The Prince Kidnaps a Bride (3 page)

Before Sorcha could retort again, Mother Brigette intervened. “That would be lovely, Arnou. Thank you. Why don’t you go to the kitchen and get your dinner now? Tell Sister Mary Simon I give my permission.”

Arnou went into a veritable rapture of bowing and scraping, walking backward on his knees. Stumbling to his feet, he shambled away, making a beeline toward the kitchen.

Sorcha sighed in exasperation. “He hasn’t another thought in his head but food. He’s like a dog drawn to a meaty bone.”

“He exasperates you,” Mother Brigette observed. “Yet he seems to mean well.”

“He babbles so much it’s difficult to tell.” And that babbling made Sorcha clench her teeth until her jaw hurt.

“I wish you had kept secret that you weren’t a nun.” Mother Brigette’s voice held the sharp edge. “A habit provides you with protection you might not otherwise possess.”

“I didn’t tell him I wasn’t. I just didn’t tell him I was.”

“How astute of him to discern the difference.” Mother Brigette’s gaze swept Sorcha’s face and lingered on her hair. “With your coloring and your delicate features, you’re distinctive. I fear for you when you leave.”

“Perhaps the whole world has forgotten.”

“You have the clippings to prove they have not. Besides”—Mother Brigette’s face grew still—“enemies never forget.” Standing, she fixed Sorcha with a stern look. “So prepare, Your Highness. When the time comes to leave, you’ll probably be forced to leave as quickly as you can, and perhaps—”

A shout echoed through the hallowed silence of the cloister. Arnou came running back, his feet kicking up clumsily, his fingers pointed back toward the cloister, his one eye wide and terrified.

“Fire!” he hollered. “There’s a fire in one of the cells! There’s a fire!”

Sorcha came to her feet. Smoke billowed out of the cloister, out of the high, small window in the door of one of the cells. Out of...

“No,” she said. Then, more loudly, “No!”

The smoke billowed out of
her
cell. It was
her
belongings that were ablaze.

Nuns poured from inside the convent, for fire was their greatest fear. If the thatch on their roof caught flame, it would leave them at the mercy of winter. Sister Mary Simon grabbed the filled bucket by the kitchen door. Sister Margaret ran to the well and started pumping water into the cistern. The metal clanged rhythmically. Arnou yelled and danced like a marionette on a string. Mother Brigette shouted directions and shoved Sorcha’s shoulder hard enough to wake her from her petrified state.

Sorcha raced to grab another bucket. She filled it and ran to her cell, the water splashing on her hem and shoes.

A single glance proved her worst fears were fulfilled. The room had been ransacked, her bedclothes scattered, the mattress tossed aside, the small stand toppled. Her wooden chest had been opened and dumped. In one corner, red flames licked the meager pile of her belongings and up the gray stone walls.

Sister Mary Simon had already flung one bucket on the fire. Sorcha flung another. The flames hissed as the water subdued them. Sister Mary Assisi used an iron poker to drag the paper and cloth apart. Sister Theresa and Sister Katherine stomped on each piece until even the faintest glimmer of embers had faded.

As quickly as it had started, it was over. The fire was out. Sorcha and the nuns stood panting from fear as much as from exertion. The other nuns crowded the doorway, buckets of water in their hands. Smoke curled toward the wood beams and left a dark spot on the thatch.

As the immensity of her loss struck Sorcha, she trembled. Her clothes, yes, but more than that... Dropping to her knees, she picked up a half-burned piece of paper.

It was not what she sought, but an article from the newspaper.

She picked another charred remain, and another, moving more and more quickly as frantically she searched for at least one of her most important possessions.

“What’re ye looking fer?” Sister Theresa asked.

“For my letters from my sisters and my father.” They were Sorcha’s last connection to her family. “I want my letters. I’ve got nothing else.”

But everything was gone.

As the realization struck her, she drew in a long, quavering breath. “Couldn’t he have left me my letters?”

“Ye puir dear.” Sister Theresa rubbed her shoulder.

“He who?” Sister Dierdre always kept an eye to her own well-being.

“It’s only worldly possessions that you lost.” Prune-faced Sister Margaret was easily the most sanctimonious of the nuns. “Ye should be more concerned about your salvation.”

Sorcha lifted her hurt, incredulous gaze. “My father is dead. It was his last letter to me.” The pain bit so deep, she couldn’t even cry.

“He who?” Sister Dierdre repeated.

Sister Mary Simon shoved Sister Margaret aside. She stooped, picked something up, and gave a cry of delight. “Is this it?”

Sorcha snatched it from her. She unfolded the heavy sheet of paper. She read,
To Sorcha, the most crown princess of Beaumontagne and my darling daughter...
 
