, so many men.
There were no counts in England. “Are you an earl?”
“A duke.” He made a sweeping bow that would have perfectly graced her father’s throne room. “The tenth Duke of Wyndover.”
The name seemed familiar. If her head hadn’t felt as though it would crack open at any moment, she might have remembered him. As it was, all she knew was that dukes had money and power. She needed food, a carriage, a coachman to take her to London.
Slowly, she rose to her feet, intent on acting the princess even if it killed her. She wobbled, and he jerked as though he might help her. Something held him in check. Perhaps he knew her well enough to realize she wouldn’t welcome his support.
“I thank you for your assistance, Duke. And since we are such old friends, I wonder if I might beg a favor.”
“Old friends? You still don’t remember me.”
He sounded almost offended. Why should she remember him? He’d not been her lover nor had they ever kissed. They might have danced, but then, she’d danced with thousands of men in the palace of Glynaven. She closed her eyes and willed the memories away. Memories of happier times.
“Of course, I remember you,” she lied. “I couldn’t place you at first. I’m not at my best at the moment.” That was true enough.
He shook his head, clearly doubting her. “I suppose this is no more than I deserve.”
He did step forward then and took her elbow. Out of habit, she began to jerk away. Before she did so, she realized she’d been tilting to the side and his grip had steadied her, prevented her from falling over.
“Do sit down, Your Highness. I’ve asked the butler to send the Duke and Duchess of Sedgemere, when they return. This is the duke’s land, and he is a friend of mine. I instructed the butler to be discreet. You’ve stumbled upon a house party.”
“I don’t have time to wait for your friend. I must go before they find me. They will have no compunction about killing you, killing all of these people, if it means they slit my throat in the end.”
To her ears, her rapidly rising voice sounded h
ysterical, but he did not look at her as though she were mad. Instead, he gently lowered her to the floor, where she now saw he’d laid a burlap cloth of the sort one might use to keep dust off a boat.
“Who is after you? Do they have something to do with the political unrest in your country?”
Political unrest. Yes, that was one way to describe the revolution. That was a polite way to refer to the slaughter of her family before her eyes—her mother, her father, her siblings. They’d killed the royal family and all who were loyal to them. Vivienne had stumbled over the dead bodies of maids who’d done nothing more than launder her sheets. None of them deserved such gruesome deaths.
But the assassins were intent upon finishing what they’d begun in the revolution of ninety-eight. This time they intended to make certain no member of the royal family lived to hold any claim to the throne.
“Assassins,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “They’re searching for me. The head of the guard smuggled me out of Glynaven to Scotland. We’d made it as far into England as Nottinghamshire before the assassins caught up to us.”
“And your guard?” the duke asked, though she could see in his eyes he’d already guessed.
“Dead.” She looked down, blinked away the tears. “They’re all dead.”
She couldn’t cry. Not now. Not until she reached London.
His hand covered hers, and the warmth of his skin shocked her. She hadn’t realized she was so cold or so desperate for any little morsel of human kindness. His warm fingers wrapped around her hand, and her heart melted at his touch.
She couldn’t allow it, though. If she softened now, she might never have the strength to reach London. She needed all her strength.
She tugged her hand away. “My hands are dirty.”
He rose. Had she offended him? Quite suddenly, she did not want him to go, did not want him to leave her. Her mother had always said she was a contrary child.
“I brought you a scone,” he said, bending to retrieve a plate she hadn’t noticed before. “I would have brought you more, something not as rich and water or tea, but I didn’t want the servants asking questions—not until I’d spoken to Sedgemere, at any rate.”
Her mouth watered when he removed the linen cloth from the top of the plate and she spied the lightly browned scone, smelled the scent of cinnamon and vanilla.
“Slowly,” he said, raising the plate out of her reach. She hadn’t even realized she’d reached for it. “You’ll be ill if you eat it too fast.”
She gave a quick nod, wanting the food more than she could ever remember wanting anything else in her life. He lowered the plate, and she snatched the scone from it, turning away from him so he would not see her eat. Since she had no intention of losing the meager contents of her stomach, she broke off a small piece and shoved it in her mouth.
She closed her eyes and chewed as slowly as she could, her hands trembling from the effort not to cram the rest of the scone into her mouth.
It was the best thing she had ever tasted in her life.
She ate another small bite, then turned to the duke. “Thank you,” she said, mouth full. It was the height of bad manners, but she didn’t care. She could feel tears streaking down her face, tears of gratitude she couldn’t hold back any longer.
He gave her a look of such pity she would have hated herself if she’d had the energy. Instead, she broke off another small piece of scone and didn’t protest when he pulled her into his arms. She should have protested. She should have chastised him.
How dare you touch me without permission!
But he smelled so absolutely wonderful, almost as lovely as the scone. He smelled clean, like shaving soap and boot blacking. Comforting, normal smells. Scents she associated with her life before the revolution.
