Taken by the Prince

by Christina Dodd

  “You thought this up? I didn’t give you enough credit for cunning.” Danel waggled the pistol. “You’re family.

  Why would you sell us out?”

  “Why not? I was never in line for the throne. I was never the one everyone fawned over. I was stuck here in the country training a bunch of uneducated bumpkins to fight a revolution they never had a chance of winning.

  Not even the men— I taught the women. Does it get any lower than that?”

  His sharpshooters muttered angrily.

  “Oh, shut up.” He stood up, clutched his arm, scowled.

  “I trained you well. Saber’s forces destroy the de Guignards, the de Guignards destroy Saber’s forces, and the French win. I win. Why not? What did I have to look forward to? Actually fighting the revolution and getting killed? For you? For them? No. No! I refuse!” He grinned, his teeth white in his mud-covered face. “So, Saber, you can abandon your troops and run after your mistress. You’ll be pleased to know she puts up quite a fight, but she never quite had the nerve to challenge me to fire my pistol.”

  Raul nodded. “Thank you for explaining. I’d never looked at this situation from your point of view before.”

  The camp froze. Everyone stared at him, aghast.

  Danel smiled genially.

  Zakerie blinked.

  And Raul hit him. Knocked him down, picked him up, and slammed his head against a tree. Letting him go, he watched as Zakerie collapsed, then turned to Danel and said, “Put him in the front line. If he tries to run, shoot him.”

  Danel saluted.

  Using the tree as support, Zakerie got to his feet. “I knew the half-English bastard would abandon his army when it was time to fight.”

  This time Danel hit him, and when Zakerie went down, Danel put his fat, black-booted foot right in the middle of his neck. Leaning down, he gave a wide, cruel smile. “King Saber is going to finish off the de Guignards and rescue his lady. We’re going to defeat the mercenaries and stump the French.”

  “What are you going to do with me? Shoot me from behind?” Zakerie spit in defiance.

  “No. I wouldn’t sully my hands. What I’m going to do is hand you over to the women you taught to shoot and then reviled.”

  Zakerie’s eyes grew wide and horrified.

  Danel took his boot away.

  Esti replaced it with hers. Leaning over, she said,“Say your prayers, Zakerie, for this is your last day on earth.

  I guarantee it.”

  Chapter Forty-five

  Hands and feet bound, Victoria sat on an ornate, tall, narrow chair in the Moricadian palace throne room and watched Jean-Pierre give orders to the leader of the mercenaries and to the royal guard. The men stood before the long stone table that almost split the huge chamber in half: Jean-Pierre on one side, his commanders on the other. Maps were spread before them; Jean-Pierre used his whip to point as he spoke.

  All three men were armed for war, with weapons stashed on their chests, backs, and belts.

  But Victoria was afraid only of Jean-Pierre. Jean-Pierre with those eyes, those pale blue, spooky eyes that made her wonder at the demon inside.

  “The rebels have no choice but to bring their cavalry along the road to Tonagra. Stop them there.” His voice was low-pitched and genial.

  The mercenary general, a hulking Prussian with white-blond hair, blue eyes, and fists as big as hams, said,

  “I’ll have my troops in place within the hour.”

  “There are two men to watch for, the leaders of the rebellion. One is young and handsome, quite the lover of the ladies.” Jean-Pierre glanced at Victoria, smiling with smooth pleasure. “You’ve met him, the gambler Raul Lawrence. The peasants think he’s their dispossessed king. Kill him first.”

  She stared back at him, cold and unwilling to let him see her turmoil and terror.

  But he knew. Of course he knew. “The traitor who brought the girl said there are women trained to shoot rifles from the treetops, to bring down your men from a distance. Put your shooters to work knocking that female fruit from my trees. When their women are screaming and dying, that will take the heart out of the rebels fast enough.”

  The ropes cut into Victoria’s wrists and ankles. Her fingers were cold, numb, but at the thought of so many of her friends falling, bleeding, she clenched her fists in anguish.

  The general grimaced. “I don’t know if my men will shoot the women. They like to rape them first.”

  “Your men will do what they’re paid to do,” Jean-Pierre said.

  “Of course. I’ll make sure of it.” The general bowed low. “I will die before I fail you.”

  “Those are your two choices,” Jean-Pierre said.

  The general flinched and bowed again, then scurried, if such a large man could be said to scurry, out the door.

  Victoria heard him bellowing his orders.

  She took a long breath, fighting to stay calm, brave, unmoved.

  Nothing had happened to her yet, and some unconquerable belief in herself and in Raul kept her seeking a way out.

  On the far end of the throne room, a tall set of carved double doors opened into the huge, echoing room. Fifty feet away on the other end, an ancient-looking wooden throne rested on a raised dais. There beside the throne, Jean-Pierre had placed Victoria’s chair while mocking her aspirations as queen. Between the two ends were polished white marble floors, high windows down each wall, medieval tapestries, and dark metal suits of armor.

  A fireplace so large Victoria could have stood upright within it held reign in the middle of one side wall, and gargoyles leered from the mantel. Huge oak columns supported the curved beams dark with the smoke of thousands of fires, and colorful heraldic banners hung from the ceiling.

  One banner hung behind the throne, and Victoria’s gaze lingered on it. She recognized that device, remembered it all too well.

  The leader of the royal guard was not so tall as the Prussian, but thin as a whippet, with long white teeth and dark, hostile eyes.

  Jean-Pierre turned to him. “You’re Moricadian, Bittor. You probably want the rebels to succeed.”

  “I follow you, Jean-Pierre. You give me what I want.”

  Bittor spoke slowly, enunciating each word as if it required concentration. “Women. A place to kill them slowly. And somewhere to hide the bodies where the smell doesn’t bother anyone except your prisoners.” His gaze fastened on Victoria and he examined her as if she were nothing more than a pig to be butchered.

