The Prince of Ravenscar (39 page)

“Richard is quite wrong,” Sophie said. “And you are a credulous fool, Leah.”

“What do you know, you ignorant little twit?”

“I am not a twit, nor will I be ignorant for much longer. I am magnificent.”

Leah waved her fist at them. “What is this, Prince? You can't make me believe you will wed this pathetic little girl.”

“I am not a little girl. I am twenty years old.”

Julian laughed. “She will be my wife. I quite like the sound of that, Sophie. My
wife.
”

“That is not possible.” Leah stared hard at Julian. “Not Roxanne?”

“No, not Roxanne. She and Devlin are going to wed.”

“She is not worthy to marry a duke's heir! She is only a baron's daughter.”

“She is an heiress, Aunt Leah.”

“She is no more an heiress than I am!”

Sophie smiled up at Julian. “When she was only seventeen, her father, Lord Roche, realized she had a knack for selecting profitable investments. He gave her her entire dowry, and she tripled it by the time she was my age. My grandfather told me of this himself. He is so very proud of her. So, yes, I know she is an heiress.”

Leah shouted, “I don't believe that. I never heard of such a thing. Father simply said that to make her sound more important than she is. An heiress? Impossible.”

“I wonder why your own father did not tell you, ex-relative.”

Leah paused, regrouped. “Even if she is an heiress, it makes no difference, the Monroe family will never accept her. She will be spat upon, turned away; she will probably become his mistress. She should excel at that role, what with her wicked red hair.

“Of the three Radcliffe sisters, I am the most beautiful, the one most sought after and admired. I am Lady Merrick. Why, look at who Bethanne married—that ridiculous vicar who proses on and on, boring everyone senseless. And he only managed to produce you, a simpleton girl with no pretensions to anything at all. Your mother was a fool.”

Sophie felt violence brim to overflowing, rising up to choke her. She tried to jerk away from Julian, but he held her tight. She shook her fist at Leah. “Don't you talk about my mother like that. She was magic, my mother, and she was good and kind and loving. She never said a bad word about you, even when you deserved to have your rear end kicked.”

Leah's breasts were heaving with anger. “Be quiet, you idiot.
Magnificent?
You're nothing but a bad jest; the prince will see the truth of you soon enough, hopefully before he weds you.” She whirled away from them and began pacing the drawing room, muttering to herself over and over, “Everything is wrong, everything. What am I to do?”

EARLY MORNING

 

 

 

R
oxanne gingerly touched her fingers to her jaw, and that made her realize she wasn't bound, much to her relief. Her jaw wasn't broken, thank God, but it hurt. She realized she was lying on a dirty narrow cot, shoved up against a wall. She slowly sat up, felt the room spin a bit, and held perfectly still until it passed. She swung her legs over the edge of the cot, rose, weaved like a drunkard for a moment, then the punch of dizziness passed.

She was in a small room, with only one old slatted chair and a filthy chamber pot in the corner. There was a single window, so dirty she couldn't see clearly through it, could see only that it was daylight. Nothing else. Where was she?

She walked across the narrow space to the single door. She turned the handle, but it didn't move. The door was locked.

She remembered very well what had happened. One of the men had struck Devlin on the head. She closed her eyes for a moment and prayed.
Please let him be all right, please, he has to be all right.
She drew a deep breath. If he was all right, she knew he'd be frantic for her, Julian and Sophie as well. They'd be searching for her. But who was there to tell them where she was? No one, and that meant getting away from this place was up to her.

Three men had taken her: two sounded like copies of Orvald Manners, and the third, he'd sounded like a gentleman.

None of them had sounded the least bit like Richard, even if he'd tried to disguise his voice. No, it was someone else, and she vaguely remembered he had sounded familiar to her.

Still, didn't Richard have to be behind her kidnapping? There was simply no one else, was there? She remembered the man had said he wanted to leave as soon as she woke up. Leave for where? This couldn't be good. Her mouth went as dry as sand. Fear froze her to the dirty floor. She started shaking.
No, no, stop it.
There was a way out of here, and all she had to do was find it. Wherever here was. It didn't take long to realize there was nothing to use as a weapon. If there'd been anything of use in here, the men had removed it when they'd brought her here.

That left the window. It was narrow, but she could get through it. It was too high so she picked up the chair and placed it against the wall. She climbed up and tried to shove the window up, but it didn't move. She looked very closely. It was very narrow, indeed. Well, she wasn't all that grand a size; she'd fit through it, she had to. Why wouldn't it open?

How many years had it been since anyone had opened it? Probably not since the turn of the century.

She heard men's voices outside. She quickly moved the chair back and threw herself down on the cot and closed her eyes.

The door opened. She heard heavy footsteps, men's footsteps, coming closer. She held herself perfectly still. Could they hear her heart pounding?
Breathe easily, slowly.

“Looks like she's still dreamin' of fine gowns and waltzin' wi' dukes.”

“Ye struck 'er purty 'ard, Crannie.”

“Come on, Vic, I only gives 'er a little tap. Jest look wot she did to me face, scratched me up good. I'll have no end o' problems get-tin' the ladies to admire me now.”

“As if any female worth 'er salt would ever toss up 'er skirts for ye. Now, what she did to me, that was bad—kickin' me in me ballocks, it fair to made me puke up me guts.”

“Shut up, both of you,” said the third man. His voice was perfectly pleasant and cold as ice. He was coming toward her.

She felt his warm breath, he was that close to her face. It was so difficult not to move, to keep her breathing slow, barely there, as if still unconscious. She very nearly flinched when his fingers lightly touched her face.

But she wanted to. There was something one of the men was wearing, or maybe it was too much accumulated dirt. She wanted to laugh.
What's wrong with you? Now, hold perfectly still.

