The Prince Kidnaps a Bride (9 page)

Rainger shoved past MacMurtrae.

But by the time he turned the corner behind Sorcha, she had disappeared.

W
ith her wonderful, hard-won two hundred pounds jingling in her pocket, Sorcha almost danced down the street and toward the inn recommended by Mr. MacMurtrae.

Arnou would be so pleased with her success! And surprised, too, for although he’d tried to hide his doubts, he clearly had misgivings that she could get the amount they’d decided would be appropriate. Plus she had the added satisfaction of knowing MacMurtrae would place the horses in good homes. Beneath that gruff, tough exterior, MacMurtrae was obviously a good man.

Sorcha knocked on the narrow door in the wall to which he had directed her, and when the serving girl opened it, Sorcha smiled. Careful to keep her voice at a masculine pitch, she said, “I’ve come to eat.”

The girl looked Sorcha over, then said, “All right. I’m Eveleen. This way.” Eveleen led her into a small, dim foyer decorated with two marble statues—nymphs holding water vases on their shoulders. An odd choice for an inn, but the whole place looked odd. Or rather—too nice to be a common inn.

As Sorcha followed Eveleen down a long corridor, she noted that this place was larger than it appeared. A series of closed doors lined one side of the hallway. A shut set of double doors were right in the middle of the wall on the other side. The walls were plastered, whitewashed, and decorated with framed paintings of lovely women in various stages of undress. Sorcha lingered by one, a well-rendered scene of a female bathing in a moonlit waterfall wearing nothing more than a startled expression. On the cliff above her, a man and his horse stood in shadow, looking down at the girl. His air of brooding intent made Sorcha’s heart beat faster. The woman had no chance; he would capture her and have his way with her.

“Come on.” Eveleen grabbed Sorcha’s arm and tugged. “Ye can admire the art on the way oot. There’s better stuff ahead.”

“Really?” Sorcha stumbled after her. “Because I know something about art, and that painting is amazing. It tells a story. Is it supposed to be Zeus and one of his paramours?”

“I dunna know.” Eveleen was clearly a workingwoman who wasted no time. “Ye’ll have t’ ask Madam.”

“Madam? Does she run this inn?”

“Wi’ an iron fist in a velvet glove.”

They passed an open door—a bedroom! how odd to find one on the ground floor—and the light from the open window shone on Eveleen. She was very pretty, even exotic-looking. Her clear skin was a lovely tan, her eyes were large, brown, and lined with dark lashes, and her shoulder-length hair was a magnificent mahogany color and caught at the nape of her neck with a bow. But her costume... it was very odd for a serving girl. Daring, even. Her dress was cut like a nightgown, with a low neckline, a marvelous amount of lace, and was created of a material that looked almost transparent. Perhaps the outfit might tease forth coins from stingy men’s purses.

No—Sorcha had learned a lot since she’d left the convent. Without a doubt that outfit would tease coins from
any
man’s purse.

“What’s your specialty?” Sorcha hoped this place used herbs to cook. So far on this journey Scotland’s cookery hadn’t impressed her.

“My specialty?” The girl glanced at her. “Blowing the hornpipe.”

“What’s that? Some sort of sausage dish?”

The girl laughed. “Ye could say that.” Then she stopped so quickly Sorcha, walking and gawking at yet another painting, almost ran her over. “Have ye done this before?”

“Eaten?” Surprise sent Sorcha’s tone into a more feminine register. Lowering it again, she asked, “What do you mean? Of course I’ve eaten.”

“Hmmm.” The girl ran her gaze over Sorcha. In a voice laden with suspicion, she asked, “Who sent ye?”

“MacMurtrae the horse trader.”

“Are ye sure it wasn’t the constable?”

“No.”
The constable?
Why would Eveleen think it had been the constable? “It was MacMurtrae. I just sold him two horses. Well, a horse and a pony.” Sorcha couldn’t resist bragging, “I got more than he wanted to give.”