“Yes! This is it. Thank you, Sister. Thank you so much!” She pressed the scorched sheet to her heart and, as relief swept her, so did her tears. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to mourn for...

Amy’s letter written in a childish scrawl and full of schoolgirl events and a young girl’s confidences... .

Clarice’s letter in her own graceful penmanship, expressing worries about their futures, about their father’s safety—expressing the thoughts Sorcha so often thought herself. And wishing the three could once more be together... .

Sorcha would never see those letters again. She’d read them over and over so many times she had them memorized, but she wanted to hold the tenuous connection between her and Clarice and Amy.

The Lost Princesses.

That was what Mother Brigette had called them, and so they were—lost, and until Sorcha somehow reunited them, lost they would remain.

“Sorcha?” Mother Brigette called from outside. “Could you come here?”

Sorcha tucked her precious letter into her pocket and hurried out.

The air was clean out here, free from the noxious smell of scorched wool and burned dreams. The nuns looked alternately horrified and worried. Arnou stood on the outskirts, doing a jig to some inner rhythm.

Mother Brigette had her sleeve rolled up. Her hand was black with dirt. And she wore a pinched expression. “Follow me.” She marched along the outer wall.

Sorcha marched behind her. The nuns followed, curious and murmuring. Arnou danced at the very end of the line.

He had not, Sorcha noted, helped put out the fire. He was as useless as he had been when she rescued the boat.

Mother Brigette stopped behind the crab apple. She pointed. “Look.”

Someone had dug a small hole close to the wall. A man’s boot marks marked the ground around it. Suspiciously Sorcha glanced at Arnou.

He stopped in his tracks. “What?” He pointed to himself. “I don’t own boots!”

More important, the marks were undersized compared to his immense feet.

“Look in the hole,” Mother Brigette said.

Sorcha knelt, pressed her fingers into the black powder piled in the bottom, and sniffed. The recognizable odor of sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate filled her head.

“Gunpowder,” she whispered.

The nuns had seen the boot marks, and they knew what she’d found, for she heard the murmur go through the small crowd. “Gunpowder.” “Gunpowder?” “Dear holy Jesus, save us. Gunpowder.”

“Wow. Really? Gunpowder?” Arnou said loudly.

Mother Brigette knelt beside Sorcha. In a low tone, she said, “Whoever set your cell on fire also intended to blow up the wall.”

Sister Dierdre recoiled from Sorcha. Wide-eyed, she crossed herself.

“Who would do this?” Sister Theresa whispered. “There’s only that young half-wit here, and he’s been underfoot all day.”

“Why would someone do this?” Sister Mary Simon was slightly deaf and considerably louder. “What does he want? We’re a convent. We have no valuables to steal.”

Of course not. Whoever had done this wasn’t after valuables. He was after... Sorcha.

Mother Brigette was right. It was time to leave—before Sorcha brought disaster on the convent that had sheltered her for so long.

S
unset found Sorcha inside the quiet glass greenhouse, kneeling, holding a trowel, her eyes fixed on the grooved brown stems and lacy green leaves of a valerian plant. Yet her hands, clad in rough garden gloves, were idle. She had come here to be alone, to think, to plan.

She had to leave Monnmouth as soon as possible, yet her mind was petrified with fear—fear of the stranger who stalked her.

Who was he? How had he found her? Had he left the island or was he lurking out there, waiting for darkness to fall so he could do harm to one of the nuns? Or to her?

Yet what was the alternative?

A long, treacherous road filled with danger.

She shivered as the sun slid behind the naked branches of the trees and cast long, fingerlike shadows groping through the glass.

To get back to Beaumontagne, she had to somehow cross the rugged Highlands of Scotland to Edinburgh, take passage on a ship to a port in France or Spain, then travel into the mighty peaks of the Pyrenees, and from there to her home. In the normal run of things she would be beset by discomfort, robbers, and the onset of winter. Now, with a possible assassin chasing her, the difficulties doubled and tripled until she couldn’t imagine how she would take the first step.

She halfheartedly stirred the dirt around the valerian. She, who was so soft-hearted she could scarcely bear to pull a plant up by its roots, might have to use force against another human being.

She used to love twilight: the vivid blue sky turning to purple, the golden clouds, the anticipation of a quiet evening spent reading and in prayer. Now the skin between her shoulder blades prickled. She glanced nervously about her. And jumped.

A man stood behind her, his face pressed against one of the windowpanes. The glass distorted his nose. His breath painted the glass with frost, hiding his features, but his single brown eye was almost black.

She gasped. Her heart slammed against her chest.

Then he pulled back and waved frantically.

It was Arnou.

The dolt. He had startled her again. She glared at him. It almost seemed as if he were
trying
to spook her into leaving.

He gestured toward the door and, after a grudging hesitation, she nodded her permission.

