by Cheryl Holt
She needed advice from someone she could trust. She needed to rest and regroup under her uncle’s watchful eye. She needed consoling from someone who would tell her she wasn’t crazed to worry about Nicolas’s safety. Most of all, she needed his opinion as to where she should go with Nicholas. London? Paris? Rome? Boston?
Was it necessary to put an ocean between him and Kristof? If that’s what it would take for Nicholas to be out of danger, then that is what she would do.
Monsieur Valois’s spectacular villa was nestled on the banks of the Nile, the long driveway leading to a busy city street. She’d rented a chair, and four natives had carried her to her destination. They had remained outside the gates and would convey her back to the hotel where Nicholas, Isabelle, and Kat’s friend, Pippa Clementi, were waiting for her to return.
She’d brought a parasol to shield herself from the sun, but she’d left it in her rented chair so the sun’s rays beat down unmercifully. She hadn’t walked twenty steps when the temperature began to be oppressive, and it occurred to her that she had to alter her wardrobe into one that was more suitable for the tropical climate.
She was wearing layers of petticoats, woolen stockings, a jacket, a tight corset, and the air was so heavy and so still that she felt as if she was suffocating.
The villa’s grounds were quiet, verdant, comprised of lush gardens of green foliage and fruit trees she couldn’t identify. She slipped under an arbor, pausing to fan her heated face, when she heard hearty masculine laughter, swords clanging, vocal jesting, and affable insults being hurled.
She crept farther into the foliage, pushing a palm frond away so she was staring out at a smooth patch of lawn. There were two men fencing, several others lounging in the shade and observing the combatants.
They spoke English with a British accent, and they were a bit older than she was, probably thirty or so. They were much the same size, six feet in height, with broad shoulders, muscled arms, and long, lean legs. One was dark-haired and one was blond, but they were both handsome as the devil.
They were in trousers and boots, their shirts off, their chests bared, and it was inordinately thrilling to see all that male flesh. Their torsos had been bronzed by the sun, providing stark evidence that they spent an extensive amount of time strutting about unclad.
She tried to imagine what it would be like to be so promiscuous with one’s person. In Parthenia, where the terrain was mountainous, cold, and snowy, people were always buttoned up from chin to toe, usually bundled in sweaters and coats.
She was attired in garments she’d brought from home, and she wished she could be so free and easy with her clothes. She wished she could strip to her petticoat and find some comfort.
The blond man in particular held her attention. He was arresting as a Greek god, his dynamic qualities almost tangible. They wafted toward her, and she was rooted to her spot and couldn’t move.
His golden locks hadn’t been trimmed, and they were loose and curling over his shoulders. He had an aristocratic countenance, his face clean-shaven and pleasing to view, with sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, a wide, generous mouth that was creased with laugh lines as if he was humored by life and smiled often.
But it was his eyes that most intrigued her. They were a deep blue color like the waters in the Mediterranean Sea she’d crossed in her flight out of Italy. She’d never seen such eyes, and she wished she had the temerity to bluster over and gaze into them from a few feet away.
No doubt it would be an exhilarating experience.
Their swords crashed together, steel banging on steel, as the blond man worked the dark-haired man backward over the grass. He kept up the onslaught, hitting and hitting the other combatant until finally, with a hard flick of his wrist, his opponent’s weapon flew away. The onlookers cheered and clapped.
One of them shouted, “Hoorah for Mr. Blair!”
“You dirty dog,” the dark-haired man scolded, but in a cordial way. “Can’t you let me win at least once?”
“No,” the blond man, Mr. Blair, said. “The point of these lessons is to improve our skill with a blade. How can it benefit either of us if I mollycoddle you?”
“When you constantly beat me like this, you’re bruising my ego.”
“That’s not possible. Your ego is entirely too large to ever be dented.”
A servant hustled over to Mr. Blair and held out a bucket of water. The virile fellow grabbed it and dumped the contents over his head so he was wet and slippery, and the sight did something funny to her innards.
