The Wild Princess

by Perry, Mary Hart

  “Well, that’s an optimistic view.” Her laugh, to his ears, held a near hysterical edge. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears as she turned away from opening the curtains to let in the sunlight.

  Byrne sat on the bed and smiled when he noticed two cups on the tray. He patted the mattress. Louise sat demurely on its very edge, a good two feet away from him.

  He poured tea, lifted the lid of one of the servers, and found thick rashers of bacon and fat sausages.

  “There are hard-cooked eggs under the other cover,” she said then lifted a cloth napkin to reveal slabs of toasted bread under pools of butter.

  “A meal fit for a king,” he murmured over his split lip. It would hurt to eat, but he was famished.

  “I seriously am most grateful,” she said. “If that dreadful man had got into their house, had put his hands on Amanda ever again . . .” She shuddered visibly and blinked at him. “You cannot know what she went through before she and I met.”

  “I think I have an idea,” he said.

  “And the child.”

  “Your son.”

  “Yes, mine.” She blew out a little breath. Of relief, or merely acknowledging the truth? “My . . . son. Though we shall never speak of him as such in the presence of others.”

  “Understood. But he will learn someday.”

  “Will he?” She frowned. “Amanda thinks we should tell him when he’s older. I believe such knowledge would only cause him pain, and much trouble. Better that he believes he’s the son of a fine London physician than the bastard of a reckless princess.”

  He smiled at her. She was so beautiful, so young. Yet she’d been through so much. And all because she refused to confine herself to the role her family dictated for her.

  He had heard the way ladies and gentlemen of the court, and the queen’s subjects, spoke of Louise. The “wild princess.” The young royal who fought her parents’ authority at every turn. She demanded the right to study art with commoners and—even more shocking—to sit in the same classes with men and learn what they learned. The princess who caroused in pubs and smoking dens with her Bohemian friends. Until something happened to cause her to settle down.

  Gossip said Louise finally grew into adulthood and accepted her royal role. How could she not, with Victoria’s thumb on her? And now that she was married, they expected her husband would take over the reins and control her. He’d give her children to further anchor her to a respectable life. Like a ship caught up in a gale, if you took down her sails and threw out enough anchors, she’d eventually weather the storm. That’s what they thought.

  Little do they know.

  Byrne watched her sip her tea, select one of the smaller strips of bacon, and nibble it. She gave the appearance of being utterly at peace. But beneath the outward calm he sensed extraordinary effort. Against what forces was Louise fighting now?

  He ate without speaking, forcing himself not to gulp down the food all at once. It tasted so good. He felt so good!

  That was the best part of a fight. After it was over, you felt more alive than ever, because you had feared, and nearly known, the alternative. Because you’d straddled the line between life and death.

  “The Fenians,” she said, out of the blue.

  “Yes?” He lifted his eyes to fix on hers and felt as if he was tumbling into them.

  “You are still on their trail? Still concerned that they will strike again?”

  “I am, on both counts.”

  She finished her bacon in one bite then stared out the window for a long while, as if in contemplation of the future. “Why are you doing this?”

  Wasn’t it obvious? “It’s my job.”

  “No, I mean, this isn’t your fight, Stephen. You are an American, not a subject of the Queen of England. You are putting your life on the line daily for us. These are dangerous men, desperate men. They will stop at nothing.” Her voice quavered with emotion. “Whether or not their cause is valid, what they do is not right. They kill innocent women and children who happen to be in the path of their bombs. They won’t hesitate to murder a man who has vowed to stop them.”

  “True.” He studied her profile. It was so finely shaped, she might have been etched in glass or carved from pearly onyx. It seemed right that the sculptress should herself be perfect.

  “I am going to ask the queen to dismiss you,” she said.

  “What?” He stared at her. Of all the things she might have said to him, nothing could have shocked him more.

  “I will tell her you fought again with Brown. Convince her that you are a dangerous influence on her Scot. She will have no choice but to send you home.”

