The Prince Kidnaps a Bride (15 page)

“Yes.” Sooner than she realized.

Before he met Sorcha, he had intended to take her back to Beaumontagne, there to marry her, command her army, march into Richarte, and kill Count duBelle.

It had been a sound plan, one that required a deception of Sorcha.

But deception didn’t matter. All that mattered was producing a princess to wed so he could take back his country.

Everything depended on him. Men—his best friends—had been dreadfully hurt, had
died
to break him out of that dungeon. He sought to free his people from the dreadful burden of the oppressor. He sought the crown.

He sought revenge.

Sorcha, with her soft lips, nubile body, and wide, innocent eyes, would not stand in his way.

Nor would his weakness toward her.

Her merry voice broke into his reflections. “You have such a grim expression, while I’m so happy. Do you know I’ve never kissed a man before?”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He wouldn’t have to kill another man.

“Kissing you was very pleasant.”

“Pleasant. Really.” She had a unique and marvelous way of insulting a man. “And a raging ocean storm is
cute
.”

She thought about that. “You’re right. Kissing you was more than pleasant. It was... magnificently overwhelming.”

He grunted. He hid a smile.
That’s more like it.

Then the urge to smile faded.

When he was seventeen, he’d believed every ounce of flattery poured into his callow ears. He was a hard man to cajole now—except when the words fell from Sorcha’s lips. Then they sounded sincere.

He couldn’t keep his hands off her. He accepted that. But a way existed to delude Sorcha, satisfy her grandmother (although not completely, because her grandmother could never be completely satisfied), and permit him marital rights.

He was not going to deflower Sorcha on the ground. Their mating was a matter of state. They had to wed in the official
church
of
Beaumontagne
and Richarte, the Church of the Mountain. They had to marry before representatives of their countries, people who would swear the ceremony was performed and was proper in the eyes of God and man. And they had to show sheets stained with the proof of her virginity to prove she’d been with no other man.

Tomorrow morning, they would arrive at the village he sought. The village of exiles.

Tomorrow night, he would hold Sorcha in his arms.

S
orcha couldn’t quite put her finger on what was so unique about this village.

The houses looked different from the other houses in Scotland. Yes, they were humble, but their roofs had a bit of a tilt at the front of the ridge beam. The windows were lower and wider. Silver crosses were tacked up over the front doors—crosses she recognized. Crosses identical to the one she wore around her neck.

Revelation struck Sorcha with the power of a sledgehammer. This was a Beaumontagnian village transplanted to the wilds of Scotland.

“I recognize this place,” she said.

“You’ve been here before?” Arnou lifted a skeptical eyebrow.

“No. Yes.” She didn’t know what she meant. “It reminds me of my home.”

“Isn’t that a coincidence?” He didn’t sound particularly surprised. “I hear there’s a good inn here, and staying there would be a chance for you to clean up before we arrive in Edinburgh.”

“Is that really the reason you want to stay at an inn?” She shot him a flirtatious glance.

“Yes.”

“Yes.” She sighed. Why was the man so stubborn? Why wouldn’t he make love to her? Last night they had slept together in a barn, and all night long he’d been ready and willing. When he had held her for warmth, she’d felt his cock pressed against her back.

Still... “Cleaning up is a wonderful idea.” To take a bath, a real bath in a real tub, sounded like heaven. Not as much heaven as sleeping naked in Arnou’s arms, but she wouldn’t mention it again. At least not now. A covert attack might serve her better. She’d bathe and wear the nightgown that the ladies at Madam’s had given her. She’d display herself to Arnou and he’d be stricken with craving and give in to her desires... .

They turned into the street that led to the town square. There she could see that the buildings were taller and wooden signs hung over the doors—the Red Rock Pub, the Glacier Peak Butcher, the Silver Springs Inn. A cluster of a dozen men and women were gathered around the well in the middle of the square. The women wore small embroidered caps and white aprons. The men wore black breeches and red suspenders. Finally, clinching her suspicion that this was a group of exiles, she saw that the well had a small pointed roof and posts painted blue.

“Look at that!” She pointed.

“It’s a well,” Arnou said prosaically.

“It’s more than a well. The point on the roof deflects any evil from above. The blue blesses the water and keeps away the evil eye. These are traditions in Beaumontagne and in Richarte.” To see the reality of it again fed a longing she’d denied for a long time.

“So Beaumontagne and Richarte share the same traditions?” Arnou sounded as if he knew the answer but was humoring her.