She should have stepped back. She was dirtying his clothing—very fine clothing from the feel of the wool against her cheek—with her mud-caked garments. Her body relaxed against his chest, and she sagged into him, allowing him to support her. Just for a moment. She would stand on her own again, but she could lean on this man, this duke who had known her before her life had fallen apart, for a few seconds. His arms came around her. She was petite, and his touch—light, not possessive—wrapped around her back and shoulders.
“You’re safe now,” he murmured. “You’re safe here.”
And she believed him. She felt safe. For the first time in weeks, she felt safe. She could lower her guard, relax her muscles, close her eyes.
He was holding her. He’d never thought he’d hold her. And when he’d imagined doing so, he’d never imagined she would smell so disgusting.
But he didn’t let her go. He might never have the chance to embrace her again, and he’d hold on as long as she’d tolerate it. He’d hold on forever, because it would take a strong army to persuade him to let her go now. It was obvious she needed help, and he intended to do everything he could for her. She didn’t remember him, and even if she had, she wouldn’t have looked at him twice. Not the way he looked at her.
But this wasn’t about winning her affections. He was a gentleman. He was honor-bound to aid a lady in distress. The feel of her in his arms was almost a reward in itself.
“My bow!” She jerked back, almost tripping over her own feet. He caught her arm, held her steady. “I left it. I have to fetch it!”
Pushing past him, she started for the door of the boathouse. It opened before she could reach it. The Duchess of Sedgemere entered, her gaze flicking first to the princess and then to Nathan. She was a pretty woman and not one prone to hysterics. Her expression remained placid, despite the surprise she must have felt at seeing a strange, filthy woman in her boathouse with one of her houseguests.
“Duchess,” Nathan said smoothly, moving to block the princess from escaping and simultaneously shield her with his body. “I apologize for taking you away from your guests and the activities.”
“Gladstone said you asked him to send the duke or myself to you right away.” Her gaze slid from him to the princess at his side. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes, but I should make introductions first. Her Royal Highness, Princess Vivienne of Glynaven, this is the Duchess of Sedgemere. It was her bridge I found you sleeping under. Duchess, this is Princess Vivienne. She’s in a bit of trouble at the moment.”
The duchess raised her brows with some skepticism, but she managed a very formal curtsey. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Highness.”
“Please, call me Vivienne. I’m endangering you, everyone here, with my presence. It’s better if you don’t use my title.”
“Very well, then you should call me Anne, and I must insist you come to the house with me. You need a bath, clean clothes, and a good meal.”
Vivienne shook her head. “Thank you, but no. As I said, my presence here is a danger to all of you. I want only to collect my bow and be away.” She eyed the scone in her hand and ate another small bite, clearly unwilling to leave it behind.
“You can’t leave,” Wyndover said, surprising himself. The duchess’s eyes widened, while the princess’s eyes narrowed. He cut her argument off. “You’re in no shape to travel to London, especially if you are being pursued by assassins.”
“Assassins?” The duchess paled, but to her credit, she stood her ground.
“I will gladly accept the loan of a horse or conveyance,” the princess answered, haughty as ever.
“And have the assassins take it away at the first opportunity? I think not.”
Her green eyes darkened with fury. “I don’t know who you think you are—”
“I’m a man who knows England a great deal better than you. You’re a lone woman traveling on foot. Even traveling on horseback, you have no protection. If these assassins don’t attack you, someone else will.”
“I agree,” the duchess said. “A woman alone is not safe from thieves or highwaymen, and the closer you get to London, the more danger you face. You cannot go alone.”
“And I cannot stay here.”
“I’ll take you,” Nathan said. The moment the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to shove them back in. What the hell was he suggesting? He couldn’t take her to London. He’d traveled from Town for this bloody house party. He couldn’t get involved in the revolutions taking place abroad. He had estates to manage, tenants to see to, ledgers to balance.
But he’d be damned if he allowed her to walk away from him. She’d be dead before the sun rose again. And if he had other reasons for wanting to stay with her, he didn’t intend to examine them too closely.
“Fine,” the princess said, surprising him. He’d fully expected her to argue, to say she didn’t want him. “You may accompany me.”
Nathan clenched his hands at her imperious tone.
“But you take your life in your hands, Duke. You have serfs depending on you.”
“We don’t call them serfs—”
“An important man like you must have fiefdoms. Can you really afford to risk your life to escort me to London? I think it’s better if I go alone.”
“That’s out of the question.”
“Fine, then fetch your carriage. We leave now.”
The duchess pressed her lips together, clearly hiding a smile. She had noted the princess’s dictatorial tone as well.
“That’s also out of the question,” Nathan said. He could dictate too. “A journey like this takes a bit of planning and preparation. Not to mention, I have no intention of traveling for days with someone who smells like pig feces—be she a princess or not.”
“Why you—”
The duchess cleared her throat. “Your Highness—Vivienne—perhaps you might come inside and take the opportunity to wash and change. You’re shorter than I, but I could ask my maid to hem one of my gowns or take it in a bit.”
“Thank you, Duchess, but no,” Nathan said. “If the assassins are tracking her, and I think we must assume they are, I want her far away from here, from your party and the guests. There are children present, and we must think of their safety.”