Picking up Sorcha’s hand, Eveleen examined it. A sudden, gamine grin blossomed on her lovely face, and she folded the fingers into Sorcha’s palm. “This is too guid. Madam will never forgive me if I dunna include her in the jest.”

This place just got odder and odder. “What jest?”

Walking back to the big double doors, Eveleen knocked.

A low, cultured contralto voice called, “Come in.”

Opening the doors with a flourish, Eveleen gestured Sorcha inside.

The small parlor was decorated in aqua and furnished with tastefully feminine furniture. Potted flowers grew and bloomed in massive porcelain vases. Heavy drapes covered the windows, and candles lit the room. Their dancing flames illuminated the face of the extraordinary woman—an immense woman in height and breadth, dressed in a loose flowing robe and an all-encompassing, paint-splotched apron that emphasized her tremendous proportions. Her chins stairstepped from her chest to her face with nary a glimpse of her neck. Her jaw was square, her mouth a tiny red rosebud. Her nose was an indeterminate blob, but her eyes... her wise brown eyes reminded Sorcha of Mother Brigette.

The lady stood before an easel, holding a small brush laden with scarlet paint, and the acrid odor of mineral spirits mixed with the scent of flowers.

Posed against a background created by blue velvet stood a young woman of perhaps twenty-five, clad in nothing more than a flower over one ear and a sheet tied at one hip. She stood in silhouette, her blond hair rippling down her back, her arms outstretched to capture some unseen treasure.

Sorcha’s jaw dropped. She knew her grandmother would tell her that princesses were never nonplussed, but color climbed in her cheeks and she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the extraordinary scene.

Tear her gaze away? She couldn’t even blink.

“This is Madam Pinchon.” Eveleen shut the door behind her and leaned against it. “Madam, this youth”—she winked at Madam Pinchon—“came t’ the back door asking for something t’ eat.”

“Did he indeed?” Madam was the owner of the contralto voice—and, from the work on the canvas, also the artist of the paintings in the corridor. The canvas showed a pale nymph, surrounded the blue shadows of trees, reaching for a silver moon.

Enthusiasm swept away Sorcha’s awkwardness. “You’re a marvelous talent. But you don’t need me to tell you that.”

“Nevertheless, I appreciate the compliment.” Madam extended a hand.

Sorcha took it and noted the short fingers, the broad palm, and spatulate fingernails with pigment under the cuticles. “Salt of the earth,” she whispered under her breath.

Madam laughed, a full, hearty laugh. “Exactly.”

“Madam has the sharpest ears in Scotland, so be careful what ye say,” Eveleen advised.

The girl with the upraised arms spoke. “She knows more than any of us care t’ have revealed. But she is most discreet about disclosing it.”

“You, on the other hand, are not at all discreet about my secrets,” scolded Madam. “I prefer my victims unaware.”

“Victim?” Sorcha tried to take a step back, but Madam still held her hand.

“It’s simply an expression.” Madam released her. “I would never hurt you.”

Sorcha believed her. With her voice, her size, her presence, it was impossible not to. But she also realized—this was not an inn.

She just couldn’t put her finger on what it was.

The posing girl shifted uncomfortably. “Please, Madam, can I put my arms doon now?”

“We’re done for today.” Madam cleaned the brush with mineral spirits. When the girl started to walk across the room, seemingly unconscious of her nudity, Madam said, “Helen, clothe yourself. There’s no need to discomfit our young client.”

Helen stopped and blinked at Madam. “Ye think I’m going t’ discomfit this youth? Because all the fellows I know would gladly pay t’ see me—” Helen focused on Sorcha. Her green eyes grew wide and astonished, and she said, “Oh!”

“Yes.” Madam washed her hands in the basin beside her brushes. “Oh.”

Sorcha looked down at herself. Had she forgotten to button something? Then she caught Helen exchanging a smile with Eveleen. They seemed to speak without words, and in a way, this place reminded Sorcha of the convent.

Yet it wasn’t a convent.

“Young man, sit.” Madam lowered herself into a large armchair and waved Sorcha to the one opposite. When Sorcha had obeyed, she asked, “Do you believe in the art of palmistry—that is, of reading your fortune in your hand?”

