The Prince Kidnaps a Bride (10 page)

“You’ve never been tested,” Madam answered firmly. Fixing Sorcha with a stern gaze, she said, “Remember, it is you who, at the crossroads, chooses your path. You cannot see clearly if the red mist is before your eyes. Wait until it dissipates, then make your decision and speak your mind.”

“I’m almost too meek. Everyone says so.” Sorcha added the ultimate argument. “
Grandmamma
says so!”

Madam paid no heed to her contention. “You have a great work ahead of you in your land, but first you must struggle through the challenges.”

That was true, anyway.

“Put your faith in God, and your hand in the grasp of the one who loves you. You already know the one.”

“You mean a man? You see a man?” Sorcha searched her own palm, trying to spy this man of whom Madam spoke. All she saw were calluses from the hoe and shovel, and lines crisscrossing the pale, dry skin. There was no man. The only man she knew was Arnou and he didn’t love her. At least... he’d never indicated that he loved her.

“Take that hand. Then you will have great happiness. Great happiness!” Madam squeezed Sorcha’s hand.

And Sorcha couldn’t take Arnou’s hand, not in the way Madam meant. He was a fisherman from
Normandy
. She was a princess.

“You’ll want to hurt him, but don’t. Teach him. He’s been hurt enough.” As Madam moved Sorcha’s fingers and watched the changes in her palm, she shook her head as if she pitied this mythical man.

Oh, why was Sorcha even contemplating this? Obviously, palm-reading was absurdity at its finest. Again she pulled away.

Madam let her go. What Sorcha had assumed was a parlor game was now a celestial outline, and no matter how absurd Sorcha thought it was, Madam’s small, dark eyes were completely earnest.

The other women must have seen the doubt in Sorcha’s face, for Eveleen advised, “Ye should listen t’ Madam. It’s scary the way she’s right.”

“It’s true,” Helen added.

“But she can’t be right this time,” Sorcha said. “What she said just isn’t true.”

Madam smiled as if she weren’t at all offended. “In the end, we’ll see who is right.”

“Besides,” Helen said with sly amusement, “I’ll wager she knows something about ye that ye never imagined.”

“No one here’s going t’ take that wager.” Eveleen smiled.

Madam chuckled, a warm, deep laugh that made her whole body jiggle.

Sorcha looked from one to the other. “You’re laughing at me again and I don’t know why.”

“If I tell you your deepest secret, will you believe what I read in your hand?” Madam asked.

Madam knew her deepest secret? Sorcha pulled the collar of her cloak closer around her throat, lowered her voice, and said, “Sure.”

Leaning forward, Madame touched Sorcha’s cheek. “The clothes are a poor disguise for your beauty, Your Highness.”

“How did you... ?” Sorcha jumped. She stared at her palm. She saw no crown, no throne, no marking that signified her gender or her royalty. She thrust her hand at Madam. “Did you see that
here
?”

“We know a lot aboot the difference between men and women,” Helen said. “Eveleen guessed ye were a lass. So did I.”

Sorcha wore a boy’s clothes. She had deepened her voice. Apparently that wasn’t enough. “All right, you saw through my disguise. But why would you call me
Your Highness
?”

Eveleen sat in a chair.

Helen perched on the arm.

“Less than a fortnight ago, a man came to us. He had money. He had a good horse that ran like the wind. He was ugly as the devil, and he wore black. All black.”

Sorcha took a startled breath. “The man who... ”

“Tried to kill you?” Madam finished for her.

“How did you know?” Now Sorcha believed in Madam’s prognostications. How could she not? Madam
was
telling her her deepest secrets.

“He drank deep,” Helen said, “and he confided in me that he was an assassin sent to murder the princess of Beaumontagne. I urged him to tell me more.” Helen’s eyelids drooped in sultry invitation. “He said he was one of many men who were offered a reward to kill this princess who lived in a convent. He said a prince had been sent to bring you home, and that all he had to do was follow him, slaughter you, take your necklace as proof of his deed. He said he was the only one who’d taken to the road, that the rest of the shiftless assassins were waiting on the way to Edinburgh or in the city itself. He said he’d catch you for sure and he’d have twice as much money as before.”

“The assassin found me.” Sorcha wet her lips. “The prince did not.”

“But you survived the assassin,” Eveleen said.

“Yes.”

“Good for you,” Helen said. “He was a braggart and lousy in—”

Madam cleared her throat.

Helen snapped her mouth closed.

“We all have secrets here.” Madam leaned back and folded her arms across her ample belly. “So, Your Highness, it is your turn. I’ll give you a clue—this isn’t a convent. Guess our deepest secret.”

