by Cheryl Holt
“We’re not waiting for them.” He motioned to the priest, but the idiot hemmed and hawed. Kristof bellowed, “Get on with it!”
“Majesty,” the toad groveled, “if the Princess is opposed, I can’t possibly carry on.”
Kristof glowered at Dmitri. He was the only other person in the room with them, would be the only witness.
“Dmitri, you have sixty seconds to explain this dunce’s role to him. If he’s not ready to begin by then, it will be the last ceremony he ever performs.”
The priest blanched and started leafing through his prayer book, looking for the correct page.
“I won’t marry him,” Katarina said to the priest. “He can’t force me, can he, Father?”
“Ah…ah…” the priest mumbled.
Kristof scowled at Katarina. “I have Nicholas in my custody. If you refuse me, he will pay in all the ways I swore he would.”
“You don’t have Nicholas,” she smugly retorted. “I know exactly where he is and he’s not with you.” She stared at the priest again. “Are we finished?”
Suddenly there was a pounding on the outer doors to Kristof’s suite. No one was there to answer. Everyone was down in the presence chamber, gleefully gossiping about the shooting.
“Oh, for bloody sake,” Dmitri grumbled, and he spun as if he’d march out to learn who had interrupted.
Before he could though, the inner doors burst open and Lord Radcliffe bustled in, his twin brothers flanking him. Katarina rose and went over to them. Lord Radcliffe murmured in her ear, then shoved her behind him so they were blocking her from Kristof’s view.
Dmitri spoke up. “I’m sorry, Lord Radcliffe, but this is a private meeting. You’re not welcome.”
Radcliffe ignored Dmitri and kept his gaze locked on Kristof. “We heard there’s about to be a wedding.”
“Yes, there is, Radcliffe. The Princess and I are marrying.”
Radcliffe frowned. “Katarina is marrying you?”
Kristof bristled at his using Katarina’s Christian name. “Yes. In light of today’s excitement”—Kristof pointed to his sling—“we thought we should avoid any pomp and circumstance. If you’ll excuse us…?”
Radcliffe didn’t budge, and Dmitri said, “Really, Lord Radcliffe, you’re being a boor. I’ll just escort you out.”
He huffed over to Radcliffe as if he’d manhandle him, but the twins stepped in his path. They engaged in a staring match Dmitri could never win, and he skulked back a stride or two.
“You can’t wed her,” Radcliffe told Kristof.
“Why can’t I?” Kristof snidely inquired.
“Because she’s already married.”
The priest and Dmitri gasped, as Kristof demanded, “To whom?”
“To me,” Radcliffe boasted. “We were wed in Cairo before she left.”
“That’s a lie!” Kristof raged.
“No, it isn’t,” Radcliffe claimed, “and I hate to tell you this, but I believe she’s increasing with my child. You wouldn’t put my son on your throne, would you?”
The priest shut his prayer book and hurried out without a word.
Kristof felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He studied Radcliffe and his brothers, loathing how handsome they were, how tall, dashing, and dynamic. How dare they be so spectacular! How dare they ruin everything!
“Is it true?” he snarled at Katarina. “Don’t think to further deceive me.”
She peeked around Radcliffe and her expression was impish. “Yes, I’ve been married for ages.”
“Why didn’t you confess it?” Kristof roared. “Why persist with the ruse that you might ultimately be my bride.”
“You had threatened Nicholas and Isabelle, and I couldn’t risk that you might harm them. I’ve simply been waiting for my husband to arrive to save me from you.”
“Where has he been all this time?”
Radcliffe answered for her. “Your Captain Romilard ordered my murder in Egypt, but as you can see, I’m fine.”
Kristof was incensed. With Katarina. With Radcliffe. With Captain Romilard who never seemed to accomplish any task he was assigned.
“Dmitri,” he seethed, “summon the guards. I want these men arrested.”
Radcliffe chuckled. “You actually imagine they could succeed?”
He nodded to his brothers, and in a quick minute, Dmitri and Kristof were tied to their chairs and gagged so they couldn’t call out.
