The Prince's Bride

by Julianne MacLean

  “But there is nothing for me to return to,” Pierre explained, “which is why I have come to you, Your Grace.”

  She felt the cold air nip at her cheeks, and sniffed as she grew wary of Pierre’s hand in his coat pocket. Was he carrying a weapon? A knife or a pistol?

  “Your uncle willed you a property outside of Paris,” she said, “but I understand that you sold it.”

  “That’s right, because I wanted something more.”

  “D’Entremont Manor.”

  He nodded.

  Véronique’s gaze found John again. He was still watching, but she couldn’t be sure if he could be trusted. Was he a loyal servant? Or had he been bought by some unscrupulous editor or, worse, by Pierre?

  “You still haven’t told me what you want,” she reminded him.

  He took a step closer.

  She took an equal, measured step backwards.

  Squinting at her in the bright winter sunshine, Pierre said, “There is no need to be skittish, Your Grace. I only want to ask for your help. I want you to say whatever it takes to convince your husband to give me the property. Surely you know how to influence him. You are his wife. You must have some … power over him.”

  “Power? How dare you.”

  “But I need your help.”

  Her anger flared. “Why in God’s name would I help you? After what you tried to do to my sister—”

  “Because it’s the right thing to do,” he replied. “You and I both know that Nicholas has no rightful claim to the estate, no personal attachment. I, on the other hand, was born and raised there. It should have been left to me, not him.”

  “But those were not the wishes of your uncle,” she argued. “He made it clear in his will that he wanted Nicholas to have it.”

  “The marquis was grief-stricken over the loss of his son, and half-mad from the pain of his malady. He wasn’t thinking clearly at the end.”

  Véronique fought to control her frustration—and her apprehension—for she was quite certain that Pierre could not be reasoned with. He was determined to have what he wanted, at any cost.

  “That is not what the solicitor concluded,” she said. “The written will stated—with legal witnesses—that Lord d’Entremont was of sound mind. So you must accept that, Pierre.”

  A muscle flicked at his jaw. “You are not hearing me, Your Grace. I want the property, and you are going to convince your husband to give it to me, because he does not deserve to have it. You know it as well as I.”

  “I know nothing of the sort!” She turned to go, but this time Pierre grabbed hold of her arm.

  “Are you not worried about your sister?” he asked with a threatening sneer.

  She whirled around to face him. “What are you saying? Have you done something?”

  She recalled what she had done to him the last time he tried to harm Gabrielle, and was fully prepared to do it again, right here and now.

  “I haven’t done anything yet,” he quietly replied, “but if I don’t get that property, I may lose my patience and pay a visit to Richelieu House. I’d wait until the baby was born, of course—and you of all people know I am not above kidnapping.”

  She recoiled in horror. “Did you not learn your lesson when you tried to blackmail my husband?” she asked. “Or are you foolish enough to try to blackmail me now?”

  “Call it whatever you please,” he replied. “I only want what is rightfully mine, and I’m sure you’ll find a way to convince your husband that everyone will be better off if he simply submits and signs the property over to me.”

  Véronique tried to pull free, but his grip tightened on her arm. “John!” she called, turning desperately toward her groom. To her great relief, he came running.

  Then a deafening shot rang out, and she jumped at the noise. John fell to the snowy ground, clutching his thigh and crying out in pain.

  Véronique made a move to go to him, but Pierre quickly withdrew a rope and bound her wrists. She fought and struggled, kicked him in the legs, and cursed herself for not anticipating this—but she’d been distracted by the pistol shot.

  “Are you all right, John?” she shouted.

  “I am wounded, Your Grace,” he bravely replied through clenched teeth as he squirmed on the ground.

  Pierre dragged her toward his horse.

  “Are you mad?” she asked. “A dozen people saw me ride up here this morning, and we will pass a dozen more on the way down.”