  He threw back his head and laughed.

  She seemed startled by his reaction and pulled away to stare at him in confusion.

  “You would lie to your mother to have me fired? Why?” Then it struck him. She thought she was protecting him. “You can’t believe that I would live my life any differently back in America than I am doing here.”

  He saw the fear fill her eyes again. “I can’t watch you . . . watch you die for us!”

  “But you can send me packing and never see me again? Is that what you want?”

  She stood up abruptly, made it halfway to the door before he caught her around the waist. Byrne pulled her into his arms. He knotted his fingers through her hair, tugged her head back to turn her face up to meet his. He kissed her fiercely and long, and he didn’t release her delicious mouth from beneath his until he felt her body go limp in his embrace and she was fighting for air.

  “Oh no!” she cried, staring at him, then kissed him back with equal urgency.

  Within seconds, his soldier’s mind took over. Might we be discovered? Unlikely in this rarely used wing of the castle. Will anyone miss her? Yes, possibly, but why look here? Who knows I am here? Brown at least, maybe a servant. Then he remembered Lorne. The marquess had been here too, at least he thought so. A vague memory was coming back to him. Not good. Alternative locations for bedding the lady? None. Solution: barricade.

  Byrne spun her around, gripped her shoulders, and without a word, sat her on the bed. He shifted the tea tray from chair seat to floor then wedged the chair back under the latch to prevent it from releasing or the door from swinging inward.

  Satisfied, he turned to face Louise, half expecting her to have de-materialized. But she was still there, just as he’d left her. Even better, no questions clouded her beautiful eyes.

  “I think Lorne knows,” she whispered.

  His already racing heart leapt. His gut clenched, which made his ribs ache. “About us?”

  “About me, at least. That my nature is too passionate to stay faithful to my vows.”

  “He took vows too. If he cannot keep his—”

  “Then why should I? It’s not that simple.”

  The pain in her gaze broke his heart. How could any man not throw himself at her feet and beg for the honor of making love to her?

  He hesitated, stepped closer to her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No,” she said, opening her lovely arms to him. “No talk. Not now.”

  He went to her, fell down onto his one good knee, a supplicant. His arms closed around her waist. He laid his head in her lap—all memory of other women and other times gone.

  “I have wanted you from the moment I first saw you,” he whispered into the blue satin ocean of her skirt.

  “And I you,” she said, her voice husky with emotion.

  She’d said no talk, but he couldn’t stop himself. This was too important to be done carelessly or without letting her know his concerns. “I am not your Donovan.”

  She laughed. “No. Indeed you are not.”

  “I won’t be his substitute.”

  “Do stop talking and—” She brought his face up from her lap with her hands and leaned forward to kiss him softly, nibbling his lips again and again until he was driven to press his mouth hungrily over hers. Tasting her. Glorying in the flavors of her breath, the scent o
f her body. Rose petals and lavender, he thought.

  He pressed her down onto the narrow mattress and disheveled linens, stretching his body over hers, holding his weight above her for fear of crushing her. But she would allow not even air to separate them. Reaching up, she wrapped her arms around his chest and brought him down hard on top of her. He winced at the twinge through his ribs.

  “I want to feel you. All of you. I am not a fragile woman.”

  She was, in point of fact, the strongest woman he’d ever known. In spirit, in heart, in soul. And even through her clothing he felt her softly defined feminine muscle.

  He forgot all restraint. He ravished her body, and she seemed to delight in every touch of his fingers and mouth as he uncovered and explored each tender, yielding inch of her flesh. And when he plunged within her warmth he held himself at agonizing abeyance for as long as a man is capable, for he needed to make this moment last for her. For both of them. Because he couldn’t believe it would ever happen again.

