Her Highness and the Highlander: A Princess Brides Romance (2 page)

But ahead to where?

The forest all looked the same, dense and green and rough. She’d given up making any
sense of her path and was hopelessly lost.

Hide,
the guard captain had said.

But hide where?

She scanned the area, the nearby trees and bushes and rocks seeming to offer no likely
place of concealment.

Then, without warning, she stumbled, the edge of her toe catching on an exposed tree
root. Her hands flew out instinctively to break her fall and she landed with a muffled
thud against the loamy earth, a tiny cry escaping her mouth before she could prevent
it.

Everything grew silent—everything, that is, except the thunderous pounding of her
heart. She heard the highwaymen stop and call to one another again. Her mouth went
dry when she realized they had changed direction and were beating their way through
the woods toward her.

This is the end,
she thought as she bit her lip to hold back a sob.
Any second now they’ll have me.

But then she saw it—a dark, narrow fissure created by a pair of large boulders. The
opening wasn’t obvious, certainly not from a standing position. If not for the fact
that she was lying on the ground, she would never have even noticed it. Better still,
the opening was obscured by a wide tree trunk that had fallen at a slant in front
of the rocks. The decaying wood was covered in a velvety carpet of lichen, moss, and
mushrooms, the greens and browns causing it to blend into the surrounding foliage
so that it appeared all but invisible.

With only moments remaining, she crawled as fast and quietly as she could. She ducked
beneath the trunk’s surface, passing only a hairbreadth away from the wood, which
was pungent with decay. She shuddered at the small army of insects moving in winding
trails over the trunk, and did her best to ignore the creeping sensation that chased
across her
skin at their nearness. Reaching the other side of the fallen tree, she squeezed herself
into the cold stone fissure beyond, then worked quickly to make herself as small and
invisible as possible.

A twig cracked only feet away.

Her entire body tensed, the scent of male sweat and leather coming to her nose. Another
scent came as well, sharp and metallic.

Blood?

She trembled and squeezed her eyes closed.

Boots crunched against the undergrowth, and she sensed rather than saw her pursuer
survey the area.

“See any sign of ’er?” said a voice as another man joined the first.

“No. Must be an animal. These woods are teeming with ’em.”

Another lengthy silence descended.

“Let’s keep lookin’. She can’t ’ave gotten far.”

Still, the pair didn’t immediately withdraw; another minute ticked endlessly past
before they finally gave up and moved away. But Mercedes didn’t relax, her limbs too
paralyzed with fear to function.

How long she sat huddled, frozen, she had no idea. Gradually daylight began to fade,
shadows lengthening through the already dappled light of the forest glen.

Only when it began to rain did she finally gather the courage to creep soundlessly
from her hiding place. Needles stabbed her cramped muscles, the pain excruciating
from her having been crouched in one position for far too long. She swallowed the
cries that rose to her lips, fearing even now that they might come back, that they
might still find her.

When she thought she could walk, she glanced carefully around to make certain she
was alone.

Only then did she venture onward, thankful for the drenching downpour and the concealment
she prayed it would provide.

“Another ale, sir? Or could ye do with somethin’ a wee bit stronger?”

Major Daniel James MacKinnon, late of His Majesty’s Royal Highland Regiment, looked
up at the serving maid who waited expectantly beside his table. He had no trouble
reading her expression and the unmistakable invitation in her pale blue-gray eyes.
Her generous breasts were thrust eagerly beneath the well-worn brown cotton of her
gown, and her hips tilted toward him with the confidence of a woman who knew the power
of her own sensuality and wasn’t afraid to show it.

His mouth turned up in an appreciative half smile despite the fact that he had no
intention of accepting her offer. “My thanks, lass, but this’ll do for now.” Lifting
his tankard, he gave the amber brew a lazy swirl.

The maid wasn’t daunted, her smile widening to display a set of surprisingly even
teeth. “Well, ye’ve only tae ask, ye know. ’Tis a raw night out fer all it’s summer,
what with this rain pourin’ so fierce-like. Night sech as this, a body could do with
a wee bit o’ comfort, I always say. Give me a shout if ye change yer mind.”

She paused, clearly hoping he
would
indeed change his mind. Instead, he raised the tankard to his mouth and drank in
slow and silent dismissal.

She gave an audible sigh of disappointment and reluctantly sauntered away.

Most would say he was a pure idiot to refuse the soft comfort of the serving girl’s
arms and bed. In his younger days, he would have accepted, and gladly. But he was
no longer young—or rather he didn’t feel young—even if he was only eight and twenty
years of age in the chronological sense. But after years of fighting and suffering
and loss, there was none of the boy left in him, only a man who was weary in both
mind and spirit. Yet finally he was going home to the blue-green vistas of Skye.

But will it still feel like home?
a part of him wondered. He had lost so many there as well in the decade he’d been
away.
The most painful loss was that of his mother, who had died while he’d been mired knee-deep
in siege mud in Spain; he’d eventually learned of her passing by letter weeks after
the fact.

Raising his tankard again, he swallowed deeply and wondered whether he ought to have
the serving maid bring him another ale after all.

In the next moment, the inn’s door opened on a gust of rain and wind, with the most
curious tumble of skirts and water blowing in over the threshold.

A young woman—if that was indeed what she was. It was nearly impossible to accurately
determine her age beneath the wet tangle of long dark hair plastered to her head and
face; she resembled nothing so much as a drowned cat.

And a none-too-clean one at that.

Her dress was a tatter of rags, the ruined fabric hanging in limp folds that were
stained an indiscernible color somewhere between moss and muck. She was covered in
grime as well, bits of twigs and pine needles caught in her hair, although it looked
as though she had made an attempt at some point to comb them free. As for her feet,
they were encased in a pair of thin, muddy slippers that were clearly inadequate for
the terrain, the edge of her little toe showing through a rent torn along one seam.