Viciously she rammed the trowel into the ground and uprooted the valerian plant without a thought to its death.

Since the time she was a child, she had hated to be startled. Prince Rainger had known it, too, and taken pleasure in jumping out at her from behind closed doors or lurking beside the stairways and unexpectedly grabbing her skirt. The last time she’d seen him, he had drawled he was too old for such silliness; he had given her to understand he was too sophisticated to be bothered with her.

Too bad. There had been times when she had liked the rascally boy-prince. But she had despised the affected young man.

And she was sorry that Arnou and her return to Beaumontagne brought Rainger to mind, for Rainger’s death at the hands of the revolutionaries reminded her of her own possible fate. Royalty was supposed to face adversity with equanimity; Sorcha’s quaking dread proved her cowardice, and by the time Arnou had shambled around the greenhouse, opened the door, and made his way toward her, she had convinced herself she was unfit to rule.

“
Bonjour, mademoiselle
, it’s warm in here.” Arnou looked around at the glass and wood enclosure. “I like the smell. But it’s damp.”

He had a way of pointing out the obvious that was so annoying. “It
is
a greenhouse.”

“Are you busy?” Arnou sidled closer.

“As you see, I am.” She smiled tightly and flung the hapless greenery into a box. “I gather the valerian. Sister Rebecca dries the roots for a sleeping draught.”

“Oh.” He stared at the plant. “That little thing will do that?”

“In the right hands, it’s very potent.”

“Oh,” he repeated. Lowering his voice, he said, “I have a question. Is it always so terrifying here?”

“Here?” She blinked at him in astonishment. “At the convent?”

“
Oui
. Because I don’t like it when a man sets fires and digs a hole and puts gunpowder in the bottom and tries to light it.” Arnou’s one eye got big and round. “You’re only an unworldly woman, but I can tell you a man who does things like that is the kind of man who could try to hurt somebody!”

“I suspected that,” she said dryly.

“The thing is, I don’t like staying here.” He moved his shoulders uncomfortably. “It makes me wonder when a knife will slip into my back. So I was wondering—can I leave?”

He was such a coward! She despised cowards... as she despised herself. “You should ask Mother Brigette, not me.”

“She’s strict. She scares me.”

“Would you like me to ask for you?” The darkness was falling fast, but being with Arnou made her feel brave by comparison.

“I was hoping you would offer. You talk to her so freely!”

“Actually, she’s very kind,” Sorcha assured him.

Arnou looked unconvinced. “How soon can I go?”

“Mother Brigette will raise the flag to signal Mr. MacLaren. You’ll have to wait until he arrives tomorrow or the next day—”

“I can’t wait that long. That man, the one who set your room on fire—he’s going to do something else. Something worse. I’m scared. I don’t want to be here.” Arnou’s voice trembled and he talked faster and faster. “I have my boat—”

“
Your
boat?” Her suspicion of Arnou leaped to life.

“Yes, the one you got for me.” He knit his brows as if surprised she didn’t comprehend.

She relaxed. How foolish, to be dubious of this simple soul!

“I can row to the mainland tomorrow morning. If I put my back into it, it’ll only take an hour or two,” he said. “Then I’ll be away from here. I want to go back to
Burgundy
, where everyone knows everyone else and no one does crazy things like set fires and use gunpowder to kill people.”

“To
Burgundy
... ”
In France.
She needed to go to
France
.
“It’s a very long way.”

“I’ll get across Scotland and take a ship.”

“You’re going to get across Scotland?” She marveled at him—he spoke so casually, as if it were a ride in the woods. “How?”

“Walk. Catch a ride when I can. Farmers go to market and they don’t care if I ride along.”

She pressed him for information. “Aren’t you afraid of robbers?”

“No one tries to rob me.” He spread his broad hands wide. “I don’t have anything.”

Yes, and his clothes and demeanor made his poverty obvious. Sister Margaret had dug deep in the convent’s stash of clothes and located a pair of brown breeches, patched at the knee, but she’d been unable to find anything that fit his big chest and shoulders. So she’d stitched together a tunic of sturdy wool cut from an old brown blanket. All the nuns took turns knitting a pair of black hose tall enough to fit his long shanks. Sister Margaret had insisted he tie a clean rag around his face. With his clogs to complete the outfit, he looked the picture of a sturdy peasant.

Sturdy... Arnou was big, strong, with long arms—the kind of man no fool would attack without a pistol or a gang, and even then he would make trouble. His size probably contributed to his safety more than his poverty.

“I don’t want to go alone.” He sighed and shuffled his feet. “I like to talk, and I hate it when there’s no one to listen.”

It was almost completely dark. She should go in. Yet she stood limply holding the trowel, wondering how and when the idea of traveling with Arnou had occurred to her.