Radcliffe towered over Kristof, and as a final insult he said, “We’ve spread the story everywhere of how you treated Nicholas and Isabelle. We’ve told everyone that Kat was wed to me, that you tried to have me killed because of it, that you tried to force her into matrimony when she’d been adamantly opposed.”
Lies, all lies! Kristof complained behind the gag, his hatred wafting out of his eyes. I am King here! You shall not belittle me this way!
“Rumors about us and you have been circulating,” Radcliffe continued. “Soon the entire country will know what you did to the Morovsky heirs.” He scoffed and taunted, “May the rest of your reign be as stable and productive as the first part has been.”
One of the twins sarcastically said, “I’ve heard the first part hasn’t been all that grand.”
The other said, “I’m betting the remainder of it won’t last too long.”
Katarina couldn’t leave well enough alone either. “Goodbye, Cousin Kristof. Nicholas is a boy now, but he won’t always be. He’ll return one day and recover what you stole from him. You have a few years where you’ll be safe, but you’d best keep looking over your shoulder.”
The group whipped away and marched out, Katarina in the center of the trio and obviously protected by them in a manner Kristof could never have offered. They pulled the door shut and spun the key in the lock.
Kristof and Dmitri sat in a stunned silence, listening as their strides faded down the corridor. Then they started to kick with their feet and struggle against their bindings. But they couldn’t seem to generate much noise and—as if they suddenly hadn’t a friend in the world—no one came to assist.
* * * *
Bryce rushed Katarina toward the rear of the palace. They had hidden clothes for her in the nursery, but there wasn’t time to retrieve them. It was more important to get her to the horses and ride off. The border was fourteen miles away, and while guards could follow them, he’d feel much better once they were in another country.
They rounded a corner, and to his dismay, they ran into Captain Romilard. Thankfully he was by himself, his usual contingent missing. The halls were abnormally quiet with everyone downstairs, clucking over the shooting, bragging about what they’d witnessed.
Bryce bristled with offense and dislike. Romilard hadn’t attacked him in Cairo, hadn’t beaten him within an inch of his life or sold him into slavery. But he’d ordered all of it done.
“Your Grace,” he said to Kat. “Or is it Your Majesty now? Is the ceremony over?”
“Yes,” Kat smoothly lied. “Lord Radcliffe and his brothers are accompanying me to my rooms.”
“That’s odd.” Romilard’s smile was cunning and sly. “Your suite is in the other direction. You’re going the wrong way.”
Kat glanced up at Bryce. “Lord Radcliffe, this oaf has always been insolent and impertinent to me. His brother is Kristof’s chief advisor, so he feels free to disrespect and disparage me.”
“Does he?” Bryce replied.
“Turn around, Princess,” Romilard dared to command. “We’ll speak to the King and ask him if you’re supposed to be traipsing off with these men.”
Kat scowled at Bryce. “See what I mean, Lord Radcliffe? He is the most rude, impudent dog I’ve ever met.”
“I see that,” Bryce agreed as the twins stiffened, ready to deal with the prick so Bryce wouldn’t have to. But Bryce was more than happy to ensure Romilard never insulted a female ever again.
Bryce assessed Romilard and couldn’t conceal a blanch of astonishment. He had a sword on his hip
. It was an ancient weapon made from gold and polished steel with jewels in the hilt. It dangled from a delicately-tooled leather sheath.
“That’s a fine sword you have there,” Bryce said.
Romilard put his hand on the hilt, sensing a fight coming too. “Yes, it is. It’s very fine.”
“Where did you get it?” Bryce hissed.
“It was a gift from my men. They took it off a criminal in Egypt.” Romilard stared into Bryce’s blue eyes, and he frowned. He’d only glimpsed Bryce in passing at Valois’s villa, and he asked, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“No, but I am the criminal your accomplices stole it from in Egypt.”
“Bugger off, Radcliffe,” Romilard crudely retorted. “It’s mine, and I’m not inclined to part with it.”
He had the audacity to grab Kat’s arm as if he’d pull her away from them, and Bryce couldn’t decide if he was deranged or if his ego was so inflated that he assumed he could beat Bryce and his brothers in a brawl. But no man could. Not when they stood shoulder to shoulder like a brick wall.
