The Wild Princess (30 page)

Thirty-seven

At first Louise wasn't certain of the source of the noises. The uproar that invaded the tranquil garden where she sat reading with Lorne sounded like a cross between braying donkeys, caterwauling felines, and some otherworldly beast. She had to listen for a bit before she began to pick out two distinct human voices—one a full octave deeper than the other. As they came nearer, she finally made out actual words of an old Scottish drinking song:

 

Towerin' in gallant frame,

Scotland my mountain hame,

High may your proud standards glor-i-ously wave,

Land o' my high endeavor,

Land o' the shining ri-ver, Land o' my heart forever,

Scotland the brave!

 

Then she knew.

Although it was still early in the afternoon, this could only be the drunken carousing of men. Two in particular.
Not again
, she thought.

Lorne shot to his feet and stood at the ready, as if to protect her from armed invaders.

“It's all right.” She touched his arm as she set her book aside and rose from the stone bench. “I have a feeling I know who it is.”

John Brown and Stephen Byrne lurched around the hedgerow, arm in arm, bleating out another verse she suspected they'd made up themselves. Something about bloody battles fought and foes vanquished in Londontown.

Lorne stared with incredulity at the American. “How any of the ladies of the court can find
that man
appealing . . . ,” he muttered.

It was all she could do to keep from laughing. At Lorne's comment, as well as at the incongruity of what appeared to be a burgeoning friendship. The antagonism between Byrne and the Scot had been so constant and extreme, she'd never imagined them in such a companionable, albeit filthy and disheveled state.

If her mother saw them like this . . . She stepped forward, blocking their progress toward the main wing of the palace. “Gentlemen?”

“Oh,” Byrne said, staggering to a halt with a sheepish grin. “It's a . . . a princess.”

“That it is, my bonnie lad. A royal personage of great beauty. Your Highness.” Brown bowed tipsily, but his sloppy smile faded as he took in a solemn Lorne. “And her sweet little . . . whatever.”

“Sh-sh-sh,” Byrne said, finger to his lips. “Is a secret.”

“Not much of one!” Brown bellowed, laughing so hard he pressed a hand to his belly as if it hurt.

“You are both disgustingly drunk,” Louise accused them. “Don't pay any attention to them, Lorne. Goodness. In the middle of the day and in the queen's garden of all places. What's wrong with the two of you?”

Byrne removed his companion's arm from his shoulders and stood to attention, favoring one leg. “Right you are, ma'am. We are sloshed.”

“In-inebriated,” said Brown.

“Seven or eight sheets to the very wind.” Byrne spiraled a hand skyward.

“Good lord.” Louise looked at her husband, who seemed no less perplexed than she. It wasn't unusual for Brown to carry an alcoholic aura on his person through the day. But she'd only ever seen him truly drunk on a few occasions, and then just late at night after her mother was off to her bed. The only time she'd seen any evidence of Byrne's drinking at all was in Scotland, the morning after his brawl in the pub with Brown. “What has happened? Why this ridiculous display?”

“Cele-brating,” Byrne stated. He swiped his Stetson, much the worse for wear, from his head and smiled at it crookedly.

“Defeated the emenn-emy,” the Scot said.

She bent down to better look up into Byrne's eyes and waited for them to focus on her. “What enemy?”

“Dirty Darvey,” he said. “Dead. Long story. Need to sit down now.” His knees began to fold under him and, if Lorne and Brown hadn't held him up, he would have collapsed to the ground.

Louise spoke to the only sober male in the group. “Lorne, we'd best get them both inside and cleaned up before my mother sees them. She'll have a fit.”

“As well she should,” he grumbled. “Who is this Darvey, and have they really killed the man?”

“Later,” she said.

Lorne went ahead to chase the servants out of the lower kitchen. Once she and Lorne had maneuvered the pair inside where there was access to water and soap, Louise got to work cleaning up Stephen Byrne, while Lorne stood by with towels as Brown gave his hands and face a scrubbing and told the story of their battle with the bawd's gang.

She wasn't sure how much of the tale might be true, and how much a product of the Scot's love of drama. But one thing was clear to her—Stephen Byrne had risked his life to protect Amanda's family. Indeed, he'd saved the life of
her son,
the only child Louise could ever expect to have.