  “We won’t be taking the bridle path,” he explained as he led her to a fallen log to use as a mounting block. “We’re going that way.” He gestured toward the steep side of the ridge.

  “It’s the dead of winter,” she argued as she stepped up. “The ground is frozen solid, covered in ice. We’ll never make it. We’ll be killed.”

  “Let me be the judge of that. Up you go, now.”

  She refused to cooperate.

  He reloaded his pistol. “Get up in the saddle, Your Grace, or I will shoot your groom dead.”

  She glanced at John, who was clutching his bloody thigh.

  “You won’t get away with this,” Véronique said.

  “Maybe I don’t want to get away with it,” Pierre replied. “Maybe I just want to take something precious away from your husband. Maybe it’s time he learned what it means to lose everything.”

  A memory of Lord d’Entremont’s suicide flashed in her mind … the white death on his face, the dark puddles of blood on the floor. What if Pierre intended to do the same? He’d just admitted he wanted revenge against Nicholas. What if he planned to ride this horse straight over the edge of the mountain and kill them both?

  “Fine,” she said in a firm voice. “You win. I will talk to Nicholas. I can get him to change his mind. He never wanted to go back to France anyway. He prefers it here. And now that we have Walbrydge Abbey—”

  Pierre’s eyes froze over with hate. “Get up on the horse.”

  “No, I will not.”

  They glared at each other fiercely.

  Pierre pressed the cold barrel of the pistol against her forehead. Véronique squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Maybe I should just shoot you now,” he growled.

  Cautiously, she opened her eyes to peer down at him. “I would prefer that you didn’t.”

  “Then get up on the damn horse,” he ordered.

  Not sure how she was going to escape this, she nodded and put the toe of one boot into the stirrup while she stalled for time, fumbling with her heavy skirts.

  The sound of approaching hooves caused them both to turn toward the path. Véronique nearly collapsed in relief when Nicholas emerged from the forest with four palace guards galloping behind him, all of them armed. She barely had a chance to call out to him, however, before Pierre pulled her off the log, wrapped an arm around her neck, and aimed the pistol at her temple. He dragged her toward the edge of the cliff.

  “He’s going to kill us both!” she shouted as she fought against his brutal hold.

  Nicholas leaped off his horse and ran after them. He dropped his pistol into the snow and spread his arms wide. “What do you want, Pierre? Whatever it is, you may have it. Just do not harm her, I beg of you.”

  Pierre scoffed. “You beg of me? You are a bloody prince! I am the one who has spent a lifetime begging for respect. I never got it, and I never expect to. Not ever.”

  The guards behind Nicholas cocked and aimed their weapons, closing in on them while Pierre dragged Véronique closer to the edge.

  “Stop,” Nicholas pleaded, his eyes blazing with desperation. “I will give you anything you want. Just please, do not take her from me.”

  Véronique met her husband’s gaze and felt his love like an arrow in the heart. Overcome by a fresh wave of resolve, she bit Pierre’s wrist, bent forward, and flipped him over onto his back. He landed in the snow with a thud, and she stared down at him in shock.

  Without hesitation, he put the pistol in his mouth and fired.

  “No!” Véronique covered
her face in her hands and whirled around. Nicholas was suddenly at her side. She felt his arms around her.

  “Don’t look,” he said, cupping her head in his hand. She buried her face in his chest. “Come with me now.”

  While the guards dealt with Pierre and John, Nicholas led her back to his horse, cut the ropes that bound her wrists, and pulled her into his arms again. “I almost lost you,” he whispered. “What would I have done?”

  “You didn’t lose me,” she said. “We are fine. Everything is fine. Pierre is gone now. He won’t hurt us ever again.”

  Nicholas held her without saying a word. Then he lifted her onto his horse, swung up behind her, and took her swiftly back to the palace.

  * * *

  Later that morning, Nicholas entered Véronique’s bedchamber and closed the door behind him. She’d needed time to change out of her riding habit, for there was blood on the skirt.