“Let’s go, Princess,” Romilard said, “to your husband, the King.”
Kat jerked out of his grasp, and Bryce hit him as hard as he could. He collapsed to his knees and hovered there, blood dripping from his nose. He braced and would have leapt up, but Michael was on him before he could, a hand on his throat, a knee crushed into his back.
Bryce peered over at Matthew. “Would you escort Kat to the horses? Michael and I will join you in a minute.”
“Certainly.” Matthew’s steady gaze apprised Bryce he understood precisely what was about to transpire.
“What is it?” Kat asked. “What’s happening?”
“The sword on Romilard’s belt belonged to my father,” Bryce said.
Michael and Matthew gasped with surprise, saying together, “What?”
“A man who befriended me in Cairo, he knew Father well. Years ago, Father left it at his house, and he’s had it all this time. He gave it to me. It’s a priceless memento, and Captain Romilard doesn’t get to keep it.”
Kat looked as if she’d argue that she should stay and watch the ending, but Bryce nodded to her. “Go, Kat. I’ll be with you shortly.”
“We shouldn’t dally, Princess,” Matthew told her. “They can finish up without us.”
Kat bit down on whatever her comment might have been, and Matthew hurried her out.
Once she was away, Michael yanked Romilard to his feet. Bryce leaned in so they were toe to toe, but he was many inches taller and much more robust than the pathetic little tyrant.
“The sword is mine,” Bryce informed him.
“You’ll have to kill me to take it,” Romilard blustered.
“I intend to.”
Romilard opened his mouth to call for help, but before he could murmur a sound, Bryce was holding his father’s weapon. He stabbed Romilard straight through the heart, then casually stepped to the side as his life’s blood drained out.
“Asshole,” Michael muttered as he released Romilard. He dropped like a rock, his head smacking the stones with a muted thud.
Bryce wiped the blade clean on Romilard’s trousers, then he sliced the belt and retrieved the sheath. He attached it to his own belt.
As he glanced up, Michael was studying him in an odd manner.
“What?” Bryce inquired.
“Matthew once asked me what you were like, and I claimed you weren’t anything like him and me.”
“What is that supposed to mean.”
“I claimed you weren’t the type to stab somebody in the heart and blithely walk away.”
“I hate this guy.”
“That’s obvious,” Michael mused.
“Someday I’ll tell you what occurred in Egypt. I barely survived.”
Michael pointed to Romilard. “He was responsible? He harmed you?”
“His men did, but they were simply carrying out his orders to murder me.”
“Bastard,” Michael spat.
“And I am Julian Blair’s son. No one can take from me what is mine.” He gestured down the hall. “Let’s go. I need to catch up with my fiancée. I’m not ever letting her out of my sight again.”
The two brothers rushed off, Romilard a forgotten lump on the floor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Goodbye, Calais. Goodbye, France. Goodbye, Europe.”
Kat stood at the bow of their ship, smiling at Isabelle who was throwing flowers into the water. The wind was catching the sails as the captain maneuvered them out of the harbor. In a few hours, they’d be in England.
“Do you miss Parthenia?” Kat asked her.
“No,” Isabelle scoffed.
“Would you go back someday?”
“Maybe if Nicholas was sitting on the throne, but not while Kristof is pretending to be king.”
“I agree.”
“Life was grand when Father was still alive. I hate how Kristof wrecked everything.”
“So do I.”
“Will the people ever tire of him?”
“Yes,” Kat said, “and I imagine it will happen very soon. When we departed, they were already growing restless.”
“I’ll never understand how someone could pick Kristof over Nicholas.”
“I’ll never understand it either. Father would have been so angry. I’m glad he wasn’t there to witness what occurred.”
“I’m glad too,” Isabelle said. “I could never bear to have him upset.”
Kat reached over and ran her fingers through Isabelle’s hair. It was a pretty chestnut color, but it used to flow to her bottom, and Kat had spend many years brushing and braiding it. But now it was cropped at her shoulders, swinging loose and free and too short to even be tied with a ribbon.
