Taming The Prince (Crown & Glory Book 8)

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  She had been about to say that of course, there was quite a lot to which she wasn’t privy, so her having heard nothing was meaningless. She wasn’t a member of the RII and wouldn’t be until she graduated, though she’d been all but promised a job there once she did complete her studies. Still, of course she wouldn’t know about the workings of the elite spy network that answered to the king and queen until she was one of them. Even then, it would be a long time before she was put to work on anything of significance—like the Black Knights. First she’d have to prove herself in the field like all the other newly hired operatives. Even if her father had been a well-respected member of the group at one time.

  “But the Black Knights are clearly up to something,” she finally concluded. “And trust me, Shane, when I tell you that they really will stop at nothing to meet their needs. They truly are a sinister lot, and we’d be best off assuming the worst from them.”

  “Then we need to get out of here,” he said. “As soon as possible.”

  “Yes, of course,” Sara said. “I’ll just ring up Queen Marissa on my cell phone and have her send round a car, shall I? Perhaps they can stop at the local market for sandwiches on their way.”

  Shane threw her a sarcastic look. “I didn’t say it would be easy.”

  “No, you didn’t say much of anything,” she pointed out. “But if you have a better plan, I’d very much like to hear it.”

  He smiled a deliberate, menacing smile. “Oh, I have a plan,” he told her. “In fact, I have an excellent plan.”

  Six

  He was probably going to get them both killed, Shane thought some time later. But, hell, Sara had agreed to go along with his plan, so she’d be equally responsible for their deaths, wouldn’t she?

  Strangely, the realization did nothing to comfort him.

  But as they sat in the darkness—the batteries of the flashlight burned out—waiting for the arrival of something or someone, he couldn’t help second-guessing himself. He told himself that they didn’t have any choice but to attempt an escape. There was no guarantee that the Black Knights would let them live, even if Queen Marissa did meet their demands. In fact, if what Sara said was true—and he had no reason to doubt her—the opposite was more likely, and the Black Knights would kill them, whether their demands were met or not.

  So their only alternative, clearly, was to escape. If they could. Shane just hoped they were both strong enough, and brave enough—and lucky enough—to manage it.

  The time for finding out whether or not they were came more quickly than he had thought—or hoped—it would. Because no sooner had that last thought formed in his brain than he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. It had been a while since any of the kidnappers had checked on them, and he assumed they must be bringing another meal. Instead, he hoped, they were offering them another bathroom break, because they really needed to get out of this room if they were going to have any chance of success. It would be even more helpful if only one of the Black Knights came to the door. It would be most helpful of all if it was Fawn. Because, hey, she fought like a girl.

  Of course, so did Sara, Shane reminded himself, and she was pretty damned formidable. Still, Sara fought with a cool, calm head, and Fawn was easily provoked to do something rash, as he’d seen for himself on the plane. He’d place his bet on Sara in a heartbeat.

  The gods must have heard his pleas and prayers, because when the door to the pantry/prison opened, it was indeed Fawn who stood there. She held the basket and thermos again—which one of the men had collected when two of them had come to release Shane and Sara for their earlier bathroom breaks, so it must be dinnertime now. Fawn was looking a little more fatigued and strained than she had looked earlier that day, and Shane couldn’t help wondering if she was having as much trouble sleeping as he was.

  Before any of them could say a word, however Shane heard a sound outside and tuned his ear to listen more closely. And when he realized what the sound was, he had to bite back a grin at just how wonderful it was to hear. In fact, it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard in his entire life—better than the roar of the ocean as it curled over him while he was surfing, better than the sizzle of a fat sausage on the grill, better even, than the breathy murmur of a well-satisfied woman when she woke next to him on a balmy Sunday morning.

  Because what Shane heard was the sound of a car driving away.