“You could come with me.” He spoke so softly, so hypnotically, he might have been a voice in her mind. “I would protect you.”

“Why would I leave the convent?” How odd to think that Arnou, of all people, could guard her from harm. Yet right now, she almost believed it.

“Why would you want to stay? Someone’s after you here.” His deep velvet tone seduced her into a feeling of security. “It would be safer on the road. For you. For everyone. You should go.”

Was he giving her advice? And in such a tone?
Jerking her head up, she stared searchingly at him. She couldn’t see the details of his face, but something about the way he stood... He seemed to have a natural arrogance, a balance and a build natural to a fencer or a lord.
Was he more than the humble fisherman he appeared?

“This wool is itchy. I wish I had a different shirt.” With a whimper, he stared down at his chest and scratched heartily. “Do you have clothes left after the fire? Because I need a cloak for travel and maybe I could have yours. I’m scared of this place. When will you talk to Mother Brigette for me?”

“I’ll talk to her after matins.” Sorcha stripped off her gloves and prepared to dash toward the dining hall.

“
Merci, Mademoiselle.
” He grinned engagingly.

She saw a flash of strong white teeth.

He walked to the door.

Almost without her volition, she called, “If I went with you, you’d have to swear with your hand on the Bible that you’d treat me honorably and do all in your power to protect me.”

“I’ll swear, of course.” He sounded bewildered and hurt by her suspicions. “But I don’t hurt girls and I would never let a companion come to harm.”

“Good.” Perhaps her courage would rise in his company. “In the morning, I’ll let you know if I decide to join you.”

With her hands folded on the desk before her, Mother Brigette listened quietly as Sorcha proposed her plan. When Sorcha was finished, Mother Brigette studied the princess who had been her charge for so many years. She had seen her grow from an adolescent who cowered at a kind reprimand to this beautiful young woman, untried by life. The years of simple living had given Sorcha a serenity that glowed like pure candle flame beneath her pale complexion. Her beautiful copper-colored hair hung in a thick braid down her back, and her blue eyes showed no awareness of self. Mother Brigette and the other nuns had raised Sorcha to be one of those rare and noble beings, an innocent who saw the best in everyone.

Perhaps, knowing what Mother Brigette knew of the world and of Sorcha’s eventual fate, that had been a mistake. But Sorcha’s grandmother had been her first teacher, and she had added the necessary reason and intelligence.

Unfortunately, the princess was completely untested and now... well, now she would have a trial by fire. Mother Brigette had no way of foretelling what would happen to her, but she could protect Sorcha on her first steps into the world.

“So you wish to cross the channel and travel to France with Arnou the fisherman,” Mother Brigette said. “Whose idea was this?”

“It was mine.” Sorcha sat in the hard chair, her feet firmly on the floor, her chin lifted as if proud to point out her own bravery.

“I see. How intelligent of you to take the initiative.”

“Yes.” Sorcha smiled, a shy, proud smile that Mother Brigette hated to subdue.

But she would. “You have to go, it’s true. But while I admire your ingenuity, I have formulated a different plan.”

Sorcha’s pleasure faded.

Mother Brigette rose from her seat, came around to Sorcha, and stood over her. She needed to exert her authority in this, the most perilous moment of Sorcha’s life. “Yesterday after you rescued the boat, God told me you must go at once.” In fact, as soon as Mother Brigette had seen Arnou, seen the way he watched Sorcha, she had realized that the princess must leave as swiftly and as quietly as possible. “After the fire in your cell, I raised a special flag to signal Mr. MacLaren. He arrived this afternoon.”

“This afternoon? I never saw him!”

“Years ago, not long after you first arrived on Monnmouth, I gave Mr. MacLaren special instructions. If I raised the scarlet flag, he was to come as quickly as possible and land surreptitiously on the far side of the island. He did so and has remained hidden since.” Mother Brigette raised her voice. “Sister Margaret, would you come in here?”

Sister Margaret bustled in, a variety of freshly washed and ironed clothes draped across her arm. She and Mother Brigette exchanged a smile. “Here we are, Sorcha. We’ll have you ready to go in no time.” Pulling Sorcha to her feet, Sister Margaret pushed her behind the screen. “Strip down and I’ll help you with your clothes.”

“I can dress myself,” Sorcha protested.

“You’ll need help with this,” Sister Margaret answered.

Indeed she would.
“As soon as Sister Margaret has dressed you, Mr. MacLaren is going to row you across to the mainland,” Mother Brigette said.

“In the dark? But it’s dangerous.”

“He is very skilled.”

“I don’t understand. This is happening so fast.” Panic edged Sorcha’s voice.

Mother Brigette and Sister Margaret exchanged measured glances. In a stern voice, Mother Brigette said, “It is happening at exactly the rate at which God wills it.”