The Prince Kidnaps a Bride Read online

  The door of her chambers opened beneath his touch, and he knew at once he’d come to the right place. The scent of lavender was overwhelming. Dainty feminine furniture crowded every inch of the sitting room, and the single night candle that burned in the next room showed a rumpled, massive bed with a replica of the ornate crown carved on the headboard.

  As he made his way toward the bedchamber, the scent of lavender grew stronger. He stepped across the threshold. The queen’s bedchamber was huge and high, not the most comfortable room in the palace, but certainly the grandest, and that was what mattered to that damned old queen. He glided forward, toward the mound of blankets that covered her reclining figure.

  He had dreamed of this moment. In the depths of his prison cell, where the light seldom shone, where the gray walls closed in and the ceiling was not quite tall enough for him to stand—he had dreamed of being here, staring at the old besom and knowing that at last he was going to get revenge.

  For one moment, his eyes clouded and the blood thrummed in his veins. He took a long, slow breath. His head steadied.

  And behind him, he heard the hammer of a pistol click into place.

  Swinging around, he saw the white-haired lady sitting in a chair by the window, wrapped head to foot in a wool blanket, the barrel of her pistol protruding from its folds.

  In her hoarse old voice, she commanded, “Put your hands up, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  Distantly he noted at least two bloodstains on her Aubusson carpet—he didn’t make the mistake of disbelieving her. Lifting his hands, he watched as she reached for the bell cord, and said, “But Your Majesty, don’t you recognize your only godson?”

  She paused. She stared at him.

  He knew what she saw. His gray rags hung on his bony form. His eyes burned with fervor. A beard covered his chin and a mouth that had forgotten how to smile. And he smelled. Smelled like a man who hadn’t seen soap and water for years.

  He was not at all the noble edifice her godson should be.

  “What are you babbling about?” she asked.

  He bowed, as best he could with his arms up. “Prince Rainger de Leonides, at your service.”

  “You insolent imbecile. My godson was shot dead by the revolutionaries eight years ago.”

  “The rumors of my demise are greatly exaggerated.”

  She gave a brief cackle and said, “Light the candles.” The clawlike, bejeweled hand that held the pistol was so steady she might have been twenty, and not the eighty-two he knew her to be. “Move carefully. I would hate to get nervous and shoot my godson by mistake.” Disdain dripped from her tone, but she didn’t shout for the guards.

  He did move carefully, taking a taper and lighting it in the fire, then igniting as many of the candelabras as he could see.

  “Turn around,” she said.

  He faced her. She was old, so old, and so thin. Her once-handsome face had fallen into a mass of wrinkles. Her fingers were twisted with rheumatism. But he knew she wouldn’t surrender. At the age of seventy-six, she had fought back the revolutionaries. She had reclaimed power, and now, six years later, she wouldn’t surrender to anyone. Certainly not someone who had broken into her castle. Not someone she imagined to be an imposter.

  She searched his features, seeking some confirmation that he told the truth.

  Her face fell, and again she reached for the bell cord.

  He tensed, and in a cold, dead voice said, “I’ll attack if I have to.”

  “Very princely,” she said with a sneer, but she drew her hand back. Sighing, she gestured to the window. “I saw you coming. I always see them coming, these noble young women tripping bravely across the courtyard with tales of being one of my long-lost granddaughters. You’re the first man to think of this angle, of claiming to be Rainger. What made you think it would work?”

  She sounded so weary he pitied her. He knew better; by sheer ruthlessness, Queen Claudia had survived the revolutions that wracked their two countries. But on his desperate journey through the countryside, he’d heard the gossip. Her son, the king, had died. The weight of ruling rested on her skinny shoulders. And no one talked about the girls. About the princesses. “Let me light you a cigarillo,” he urged.

  “How nice of you—and how convenient for you. You would have to come close to give it to me, and what would you do then? Snap my neck?”

  He would have said her experiences had made her bitter and suspicious, but she’d always been that way. “I don’t want to snap your neck, or at least not for the reasons you imagine. You’re my only hope. I want my kingdom back. I want revenge on the rebels who killed my family and put me in prison for eight long years. And I can’t do it without your help.”