Her pulse raced. Her fingers tingled.
In her sheltered, coddled existence as a princess, she’d had limited contact with men. She couldn’t recall ever seeing a man’s bare chest before, and witnessing it was exciting but disturbing.
His shirt was lying in the grass, and he picked it up, using it as a towel to dry his face and shoulders. As he tugged it on, a spectator stood and ambled over. He was older, probably fifty-five or sixty, but he was slender and spry with graying hair pulled into a tidy ponytail. He sported a thin mustache, and he was very elegant, his hands expressive as if he might be an artist or musician.
“Under my tutelage,” he told Mr. Blair, his French accent clear, “you are both much improved.”
“Yes, Valois,” Mr. Blair replied, “your instruction has been impressive.”
Kat bit down a cluck of offense. So this was the notorious Monsieur Valois. He couldn’t be bothered to meet with her because he’d been playing games.
He retrieved a sword and demonstrated several lunges. He was graceful as a ballet dancer, very quick and assured.
“Monsieur Hubbard,” he said to the dark-haired man, “you must balance your fee to level your thrust.”
Mr. Hubbard responded, “Or Bryce could simply stop being such a vain brute and permit me to win every so often.”
Mr. Blair flashed a glower so crammed with imperious authority that Kat was stunned by it. Who was he? What was he? Why would such a magnificent male specimen be dawdling in Valois’s garden, engaged in a paltry fencing lesson? He was already stupendous. Why would he feel himself in need of training?
“Egypt has changed me, Chase,” Mr. Blair said to Mr. Hubbard. “And your grating personality is wearing thin. I’ve lost my inclination to be nice to you.”
“I could help you find it,” Chase Hubbard complained.
“No, thank you,” Mr. Blair retorted. “I rather enjoy beating you.”
“Now we’re getting to the truth of the matter,” Mr. Hubbard groused. “You’re becoming a veritable one-man war machine.”
“Well, so long as I remain in this accursed country, I’m not about to have another miscreant take advantage of me. I’ve suffered enough catastrophe for ten lifetimes. If a brigand ever again dares to glance in my direction, he’ll be sorry.”
Valois beamed with approval. “You are definitely your father’s son. I see him in every move you make.”
“Merci, Valois.” Mr. Blair nodded. “That is the highest compliment you could ever have paid me.”
Mr. Blair turned then, and for just a second, he was staring right at her. She froze and held her breath, praying he wouldn’t notice her lurking in the foliage. She planned to visit Valois again and would hate to have to explain why she’d been prowling in his bushes and spying on him and his guests.
For a few seconds, Mr. Blair observed her, as if checking to be certain she was really there and not an apparition. Then he grinned and motioned with his index finger, indicating she should step out onto the grassy lawn.
He was such an imposing figure that it was difficult to ignore his summons, but she could be quite imposing herself. She was a princess after all.
She spun and dashed away, racing out to the bricked drive and hastening to the street. Behind her, Mr. Blair said, “Did you see that?”
“See what?” Mr. Hubbard asked.
“There was a woman watching us.”
“A woman?” Valois said. “Why would a woman be hi
ding in my garden?”
Kat heard naught more than that. Terrified they might come after her, she increased her pace. Yet as she reached the gates, she stumbled to a halt and frowned.
When she’d arrived, the boulevard had been busy with traffic, with donkeys and camels and carts and pedestrians. Now it was quiet, no vehicles or animals in sight. Her rented chair was down the block, leaned on a garden wall, the porters having fled.
She peered about, wondering what had happened. Tentatively, she walked toward the abandoned chair, when suddenly she was grabbed from behind. A burly, pungent man lifted her and swiftly carried her to a waiting carriage, and it took a moment for reality to settle in.
She was being kidnapped!
Throughout her life as a princess, she’d been counseled that such an insulting misfortune could befall her, but she’d never heeded the warnings. She’d grown up in safe, tiny Parthenia where this sort of thing would never have been contemplated.