“They share a border. They share traditions. They share a language. They share a church. They fight about everything.” She grinned, because for Beaumontagnians to complain about Richartians and for Richartians to complain about Beaumontagnians was the most ingrained tradition of all. “Do you know? Are the people here foreign?”

“Foreign?” Arnou directed his
I’m puzzled
glance at her. “Like from another country besides Scotland?”

“Never mind. I’ll find out.” She urged her horse forward.

A woman with a wealth of wrinkles on her lips, her eyelids, and her earlobes sat on the bench at the well. The village priest in his traditional black cassock and three portly gentlemen stood sampling a wine. Five young women, sisters, Sorcha thought, leaned together watching Sorcha and chuckling as if they found her entertaining. One caressed the bulge of her belly where her baby rested. And two women of perhaps forty-three argued over the well’s bucket.

As Sorcha rode into their midst, the people in the square stopped speaking and stared cautiously. She broke into a smile, for the faces had sharp noses, high cheekbones, creamy tan complexions, and every eye color. She’d never seen these people before, but she knew them. They were part of the handsomest nation in the world. She burst out, “Are you Beaumontagnian?”

They drew back as if her enthusiasm alarmed them.

With a grin, Rainger let her go. She wasn’t going to get hurt here. The villagers were cautious, but they would find out soon enough who she was. Then they’d understand their good fortune. For now, Sorcha could shower them with her bubbling exuberance and, unless he missed his guess, she’d win them over before they even knew her name.

“Because I’m from Beaumontagne,” she called. “Are you exiles from the revolution?”

“Some of us are from Beaumontagne, some from Richarte.” Sharp-eyed, thin-lipped, and all bony angles, one older woman abandoned her argument over the bucket and made her way toward Sorcha. “So how do we know you’re Beaumontagnian?”

Sorcha dropped into the language of their home. “I’m a long way from home, but at the hearth of my people, I am always welcome.”

At the sound of the familiar proverb and Sorcha’s sweet and easy rhythm, the woman placed a hand over her heart.

A murmur swept the small group.

“Welcome. Welcome.” The woman broke into a smile. “Forgive my caution. We haven’t seen anyone arrive from home since we got here. We had to flee the old countries and settled here in New Prospera for safety. Safety isn’t always that easy to achieve when some people in Scotland resent the intrusion, and some are frightened of people who speak a different language.”

A stout gentleman pushed his way forward to stand by the lady. “I’m Mr. Montaroe, the innkeeper. This is my wife, Tulia. Come in and have some wine. Relax, eat, and tell us what you know about Richarte.”

“And Beaumontagne,” Talia said.

“I don’t know anything. I haven’t been home for ten years, but I’m going there now.” Sorcha glowed as she spoke.

Rainger wondered if she’d only just realized that, if all went well, she was within weeks of returning.

“What about him?” Mr. Montaroe pointed to Rainger.

“He’s from
Normandy
,” Sorcha said.

Tulia scrutinized him. “He looks Beaumontagnian.”

“No, he looks as if he’s from Richarte,” Mr. Montaroe corrected stiffly. “Not every handsome young man is from Beaumontagne.”

“They are if they’re fortunate,” Tulia retorted.

One of the five young women deliberately caught Rainger’s gaze. She wasn’t more than twenty, pretty and flirtatious. She indicated first the innkeeper, then his wife, and rolled her eyes. At once Rainger realized they fought like all Beaumontagnians and Richartians were prone to do. And as three other young ladies bearing a marked resemblances to Mr. Montaroe and Tulia made their way toward the front, he thought the Montaroes made love with equal fervor.

Sorcha smiled easily. “Actually, this is my traveling companion, Arnou. We were hoping to stay at your reputable inn before we continue on our way to Edinburgh and from there to home.”

“Beaumontagne seems safe,” Mr. Montaroe said, “but rumor says Richarte is a shambles under Count duBelle’s rule.”

At the sound of duBelle’s name, the old woman spat on the ground and the younger women buzzed like angry bees.

“I will go to Beaumontagne,” Sorcha said. “It’s time.”

Tulia turned to her husband. “I think we should go, too. We could stay with my parents—”

“No,” he said. “When the prince comes back and my properties are returned, then we’ll return. Not before.”

“Prince Rainger? But... he’s dead.” Sorcha looked from one to the other for confirmation.

“Rumor claims he escaped from Count duBelle’s dungeon and is even now gathering an army to take back his country.” Mr. Montaroe’s hazel eyes glowed green.

Rainger watched as Sorcha’s expressions changed from astonishment to pleasure and then, with a glance at him, to dismay.

Sorcha looked from Rainger to Mr. Montaroe. “I can’t... can’t believe that,” she stammered. “Godfrey said Rainger was taken by Count duBelle and killed.”