Sorcha heard the babble of women’s voice as they passed outside the doors. The aqua in this room was flattering to Helen, to Eveleen, even to Madam, and probably to herself. The gold candelabra showcased the candles, and the soft brilliance they cast highlighted each seat so deliberately she detected a master hand at work. A love seat, the couch, and the chair were upholstered in dainty needlework, and the wood trim was a light oak, airy and open. The room was a gem in itself, and filled with lovely women, it would be a showcase.

Realization dawned. “You’re... ladies of the night. And this... this is a house of ill repute!”

“The best house in Glenmoore,” Eveleen said.

“The only house in Glenmoore,” Helen added.

Sorcha couldn’t believe her good luck. No woman she’d ever met had had the fortune of meeting a prostitute. She’d wager not even Grandmamma had visited a bawdyhouse and here Sorcha was, in the middle of the parlor with Glenmoore’s finest! “I asked that horse trader out there where I could
eat.
”

Eveleen and Helen collapsed in an entwined heap of merriment.

“That MacMurtrae.” Madam smiled. “He’s a sly one.”

“Aye, ye can eat here,” Eveleen said, “but ye can’t
eat
here, if ye know what I mean.”

Wide-eyed, Sorcha shook her head.

“Aye.” Helen pushed at Eveleen’s shoulder. “She’s got
virgin
written all over her.”

“That she does,” Madam said.

Sorcha wanted to ask questions, to unearth all the mysteries about men and women, to be the smartest, most savvy princess in all of Europe. One question covered it all, and it burbled from her lips. “What do you
do
with men?”

Madam laughed out loud, something Sorcha thought happened but rarely. “The answer could take mere minutes or long days.” To her girls, she said, “Take her down to the kitchen and feed her. She’s hungry.”

Someone knocked loudly and insistently at the outer door.

Madam used her hands to heft herself to her feet. “
I’ll
go see who seeks to disturb our peace.”

The girls took Sorcha’s arms and led her toward the door. “We’ll get ye a meal, and ye can tell us what ye do know about men.”

“Thank heavens! I’m starving.” But Sorcha had to tell Madam one thing. One very important piece of information. Turning back, she said, “My name is Sorcha.”

Madam’s eyelids drooped over her wise old eyes. She murmured, “Sorcha.”

Sorcha knew her name was carved in the stone of Madam’s mind, and if something happened to her in this bleak land, if one of the assassins succeeded, Madam Pinchon would know who to tell, and what to put on her lonely tomb.

R
ainger pounded on the small, inconspicuous door with the knuckles he’d used to knock the information and the smug laughter right out of MacMurtrae.

The horse trader had sent Sorcha to a whorehouse. A whorehouse! She’d been in there for a half hour while he’d been searching for her, and she hadn’t come out—he’d knocked that information out of MacMurtrae, too. Dear God, what was she doing in there? What were they doing to her? He had visions of Sorcha
saying
things that would make the prostitutes laugh at her.
Seeing
things that would shock and dismay her.
Doing
things out of ignorance, things that would confuse her and destroy her innocence. If someone didn’t open this door soon, he was going to kick it down.

The door opened beneath his fist, and he almost fell into the dim foyer.

He regained his balance and, for the first time in his life, he stared
up
at a woman. She was
tall
. She also outweighed him by five stones. She probably served as the guard for the whorehouse, and that meant she was physically powerful.

“Yes?” Her deep voice demanded respect and an explanation.

Rainger tried a lie first. “My... brother came in here not long ago. It’s a mistake, he shouldn’t be here... .”

“Your... brother?” The huge woman imitated his tone. Before he could duck, she grabbed him by the collar and yanked him inside.

That settled the issue of her strength.

She slammed the door behind him. “Tell me about your brother.”

“He’s about so tall”—Rainger showed her with his hand—“with red hair and a black cape.”

“I may have met him.” The woman looked down her nose at Rainger. “What can you tell me that would convince me to let you see him?”

“He just sold two horses and he’s proud of himself.”

“If that’s the best you can do, I’m throwing you out the door.” The woman flicked her sausagelike fingers.

Damn. What did she know? Rainger improvised, “He’s never been to a place of this nature and he’s ill prepared for the rigors required.”

She inclined her head. “What else?”

“He’s traveling to Edinburgh with me. He probably mentioned me. I’m Arnou the fisherman.”

“He said not a word about you.” Opening the door, she grabbed the scruff of his neck and prepared to throw him out.