With bruised and scraped hands and faces clean, the extent of the pair's injuries seemed less life threatening than they'd at first appeared. “Now off with your shirts,” she said.

Byrne smiled at her. “Thoughtyou'dneverask,” he slurred, and reached for her.

“Stop that.” She smacked away his hands and caught Lorne's curious gaze hesitating over her then shifting to Byrne. Whatever he was thinking, she hadn't the time to find out. She frowned at the gash in Byrne's left trouser leg, which appeared to be crusted with dried blood. “What's this now?”

He shrugged. “Crowbar. Hurts”—he hiccupped—“like hell.”

She tried to roll up the pant leg. When that didn't work she peered inside the slashed fabric but could see nothing. “Drop the pants.”

Byrne grinned.

She cast Lorne a desperate look. “He's hopeless.” When she turned back again, her mother's agent had collapsed against a cabinet, eyes closed, his beard-stubbled face pale as porcelain. While he was passed out and harmless, she ripped off the pant leg at the tear. “Oh my, that is bad.”

“Don't think it's broke,” Brown mumbled, resting his head in his hands. “He was walkin' on it. To the pub and back here.”

“Was he now?” She examined the purpling flesh and jagged wound. Best if it were seen by a physician, but perhaps it would heal on its own. She did all she could to clean up the rest of him, trying to ignore the little spurts of heat through her fingertips as they grazed his lovely muscled abdomen and chest.

It occurred to her, as she heard more of the story from Brown, that Stephen Byrne might have died in that alley had the Scot not come along when he did. The thought sickened her. Moreover,
she
would have been the cause of his death. Had she known Darvey wasn't just a bully capable of picking on the weak, that he was truly a dangerous killer, she'd never have asked Byrne to confront the man.

Louise cleaned him up as best she could then ordered Brown and Lorne to carry him to one of the empty servants' rooms in the attic, to sleep off the drink. She followed along, thinking it was probably a good thing he was drunk. The alcohol numbed the pain, for the time being.

When the other two men left the room, Louise lingered behind. She tenderly pulled the sheet up over Stephen Byrne, smoothed her fingertips through the black wing of hair fallen over his forehead. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I'm so very sorry.” Then she sat down to watch over him while he slept.

Thirty-eight

Byrne woke with a start. He flung a defensive arm wide and bolted upright—disoriented, lungs rasping. No one came at him with knife or cudgel, but needles of pain jabbed his knee.

On a bed. He was on a bed, alone in a room . . . somewhere. He fell back down into the linens with a groan, lay still, waited for the wretched knee and dregs of the nightmare to subside. But now his ribs ached from the sudden movement. And his head throbbed like a military drum. He squinted down at his body. Someone had undressed him, but for breeches, and taped his knee and ribs. His face felt stiff with bruising. Every muscle in his body called out to him.

He had imagined himself back in the alley, set upon by a dozen pipe-wielding thugs. Then he recalled that Darvey was dead. And, unless he was still mixing dreams with reality, there had been a bizarre interval of camaraderie with the Scot that must have resulted in his current hungover state.

Slowly events reeled back through his mind. He recalled Brown retrieving his Colt from the grate, hauling him to his feet.

Byrne looked around the dim, silent room, trying to place himself. The space was not much larger than a closet, the bed narrow, single window darkened with a heavy muslin curtain. The walls were plastered and clean but bare, except for a plain wooden crucifix over the door, as if left by a previous occupant or put there as a suggestion of piety to a future resident. A monk's cell? More likely servant's quarters.

But of course. Brown, or whoever had helped him out of his clothes, and into bandages and bed, wouldn't have snugged him up in Buckingham's family wing. They'd hidden him away, hoping Victoria wouldn't discover he'd been fighting again. And yet he wasn't concerned. It was fighting Brown that had gotten him into trouble before. Not fighting alongside the Scot, for the protection of the queen's daughter and grandson. Although, he was sure, Victoria would never publicly recognize Edward Locock.

Slowly, muscle by tender muscle, Byrne eased himself into a semitolerable sitting position and shifted his legs off the side of the bed. He let his body adjust to this new angle, then looked down and saw a sodden bundle of toweling.
Ice,
he thought. Someone had taken care to apply cold compresses to his injured knee while he slept. That was probably why the swelling was no worse than it was now.

He tried to stand and felt elated when he was able to put weight on the leg. A minor miracle.