“I don’t know who your Godfrey is, but he was wrong. That young man was put in the dungeon for years and by God’s grace escaped.”

“When?” Sorcha demanded.

“We heard the report almost three years ago.” Tulia sounded hopeless. “In an English paper. But they’re notorious for lying, trying to build people’s hopes.”

Three of the girls surrounded their mother. One took her in her arms.

The priest spoke quietly in her ear.

Tulia wiped a tear off her cheek, nodded, and straightened her shoulders.

“So!” Mr. Montaroe slapped his hands together. “How many rooms will you require?”

“One,” Rainger said.

Everyone turned to stare at him as if he were a trained bear who had spoken.

“One? What are you talking about?” Sorcha asked. “I thought you said you wouldn’t—”

“I’m not leaving you alone.” Taking her hand, he pressed it in his. “It’s too dangerous.”

Under his intense consideration, her lashes fluttered. In her excitement, she’d forgotten to deepen her voice and now, for the discerning eye, she acted like a female with her mate.

The priest noticed, of course. He moved forward to stand before them. A tall, broad-shouldered man, he sternly examined his guests. “Are you married?”

“Married?” Mr. Montaroe harrumphed. “Father Terrance, your eyesight is failing you. These are men.”

“That little one’s a woman, you oaf.” His wife dug her elbow into his side.

“No.” But he focused on Sorcha at once, and examined her from every side. In incredulous tones, he said, “No!”

“I saw it at once,” Tulia said.

“Woman! You did not.” His eyes bulged as he glared at his wife.

“I did. Beaumontagnian women have an instinct about these things,” she said loftily.

Rainger listened in amusement as the Montaroes squabbled in an undertone.

The pregnant woman stood near Rainger’s boot. She cast him an amused glance and said, “My parents never agree on anything.”

Then, in a single voice, the Montaroes said, “You can’t stay in the same room unless you’re married.”

“Except that,” the young woman said.

Rainger shot her a grin.

“Young lady, have you remained faithful to our church?” Father Terrance asked.

“Yes,” Sorcha said in a small voice.

“You know how strict we are,” Tulia said. “We’re not like the English and Scots. Lax and immoral people!”

“We have to stay in the same room.” Rainger was using the situation to his advantage, but he wasn’t saying that for effect. He
wouldn’t
leave Sorcha alone. The dozen people had grown to a group of twenty curiosity-seekers, and to them he confided, “She’s being hunted by those who wish her dead.”

“Arnou.” Sorcha glared at him. “You’re making a scene!”

“I won’t leave you alone,” he said.

“You are traveling companions, obviously. You know each other... quite well. If you can tell us you are married, you may stay in the same room.” Father Terrance’s brown eyes pinned them in place.

Rainger waited to see if Sorcha would lie to the priest.

She tried. “We, um, we are definitely... ” She tried very hard. But she was painfully truthful. “That is, if vows of loyalty mean that a union has been formed, then we could say—”

“We’re not married,” Rainger flatly informed the priest.

Sorcha turned on him and hissed, “Stop that, Arnou!”

“Then we have a conflict,” the priest said.

“Father, is there somewhere Sorcha and I can talk alone?” Rainger dismounted and offered his hands to assist her out of her saddle.

“The church is at the end of the main street.” Father Terrance pointed the way. “You can talk there.”

Sorcha slid into his arms with the ease of a woman comfortable to be there. He held her for a moment, looking down into her eyes, and he was pleased to see her eyelashes flutter and the color climb in her cheeks.

She might not realize it, but once again she gave off signals everyone here recognized. She was his woman.

Keeping his hands on her hips, he said softly, “Do you remember what Madam Pinchon said about the assassins? You vanquished the first one, but there are others waiting for us, and they’re smart. They’re crafty. They may be here in the crowd right now.”

She glanced around. “These are good people.”

With his finger on her chin, he brought her face back to his. “Since we left the stone circle, I’ve been feeling twitchy”—an unfortunate truth—“and I trust my instincts far more than I trust anyone here. Come on.” Taking her hand, he led her to the small chapel. It was surrounded by a small cemetery, shaded by a large oak, and painstakingly built to resemble the churches in Beaumontagne and Richarte.

Pushing open the great door, he stepped inside a memory so intense it almost brought him to his knees. He resisted only because of the deceit he must perpetrate on Sorcha. But to him the scent of candles, the wooden altar with its gold-stitched altar cloth, the silver cross, and the statue of the Virgin irresistibly reminded him of all the small village churches in Richarte he’d toured as a young prince.