She heard him say from above her, his voice meditative now, “She is quite beautiful.” It wasn't the words he said but that thoughtful way he'd said them, like he was considering carving her up like meat for his dinner. It scared her to her toes. Somehow she didn't think he'd be like Orvald Manners, all rough and dirty and stupid. Who was he? “All that white flesh,” he said, “I wonder.”

“Aye, a purty little thing,” said Crannie.

“Yer too ugly fer 'er to admire,” Vic said, and she heard him buffet Crannie, on the shoulder or on his head?

“Ey! Wot's ye do that fer?”

“Be quiet,” said their leader. “She should be waking up soon. Her jaw is turning an ugly purple. You did strike her too hard, Crannie.” Again, she felt his fingers touch her jaw, and the sharp pain nearly made her cry out. “At least you didn't break her jaw.”

She could feel the weight of his stare on her face. Who was he?

The man said in that same thoughtful voice, “The prince loves his mother, enjoys pleasing her, yet he chose this one, not the tender little pullet his mother served up to him on a platter. I believe he thought this one was a shining light, filled with joy and laughter, everything a man dreamed about.”

“A man niver does wot 'is ma wants 'im to,” said Crannie, sadly.

Vic said, “Once she wakes up, wot's ye go in' to do wi' our little bird?”

She felt his attention shift from her.
Thank you, God.
Where had she heard his voice? She felt stupid, her head fuzzy.

“That is none of your business.”

She heard him stride from the room.

“Somethin' not good, I'll wagers,” said Vic. “Poor little pigeon.” And the two of them left her alone. She heard the door lock.

She forced herself to lie quietly for several more minutes until the silence weighed so heavy she couldn't bear it anymore.

She set the chair very quietly against the wall beneath the window and climbed up. She shoved and pushed, but the window wouldn't move.

She sneezed, froze, her eyes darting to the door, so afraid she whimpered, deep in her throat. But they didn't come back.

She fetched the chamber pot, prayed, and slammed it against the dirty glass. It sounded like a cannon firing. The glass shattered, shards flying everywhere.

She didn't hear any shouts, any running feet.

She dug out shards of glass from the window frame, cut herself, but it didn't matter. Once the window opening was clear, she jumped. She was praying hard when she managed to grab the outside of the window frame and hoist herself through the opening.

The opening was narrow. No, no, she could do this, because she wasn't wearing any petticoats. She jerked and heaved, and at last her hips went through. She fell headfirst but managed to turn before she landed on the ground below. She hit hard on her shoulder and grunted.

She didn't even consider being hurt. She jumped up and ran toward the thick forest, never looking over her shoulder, concentrating only on reaching the trees. She stopped once under cover of the maples, breathing fast and hard.
Which way to go?

She didn't realize it was raining until drops splatted on her face through the leaves, heavy, hard rain. Within seconds, she was wet to her skin. Who cared? She ran. She pushed her sodden hair off her face but didn't slow. It was a pity there was no sun to give her any clues as to where she was. She shivered, stopped for a moment, crouched down, and listened. She could see through the waving tree branches back across the open clearing to where she'd been held—a dilapidated old cottage, set by itself in a small clearing, smoke belching from its stone chimney.

There was still no sound coming from the cottage. The rainfall was heavy, so perhaps they hadn't heard the glass shattering. Could she possibly be so lucky?

No, she couldn't.

She heard a yell. They'd discovered she'd escaped. She turned and ran to her left, weaving between the trees, ducking the branches. She stumbled over some tree roots and went down to her hands and knees. Head down and panting like a dog, she stayed where she was until she could breathe more easily again. Then she jumped to her feet and ran.

She ran until she was hugging her side, the pain was so great. She didn't know if she could keep going, but she did, even though she feared her body was going to rattle apart, that or the ghastly pain in her side would make her heart stop beating and she'd be dead and nothing would matter anymore.

She heard several gunshots and more men's shouts.

Surely they didn't know which way she'd run.

The rain was coming down even harder, slashing through the thick tree branches with their spring leaves, and she shuddered with the numbing cold.

She crept behind a huge oak tree, went down on her haunches, and pressed herself against the trunk. She had to determine where they were. She tried not to pant, to breathe lightly, and she listened.

She heard crashing feet off to her left.
How close?
Then she realized they were coming toward her. No, that wasn't possible, her luck couldn't be that rotten.

She waited, still breathing so hard and fast it hurt her stomach. The pain in her side lessened a bit, but it still pulled and throbbed. She knew the longer she remained motionless, straining to hear, the more her arms and legs would cramp up. And the longer she stayed motionless, the more she knew the fear would grind her down, the fear would settle into her very bones. She couldn't let it. She wasn't helpless, she wasn't.

She jumped to her feet, staggered because she was so cold, and realized the last thing she should do now was run—they'd somehow been able to follow her through the forest because they'd seen signs of her mad passage. So be it. She began to walk, making her way very slowly, even though her legs cramped with cold. She tried to move silently, tried not to leave a trail.

She changed her direction several times, zigzagging until she stopped dead in her tracks—the trees were beginning to thin. No choice, she had to keep going.

In another twenty yards she stood at the edge of the forest and looked at the open expanse in front of her. Directly ahead, not fifty feet distant, was the channel, a thick curtain of rain blending with the gray turbulent water, making the world look like an endless filthy gray curtain.

She swore the rain slackened. Was that a sliver of light on the horizon, the sun trying to show through? She slapped her arms, trying to keep the numbness from turning her into a block of ice.
Which way to go?
She stared up the coast and down, but she didn't see anything familiar. No village, no houses, not a single cow, nothing. She couldn't remain in the cover of trees. No, she had to find her way down to the beach. She'd be safer there than running in the open.