The Prince’s Bride (2 page)

“I did not tell you everything just now,” she continued. “We lost more than a neighbor.
Both my older brothers … very early during Bonaparte’s campaigns.”

Nicholas’s dark brows pulled together in a frown. “So your family … they are Bonapartists?”

She shook her head. “Not anymore. It’s been years since that Corsican tyrant had a
single shred of loyalty from us. We are relieved the king is back on the throne, but
my father—” She paused again. “—he is not the same man he once was. He has taken to
gambling and drinking.”

Nicholas raised her hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly. “I am sorry to hear that,
Véronique. I know what it’s like to lose someone.”

Her heart warmed at the kindness in his words, and for a moment she forgot what she
was doing here. All that seemed to matter was the way he made her
feel
—like a woman who was meant to be loved.

By him.

But this was not love.

Still … there was something strangely enchanting about this encounter.

“You are referring to your father, the king?” she asked, in response to his last comment,
for it was a well-known fact that the king of Petersbourg had been lethally poisoned
the previous year.

Nicholas continued to kiss her hand and began to journey up her wrist while she tingled
all over with pleasure. “And my mother died when I was very young. They say I took
it hard.”

“You don’t remember?”

He seemed lost in thought, or very sleepy.… “I remember everything.”

The coach rocked back and forth as they made their way to the outskirts of the city.

“God, I’m tired all of a sudden,” he said as he reached out to pull her into his arms.
“Come here, I want to hold you.”

She snuggled closer and rested her cheek on his shoulder.

“You smell good,” he whispered as he kissed the top of her head.

He smelled good, too. Véronique turned her face into the crimson wool of his jacket,
which was decorated with a navy sash and a black belt with brass buttons. Closing
her eyes, she inhaled in the delectable scent of his body.

He was a handsome royal prince, and his clothes smelled clean and regal, like nothing
she’d ever smelled before.

She wanted to know so much more about him. If only they could continue talking this
way, but the drug was taking effect. Soon he would be unconscious, they would reach
the little farmhouse on the outskirts of the city, and everything would change. He
would not say caring words to her when he learned what she had done to him.

She sat very still for the next few minutes. She did not move a muscle, nor did she
initiate any further conversation. When the sound of his breathing grew slow and even,
she carefully lifted her head to study his profile.

What a beautiful man he was. His dark features were perfectly sculpted. He had the
enticing aura of someone born to be a woman’s dream lover, her Prince Charming in
every way. It was almost comical that he was a true prince.

In that regard, his brother, King Randolph, would no doubt take notice of his mysterious
disappearance from the Paris ball and leave no stone unturned in the quest to locate
him and punish those responsible for the abduction.

With a sudden pang of dread for all that she would face in the coming weeks, Véronique
carefully disentangled herself from Nicholas’s embrace, placed his arm gently upon
his lap, and slid across to the opposite facing seat.

She watched him for a long time and wondered what he would think of her when he discovered
her treachery.

She regretted it already, for there had been something truly extraordinary between
them this evening. It was both sexually exciting and surprisingly intimate in a way
she had not expected. As a result, this mercenary task had become a secret indulgence.
For a while, she had forgotten that this was wrong, and that she was a corrupt, false-hearted
charlatan.

If things were different, she would not have chosen this path for herself, but she
was duty-bound to her family. She could not allow their entire world to come crashing
down around them. Véronique would therefore do what was required and pray that somehow
she would emerge unscathed.

The coach pulled to a halt, and she peered out the window.

The door flew open suddenly and banged against the outside panel. Véronique frowned
at her sister, Gabrielle, who wore a black cloak with the hood pulled up to hide her
fiery red hair.

“For pity’s sake, be quiet,” Véronique whispered. “We must be careful not to wake
him.”

Gabrielle grabbed hold of the rail and swung into the dimly lit interior. She took
a seat beside Véronique and stared with fascination at Prince Nicholas, who was sprawled
out on the opposite seat like a gorgeous work of art. He slept soundly.