  At least one of the kidnappers had left the house. With any luck at all, two had gone. That would leave two there with him and Sara, evening the odds nicely. Even if three remained, they were still better off. He glanced over at Sara to see if she’d noticed the sound, too, and saw immediately by her jubilant expression that she had. Then, pretending he hadn’t heard anything at all, he focused his attention on Fawn.

  “Can I use the bathroom?” he said without preamble.

  She widened her eyes in surprise. “But it’s not time for that.”

  “Yeah, well, the call of nature and all that, honey,” he said. “Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.” He threw her what he’d been told was his most winning smile, even though winning Fawn was about as appealing as winning a cold sore. “To put it in the vernacular,” he added, oozing as much boyish charm as he could, and trying not to gag on it, “I gotta use the can.”

  “But it’s not time for that,” she said again. “It’s time for you to eat. You can use the washroom later.”

  Instead of replying this time, Shane stood—slowly, cautiously, with his arms extended at his sides, so that she wouldn’t think he was trying to pull anything funny. Ha.

  “Look, Fawn,” he began again, keeping his voice courteous, and trying not to be too smarmy, “I’m just not as used to downing that tea as you Penwyckians are, and trust me when I tell you that if you don’t let me out of here to go to the bathroom, I’m going to get very…frustrated.”

  Fawn expelled a long, ragged breath of air, then turned her attention to Sara, who still sat on the floor on the other side of the pantry in a completely nonconfrontational manner.

  “Don’t look at me,” Sara said. “I was brought up in Penwyck. I nursed tea at my mother’s breast. My bladder can handle it just fine. He’s the one who has to go.”

  Fawn hesitated, then rolled her eyes in a way that would make an American teenager proud. “Fine,” she bit off in a likewise adolescent manner. “You can use the loo. Just don’t try anything funny, as you’ve seen for yourself you’re outnumbered and we’re well armed.”

  “Yeah, with a thermos and basket of bread, no less,” Shane said.

  Without warning, she tossed both items in question at him. Shane caught them capably, and in turn, tossed them to Sara, who likewise snared them with ease. Then, his hands still extended straight out to his sides to show Fawn that he didn’t plan to try anything funny—ha—he took a few slow steps toward the door…and her.

  She backed up as he approached, then stepped aside to allow him through, never taking her eyes from his. Shane continued to move slowly, hands out to his sides, his gaze never shifting, until he was clear of the door. Then, in one swift, fluid motion, he grabbed Fawn and shoved her into the pantry, where Sara, without missing a beat, dispatched her with a thermos upside the head before she had a chance to make a sound. As she fell to the floor with a heavy thump, Sara tucked the thermos beneath one arm, then slipped the basket of bread over her other. Then she bent to tug off Fawn’s flat shoes and slipped her own feet into them instead. Finally she brushed off her hands and stepped over the inert body, smiling as she neared Shane.

  “My, but for some reason I enjoyed that quite a lot,” she whispered when she stood beside him. “She has rather elephantine feet, but I should be able to keep her shoes on, I think.” She dipped her chin toward Shane’s feet then. He was still clad only in socks. “What about you?”

  “I’ll manage,” he whispered back. “I have a tough hide. And I’ve spent most of my life running on hot sand and broken shells. I’ll be okay.” He tipped his head t
oward the back door on the other side of the kitchen. “Shall we go?”

  “Yes, let’s,” Sara said, gripping both basket and thermos more firmly. “These people are frightfully bad hosts. I think I can safely say that this is the worst party I’ve ever attended.”

  Not surprisingly, when they reached the back door, they found that it was locked. So, without further ado, Shane kicked it—hard. The first kick did little more than alert anyone else who might be in the house that they were in the process of escaping. The second kick, however, blew the door off its lower hinge, and they immediately pushed through it and down the porch. It was twilight—and cold—but the sun hadn’t set so far that they couldn’t see what they were doing, or where they were going—even if they had no idea what they were doing or where they were going. Shane led the way, though, trusting Sara to follow. He figured they were equally matched here, neither of them knowing where they were or which way to go. So he headed through the backyard of the house, toward a heavily wooded area beyond.