The prior year had been a hideous grind of disasters. After all the indignities inflicted on her and her siblings, this ignominy was the last straw. She was more livid than she’d ever been.
Her attacker shouted in Arabic, but she didn’t understand the language so she couldn’t guess what he’d said. But his remark caused several other brigands to appear.
She kicked at his shins and screamed at the top of her lungs. He tried to cover her mouth with his filthy hand, but she bit him, her teeth latching on firmly enough to draw blood.
He bellowed with outrage and loosened his grip sufficiently that she wiggled away and plunged to her knees. Before she could scamper off, she heard quick, angry strides approaching. More words were shouted in Arabic and fighting commenced around her.
She was too frightened to look up so she threw her arms over her head and hunkered down, anxious for the horrid episode to conclude. Finally, there was a loud thump on the cobbles, and she peeked over. Her assailant was unconscious in the gutter, and his accomplices had vanished like smoke.
Mr. Blair, the man from Valois’s fencing lesson, had a sword at the criminal’s throat. He was magnificent, tough and deadly, like a Crusader knight from days of old.
My hero! She’d never been happier to see another person.
She pushed herself to a sitting position and assessed her condition. Her palms were dirty and scraped, her skirt torn. Her bonnet had been knocked off, her brunette hair tumbling down her back in a messy chestnut wave.
Too disoriented to stand on her own, she continued to sit, to stare at Mr. Blair. She was embarrassed to be so weak. Six months earlier, she’d been relieved of her title of princess, and already she’d forgotten how to muster royal fortitude.
“Is he dead?” she asked Mr. Blair.
“No. Should I kill him for you? I can if you’d like, but I’d rather not proceed while you’re watching.”
Kat felt giddy at the notion that her dear champion would kill for her, but she replied with, “I don’t suppose we ought to murder him out here on the street.”
Mr. Blair chuckled. “No, probably not. I’m not clear on the local laws, but I’m quite sure the authorities would frown on foreigners committing a homicide.”
He took the scoundrel’s weapons for his own, then riffled through vest, trousers, and turban. He found a string of prayer beads but naught else, and he tossed them aside.
“Do you know who he is?” he inquired as he straightened.
“I have no idea. I’ve never seen him before.”
“Was he following you?”
“I don’t think so. I was simply walking along and he grabbed me.”
“Most likely, he was hoping to rob you. Was he after your purse?”
“Perhaps, but you arrived too fast so he didn’t have time for much mischief.”
She tamped down a shudder, wondering if the bandit had been following her. Had Kristof sent him? Was she being spied on? If so, Nicholas and Isabelle weren’t safe! At that very moment, other bandits might be on their way to kidnap them! She had to get back to the hotel. She had to…to…
As rapidly as the frantic thoughts careened in her mind, she shoved them away. She’d been very furtive in her departure from Parthenia. No one except her friend, Pippa, had been apprised of her plans. Not even Nicholas and Isabelle.
Pippa had helped her make the arrangements to travel, and she would never have betrayed Kat. They’d been raised together, were close as sisters. Pippa hated Kristof even more than Kat, and she’d have cut out her tongue rather than tell him a single detail.
So…Kat had to calm down. She wasn’t being followed. No one was spying. Her lazy, unreliable porters had sneaked off and left her on her own. A random miscreant had seen her and pounced. That’s all it was.
Mr. Hubbard from the fencing lesson rushed up to Mr. Blair. A gaggle of servants trailed after him, including the rude oaf who’d guarded Valois’s door and had refused to let her inside. She glanced away, not inclined to have him suppose she cared enough to recognize him.
“What happened?” Mr. Hubbard asked.
Mr. Blair answered, “This idiot assaulted her.”
“What shall we do with him?”
“Take him to Valois. He’ll know how to handle the situation.”