He probably could’ve hurt her, but he didn’t fight women, especially not women who appeared to be protecting Sorcha. Hastily he said, “He’s not what he appears.”

The woman tightened her grip.

“He’s a she!” Rainger blurted.

The woman shut the door... with him still on the inside. She let him go. “Now, why did you tell me
that
?”

He straightened his clothing. “Because I figured you already knew or you wouldn’t be harassing me.”

“I know a lot of things about that lass, and I know nothing about you, so you’d better start confiding your secrets or I promise you, you’ll never see her again.”

Possessive fury ripped through him. He stepped up to the woman. He fixed his gaze on hers. “Do not tell me I’ll never see Sorcha again. She’s
mine
.”

For one scorching moment, the woman held his gaze. Then she blinked. “Come with me.” Turning her back on him, she walked down the corridor, leaving him standing alone, fists clenched at his side.

What game was she playing?

Did she not fear that he would attack from the back?

Was she so sure of herself? Of him?

As he debated, she walked out of sight in the dim corridor. “Come!” she called.

He did. She led him to a well-appointed parlor of aqua and gold—but it was empty. The room smelled of paint and mineral spirits... and perfume. Sorcha wasn’t here, and he stood in the doorway as the huge woman seated herself on a delicate chair that looked as if it would break under her weight. “Where is she?” he asked.

“She’s here. She’s safe. I intend that she will remain that way.” The woman pointed to a chair opposite hers. “Sit and talk to me. Convince me I should allow you to see her.”

Instead he stood. “If you’ll just ask her, she’ll tell you that I’m her traveling companion and your suspicions will be lulled.”

“You’re wrong. That girl is an innocent. She has no idea who her enemies are, and I do not intend to deliver her to you without assurances.” Her voice flicked at him like a whip. “Sit down.”

He sat.

“Give me your hand.”

This woman made him wonder if he’d fallen into delirium. He gave her his hand.

She examined the shape, looked at his nails, turned the palm upward, and stared at it, apparently arrested by... the fact it was clean? The depths of the lines? The slash across the fingers of his right hand... the slash Count duBelle had made with his cane?

He waited for her to comment on it, but when her heavy lids lifted, she stared into his eyes and said, “Your fingers have touched death.”

He stared back. His brain absorbed the impossible information: this woman knew what had happened. How was that possible?

It wasn’t possible. Only one man living knew what had happened that night, and he was far away, and he never spoke of it. Not even to Rainger.

But this woman didn’t wait for an answer. “You are Sorcha’s prince.”

Did this woman have sources he didn’t imagine? Was
she
an assassin?

“No. I only suspected. I didn’t know until this moment.” She watched him as if she knew his very thoughts. “I am Madam Pinchon. I’m the owner of this establishment and have been for more than five years. Yes, I will kill you—but only if you have ill intentions toward that girl. Does that calm your suspicions?” When he didn’t answer, she smiled. “No. Of course not. Your suspicions are well founded and part of your being. But I warn you, Prince, you’re making a mistake not trusting that girl.”

“I trust her.”

“Enough to tell her who you are?”

“I have my reasons for not revealing myself to her.” And he carried weapons on him right now. If this woman, this Madam Pinchon, tried to kill him, he would respond with all his strength. If she’d hurt Sorcha, she’d live only long enough to suffer.

She drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair and pondered him as if he were a puzzle. “So you’re her prince, but you’ve never met.”

“We grew up together.” An exaggeration, for he’d lived in the palace in Richarte and Sorcha had lived in Beaumontagne, but at least once a year their parents had traveled to see each other. Rainger couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t know Sorcha.

“But she’s traveling with you. Why doesn’t she remember you?”

“I’ve changed.” An understatement.

Madam scrutinized his face, half covered by a rag. “There’s nothing wrong with your eye.”

“No.” Let her know he was a powerful, healthy man capable of defending himself and Sorcha.

“Just as she is disguising herself, you’re disguising yourself. But why? Why don’t you tell her who you are?”

“I have no assurance she’ll meekly go with me to be wed, and I can’t lose her now. Too much depends on our union.”

“What masculine madness leads you to believe she’ll wed a man who lied to her?”

“When we return to Beaumontagne, she’ll have no choice.”

“You’re a fool. Too much royal crossbreeding, I suppose.” Standing, she started for the door. “Come with me. Sorcha’s downstairs in the kitchen, eating with the girls.”

He followed on her heels, his mind whirling. He should be more alarmed about the possibility of walking into a trap, but—“
Eating?
With the
girls
?”