Someone had cleaned and hung on a peg his clothing—minus pants, which must have been ruined. They'd been replaced by another pair with a drawstring at the waist that looked like something a gardener might wear. He relieved himself in the chamber pot then dressed, cuffing the too-long trousers. It took him a good twenty minutes to make himself moderately presentable.

He heard someone on the stairs outside his door and tensed. A moment later a soft knock sounded at the door.

He hobbled over and opened it.

Louise stood there, her face aglow, her lovely golden brown hair brushed loose and shining down her back. She looked even younger than her years. She smiled. “You're standing.”

“I am. Damn proud of that.”

She held up a tray arranged with what appeared to be a fortune in silver-domed dishes. “I thought you might be hungry.”

“Starving, but you didn't need—”

“I did need to. What little I would have paid you to watch out for the Lococks wasn't sufficient for risking your life as you did.”

“I doubt it was that serious.”

Louise gave him an “oh, please” look and brushed past him and into the room. She looked around, seemed startled to see no table to set it upon. It occurred to Byrne how heavy the blessed thing must be and he kicked himself for not having taken the tray from her right away. He pulled the one straight-back chair over near the bed then took the tray from her and set it on the chair's seat—an improvised table.

She said, “I heard enough of Mr. Brown's recital of the fight to come to the conclusion you very nearly died in the line of duty, Mr. Byrne.” She met his eyes. “Stephen,” she amended.

“I am, I admit, in debt to the Scot. But it's possible I'd have survived.”

“Well, that's an optimistic view.” Her laugh, to his ears, held a near hysterical edge. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears as she turned away from opening the curtains to let in the sunlight.

Byrne sat on the bed and smiled when he noticed two cups on the tray. He patted the mattress. Louise sat demurely on its very edge, a good two feet away from him.

He poured tea, lifted the lid of one of the servers, and found thick rashers of bacon and fat sausages.

“There are hard-cooked eggs under the other cover,” she said then lifted a cloth napkin to reveal slabs of toasted bread under pools of butter.

“A meal fit for a king,” he murmured over his split lip. It would hurt to eat, but he was famished.

“I seriously am most grateful,” she said. “If that dreadful man had got into their house, had put his hands on Amanda ever again . . .” She shuddered visibly and blinked at him. “You cannot know what she went through before she and I met.”

“I think I have an idea,” he said.

“And the child.”

“Your son.”

“Yes,
mine
.” She blew out a little breath. Of relief, or merely acknowledging the truth? “My . . . son. Though we shall never speak of him as such in the presence of others.”

“Understood. But he will learn someday.”

“Will he?” She frowned. “Amanda thinks we should tell him when he's older. I believe such knowledge would only cause him pain, and much trouble. Better that he believes he's the son of a fine London physician than the bastard of a reckless princess.”

He smiled at her. She was so beautiful, so young. Yet she'd been through so much. And all because she refused to confine herself to the role her family dictated for her.

He had heard the way ladies and gentlemen of the court, and the queen's subjects, spoke of Louise. The “wild princess.” The young royal who fought her parents' authority at every turn. She demanded the right to study art with commoners and—even more shocking—to sit in the same classes with men and learn what they learned. The princess who caroused in pubs and smoking dens with her Bohemian friends. Until something happened to cause her to settle down.

Gossip said Louise finally grew into adulthood and accepted her royal role. How could she not, with Victoria's thumb on her? And now that she was married, they expected her husband would take over the reins and control her. He'd give her children to further anchor her to a respectable life. Like a ship caught up in a gale, if you took down her sails and threw out enough anchors, she'd eventually weather the storm. That's what they thought.

Little do they know.

Byrne watched her sip her tea, select one of the smaller strips of bacon, and nibble it. She gave the appearance of being utterly at peace. But beneath the outward calm he sensed extraordinary effort. Against what forces was Louise fighting now?

He ate without speaking, forcing himself not to gulp down the food all at once. It tasted so good. He felt so good!

That was the best part of a fight. After it was over, you felt more alive than ever, because you had feared, and nearly known, the alternative. Because you'd straddled the line between life and death.

“The Fenians,” she said, out of the blue.

“Yes?” He lifted his eyes to fix on hers and felt as if he was tumbling into them.

“You are still on their trail? Still concerned that they will strike again?”

