Lois Greiman

To Beverly Greiman,
the most elegant woman I have ever known.

Thanks for everything you’ve given me.

Portshaven, Teleere
In the year of our Lord 1817

“L
ook there. Ain’t that the biggest ass you ever seen?” Ralph asked, and pointed gleefully over the heads of his shipmates.

Not daring to glance right or left lest her stomach spew forth its dubious contents, Tatiana Octavia Linnet Rocheneau, crown princess of Sedonia, kept her eyes strictly on the balding head of the passenger ahead of her. She could not help but wonder, however, if some Teleerian maid should be mightily offended or if, perchance, there was a prize-winning donkey upon the blessed terra firma they had almost reached. ’Twas impossible to guess with the giant called Ralph. Indeed, hiring him was near the pinnacle of folly. But boarding this leaky tub was surely the worst mistake of all. She hated the sea. When she returned to Sedonia, she would ride astride for a week and never board a ship again.

The waves slapped hard against the ship’s weathered
sides. Beneath her feet, the
Melody
heaved and groaned. Tatiana’s stomach did the same.

“Ahh.” Ralph sighed and shook his oversized head, apparently oblivious to the sickening roll of the ship. “Makes me ’appy just to think of the things I could do with an ass like that.”

Behind her, a plump woman with two whining children jostled her. The mother smelled of garlic, the children of things Tatiana dared not consider. Her stomach heaved again, but she controlled it as she controlled all things, with a stiffened backbone and dogged determination. They would be disembarking in a moment, leaving the wretched vessel behind forever. She focused on that thought and that thought alone. Not the gilded gifts hidden in her deceptively worn leather bag, not the milling docks of Portshaven, and not the man she had traveled nearly two hundred leagues to meet. Just now all she needed was to reach a place of privacy before her stomach betrayed her, plummeting her to the level of her strong-smelling shipmates.

The
Melody
bucked. Tatiana swallowed hard and closed her eyes against the roiling misery.

“Aye, she was the finest ass I ever ’ad, she was.” Ralph sighed, and Tatiana realized somewhat belatedly that her hired bodyguard may well have been waxing nostalgic about his long-lost burro for quite some time, but in that moment he noticed her expression. “You unwell, missus?” he asked. He’d called her that from the first, though she’d ordered him more than once to refer to her as Mrs. Mulgrave, or Widow Mulgrave. Or even Linnet, if he must. But Ralph was something like an upset boulder. Once he was set on a path it was difficult to change his course. Still, “missus” was better than some things he might call her if he knew the truth. If he knew she was a crown princess incognito, with a paid impostor on the throne.

“Yer lookin’ a mite green about the gills there, missus. If’n yer gonna vomit, ’twould be best if you made yer way to the rail.”

She gritted her teeth. “I am not about to—” She paused to swallow and squeeze her eyes closed again.

“’Tis naught to be ashamed of, missus, and you’d feel the better for it.”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t dare.

Ralph elbowed her with a chuckle. She bounced off his arm, ricocheting into a stout man holding a speckled chicken. It squawked its offense and fluttered wildly while its owner cuddled it to his chest and glared at her from beneath his frayed cloth cap.

“Yer a tough little acorn despite yer wee size, ain’t you, missus?” Ralph asked.

She suppressed a groan and reminded herself that while Viscount Nicol might be one of the few advisors she trusted without question, he had not chosen this particular guard for either his wit or his charm. Ralph had fists the size of draught-horse shoes and shoulders like battering rams. He’d been hired to stave off trouble, but thus far he’d not managed to do a thing about the battle that roiled like a summer storm between her breast and her pelvis.

“I am not”—she gritted her teeth and swallowed again—“little.”

The deck of the
Melody
shifted wildly. She focused on the horizon, but not a soothing blade of grass could be seen. Indeed, nothing but lumbering crowds and tilting buildings met her gaze.

“’Ey,” he exclaimed. “There’s that ass again. I can see ’er ears.” He laughed happily. “P’raps I could ’ire ’er so as you could ride in style to yonder abbey.” He sighed. “I bet she’d give you a ’ell of a fine…” he began, but at that moment the man ahead of her stepped onto the plank, leaving a bit of
space between them and drawing all her attention to a lovely wisp of air that feathered with blessed gentleness across her face. She gulped it in, but in a second it was gone, stifled by the host of bodies jostling toward shore.