“Perhaps I should say—eating a meal with the girls.” She burst into laughter and, setting her feet carefully on each tread, led him down the narrow stairway.

This easily could be a trap with Sorcha as bait, so he loosened the knife strapped over his ribs and sturdy truncheon hanging off his belt. The kitchen door was ahead. From inside, he heard the sound of light feminine laughter and, above that, Sorcha’s voice telling a story.

Her glee stopped him in his tracks. She sounded young, carefree, and memory tossed him back to a day in the gardens of Beaumontagne... .

He wandered the palace disconsolately. He was lonely. The adults were busy talking about the recent troubles in the kingdom and though he was sixteen, they’d told him he wasn’t old enough to give his opinion. He was too old now to play with the princesses. They romped like puppies when they should show some decorum and when he told them so, they shredded him and his dignity.

Yet the sound of Sorcha’s voice brought him to a halt, then had him sidling forward, keeping to the shrubbery.

When he got in position he saw that she stood on top of a wall, declaiming the part of Beatrice in
Much Ado About Nothing
and doing so with such vigor, he cringed when she said, “I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.”

Her broad delivery and sweeping gestures made her sisters collapse with laughter, and he watched undetected, separated by two years and an inflated sense of superiority.

But that hadn’t stopped him from noticing that his fiancée, though she was acting like a hoyden, had blossomed into a pretty girl. She had a shape, the kind of shape that made his body stir. His father said that a well-built barn made Rainger’s body stir—which was true, but it was also true Sorcha had developed rounded breasts and a waist that Rainger could span with his hands. Her hair was still carroty, but her dark lashes and brows were like black velvet settings for her sapphire-blue eyes, and her smile warmed him.

Unfortunately, it warmed everybody. She was the perfect princess, and he got sick of his godmother and his friends and two courts, his own and Beaumontagne’s, saying he wasn’t good enough for her. Everyone always punched his shoulder to show they were joking—but they weren’t.

She always did her schoolwork, behaved well at ambassador visits, and charmed his father.

He suffered from pimples, adolescent surliness, and inopportune cockstands that occurred during court presentations.

Only Countess duBelle really understood him. Her smiles, her stroking of his arm, her surreptitious touches on his knee had gone far to build his opinion of himself—and those inopportune cockstands.

Yet today, seeing the princesses being carefree and affectionate, he wished he could join them and that their lives could be like they had been when they were young.

Returning to the present, he grimly reflected that their lives would never be like that again.

Madam Pinchon indicated a carved wooden screen against the stairway. “Stay behind that. Listen. Do not speak. Do not reveal yourself.”

“But why?”

“Because in this place and at this time, Your Highness, I am in command.” She glanced at the truncheon hanging from his belt. “With that by your hand, you’re safe enough.”

“I do know how to use it,” he assured her.

“I’m sure you do.” She disappeared into the kitchen to a chorus of greetings and the clinking of silverware. “Dear Sorcha, are you satisfied with your meal?”

“It was very good,” Sorcha said, “although not as good as Eveleen’s explanation of blowing the hornpipe.”

Rainger jerked his head back so quickly he thumped his head against the wall. Fortunately, with all the laughter no one heard him.

What had these women told Sorcha?

He heard a chair scrape across the floor. “They’ve explained men to you?” Madam asked.

“All about them.” Sorcha sounded incredibly cheerful for a cloistered virgin who had just been told the facts of life. “I expect I’ll now be able to manage whatever husband I have to marry quite well.”

Rainger peered through a hole carved in the screen, but the angle was wrong to view the kitchen.

“Remember, managing a man is all about understanding his thoughts before he does—which shouldn’t be difficult, because men have so few of them.” The relish in Madam’s voice told Rainger quite clearly how much she enjoyed tweaking his nose out of joint.

He moved from side to side, wanting to see Sorcha. He’d be able to judge her condition by her expression. And he needed to survey the situation, to judge the danger.

“So ye’re bound t’ be wed, are ye?” one of the ladies asked Sorcha.

“Eventually. I’ll have to be. I have to give Beaumontagne an heir.” Sorcha sighed with pathetic wistfulness.

Moving with the stealth he’d learned in the last few years, Rainger slid out from behind the screen and glanced in the kitchen. He saw tall windows at the tops of the walls, and a long table cluttered with dishes. Madam Pinchon had positioned herself in an immense chair at one end. Half a dozen scantily clad ladies were seated on benches. Sorcha sat in between a blonde and an auburn-haired beauty, and she looked perfectly at home. More than that, she looked happy and so feminine he wondered how she ever fooled anyone at all.