“I am, on both counts.”

She finished her bacon in one bite then stared out the window for a long while, as if in contemplation of the future. “Why are you doing this?”

Wasn't it obvious? “It's my job.”

“No, I mean, this isn't your fight, Stephen. You are an American, not a subject of the Queen of England. You are putting your life on the line daily for us. These are dangerous men, desperate men. They will stop at nothing.” Her voice quavered with emotion. “Whether or not their cause is valid, what they
do
is not right. They kill innocent women and children who happen to be in the path of their bombs. They won't hesitate to murder a man who has vowed to stop them.”

“True.” He studied her profile. It was so finely shaped, she might have been etched in glass or carved from pearly onyx. It seemed right that the sculptress should herself be perfect.

“I am going to ask the queen to dismiss you,” she said.

“What?” He stared at her. Of all the things she might have said to him, nothing could have shocked him more.

“I will tell her you fought again with Brown. Convince her that you are a dangerous influence on her Scot. She will have no choice but to send you home.”

He threw back his head and laughed.

She seemed startled by his reaction and pulled away to stare at him in confusion.

“You would
lie
to your mother to have me fired? Why?” Then it struck him. She thought she was protecting him. “You can't believe that I would live my life any differently back in America than I am doing here.”

He saw the fear fill her eyes again. “I can't watch you . . . watch you
die
for us!”

“But you can send me packing and never see me again? Is that what you want?”

She stood up abruptly, made it halfway to the door before he caught her around the waist. Byrne pulled her into his arms. He knotted his fingers through her hair, tugged her head back to turn her face up to meet his. He kissed her fiercely and long, and he didn't release her delicious mouth from beneath his until he felt her body go limp in his embrace and she was fighting for air.

“Oh no!” she cried, staring at him, then kissed him back with equal urgency.

Within seconds, his soldier's mind took over.
Might we be discovered?
Unlikely in this rarely used wing of the castle.
Will anyone miss her?
Yes, possibly, but why look here?
Who knows I am here?
Brown at least, maybe a servant. Then he remembered Lorne. The marquess had been here too, at least he thought so. A vague memory was coming back to him. Not good.
Alternative locations for bedding the lady?
None.
Solution: barricade.

Byrne spun her around, gripped her shoulders, and without a word, sat her on the bed. He shifted the tea tray from chair seat to floor then wedged the chair back under the latch to prevent it from releasing or the door from swinging inward.

Satisfied, he turned to face Louise, half expecting her to have de-materialized. But she was still there, just as he'd left her. Even better, no questions clouded her beautiful eyes.

“I think Lorne knows,” she whispered.

His already racing heart leapt. His gut clenched, which made his ribs ache. “About us?”

“About me, at least. That my nature is too passionate to stay faithful to my vows.”

“He took vows too. If he cannot keep his—”

“Then why should I? It's not that simple.”

The pain in her gaze broke his heart. How could any man not throw himself at her feet and beg for the honor of making love to her?

He hesitated, stepped closer to her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” she said, opening her lovely arms to him. “No talk. Not now.”

He went to her, fell down onto his one good knee, a supplicant. His arms closed around her waist. He laid his head in her lap—all memory of other women and other times gone.

“I have wanted you from the moment I first saw you,” he whispered into the blue satin ocean of her skirt.

“And I you,” she said, her voice husky with emotion.

She'd said no talk, but he couldn't stop himself. This was too important to be done carelessly or without letting her know his concerns. “I am not your Donovan.”

She laughed. “No. Indeed you are not.”

“I won't be his substitute.”

“Do stop talking and—” She brought his face up from her lap with her hands and leaned forward to kiss him softly, nibbling his lips again and again until he was driven to press his mouth hungrily over hers. Tasting her. Glorying in the flavors of her breath, the scent of her body.
Rose petals and lavender,
he thought.

He pressed her down onto the narrow mattress and disheveled linens, stretching his body over hers, holding his weight above her for fear of crushing her. But she would allow not even air to separate them. Reaching up, she wrapped her arms around his chest and brought him down hard on top of her. He winced at the twinge through his ribs.

“I want to feel you.
All
of you. I am not a fragile woman.”

She was, in point of fact, the strongest woman he'd ever known. In spirit, in heart, in soul. And even through her clothing he felt her softly defined feminine muscle.