  They had just sprung through the trees when he heard an angry male voice—only one of them—coming from behind them. Instinctively, he reached behind himself and groped for Sara’s hand, and twined his fingers fiercely with her own. Vaguely, as he tugged her through trees, over the rough terrain, he noticed not the pain that shot through his feet with every stray stick and stone, but how she seemed to have no trouble at all keeping up with him—even though he’d run cross-country track in both high school and college. Of course, the dense foliage hindered their progress, so speed wasn’t so much an issue as dexterity. Nevertheless, Sara, he discovered, was both as speedy and as dexterous as he.

  Neither said a word as they pummeled the wilderness and bore deeper into the woods, and he kept his ear tuned to their rhythmic, labored breathing to keep himself focused, instead of on the masculine voice that trailed them. Gradually, though, that voice began to ebb. Eventually, it disappeared completely. By then, night had well and truly fallen, and Shane knew it would soon be pointless to keep running. It was dark, it was cold and they had no idea where they were. So little by little, he slowed their pace until their steps became more deliberate.

  His feet hurt like hell, which was another reason he needed to slow down. But his panic had lessened, and his instincts told him that they weren’t in as precarious a situation as they had been upon fleeing the house. Certainly they weren’t out of the woods yet—if one could pardon the incredibly stupid pun—but he didn’t think it would be unwise for them to slow down and choose their route more carefully from here.

  “How you doing?” he gasped in a rough whisper as he drew Sara up beside himself and came to a halt.

  Reluctantly, he dropped her hand, settling both of his on his waist. He bent forward to assist his breathing for a moment, then straightened again. He could just barely make out her silhouette in the darkness and saw that she, too, was struggling to level off her breathing. She had placed both hands on a tree and was pushing against it, as if she were trying to work a few kinks out of her muscles. The basket of bread still swung from one arm, and the thermos, he could tell by her strangely altered profile, was shoved down the front of her blouse. He couldn’t help smiling when he saw it. Awfully quick thinking on her part.

  “I’m all right,” she said, her voice as low and labored as his own. “Just winded. How are your feet?”

  They hurt like hell, Shane thought again. “Fine,” he told her. “But I wouldn’t balk at a chance to get off them for a while. Any chance you’ve become psychic over the last couple of hours and know exactly where we are and how to get out of here?”

  He wasn’t sure, but he thought she chuckled at that. “Sorry. No. But if we could perhaps get a good look at the sky, I might be able to figure our bearings.”

  They both looked up, but a dense umbrella of crisscrossing tree branches hindered any sight they might have of the night sky.

  “How about X-ray vision?” he asked. “Developed that anytime recently, by any chance?”

  “Drat it, no,” Sara told him. “All I have is this pesky gold rope that induces people to tell the truth. Wouldn’t you know. Damn our luck.”

  “Ah, well,” he said. “At least we still have our senses of humor.”

  “And our lives,” she added.

  “Also a very good thing to have,” he agreed.

  She took another few minutes to steady her breathing, then said, “I’m not certain, but I think we’ve been heading up a mountain.”

  “Felt that way to me, too,” Shane said.

  “And I can’t help thinking, too,” she continued, “that we should probably be heading down a mountain instead.”

  He nodded reluctantly. He’d known that, but he’d been more concerned with just getting them away from the house at the time instead of going in the right direction. “Yeah, I agree with you there, too. I’m wondering, though, if we wouldn’t be better off waiting until morning. I think we lost our captors for now. But I also think they’ll be after us again once the sun comes up. It would be better if we saw them first.”

  “Agreed,” Sara said.

  “So. Ever spent a night under the stars?” he asked.

  Even in the darkness, he could see her shaking her head. “No. I always thought that if I chose to sleep under stars, it would be Tom Cruise or George Clooney.”