“It’s nonsense,” Sorcha said firmly. Then she wavered. “But I have an immense curiosity about my future.”

“Then you’re in luck.” Madam lifted one plump finger. “I’m a gypsy. What I see is not nonsense, and if you cross my palm with silver I can read your fortune. Have you any silver?”

“Yes, I have a lot of silver.” Sorcha couldn’t resist. She had to brag again. “I made a wonderful sale of two horses—not horses, really, but a pony and a horse—”

Madam waved her to a stop. “First—tell no one, no one at all, when you possess a wealth of silver. You never know who can hear you, and you put your life at stake. And second—all it takes for me to read your palm is one small coin. Do you have a small coin?”

Abashed, Sorcha sorted through the heavy pouch at her belt, brought out the smallest coin she could find, and handed it to Madam. “You remind me of Mother Brigette.”

“Mother Brigette?” Madam placed the coin on the polished table beside her. “The mother superior of the convent at Monnmouth?”

Eveleen gave a snort, then covered her mouth with her hand.

Helen giggled and carried a candelabra over to place on the table beside them.

Madame’s small eyes were alive with clever amusement.

Their glee hurt Sorcha’s feelings and put her on edge. “Do you know Mother Brigette?”

“Yes.” Madam’s laughter died. “A woman of kindness and charity. She suffered much tragedy in the loss of her family.”

Sorcha’s wariness faded. Mother Brigette had made it clear few people knew of her misfortune. That Madam did meant somehow, sometime their paths had crossed. For Mother Brigette to confide in Madam meant Mother Brigette had respect for the huge lady, and that knowledge made Sorcha comfortable enough to place her hand in the cup of Madam’s.

Madam turned it over, looked at the fingernails, then outlined the shape of Sorcha’s palm. “Danger hems you all around.”

Sorcha blinked in astonishment. “Yes!”

“But you miraculously survive. That’s because—look at the stubbornness in this hand!”

Madam wasn’t right about that. “I’m not stubborn. I’m most amenable.”

“That’s what you
think
you are, not
what
you are. The last years have changed you and fired the metal in your soul.” Madam smiled as if well pleased. “You refuse to submit to death no matter how closely it presses you.” Then she started. She turned Sorcha’s hand toward the light of the candles. She paled.

“What is it, Madam?” Helen leaned close. “What do you see?”

Sorcha looked from one woman to the other in alarm.

“Your fingertips... they show the signs... you have touched death!” Madam stared at her. “When? When were you ill? When were you hurt? Your palm shows no sign of that!”

“I’m never ill and I’ve never been hurt. Not seriously.” Ridiculous that Madam should believe such a thing. Yet...

She was buried alive.

And she didn’t care. Somewhere close, water seeped into a pool, and the slow drip which had once driven her mad now contributed to her indifference. Her world was sorrow and loneliness. She was dying, and she welcomed the end of desolation, of grief, of anguish.

Her fingertips touched the skeletal hand of Death...
 

That dream. The dream that had brought her out of a sound sleep and haunted her ever since.

“Then you went with another to the threshold of heaven—or hell.”

Madam’s eyes stared hypnotically into Sorcha’s, trying to force her to acknowledge something Sorcha didn’t want to talk about. Didn’t want to remember. “No. I didn’t.”

“Did you bring him back?” Madam whispered.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and you don’t, either!” Sorcha closed her hand into a fist.

Eveleen and Helen gasped and looked warily at Madam.

So people didn’t usually speak so bluntly to Madam. But Madam shouldn’t be insisting when Sorcha wanted her to
stop.

Madam straightened. “What temper!”

Sorcha took a calming breath. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

“No, I meant here.” As if nothing awkward had happened, Madam opened Sorcha’s hand and pointed to the pad under her little finger. “You have a terrible temper.”

“I don’t have a temper.”
Madam must be reading the wrong hand.
“I am most affable. Everyone says so.”

Madam traced a line that bit deep across Sorcha’s thumb. “You are too quick to judge.”

“That’s not true, either. I think things through.”