by Maya Banks
A heavy scraping sound drew her attention away from the flames. Merrick pulled one of the rickety armchairs over close to the fire and gestured for her to sit. “You need to get those wet clothes off and lay them by the fire to dry.”
Her eyes widened in shock. “But…”
“I’ll look for something you can cover yourself with. But I won’t have you catching your death of cold.”
He disappeared into what she assumed was the bedchamber, the only other room in the cottage. She looked down at her soaked clothes knowing Merrick was right, but not relishing the idea of unclothing in front of him no matter what he found for her to cover herself with.
She reached up and pulled off the hat, uncoiling her damp hair as she did. Shrugging off the coat, she laid it aside and moved closer to the fire. The imprint of her nipples showed clearly through the wet material of her shirt, and she crossed her arms over her chest in a protective measure. In her haste to dress in London, she hadn’t bothered to bind her breasts again. And now out from under the bulk of the coat, her every curve was outlined in stark detail. Maybe getting out of her wet clothing wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Merrick returned moments later and thrust a man’s nightshirt at her. “It’s all I could find,” he said. “But it will do until your clothes have dried.”
He turned and strode toward the door. Without looking back, he said, “I am going out to collect some wood for the fire. You can change while I am gone.”
She held up the cream-colored shirt and eyed it with chagrin. It offered only slightly more modesty than what she was wearing now, but at least it was dry and warm. Perhaps she could find a blanket to burrow under once she was dressed.
Not wanting him to come back in before she had undressed, she hurriedly stripped the wet breeches off then yanked the shirt over her head. She paused just long enough to warm her damp skin then quickly pulled on the night shirt. It fell to her knees, leaving the rest of her legs bare.
She reached down for her boots and laid them by the fire to dry with her clothes. Carefully, she tucked the precious map she’d hidden in her breeches into the toe of her boot along with the pouch holding her ring. The floor felt cold to her bare feet, and a chill ran up her legs despite the fact that she stood so close to the fire.
She turned her back to the fireplace so her hair could dry. Placing her hands behind her, she flexed them as the heat spread up her arms. After a few moments, the uncomfortable numbness gave way to soothing warmth.
She settled cross-legged on the floor in front of the hearth and closed her eyes, sending her mind seeking across the miles to her homeland.
Stronger now and better able to maintain the mental link, she sent out the burden weighing heaviest on her.
Can I trust him, Father Ling? He seems a good man, and I desperately need his help.
Look within your heart, Your Highness. There you will find the answer you seek. Trust your instincts above all else. Use what I have taught you.
She took a deep breath, her head pounding with exertion. The link was faltering, fading, and she struggled to keep her mind free of all other encumbrances. His soft voice sounded one last time in her mind.
God be with you, Princess. You have trying times ahead, but have faith and you will prevail.
Simon stomped his boots on the doorstep as he walked in bearing a load of wood. When he glanced up, his attention was drawn to Isabella, who sat in front of the fire with her eyes closed, an expression of utter peace on her face.
Unwilling to disturb her, he busied himself stacking the wood beside the door. When he was finished, he shrugged out of his coat and carried it over to the fire to dry. He moved quietly, intrigued by the picture Isabella presented.
Her palms were pressed together under her chin, and her head was bowed slightly in a position of prayer. Complete calm radiated from her. It was almost as if her body was here, but she, herself, was somewhere else entirely. He shook his head at the absurdity of that notion.
The fire crackled, and her eyes flew open, her inner torment burning as brightly as the flames in the hearth. Wherever she had been, she had only gained a temporary respite from reality.
She scrambled up and moved away from the fireplace, settling into the chair a few feet away. She hugged her legs to her chest, he guessed, in an effort to maintain a semblance of modesty. Her slight frame lent her an air of vulnerability even though he knew her to be far from helpless. Her eyes shone brightly in the shadow of the flames, their ocean green depths looking more like a storm at sea than the calm, placid waters of a tropical bay.
She stirred in her chair as if uncomfortable with his perusal. But he was riveted to her, unable to drag his gaze from her. In the soft light of the fire, there was something otherworldly about her. It seemed the most natural thing in the world for him to pull her into his arms and hold her against his chest. But as powerful as the urge was, he stood still, the warmth from the fire becoming nearly as uncomfortable as the direction of his thoughts.
Finally, he pulled himself from the enticing picture she presented and moved away from the hearth. He picked up an old wooden stool from the kitchen and carried it back to where she sat. Settling down on it at a more comfortable distance from the fire, he placed his hands on his knees and turned his attention to the princess once more.
“I think it’s time for our discussion,” he said, breaking the silence between them.
“Very well,” she said softly. “Ask what you will.”
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, wondering how to voice the thing that was plaguing him the most. Unable to remain still, he stood and paced back and forth in front of the fire.
“There is something that has bothered me for a while, but until now I was unable to put my finger on it.”
He paused and looked directly at her. She viewed him calmly, awaiting what he had to say, no trace of anxiety.