  Thirty-nine

  Louise lay in Stephen Byrne’s strong arms, drowsy with the delicious warmth and floating sensations of a well-loved woman. Her desert landscape of an existence had been restored with the life-giving rain of this man’s loving her. Impossibly, she had bloomed again.

  What her legal husband had been unable to offer, this strange and wonderful man had given her. She refused to think of the consequences of what they’d done. Refused to consider what obligations her rank might demand of her in the next hour, or day, or year. Please, let me linger in this moment for as long as possible.

  In truth, she dared not move in Byrne’s arms, for fear of breaking the spell. They lay entirely, delectably naked, her arm draped across his chest, her head pillowed on the muscle of his shoulder. She listened with the attentiveness of a musician to the even rhythm of his heartbeat, soothed by the rise and fall of his chest. Her fingers played with the crisp curling hairs that ranged down from his chest to his stomach and beyond. When she reached up to stroke his face, her fingertips grazed the dark stubble, and even that seemed titillating, a pleasure to be savored and inviting more kisses.

  He read her interest in having more of him. “You have spent me, woman.”

  She smiled, turned her head to touch her lips to his flat, muscled belly. “I will be patient. Until you are ready for more of me.”

  “You demand too much of a man, Your Highness.”

  She giggled, feeling drunk with her own power. When was the last time she had laughed like this? Girlishly. No, wantonly.

  “Will you be missed?” he said.

  She ran her fingers down his thigh, marveling at its hardness. “Not for a good while. But I must join my mother and sisters later, for tea.”

  “Ah.” Then he was quiet for a while before clearing his throat and beginning again. “I need to ask you something.”

  “Yes?” A thousand possibilities rushed through her mind. What if he asked her to leave Lorne? She didn’t know what to say if he did. In her heart, she’d already taken the emotional leap away from her husband, giving herself over to Stephen Byrne. But if he asked her to leave her family, leave all she was and everything she could be to run off with him—as she’d imagined doing in her young, foolish days with Donovan—how should she answer?

  His next words she hadn’t expected.

  “Baron Stockmar,” he said.

  “What about him?” she asked. Already the luscious floating sensations were leaving her.

  “While I was sleeping, I think I heard you talking to yourself. Either that or I was dreaming. You said that name. Baron Stockmar.”

  She sighed. Well, this was a cruel way, indeed, to be yanked back into the bleak reality of her life. “I did. The baron was in charge of virtually our entire household while my father was alive. In particular he oversaw our education—mine and my brothers’ and sisters’.”

  “But he’s no longer around?”

  “Right.” She edged up onto one elbow to better see his face while she explained. “When I asked my mother if she could think of anyone who hated us enough to want to hurt us, she mentioned his name. The baron was a terrible man. I believe he loved power more than anything else in the world—certainly more than people. But Albert, my father, admired him deeply. The baron had been his personal adviser back in Germany, before my mother and father married. He actually coached my father to encourage the possibility of Mama falling in love with him when they met, if you can believe that.”

  “In other words, he gambled that she’d accept him over other suitors?”

  “Yes, and his gamble paid off.” She smiled. “Later, when Papa came here to wed Mama, he brought the baron with him. My father intended for Stockmar to bring a kind of masculine order to our lives.”

  Byrne laughed. “Organizing nine children? That seems near impossible.”

  “Nevertheless, the baron threw himself into the task even before most of us were born. He believed children should be educated on a strict schedule. He fought constantly with my mother’s beloved former governess, Baroness Lehzen, over our education. After my parents’ wedding, Mama had given the baroness over to care for us children as we came into the world and became old enough to be taught. Mama trusted her, I think, more than any other person. They were devoted to each other. The baroness tried to protect us, tried to reason with Stockmar, telling him we were only children and needed time to play. The baron believed play a waste of time.”

  Stephen Byrne’s fingers seemed incapable of remaining still. As she spoke he stroked up and down her back. She tried not to think too hard about the little shivers his touch produced. If she did she’d be unable to speak for the pleasure of it.