  Her heavy gray eyebrows rose in regal astonishment. “Even if you were Rainger, what makes you think I would help you?”

  Again, faintness came over him in a wave. Backing up to the table, he propped himself against it.

  “One does not sit in the presence of a queen without invitation,” she said.

  “I’m leaning.” He folded his arms. “I know you, Grandmamma. The first time I met you, you dragged me in from my perch atop the highest banner pole and whacked my legs with your cane. You said I was the only heir to Richarte, and I would take care or answer to you, for God had given me the kingdom next to yours and you wouldn’t allow me to ruin God’s plan with sheer male stupidity. Then you made me write out the whole Book of Kings from the Bible. I was six.”

  She looked thoughtful, although whether that meant she remembered or not, he couldn’t begin to guess. Mildly, she asked, “Do you think I’ve changed?”

  “Not particularly. You look as ancient as you did the first time I saw you.”

  She gave a dry cackle. “You always were a snot-nosed little brat.” The pistol drooped, and she propped up her wrist with her other hand. “All right, here’s what you’ll do. You’ll wash, shave, and dress, and if I think you pass muster—”

  She wasn’t going to have him killed.

  “—then I’ll allow you to perform a quest to prove yourself.”

  “A quest?” The room was spinning—or was it his head?

  “You do remember my granddaughters?”

  “Very well.” Three little princesses, one of them full of mischief, one forthright and determined... and one who was destined to be his queen. Sorcha.

  Sorcha.

  “Ten years ago, as the troubles grew too great, I sent my granddaughters to England for safety from those bastards, those marauding rebels, those ungrateful peasants who imagined they could be royal by owning a crown.” Little drops of spittle flew from her mouth as she spoke of the rebels, and her eyes glowed evilly.

  “They’re gone? The girls are gone?” He hadn’t known that, for his country had been swept by rebellion at the same time, and he hadn’t retained the throne. He hadn’t gone into exile. He’d been condemned to a living death.

  “They’re gone. England was safe, so I sent them to separate places around the country, to people I paid to care for them, but it was five years before I regained control and could send for them.” Her lips curled in disgust. “They’ve disappeared.”

  “The people you paid—”

  “Were not trustworthy. When the money stopped coming, they sent them away, put them adrift, let them go. One couple even died to avoid their responsibilities. I’ve lost my granddaughters. I haven’t been able to find them.” Queen Claudia’s voice dropped an octave. “That’s where you take over.”

  He understood. He understood at once. “You want me to find them.” He straightened his shoulders. “Very well, but first you must help me retrieve my kingdom.”

  Mouth puckered, she shook her head slowly. “I think not.”

  “But my people are suffering! A tyrant cruelly rides them for taxes—”

  “Find my granddaughters, bring them home.” She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming intently. “When you do, I give you permission to wed whichever one you want. Then, and only
then, will you be able to use the powers of Beaumontagne to recover your kingdom. That is the deal I offer you, Prince Rainger.”

  The old lady was implacable—and she held the trump card.

  He made his decision. “Done.”

  She leaned back. It was almost as if his ready agreement changed her mind about him.

  He laughed. Dear God, he laughed with dark, harsh amusement. “Did you think I would rail against your decree? Throw a tantrum and pout? Do you know what I’ve done for the last eight years? I’ve lived in a dungeon, always dank and cold, usually dark, tapping messages to my friends in the next cell, digging a tunnel with my fingernails, existing on the edge of despair. Once a year, the tyrant whose traitorous ass sits on my throne came down to mock me and watch his men beat me.” Lifting his shirt, he turned his back to her.

  “Jesu. He did that to you?” As she viewed the mass of scabs and scars that crisscrossed his back, her voice shook with revulsion. “It’s one thing to flog a man, but once only. More breaks his spirit, makes him an animal who knows nothing but loathing or—” Her breath caught.

  He faced her. “Or madness.” He allowed the raw hate to seep into his eyes... and perhaps she saw that edge of madness in him.