Daniel saw every head in the taproom turn her way, as every pair of eyes fixed on
the sorry creature who had wandered into their midst. A few whispers floated on the
air.

The innkeeper adjusted the apron over his substantial girth and strode around the
long wooden counter that bisected his domain. “Och, now, an’ what do ye think ye’re
aboot, drippin’ all o’er me floors? ’Tis a quality establishment, this is, an’ we
don’t take yer kind in ’ere. I’m afraid ye’ll have tae go.”

The woman stood unmoving, a shiver chasing visibly over her drenched form. “
Go?
” she repeated in weak disbelief. “But I just arrived. I have been walking for miles.”

Curious,
Daniel thought as he listened to her reply. For a
beggar woman, her speech was remarkably refined and not the least bit Scottish.
English, clearly,
he decided, and yet her words held a kind of precise perfection that did not sound
completely natural. It was almost as if she had been taught the language rather than
been born to it. Could she be foreign?

He was still puzzling over the possibility when the innkeeper continued.

“Miles, is it?” The man scowled. “Weel, unless ye’ve coin tae pay yer way, I canna
help ye. ’Ave ye any coin?”

She stared for a long moment, then shook her head. “No. I never carry money.”

The innkeeper rocked back on his heels, while a couple of patrons laughed at what
was clearly the oddest way of saying she was poor that any of them had ever heard.

“Sorry, then, lass, but ye’ll ’ave tae be off.”

“But I need to speak to a magistrate. My coach was set upon by highwaymen.” She trembled
and wrapped her arms around herself. “I n-need to report the crime. I n-need shelter
and s-somewhere to rest until my friends can be contacted.”

Her teeth began chattering, though whether from cold or fright, Daniel could not tell.

The innkeeper goggled. “Highwaymen, is it you say? In these parts? Where? On what
road?”

She shook her head. “I do not know. I told you I’ve been walking through the storm.
It was on the main road south—or at least I think it was the main road…I don’t know
any longer.”

“And where is the rest of yer party? What became of them?”

A shudder went through her and she swayed on her feet. “Might I have a seat, if you
would be so good?”

She waited, making no move to seek a chair on her own; it was, Daniel realized after
a moment, as if she expected someone to bring the chair to her.

No one did.

Daniel saw her tremble and sway slightly again. Was she going to faint? Given her
condition, it was entirely possible.

Used to making quick decisions, he stood and picked up the mate to the straight-backed
wooden chair in which he’d been sitting. His boots echoed against the wide-planked
pine floors as he carried it across to her and set it down. When she didn’t immediately
react, he took a gentle hold of her elbow and steered her onto the seat.

Only then did she look up, her gaze meeting his.

Her eyes were like a pair of dark luminous pools, deep and soulful and unspeakably
beautiful. Their color was brown but not an ordinary brown. Instead, their hue was
an intriguing mixture of ripe earth and night sky with hints of black and gold woven
through to create a shade quite unlike any he had ever glimpsed. The closest comparison
he could make would be to a cup of intensely rich, fine Belgian chocolate he’d once
had occasion to drink—warm and sensual and indescribably sweet. Even so, the color
of that chocolate did not do her eyes justice.

As for the rest of her, it was difficult to tell. Her pale visage was obscured by
a layer of dirt and fear—very definitely fear—but not, he sensed, of himself.

“Thank you,” she murmured softly, so softly he nearly missed the words.

“So ye were set upon?” the innkeeper continued brusquely.

“That’s right,” she answered, turning her head to look at the older man.

“Robbed ye, did they?”

“N-no, not exactly, they…” Her words trailed off, the small bit of color that had
come into her face leaching away so that she looked pale as death.

“If they didn’t rob ye, what dae’d they want? McCrawber’ll want ter know. He’s no
magistrate, but he does fer the law around these parts. Surprised he’s not ’ere this
evenin’. Comes in most nights. Must be the rain.”

“Yes. The rain is very cold and unpleasant,” she said, another tremor rippling over
her skin.

She must be in shock, Daniel decided. He had seen it often on the battlefield, men
who could walk and talk and function
yet who didn’t seem quite right for all that. Men who’d seen too much, more than they
could handle. What, he wondered, had she seen?

“Weel, so what was it the highwaymen was after, if not yer purse?” the innkeeper persisted.

She said nothing at first, then seemed to rally, drawing herself upright. “I would
prefer to discuss the incident with this…Mr. McCrawber…once he can be summoned. In
the meantime, I should like a room with a warm fire, a hot bath, and a meal, if you
please. You will be recompensed in full for your services once my family and friends
can be notified.”

“Is that so?” The innkeeper folded his arms over his chest. “And just who is yer family?
And these friends o’ yers? Where dae they live?”

Daniel stilled so as not to miss her answer. The rest of the patrons did as well,
the unusual woman in their midst proving to be as entertaining as a play.

“My friends are the Earl of Lyndhurst—although he was recently made an archduke as
well—and his wife, Her Highness Princess Emmaline of Rosewald,” she explained. “They
are at present in residence at their London town house for the Season. Another of
my friends, Princess Ariadne, is staying with them for the summer. As for my family,
my parents are Crown Prince Frederick and Princess Marie-Louise of Alden.”

Silence hummed through the room like a living being.

“Alden is on the Continent in case you are unfamiliar with my country,” she added,
as if she believed that to be the cause of all their wide-eyed stares. “It is small
and not as well known as others, such as Prussia or Austria-Hungary. Many people are
only vaguely aware of it.”