Mr. Hubbard snapped his fingers, and the servants seized the bandit by the ankles and dragged him away, his head banging on the cobbles. Shortly, the whole group vanished through the gates into Valois’s estate grounds.
She was alone with Mr. Blair, still staring, still sitting on her bottom and too disordered to rise.
“Are you injured?” he asked as he came over to her.
“Just my pride.”
“Can you stand?”
“I’m sure I can.”
But she didn’t move. He extended his hand, and she reached for it and clasped hold. She shouldn’t have allowed him to touch her—at least not according to her prior rank. It was forbidden for anyone to touch her exalted royal anatomy, but she wasn’t royal anymore, and she had to get over the snobbery that had been instilled in her at birth.
Besides, though it was silly, she wanted him to be in charge so she didn’t have to be. She was near to weeping, as if the attack had been her own fault, which was ridiculous. She’d done nothing wrong and needn’t feel guilty or afraid.
He was very strong, and it was easy for him to pull her up. In a thrice, she was on her feet, but she was off balance and she smacked into him, the entire front of her body suddenly pressed to his.
For an instant, they were frozen in place, and she gazed up into his blue, blue eyes. The strangest sensation swept through her. It seemed as if they’d always been friends, and her heart leapt, as if they were lovers who’d been separated then reunited.
He appeared to perceive the connection too. He studied her and frowned. “Have we met before?”
“No,” she said.
“Are you certain? I could swear I know you from somewhere.”
She smiled. “You don’t.”
He dipped his head and stepped away. “Pardon me.”
“Yes, absolutely.”
She tried not to regret the small distance he’d imposed between their torsos, but there was a peculiar and thrilling wave of energy surging from him to her, as if their proximity had enlivened the surrounding air. The second he retreated, the atmosphere calmed.
He was still holding her hand though, and he bowed over it.
“Bryce Blair, formerly of London, England, at your service, madam.”
“I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Blair. I am Miss Katarina Webster.”
She provided her fake surname with no difficulty, but she didn’t provide her town of residence as he had.
“Where are you from, Miss Webster? You have the most unusual accent. I can’t place it.”
French was the official language of Parthenia, but with its central location, she was also fluent in Italian and Spanish. And of course her mother had been from Boston, so Kat had grown up speaking
English in the queen’s apartments. But she wasn’t about to mention Parthenia.
“I’m an American,” she claimed.
“An American! My goodness. How exotic.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, very exotic. What were you doing in Valois’s garden?”
“I have to discuss a private matter with him, but his butler turned me away.”
“How rude.”
“I certainly thought so.”
“You were spying on me,” he said.
“I wouldn’t call it spying. I heard your swordplay as I was leaving, and I peeked through the palm fronds to discover what was occurring.”
“No, you were spying, you scamp. I’ve recently become quite the swordsman, and I’m amazing to watch. You can admit it.”
“Not in a thousand years, you vain beast.”
He laughed, the merry sound of it washing over her like cool rain. As she’d suspected when she’d first seen him, he appeared to be contented and happy. Very likely, he laughed often and joyfully, and she wished some of his jollity would rub off on her. She felt abused and aggrieved and nothing was amusing or fun anymore.
The street was busy again as if the inhabitants had been hiding until the spectacle ended. With the excitement concluded, pedestrians were rushing past. She and Mr. Blair dawdled in the middle of it, their hands still inappropriately clasped together. He seemed in no hurry to release her, and Kat wasn’t about to pull away either.
He exuded strength and power and ability, and just then, it was exactly the kind of support she needed.
“Will you come into Valois’s villa?” he asked.
“I’m a mess, Mr. Blair. When I meet him, I’d like to present myself in a better condition.”
“I understand. Where are you staying?”
“For now, at the Hotel Cairo.”
“The European visitor’s sanctuary in the desert.”
“So I’m told.”
“It’s some distance away. How did you get here?”
“Porters brought me in a rented chair.” She pointed to the abandoned vehicle. “They conveniently vanished when I was assaulted.”