“Me uncle Toddle ’ad ’im an ass once, though ’e weren’t near so big as that lady’s—”

“Cease!” she gritted. “Cease talking about the lady’s ass.” Perhaps her words were a bit louder than necessary, but Ralph’s expression was as placidly mild as ever. She sensed the other passengers turning toward her, however, and felt certain their hideous odors increased with their misplaced attention. Remembering her intention of remaining unnoticed, she forced a smile and lowered her voice. “Please.”

“Poor little missus,” Ralph said, and chuckled to the crowd that pressed in on them like so much spoiled barley. “Not her usual jolly self, she ain’t.”

Perhaps he was mocking her, for she was not inclined toward jolliness even on her best of days. And perhaps Nicol was correct, she might not be as patient with others as she should be. But she tried to be fair, even to those who stank like rank hounds, which every passenger on this leaking tub surely did.

The thought made her feel light-headed.

“Have you got my trunk?” she asked, changing the subject as she pushed her thoughts from the odors and risked dire consequences to turn toward the giant.

“Got it right ’ere.” He hoisted the leather-bound receptacle onto his shoulder like another might lift a lute, then nodded toward the solid earth beyond. “Way’s clear.”

She glanced ahead and found with breathless relief that he was correct. She stumbled onto the plank, shambled down the dock, and blessedly, miraculously, reached the firm soil of Teleere. Her head swam at the sudden cessation of movement. Her stomach boiled, but she straightened her back and
glanced about. There was little to see, for bodies milled around her like living eels, pushing and shoving and cutting off any hope of a better view. She tried to lever her way through, but it was impossible. She was surrounded in a sea of reeking peasantry.

“We’re to make our way to the abbey,” Ralph said, above the ebb and flow of the din.

She knew he was right, but she was mired in humanity and could see nothing but bobbing bosoms and lumbering backs.

Behind her, Ralph shuffled his gargantuan feet. “This ain’t no good place for a lady, missus,” he said. “Best not to be dawdling ’ere.”

She tried to shoulder her way between two sailors, but they were drunk and loud and tipped her off-balance, leaving her unsteady in their wake. The movement did nothing to still the turmoil in her stomach.

“’Ere then, let Ralph ’ave a go,” he said, and, stepping around her, thrust the crowd aside like so many grains of sand. For a moment a draft of almost fresh air washed over her. She gloried in it, feeling her knees weaken. “You’d best keep up,” Ralph rumbled, and she tightened her grip on her valise and hurried after him.

He waded through the mob. She tried to stay close, but the scent of hot apple tarts melded sickeningly with body odor and rotting mackerel. Her stomach knotted, bending her double.

“Missus.” Ralph appeared before her again. Or rather, his stained knee breeches appeared. “We’d best be off.”

She gritted her teeth. She was not about to vomit in front of a servant. She was not! But at that moment, her throat filled up. “Go away!” she snarled.

“What’s that, missus?”

She swallowed hard, shivered at the bitter effects, and straightened as best she could. “Go find the abbey.”

He shook his great head as if baffled and unhappy in equal measures. “I was told strict not to leave you, missus. And I follows me orders.”

She straightened her back with a jolt. Her stomach twisted up like a sailor’s knot, but she ignored it. “And I am ordering you otherwise. Do you understand me? This is a roy—” She almost lost control. But she didn’t. “I’ve no time for delays. You will find the shortest route to the abbey and you will return for me posthaste.”

“But missus—”

“Now!” she commanded.

He nodded with obvious uncertainty and turned away.

Tatiana closed her eyes and willed her stomach to last a few seconds longer. Her upper lip was moist, and her head was swimming with the effort. But a tavern stood just a few yards away. It was a shabby place to be sure, but it would afford her some privacy—a place to deposit the contemptible contents of her stomach. She stumbled toward the tilted door of the ramshackle inn. But the earth shifted beneath her feet, seeming to throw her off-balance. She careened toward the corner and laid a hand upon the rough wattle and daub. It felt cool beneath her palm. She leaned into it, pressing her cheek against the solid surface. Behind her, a man made a disparaging remark about her condition. His companion chuckled. She longed to confront them with the truth, but she dared not turn, dared not challenge her fragile system, for she was better here, her stomach somewhat settled, her face cooled against the coarse siding.