“The men who attacked you. Why didn’t they just kill you?”
A puzzled look crossed her face, and she opened her mouth to speak, but he continued on.
“It seems simple enough. If they truly wanted you dead, why didn’t they just shoot you? They’ve not been short on opportunities, yet each time they’ve come armed with only knives.”
“Perhaps they didn’t want to draw undue attention the noise would create,” she murmured in a perplexed voice, one now laced with the anxiety she was missing earlier.
Her eyes darted sideways, and for the first time, he easily read uneasiness in her expression. What could she be hiding?
“I thought of that,” he said, watching her closely now. “But they risked you screaming by allowing you to remain alive, and after the first time you escaped, I would think they would be all the more determined to be successful in their attempts at assassination. Unless…”
He let his voice trail off suggestively.
“Unless what?” she demanded, blatant fear written in every facet of her face.
“Unless they have no intention of seeing you dead,” he said calmly.
Chapter Seven
Isabella’s eyes flared, and she blanched as the full impact of his statement hit her. She sat back in her seat and licked nervously at her lip. An interesting reaction, indeed. Would not such a revelation be met with relief? Simon studied her intently, awaiting her response. He was convinced more than ever that he had been correct in his assessment.
“What…what makes you say that?” she stammered. “I assure you, nothing they have done has given me the impression they wish me anything but dead.”
She rubbed her abdomen as she spoke as if remembering the injury she had sustained in her first encounter.
“I wondered that myself,” he murmured. “But the more I thought about it, the more I began to think perhaps you have something they want. Something they want very badly. Badly enough to want to take you alive.” He looked pointedly at her as he finished his statement.
Her voice shook disce
rnibly now as she spoke. “What could I possibly have that they would want?”
“That is a good question indeed. One I would very much like the answer to.”
He leaned close to her, pinning her with the full force of his gaze. “You are not telling me everything, Princess. And I can’t keep you safe unless you start talking. I think you know exactly what they want.”
Though his accusation was a shot in the dark, he knew immediately he had hit upon the truth. She paled and looked away, her agitation increasing. She leapt from her seat and turned her back to him, her hands fisted at her side.
Then she slowly turned back to him, her breath coming in shallow spurts. Sweat beaded her forehead, and he could read the indecision that ripped through her. She let out her breath in a long sigh, her cheeks puffing slightly with the effort.
“T-they want something I took from the palace before I fled,” she said in a tremulous voice.
Anticipation nearly made him hasty, but he quickly schooled his response. “What did you take?”
“A map.”
“A map?” He couldn’t hide the incredulity in his outburst. “You’ve been pursued all the way to England, your brother killed, all because of a map? Is this why your parents were murdered?”
“I don’t know if it is why my parents were murdered,” she whispered. “But I know they seek the map. Without it, they cannot secure the throne.”
“And where is this map?”
She reached over to her boots drying by the fire and retrieved a rolled up parchment from inside one of them. Holding it out to him, she said, “Many have died over the years protecting this map. I have no doubt there are those who would kill to have it.”
His mind raced to comprehend what she was saying. Unrolling the dampened parchment, he looked in disbelief at the indecipherable scribblings, the crude drawings. It was obviously a map of sorts, but of what?
He glanced back up at her, and she reached for the map. He made no move to offer it back to her. “What is so important about this map?”
“I don’t expect you to understand,” she said in a low voice.
“Try me.”
She gazed at him for a long moment then sank back down in her chair. “Sit down please. You make me nervous standing over me that way.”
He sat down on the stool and looked expectantly at her.
“The map is the only way to access the Royal Leaudorian relics.”
“I see, so greed is their motive?”
She went on, ignoring his interruption. “This isn’t just any treasure. Leaudorian law prohibits a ruler from ascending the throne unless they have in their possession at the time of coronation, the Jeweled Scepter and the Royal Emerald. Both are integral parts of our history.
“For centuries, before a new king or queen is crowned, the heir to the throne has journeyed deep into the ancient caves that are carved into the Marble Cliffs. The map is necessary to navigate the maze of passageways. They must retrieve the scepter and the emerald and make their way back out in time for the ceremony.”
He shook his head, trying to make sense of her explanation. It sounded like something contrived from a gothic novel.
Isabella fixed him with a stare, pausing in her tale. “I knew this would be beyond your understanding. Our customs are far removed from the English ways of conducting their affairs. We are deeply rooted in our traditions, our history, and our ways transcend the normal realm of human understanding.”
He held up his hands. “Please, go on. I’m listening.”
She raised her chin and turned sideways in her chair, gazing toward the dancing flames in the hearth.
“The journey is viewed as a rite of passage. The man or woman is blessed by the monks in the abbey that guard the entrance to the caves. The prayers of an entire nation are with the traveler as they seek out their birthright and forge the future of their reign.
“At the coronation, the newly crowned king or queen present the treasures as proof of their merit. The monks judge the validity of their claim then either offer or refuse a blessing on the new ruler.”