  “This is not what I wanted for you,” he said, “and I am sorry. It has been a disaster from the beginning.”

  “A disaster…” That was not the word she would use to describe it.

  “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to leave,” he continued. “You should, you know. You should leave me now, go back to France, and try to live a normal life—”

  “I beg your pardon?” Shocked by his words, Véronique stared up at him in disbelief. “Are you mad? Do not say such a ridiculous thing to me, Nicholas. I know you don’t mean it. You’re just afraid.”

  “Afraid?” His eyebrows lifted. “Me? Yes, by God, I am bloody well terrified. Terrified that one day something bad will happen to you, or you will grow to hate me because of what I have been all my life. But there’s nothing to be done about it and—”

  “Do you really want me to leave?” she asked. “Do you want your old life back? Is that what you are implying? Am I not enough for you?”

  He flinched. “Good God, woman, you are more than I deserve. You have overwhelmed me in every way, and you have made me realize how little I could care for any woman but you. I don’t know what you did to me, but whatever it was, there is no turning back. I don’t care what the world thinks of me. All that matters is what you think and feel, but most important, that you are safe. And you are not safe here.”

  She stepped forward and clung to him in the quiet stillness of the room. A lump formed in the back of her throat and tears stung her eyes. She squeezed them shut and buried her face in his shoulder.

  “I will not let you send me away.” She looked up at him. “I know what you’ve been doing all this time. In all the years leading up to the day we met … women have been nothing but conquests to you, so that you can prove to yourself that you are in control and can walk away whenever you please. You enjoy being the one who leaves. That way, you are never the abandoned one. Now you are trying to control when I leave, as if it is an inevitable conclusion to our misguided, impulsive marriage. But I am not leaving you, Nicholas, no matter what you say … because I know you love me.”

  He shook his head and held up a hand. “That is not what I mean to suggest—”

  “You do love me,” she continued to argue. “You’re just afraid it will end in disaster, like so many other painful things you have been forced to endure. Well. I am standing here now, telling you that I am not leaving, at least not by choice. You will have to throw me in the dungeon and chain me up to keep me away from you. That is how much I love you and desire you, and I will do anything to remain at your side. I don’t care where we live, whether we are rich or poor, safe or in danger, or if people throw tomatoes at us. All I want is for you to love me and no other. Please, Nicholas, just let yourself love me, and trust that I will always believe in you and love you just as much in return.”

  Her last words were smothered by his kiss, and the ecstasy of his lips upon hers coursed through her body like fire.

  “I believe it. You silly fool,” he said, pulling her into his arms.

  “You do?”

  “Yes, but socially, we are quite ruined.”

  She let out a miserable laugh. “I don’t care! I never wanted to be a royal! All I wanted was you, titled or not. I would be happy anywhere … as long as I had you in my bed each night … as long as I have your heart.”

  She saw his expression change to something that resembled amusement. “Stop,” he said with a chuckle that took her by surprise. “As usual, you have made me your captive, but you don’t need to convince me of anything. I know you are right about all of it. You helped me see that I lost the one person who believed in me at a very young age, and I didn’t want that to happen again. But life is full of risks, is it not? And it is so brief, like a shooting star. We must make the most of it while we can and take pride in our lives. What exists between you and me is not just physical. It is not about temporary pleasure. It is deeper than that, and far more meaningful. I want to build a good life with you, a life full of honor and fidelity, and devotion to our families. I treasure you for showing me what kind of man I can be, for expecting more of me. My father expected very little and he pushed me into a life of empty debauchery. I believe he enjoyed watching me disappoint everyone. But you have proved him wrong.”

  “No, you have proved him wrong,” she said. “I was only a witness to it.”

  “But you saw me as something more, and for that I am grateful. All I want to do is hold you forever and never let you go. If we leave here, we leave together.”

  His lips found hers again, and the kiss was deep and soul-reaching—hot, wet, and possessive—as if he were claiming her as his own once and for all, until the end of time.