  Shane laughed out loud at that and made himself not say the thing he really wanted to say, which was that he might not be a star, but he sure wouldn’t mind if she…

  Instead he replied, “Yeah, well, trust me. This will be even better.”

  “I sincerely doubt it,” she said.

  “Aw, c’mon, where’s that General Wallington spirit, huh?”

  “I left it in the pantry. It got caught beneath the unconscious Fawn of the elephantine feet. I don’t see it getting up anytime soon.”

  “We’ll be fine out here,” Shane promised her, even though he was far from believing that himself. “I think I can even remember how they taught me to start a fire with two sticks when I was in Cub Scouts.”

  “My, but you do know how to impress a girl on the first date,” Sara said. “Fire from sticks? It boggles.”

  “So does this mean you’ll invite me up for a nightcap later?”

  “First things first. I need to make sure you can do that stick thing you promised.”

  They spent the next half hour or so creeping through the brush, listening to see if they were still being followed. They looked for a clearing that might offer them a view of the night sky, or some kind of shelter that might make their stay more comfortable—and safe—during the night. Finally they came to an area overhung by mossy rocks that lay facing the opposite direction from which they’d come.

  By then, Shane hadn’t heard a sound for a long time other than the ones they’d made themselves, and he was confident they’d lost their pursuers—at least until morning. He didn’t think they’d be taking too big a risk if they started a small fire to ward off the worst of the cold and darkness that had descended, especially in the sanctuary of an overhang. They could eat their dinner of hard bread and weak tea, maybe get a little shut-eye, then set out again when the sun came up—hopefully in the right direction this time.

  As he searched for a couple of likely fire sticks, Sara scraped brush and rocks away from a flat area beneath one of the wider-hanging stones. As he tried to remember enough of his early scouting experience to turn the fire sticks he finally found into a stick fire, she unpacked their meager dinner and arranged it on the ground in a way that would have made a five-star restaurant’s maitre d’ proud. And as they finished consuming that meager dinner, and the flames of the fire began to burn low, Shane realized he was fit to be tied. Literally. At least, his feet were. Preferably with antiseptic-soaked bandages.

  Sara seemed to notice the condition of his feet right about the time that last thought formed in his brain. “Oh my God,” she said, crawling around the fire to where Shane had propped his feet on a rock to ca
tch some of its warmth. Gingerly, she lifted one foot in her hand, noting the blood-stained sock. “You told me your feet were all right.”

  “They were all right when you asked,” he lied.

  “They were not,” she countered. “They’ve been bleeding. That obviously didn’t start just now.”

  “Yeah, but they were numb when you asked me, so I didn’t know they were hurt,” he qualified.

  “Liar,” she replied succinctly. “You cut them to ribbons while we were running. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Well, gee, I was kinda busy at the time,” he pointed out. “There was somebody chasing me who probably would have killed me if he caught me, and that sorta took my attention away from other matters.” He reined in his irritation—though whether that irritation was for Sara or himself, he couldn’t quite say—and added, “Besides, what would we have done? Stop running? Go slower? Be more careful so I don’t hurt my widdle footsies? I don’t think so.”

  She made a face at him. “You wear Fawn’s shoes tomorrow. As I said, her feet were on the elephantine side, so they might even fit you.”

  “I’ll be okay,” he said. “You keep Fawn’s shoes.” He grinned at her. “They don’t match my belt at all.”

  “They took your belt,” Sara pointed out, grinning back at him in spite of herself.

  “All the more reason not to wear the shoes,” he replied. “I’d be a walking, talking fashion-don’t.”

  Sara didn’t think Shane’s comment really commanded a reply, so she said nothing as she gently stripped away the socks from both of his feet. Evidently, she wasn’t gentle enough, however, as she heard him wince a few times as she worked. Once she had the socks removed, the scant light provided by the shrinking fire revealed just how badly he had been lying about their condition. They were a mess, crisscrossed with scrapes and cuts and streaked with dried blood.