Simon absorbed all of the information, understanding dawning on him. “So a new ruler cannot be installed unless they can present the relics?”
She nodded.
He stood once more, his lips drawn in a thin line. “So why assassinate your family? So they can make a claim to the throne? Wouldn’t the monarchy follow a line of succession? And if that is so, you would be the next in line for the throne. How can they—who are they anyway?—possibly expect to take over? Moreover, if they are bent on overthrowing the monarchy, why would they give a care for traditions? It would be just as easy to establish a new regime complete with new laws.”
The questions, all of his confusion and frustration spilled out in a rush. None of it made sense. And he was no closer to learning the truth than he had been from the beginning.
A look of pure hatred clouded her face. “They is my father’s chief advisor of military affairs.”
A sheen of tears shone as brightly as the animosity in her eyes. “If I never do anything else, I will make him pay for betraying my family.”
A chill snaked down his spine as she spoke. He didn’t doubt her for a second. “How can he hope to gain control of Leaudor? Even if he was able to produce the relics, surely this wouldn’t give him the throne.”
“In Leaudor, if no living immediate relative of the ruling family can be produced, the next in succession is the minister of foreign affairs. Then the chief advisor of the military,” she said pointedly. “The line stops there. Uncles, cousins, brothers or sisters of the king or queen do not qualify.”
“That seems rather odd,” he said. Not only odd but unheard of.
She continued as if he hadn’t interrupted her. “Long ago, when much of our country was in constant turmoil with wars and frequent changes in the monarchy, a new policy was adopted when Queen Genevieve came to power.
“It was revolutionary, but once implemented, it changed the entire course of our history,” she said with a note of pride. “I am named for her.”
As well versed in foreign policy as he liked to think he was, he was frightfully ignorant of Leaudorian legalities. But then he’d never been forced to travel beyond Leaudorian borders in order to protect England’s interests. Until now.
“What was this new policy?” he finally asked.
“The long line of succession was eliminated,” she explained. “Aside from the immediate family of the ruling monarch, the minister of foreign affairs and chief of military affairs are the only two that can ascend the throne. In the event that none of the aforementioned is able to rule, a new ruler is appointed by the monks of Sacre Foi. They are charged with finding a suitable and righteous ruler amongst Leaudor’s citizens.
“By adopting such a policy, the threat of an outside source seeking to overthrow the monarchy was virtually eliminated. Until now.”
Her explanation ended raggedly, pain accentuating each breath.
“It’s brilliant,” he acknowledged. “No one outside the country would gain anything by overthrowing the government because once gone, the replacement was completely random. But what of military might?” he pointed out. “Surely another nation could completely take over and replace the ruling class. It’s been done multiple times over the course of history.”
“Not without slaughtering every one of Leaudor’s citizens and annihilating our army,” she said firmly. “Leaudorians are legendary in their support, their loyalty. They would take up arms against all forms of invasion. Queen Genevieve’s policy was ingenious. It gives much power to the common people.”
A soft smile curved her lips, and a faraway look entered her eyes. “Did you know,” she began softly, “my father was a common man. He came to power after a terrible accident befell the former king. The young king was sailing with his foreign minister and military chief to Belgium. Their ship was lost at sea. And for the first time, the monk
s were charged with finding a new ruler.”
Simon leaned forward, captivated by her tale.
“At the time, my father was a young man of two and twenty. He had just married my mother, and the two of them were farming a small parcel of land by the sea.”
Even as she smiled, tears slipped unchecked down her cheeks. The now familiar tightening sensation clutched his chest. Her eyes were alight with love and precious memories of her parents.
“Then what happened?” he prompted.
“The monks came to him and asked him to present himself to the palace for an inquiry. My mother didn’t want him to go,” she said in a near sob. “I wish now he had listened.”
“For a week, he and others were questioned, tested, measured and asked to perform tasks. In the end, they chose him to journey into the caves and seek the relics. The entire country rejoiced when he succeeded. He was loved by many,” she said, her voice finally breaking under the strain of emotion.
For several long seconds, she wept openly, trails of raw pain sliding down her face, disappearing from view.
“He was a good man. Leaudor flourished under his direction.”
Simon remained silent, waiting for her to continue, not wanting to intrude on her reflection.
“And now, they have taken everything from me,” she hissed, anger replacing the agony in her voice. “And for what?”
He reached across and took her hands in his. “That is what I need to speak to you about, Isabella. Can you bear it?”
“Will you help me return to Leaudor?” she asked, gripping his hands tightly.
He shifted uncomfortably and looked away briefly. She was asking him to help her. Not Leaudor. Not England. Her.
He had every intention of seeing her to Leaudor. His duty to England demanded it. But somehow she made the act more personal than it should be.
But just as he could not fathom shirking his responsibility to England, neither could he look into the princess’s eyes and hold that he was unmoved by her plea. Or pretend he was only acting in his country’s best interest.