  But whether he was mad or not—and he didn’t know—she needed him. She had no one else.

  He knew it.

  She knew it.

  “Yes, Grandmamma,” he said, “I am Rainger, but not the Rainger you knew before.”

  “No. I see that now.” Slowly, she put the pistol on the table.

  “After the lessons in patience and control I’ve been forced to learn, do you imagine I see difficulty in bringing you your granddaughters? That is nothing compared to what I’ve already done. You have the troops. I’ll do as you say—but after that, you will do as I demand. I’ll find your granddaughters. I’ll wed the one of my choice. And you’ll give me the men and troops to win my kingdom back.”

  “Agreed.” She beckoned him closer.

  Cautiously he came forward, staggering a bit, and leaned over her.

  Her claw settled on his arm, and she squeezed it hard enough to bruise. “But be aware—you’re not the only one who’s hunting my granddaughters.”

  Chapter 6

  MacLaren was a worm—and not just any worm. He was a cheap, spiteful, malicious worm who enjoyed having a prisoner in his dungeon, keeping Rainger down in the dank cell, feeding him gruel and water, giving him nothing except a thin wool blanket to keep away the chill of night. Making someone miserable let MacLaren feel like a man of power.

  What he didn’t realize was that Rainger had been in this situation before. The walls oozed moisture when the tide came in—that was a new irritation, but other than that, Rainger recognized the bars, the sneers, the darkness.

  The first day, he explored his cell beneath MacLaren’s miserable castle. Rainger found no way out, but he knew how to bide his time. Hell, he’d bided his time for eight years in a deeper, darker dungeon than this one.

  Only one inexorable torment visited him here.

  His princess. Where was Sorcha? He could find her again—only one road wound away from MacLaren’s castle. He knew from MacLaren’s taunts that he’d rowed her to shore and sent her on her way. But could that wide-eyed innocent fool of a girl survive long enough for Rainger to rescue her?

  She hadn’t recognized him. The voyage to Edinburgh, the ride through Scotland, the sail across in the tiny vessel, had given him the grime and the aura of a workingman. His beard and the rag he’d tied around his face had covered his features. Most of all, he’d changed. The dungeon, the beatings, the loneliness, the despair, the desperation had changed him beyond all belief.

  On the other hand, Sorcha hadn’t changed at all. He hadn’t expected her to look so very much like the princess he’d known—bright blue eyes, fair skin with a dash of golden freckles, copperred hair.

  Beautiful. So beautiful. Like a dream he’d once had.

  When he’d been a prince, honored, feted, respected, most of all, clean, he hadn’t cared about the crown princess. He’d been in love with other girls, other women, older women who taught him the pleasures of the flesh... and eventually the meaning of treachery.

  But when the first disbelief and anguish of prison had ceased and he found himself sleeping alone night after night, he’d begun to dream of Sorcha. Of his betrothed. For eight long years of imprisonment, for another three years of searching, he’d dreamed of her. And to so suddenly see her on the beach, to watch her tie up her skirts and plunge into the icy water after a boat with the possibility of saving a stranger’s life—by all the saints, it was better than beef, better than soap, better than sex.

  Well, not better than sex, but damned good.

  Most important, she was single.

  Her sisters hadn’t been. Both of them had found men to love, Englishmen who wed and worshipped them. Clarice and Amy had taught him caution, and now as his crown princess moved farther and farther away from him, he weighed his options and made his plans.

  He slept. He preserved his strength. And he waited. On the third day in MacLaren’s prison cell, he lay on the cot, his eyes closed.

  He heard the rattle of keys. Every sense went on alert. He caught the scent of strong whiskey—MacLaren—and the murmur of another voice—MacLaren’s manservant.

  Rainger could probably take both of them, but he remained somnolent. Now was not the time to make his move. Not while in MacLaren’s crumbling castle with all of MacLaren’s servants and kin roaming above.