  She was his—there could be no doubt about it—and her senses reeled with passion and delight. “Oh, Nicholas,” she sighed as he laid a fresh trail of kisses down the side of her neck. She relaxed, jubilant, simply to be in his arms.

  Before she could utter another word, he swept her off her feet and carried her to the bed, where he laid her down on the soft feather mattress. In a foggy haze of yearning and desire, she watched him slowly untie his cravat while he kept his eyes fixed ardently upon hers.

  “Did you really think I came in here to send you away?”

  “I … I wasn’t sure…”

  “I do love you,” he said with a smile, “and it is a love more profound than I ever imagined I was capable of.” He began to unbutton his waistcoat. “I pray that I can make you happy, wife, because I will never forget the promises you made to me today, and how brave you were on that ridge. I will hold you to your promises, because I do not ever intend to be without you.”

  “You won’t be,” she assured him, watching with pleasure as he undressed and stood naked before her.

  He smiled that slow, lazy grin, and as always, she melted like butter as he came down upon her in a tremendous rush of passion and the promise of a lifelong devotion.

  Epilogue

  D’Entremont Manor

  Seven months later …

  A soft, warm breeze blew the corner of the picnic blanket across Véronique’s face, waking her from an afternoon slumber.

  After flipping the blanket aside, she yawned and stretched her arms over her head, then lay for a moment, relaxing in the shade of the giant oak tree. From her vantage point, she could see the manor house in one direction, and the English Channel in the other. The branches overhead swayed in the wind as it whispered softly through the leaves.

  An odd scraping sound caused her to sit up, which was no easy task, for her belly was growing larger each day. Her happy condition was part of the reason she sometimes fell asleep in the afternoons. She had never felt so fatigued in all her life, but it was a welcome sort of fatigue to which she was more than willing to surrender.

  “What are you doing, darling?” she asked, seeing only half her husband’s tall form on the other side of the wide tree trunk, which boasted a circumference of at least five feet.

  He stepped into view to answer her question. “Carving our names,” he replied, “but a chisel and hammer migh
t have been a better option.”

  He disappeared behind the tree again. The scraping resumed.

  “You are using a knife?”

  “Yes, and I am almost done. Would you like to come and see?”

  Véronique smiled. “I would love to, but I may need help getting up. I feel as big as a whale.”

  Nicholas was quick to offer a hand. As she rose to her feet, she paused to breathe in the fresh salty scent of the breezes blowing in off the Channel.

  “It is so wonderful here,” she mentioned. “Everything is so beautiful.”

  Her husband pressed his lips to hers, and she basked in the pleasure of his touch. She was the luckiest woman on earth.

  “But there’s more beauty to behold,” he said. “Wait until you see my fine workmanship.”

  Nicholas escorted her around the wide tree trunk to the other side, where he had carved the words in a heart:

  Joy bubbled up within her, and her smile broadened in approval. “It is indeed a stunning piece of work,” she said, then wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder. “I am so happy, Nicholas. I never dreamed it could be like this.”

  Seven months ago, when the scandals of Pierre’s death and Nicholas’s lost title as a royal were at their heights, she and Nicholas had decided to travel to France and take up residence at d’Entremont Manor.

  To extend their honeymoon.

  As soon as they arrived, they’d settled in as master and mistress of the house. Though the tenants and neighbors knew of the scandal, there was little talk of it beyond the first few days, for in the eyes of the locals, Nicholas was still the brother of King Randolph of Petersbourg, and a wealthy duke as well. The people of France were more than happy to welcome him and Véronique with open arms, and provide them with sanctuary from the ruthless wagging tongues of a foreign country.

  Incidentally, the locals continued to refer to him as “the prince.”

  “Will we ever leave here?” she asked, for they had come simply with the intention of riding out the scandals, always imagining they would return to Petersbourg one day.