“How long has he been out?” Gabrielle asked.

Véronique removed her mask and gloves and rubbed her fingers over her cheeks where
the stiff fabric had been too tight. “Not long. Ten minutes perhaps?”

Gabrielle inclined her head and leaned a little closer. “Upon my word, he is deadly
handsome. How in the world did you keep your head?”

“It wasn’t easy, I assure you.”

“Did he kiss you?”

Véronique let her memory take her back to those first few moments.…

“Not on the mouth.”

Gabrielle’s eyebrows lifted. “Not on the mouth?” She spoke as if scandalized, but
Véronique knew her sister was thrilled at the possibilities. “Care to explain?”

“No,” Véronique said. “There’s no time for that. I don’t know how long he will sleep.
Did you bring the rope?”

Gabrielle pulled it from her cloak—like a rabbit out of a hat. “I’ve got it right
here. Which one of us gets to do the honors?”

Véronique immediately snatched the rope from her sister. “I caught him,” she said,
“so it’s only right that I get to bag him.”

Chapter Two

Nicholas woke to an excruciating pain in his head—a state that felt worse than death.

Not that he knew what death felt like, but it was probably better than this. He tried
to sit up.

Lord help him.…

His brain was throbbing in his skull like a hammer on a bass drum, and his stomach
was churning like the Baltic. He shut his eyes and lay back down, very still, knowing
that if he tried a second time to sit up, he would likely retch up the contents of
his stomach, and he needed to get his bearings first.

Which direction should he roll to hit the chamber pot? Or at least to avoid a bed
partner, if there was one.

He remembered enough about the night before to know that he had left the ball with
Véronique.

Véronique …

He opened his eyes and blinked up at the green silk canopy in the bright morning sunlight.
Was he in her bed? Or had she taken him to a hotel? Why couldn’t he remember?

Swallowing hard over the intense wave of nausea that rose up in him at the mere idea
of moving, he pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead and shut his eyes again.
A dizzying, throbbing sensation engulfed him. The bed was spinning like a top.

Nicholas carefully glanced in the direction of the pillow beside him, but found it
to be vacant. Thank God for that.

Squinting in the blinding sunlight streaming in through the windows, he finally managed
to lean up on an elbow and look around the unfamiliar bedchamber. The walls were papered
in a busy floral pattern, and the bed itself was an ostentatious display of extravagant
French opulence. It was ornately sculpted with images of leaves and cherubs, and covered
in shiny gilt. Positively sickening.

The windows were trimmed in heavy silk drapes and valances in a blue floral fabric
to match the walls. The patterns were more blinding than the sun.

The furniture was also very French, with a showy parade of silly china knickknacks
and vases on top of every surface.

He looked down at himself as well and saw that he was still wearing his clothes from
the night before. Minus his sword and boots.

Where the devil was he? And where was Véronique?

He took another moment to recover from his uncomfortable awakening and managed to
toss the covers aside and sit up on the edge of the bed.

The room began to spin faster, and his brain throbbed.

He glanced around for the bellpull. Ah, there it was, on the opposite side of the
bed. Slowly, he lay back and managed to roll in that direction, then put his feet
on the floor and stood, never letting go of the corner bedpost.

At last he reached the velvet-covered rope and tugged it three times. Then he lay
back down again and closed his eyes to wait.

A half hour must have passed, maybe more. He wasn’t sure. No one came.

Again, he struggled to his feet and tugged harder on the bellpull. God, he felt like
a decrepit old man. He could barely stand up straight.

Spotting a pitcher of water on the washstand, he made his way to it and poured a glass,
which he sipped slowly.

Still in a terrible state of agony, he walked to the window to look outside.

Down below, an impressive manicured garden and rectangular pond with an enormous fountain
in the center provided a spectacular view. Beyond that, in the distance, he could
see what he guessed to be the English Channel. How far had they driven last night?