  MacLaren stuck a musket into Rainger’s face and said, “Don’t stir or I’ll blow yer head off, and with pleasure.” He wore a sturdy oak truncheon on a belt at his waist and a knife in a scabbard tied on his wrist. Apparently he wasn’t going to be caught without a weapon should Rainger attack. “Brian, tie him up.”

  Rainger’s gaze slid to Brian. His large ears, balding head, and sunburned skin glowed with the privilege he’d been granted. He wrapped rope around Rainger’s wrists, his grin showing black gaps where his teeth had rotted away. While Rainger made the obligatory feeble struggles, Brian threw a blanket over his head.

  Rainger went limp as they lifted him, pretending unconsciousness as they carried him from the cell.

  “Quite the wee coward, isn’t he?” MacLaren panted under the effort of hauling Rainger along.

  Rainger’s butt dragged in the dirt and hit each step as they carted him up the stairs. Despite the bruises, he knew that was a good thing; it meant they were short, both a good eight inches shorter than him, and when free of MacLaren’s fortress, he would hold the advantage.

  “I wouldn’t be for letting ye oot at all,” MacLaren informed Rainger’s limp form. “But Mother Brigette said I should and the papist woman has a way o’ knowing what I do. ’Tis almost spooky how she knows.”

  Rainger bitterly reflected that she’d known he lied, but not his motives. As far as he was concerned, she had damned poor intuition.

  But at least she’d kept Sorcha hidden for him. At least there was that.

  The first fresh air he’d breathed in three days seeped through the dusty wool cloth. The first sunshine came through, tinted with brown, but welcome. So welcome.

  The two men draped him facedown over a horse.

  No, a donkey.

  No... well, Rainger didn’t know what it was, but it was short and his toes dragged on the ground. In this godforsaken country, it might well be a barrow hog. As the creature trotted along the trail on a harness behind the other two men, the dust rose beneath its hooves, settling into the blanket and making Rainger sneeze. The two Scotsmen brayed with laughter, but Rainger didn’t care. The sun warmed his blanket-clad ass. His legs were free... and the knots around his hands barely held him. He worked them, amused by Brian’s incompetence, furious with every mile that carried him farther away from Sorcha.

  The hour dragged on. The trail wound up into the hills. The men gave up laughing at Rainger and talked to each other. Rainger
heard the discussion of crofters, of Englishmen, and the ’46, of whether the rain would be enough for the crops. And when he finally slipped the ropes from his wrists, he had the satisfaction of knowing the men were paying him no heed. He pulled the blanket out from underneath him, freeing himself for action. He looked around. He was draped over a shaggy pony. The men rode a few feet ahead of him on horses. He’d have to move fast to knock Brian into the dirt, hoist himself into the saddle, and take MacLaren out.

  Then MacLaren said, “This is far enough. Dump him here. Take his boots. See how long it’ll take him to make his way back to Edinburgh barefoot and with his hands tied.”

  Bastard. Rainger held each end of the rope tightly in his fists. I’m going to make you sorry.

  Brian chortled, pulling Rainger’s creature to a halt. Rainger listened as the men dismounted. Brian walked toward him. Rainger tried to judge his location, and Brian made it easy—he patronizingly patted Rainger on the rear.

  Like an avenging god, Rainger rose from the pony, threw off the blanket, whirled the horrified Brian in his tracks, and wrapped the taut rope around his stout neck.

  Brian choked, grabbed at his throat, and futilely tugged.

  MacLaren’s face turned ruddy with horror and fury. He scrambled for his musket hung on the side of his saddle.

  Rainger laughed. At this range, with the horses plunging and Rainger holding Brian in front of him, MacLaren had no chance of hitting his target without killing Brian, too. “Go ahead,” Rainger taunted. “Shoot.”

  “Ye big bloody arrogant ass!” MacLaren kicked his feet free of the stirrups and threw himself out of the saddle. He pointed the musket at Rainger and stalked forward.

  Rainger had to give it to MacLaren. He wasn’t intimidated by Rainger’s size or prowess—and he was none too bright, for he should be.

  But Rainger had no time for a fight. He tightened his grip on the rope.