She sighed, and in that instant of relaxation, her valise was wrenched from her hand. The force of the motion spun her about like a child’s top—yanking her off-balance and onto her knees. She cried out in shock, but her bag was already gone, whisked through the crowd by a ragged, darting figure.

“No,” she muttered in disbelief. No one tried to help. She scrambled to her feet. “Stop him! I command you to stop him!” Not a soul turned to comply, but the crowd was as thick as London fog, barring the small thief’s way. He clawed at their backs, fighting to get through, and in that moment she saw her chance. Snatching up her drab skirts, she lurched after him. He turned in a panic, his face soiled, his eyes wide, and she almost had him, but at the last instant, the crowd murmured and broke. He skimmed between two elderly men, darting into the mob.

There was nothing she could do but give chase, past the laughing maid with the goat, over the drunken sod. A dappled horse reared, thrashing huge hooves above the thief’s head. He cowered away, and she took that opportunity to lunge at him. But her equilibrium was still unsteady, and she tottered sideways, careening into a man with a cane. He cursed and swung at her, striking her on the shins. She leapt away. A hound snapped at her heels, latching on to her billowing skirts. She pivoted about, grasping her gown in both hands and swinging the mutt off its feet. It let go with a whine, and she swiveled toward the thief. He was some rods ahead now, but still slowed by the crowd. So she bolted after him, rapidly covering the distance where the mob was thinner.

Her lungs ached in her chest, but in a moment she was upon the narrow robber. Her fingers skimmed his ragged tunic. But suddenly the crowds opened and he dashed through. She stumbled after him, tumbling into a solidly built man and tottering backward. He caught her, his hands tight upon her upper arms.

“Careful there or you’ll—” he began, then stopped short as his grip tightened around her biceps.

“The devil!” he hissed.

She jerked back, startled as much by the intensity in his deep blue eyes as by his daring to touch her. “Unhand me!”

But he didn’t. Indeed, his grip tightened and with that a smile lifted his lips. “So my luck holds,” he said and laughed. “Another thief caught.”

She glared up at him, trying to catch her breath, her wits, to decipher this turn of events. “You’ve apprehended him?” she asked.

He canted his head slightly. His hair was fair, a bit longer than fashion deemed proper, his face clean-shaven. “You know Wheaton, do you?”

“Wheaton?”

His lips lifted a little at the corners, as if he laughed at her. Perhaps, if he were not so young and foolish, she would be truly offended. As it was, she would allow him to live.

“Yonder thief,” he explained, and turned her slightly. “Do you know him?”

She jerked at her arms again. But it was a futile effort. “Of course I do not know him,” she said. “He snatched my bag and fled. Might you believe I asked his name beforehand?”

He stared at her for a moment longer, then laughed. “I knew you were a clever lass, but I admit, I’m impressed.”

She straightened her back and glared. “’Tis easier to impress some than others,” she said. “Where is your lord?”

“My lord?” He was still smiling, looming over her like an overdressed barbarian. His cravat was nearly as white as his ridiculous smile, though it had come undone and hung askew.

“Yes, your master, whomever you answer to. The lord of this isle, preferably.”

“You want to speak to Laird MacTavish do you?”

“Yes.”

“Laird Cairn MacTavish?”

“Yes!” She yanked away, and he finally released her, so that she stumbled slightly with the sudden change, but the
crowd was tight and silent behind her, and she had nowhere to go. That much she could tell without turning. “I will have a word with him,” she said, and lifted her chin. “And when I tell him of your treatment of the prin—” But she stopped, remembering all. She dare not spill the truth. Not here. Not in front of this self-important cretin, for she had traveled far and risked much. She pursed her lips. The crowd seemed ungodly quiet behind her, and the scent of rotting fish and too potent perfumes were dripping relentlessly into her consciousness once again, twisting her stomach. Perhaps Lord Paqual had been right. Teleere was not a place she should visit. But how could she determine a man’s quality if she had never met that man? And it was too late for a turnabout now. She had set her course and she would see it through, despite all. She glanced around, trying to find a more suitable man with whom to settle her disputes, but at that moment her stomach lurched.

Fifty strides away, above the heads of the packed crowd, a gallows stood against the gay blue of the sky. And upon those gallows a body swung with slow deliberation, like a grotesque pendulum.