The water sparkled turquoise in the sun. There were a number of ships moored in close
proximity to one another, not far from a port village.

Nicholas frowned as he wondered if Bonaparte was on one of those ships. Perhaps it
was not the English Channel. Perhaps it was the Atlantic. Was this Rochefort?

Dammit. He needed to know where he was.

Forgetting his headache and swimming stomach, he stalked to the door and grabbed hold
of the knob, only to discover that he was locked in.

He rattled and tugged at it, then slammed his shoulder up against it, but to no avail.
The exit was impenetrable.

The realization that he was a prisoner in this room struck him rather violently, but
he swept the notion aside, for surely that could not be. Perhaps Véronique only meant
to keep his presence here in her bedchamber a secret, for he was, after all, a royal
prince, and they had sneaked out of a ballroom together for a dalliance that could
hardly be called proper.

Feeling ill again and deciding that he should not sound an alarm just yet, he walked
unsteadily back to the bed and collapsed on top of the covers to wait for her return.
Hopefully by that time, the headache would have subsided and a servant would have
brought him some breakfast.

He pulled the pillow over his head and fell back to sleep almost instantly.

*   *   *

Véronique was just about to spear her roast lamb with a fork when Gabrielle came bursting
through the door.

“He is awake, and he is not happy. You had best come quickly. He is causing a ruckus.”

Véronique set down her utensils, removed her napkin from her lap, and tossed it onto
the table. Her dinner had been brought to her private chamber by the butler only a
few minutes earlier, and she wondered if anyone else had heard the commotion.

She and Gabrielle had been placed in this very remote wing of the house to watch over
the prince. Why hadn’t she heard anything? Perhaps she would need to move to a closer
room.

Following Gabrielle out into the corridor, she fought to calm her heart and prepare
herself for Prince Nicholas’s wrath. She would have to answer any questions he had
through the door, for she’d received very strict instructions to keep him contained
until Lord d’Entremont arrived on Tuesday.

That was three days from now.

As she hurried down the wide carpeted corridor, the ruckus grew louder and more violent.
It sounded as if she and Gabrielle had trapped some sort of wild beast. He was pounding
against the door and shouting like an ogre.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“I’ve had enough, damn you! Open this bloody door before I break it down and tear
someone’s throat out!”

Véronique stopped dead in her tracks and met Gabrielle’s stricken eyes. “Good heavens.”

“What did I tell you?” Gabby replied. “He is not pleased. What if he
does
break down the door? Perhaps I should fetch a weapon.”

Véronique held up a hand. “We must remain calm. I’m sure there will be no need for
weapons. I will talk to him.”

Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Who’s out there! Open the f
____
ing door!”

Véronique gasped and stepped back in horror, then recovered from her shock and strode
forward to pound her own fist on the door. “Watch your tongue, sir! There are women
out here!”

Her retort was met with silence, while her heart pummelled her rib cage and fired
her blood through her veins like a white-hot flood of terror.

“Is that you, Véronique?” he asked in a much calmer voice.

She inhaled shakily. “Yes, it is, Your Highness, and I apologize for the locked door.
Are you all right in there? Do you require anything?”

Again, her words were met with silence. She glanced at Gabrielle, who took hold of
her hand as she used to do when they were young girls and she needed comfort and reassurance
for some reason.

Véronique squeezed her hand and nodded to convey that everything would be fine. In
all honesty, however, she felt as if they had captured a lion, and the only thing
standing between them and its sharp teeth was this single wooden door.

“I’m well enough,” he replied, sounding surprisingly polite after the rather disturbing
vocal display mere seconds ago. “But why is the door locked, darling? Do you not have
a key?”

She stepped closer. “I am sorry, I do not,” she explained, and said nothing more.

He was quiet again, and she could well imagine that he was struggling to make sense
of things while listening carefully up against the door.

She nervously cleared her throat. Her body was buzzing with awareness. She felt extraordinarily
alert.