On the afternoon Isabelle and Nicholas had sneaked out of the palace, when they’d gone to saddle the horses for Bryce and Kat, they’d stopped by the nursery so Isabelle could change into the boy’s clothes that would conceal her identity.
She’d ordered Nicholas to cut her hair, and though Nicholas had put up a fuss, Isabelle had won the argument. He’d taken a knife and sliced through the braid so Isabelle could don a knitted cap like his, so she could pull it over her eyes and hide her face. Then she’d dropped the lengthy rope of hair into their old toy box and shut the lid.
Occasionally Kat thought about that hair, lying alone and forlorn. Would Kristof ever wed and have children? Would they ever play in the nursery and open the toy box? What would they think of that shorn braid tossed inside?
She spun and stared at the receding coastline, the receding town. They were about to leave the quieter bay and move out into the Channel.
The captain had warned her that the seas would be rougher, that they might be nauseous at the start, but he swore the waves would even out and carry them to their new life with no trouble at all.
Toward the stern, Nicholas was huddled with the twins, and on seeing them together, Kat sighed. He’d bonded with the two men, and they were constantly in deep discussion, talking about fighting and strategy and tactics. Matthew Blair had been a soldier since he was very young, so Nicholas was particularly fascinated by his stories of bravery and battle.
Apparently she’d have a brother join the army before too much more time had passed, and she couldn’t decide how she felt about that. Nicholas insisted he needed the training and discipline the army would provide, and Matthew insisted he’d learn leadership skills that would serve him well when he went back to Parthenia.
At the moment, with her home country naught but a distant memory, she didn’t want him to ever go back. Nor could she imagine returning herself. Her future was in England and Scotland with Bryce.
She understood Nicholas’s yearning to reclaim what was his though, and she would always help him to achieve that goal. She suspected—with the Blair brothers offering their protection and advice—Nicholas would succeed at whatever he chose to do in Parthenia. How could Kristof hope to keep what he’d stolen?
Bryce climbed out of the hold and onto the deck. He looked very grand, but then he always looked magnificent. Their weeks of riding across Europe had lightened his hair so it was once again a golden blond. He’d begun shaving too, so the beard was removed. Attired as he was in tan breeches, a flowing white shirt, and knee-high black boots, he might have been a pirate about to commit mayhem.
He came over, and he had a wool blanket woven in a beautiful plaid of dark greens and reds, a purple and white stitch thrown in to add intrigue.
He leaned down for a quick kiss, then he wrapped the blanket around her so she discovered it wasn’t a blanket after all, but a long swatch of Scottish tartan. It was very warm and instantly warded off the cold wind. She grabbed Isabelle and drew her close, wrapping the tartan around her too.
Bryce pointed to the fabric. “Michael and Matthew brought it from Radcliffe Castle. It’s my family’s pattern.”
“It’s lovely,” Kat said.
“If I was any kind of Scot, I’d have dressed myself in it, but I’m not certain how the blasted garment is supposed to be worn.”
Isabelle peeked up at him. “After we’re in Scotland, you’ll have to ask the elders in the castle. They’ll know how.”
“I’m positive they will,” he agreed. He gazed at the receding coastline. “I can’t say I’m sad to see France disappearing.”
“Neither can I,” Kat said.
“Might Captain Romilard follow us to England?” Isabelle nervously inquired. “Should we be on the lookout for him?”
“No, Isabelle,” Bryce assured her. “He wouldn’t dare follow us to England. He’s too scared of me and my brothers.”
“As he should be,” Isabelle regally stated.
She’d posed the question a thousand times, and he’d furnished the same answer a thousand times. But evidently she was more anxious by all that had happened than she liked to let on. She’d been raised to be a princess, to take things in stride, but she was only ten. The past two years had been a nightmare of upheavals and drama that no child should have to suffer.
Bryce gestured to Nicholas who was still huddled with Michael and Matthew at the other end of the ship. “Why don’t you ask if they’re ready? Will you give me a minute alone with Katarina?”