  “Eventually,” she continued with no little effort, “Stockmar pressured my father to dismiss the baroness. Lehzen was sent back to her home in Germany. My mother was furious and wept for weeks at the loss of her dear friend, but the men refused to listen to her. From then on, the baron had full control over us and our tutors. He traveled everywhere with us—to Balmoral, Windsor, Osborne, and lived here with us at Buckingham. He had my father’s ear in all matters.”

  “But the man’s no longer around. What caused his fall from grace?” Byrne said.

  Louise remembered so vividly those sad, tempestuous days. “It was my father’s death. When Papa contracted typhoid and died very suddenly, the shock nearly killed my mother. She was beside herself with grief. I half expected her to reach out to the baron for strength. Instead, she did the opposite.”

  He smiled and hugged her. “Good old Victoria canned him.”

  “Like lightning. She banished the man to Germany, just as he had done to her dear friend the baroness. He lost everything. His grand suites in our castles. His royal pension. The invitations to state banquets. All gone.”

  Byrne toyed with a lock of her hair, kissed the tip of her nose. “I shouldn’t wonder he’d be bitter, even though he’d brought it on himself.” He thought for a moment. “When you said his name out loud while I slept, were you thinking he had more than enough motive for vengeance? Could the baron be in league with the Fenians?”

  “No. I was just recalling my mother’s words. She thought his ghost might have returned to haunt us. He died in 1863, destitute.”

  “He’s dead?” Byrne looked disappointed, as well he might be. She suspected he’d hoped this was the missing link between their household and the Fenians. It wouldn’t have surprised her to find Stockmar had planted a spy in the palace. If he’d still been alive.

  “So, you see,” she continued, “he can’t possibly be involved. That’s a dead end.”

  “What about his family? Did he have a wife, brothers, sisters, children who might wish to avenge him?”

  “His wife passed away years before him. They had a son, Christian. I know him. He’s a good man, successful in his own right, not the sort to hold a grudge on behalf of his father, or to use violence. In fact, I don’t believe he got along well with his father at all. I can’t believe he
’d have a hand in any of this madness.”

  Byrne frowned. “If it’s not Stockmar, then it’s someone else equally determined to aid the Fenians. We must identify them before they do worse damage.” He gently moved her aside and started to rise from the bed.

  Louise reached out to stop him, placing her hand on his arm. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her. She let her fingers slide down his arm, to his hand resting on his bare thigh, and then to the place on his body she most wished to influence—and enjoyed the intriguing effect her touch had on him. He seemed to have recovered.

  “As you have no fresh leads to follow,” she said, “I don’t suppose a delay of an hour or so more would matter?”

  He grinned down at her. “Guess not.”

  “Excellent,” she said.

  Forty

  Victoria released her grip on the heavy claret-velvet drapery, one of a set of five that reached from floor to ceiling above, covering the elegant bow window of Buckingham’s Music Room. She looked out through the glass from John Nash’s elegantly designed garden front of the palace. Above her a domed ceiling of diamond-shaped gold medallions arched, held aloft by black onyx Corinthian columns.

  A lustrous ebony Steinway grand piano stood to her right. She’d left off playing a Chopin piece moments earlier when Lorne interrupted. Even now as she stepped back from the window, the young Scotish noble continued his wearisome petition, unaware she had ceased listening to his list of “needs” for the suite he and Louise temporarily occupied.

  Few rooms in any of her properties were so sumptuous as this Music Room, overlooking the long swell of lush greenery across the palace gardens to the pretty pond with its resident swans. But now, gazing out through the tall window, she shuddered. What she had just witnessed beyond the crystal-clear panes proved her worst suspicions.

  Moments earlier, she had watched Louise leave the wing of the palace beyond the ballroom, a location reserved for housing servants and providing extra work areas for staff. Her daughter had no reason to be there. None at all. Five minutes later, she saw her American agent step from the shadow of the same doorway.