  Horror closed Victoria’s throat.

  “Occasionally I enjoy a few minutes of recreation with you, isn’t that right, Bittor?” Jean-Pierre asked.

  Bittor swallowed and shuddered. “You are very inventive, my leader.”

  So the rumors were true. Jean-Pierre was the worst of a clan of degenerates and killers.

  With a speed that made Victoria recoil, Jean-Pierre lifted his whip and slashed Bittor across the face. “Then why have you not ferreted out the truth about the spies Lawrence has put in place?”

  Bittor wiped the blood off his face.

  “Maids in the hotels! Servants in the palace! Traitors everywhere! Their heads are still on their shoulders!

  Their guts are still in their bellies! Find them! Bring them! And I will cut off their hands and feast on their tongues!”

  Victoria wanted to vomit. She vividly remembered the torment Jean-Pierre had visited on Thompson. She knew Jean-Pierre intended to torture her until she told him everything there was to know about Raul and his operations. She knew she hadn’t a chance of escape or rescue.

  Her gaze returned to the banner behind the throne.

  Although … perhaps she could rescue herself, after all.

  Jean-Pierre waved Bittor out the door, then turned to her.With a mocking bow, he said,“What an honor to have the new king’s whore in the old king’s throne room.”

  Funny. She was in terror for her life, and still, hearing the accusation of “whore” for the first time cut her to the quick. Was that
what her stepfather would say on hearing of her death here? What would he tell her mother?

  Thank God she’s dead, or she would have brought disgrace on us all with her wanton ways.

  “Do you know what that is?” Jean-Pierre pointed at the suit of armor closest to the throne. “It’s said that it was King Reynaldo’s armor. It’s a bit of a shrine for the Moricadians. The maids polish it with special care. The men touch it for luck. I love to watch them in their surreptitious reverence. Do you know why, Miss Cardiff?”

  Wide-eyed, she shook her head.

  “Because that’s not really his armor.” He pointed his whip at the suit that stood in the middle of the row. “That’s Reynaldo’s armor.” He chuckled with pure delight. “The armor to which they’re so devoted is my ancestor’s. You have to admit it’s amusing to think of two hundred years of peasant fidelity given to the de Guignard count who betrayed, tortured, and beheaded Reynaldo.”

  “It’s childish,” she said.

  “That the peasants are worshipping at the wrong shrine?”

  “No, that the wealthy, privileged de Guignards care to play such a joke on people who have so little.”

  Like a dog about to attack, one side of Jean-Pierre’s lip lifted, showing his teeth, and his pale eyes turned almost white.

  But no! She had a plan, and she couldn’t allow this rabid wolf-man to assault her. Not yet. Not until she had tried to liberate herself. “That banner behind the throne— is that symbolic of your family?”

  She had the satisfaction of knowing she had startled Jean-Pierre. “Conversation, Miss Cardiff?”

  “Not at all. An honest inquiry. I’ve seen that emblem before.”

  “Of course you have.” Color returned to his eyes, and he looked almost human again. “It hangs in all the public buildings.”

  “Not the hotel, though, and I was so briefly in Tonagra I had no time to see anything else. No, I saw that in an account book. My employer had orders to transfer the funds in that book out of this country and into a bank in Switzerland.”

  She hadn’t expected Jean-Pierre to look so startled.

  “What?” he snapped.

  She repeated, “My employer had orders to transfer the funds in the book out of this country and into a bank in Switzerland. So now I wonder— is it you he was working for?”

  Jean-Pierre sprang forward so quickly she slammed her head hard against the high-backed, sturdy chair. But he had her by the throat before she knew what had happened. “You lie,” he said.

  She shook her head and tried to speak.

  He squeezed hard, cutting off her air.

  She struggled, convulsing, trying to free herself from him.

  “You lie,” he said again.

  Red spots swam before her eyes.

  He let her go. “Tell me the truth now.”

  She gasped, gasped again.

  He reached for her.

  Somehow she found her voice and rasped, “No lie.

  Saw the books. Learned the trade. Am good with accounting. Was going to offer to do the work for you. For freedom.”

  He stared at her.

  He had no reason to be breathing so hard, for his face to be so ruddy and his mouth to hang open as if he were adding two and two and getting five.

  He spoke to himself, muttering under his breath. “So.

  He would do that. To me. Yes. Of course he would.”

  Victoria didn’t understand what was happening. She knew only that she had somehow miscalculated, that he was mad— and she was under his control.

  “Stay here.” He looked down at her tied to the chair, laughed harshly, walked out the doors, and slammed them behind him.

  Victoria sat in the eerily silent and empty palace …alone and helpless.

  Chapter Forty-six

  As soon as Jean-Pierre left the chamber, Victoria tried to hop up and down, to propel the chair close to one of the suits of armor, for there a sharp sword gleamed. If she could cut her bonds …

  But with the horsehair-padded seat and massive embroidery decoration, the tall wooden chair easily weighed one hundred pounds. She couldn’t budge it.

  She tried until she was sweating and trembling, but it never moved.

  Why had Jean-Pierre put her in the throne room?

  She should be in the dungeon or in a bedroom, where she could be raped at Jean-Pierre’s leisure, not tied to a chair close to the throne in the most royal chamber of Moricadia.

  Then she looked around at the grandeur, the imposing sense of royalty, and was humbled. She was nothing more than bait to catch King Saber. Jean-Pierre intended to lure Raul here and kill him, and forever end the Moricadians’ hope for a fair future.

  And she couldn’t do anything to help Raul, destroy Jean-Pierre, or save herself.

  She slumped and closed her eyes in despair.

  But when she heard herself whimper, the sound echoing across the marble floor and up toward the ceiling, she straightened and opened her eyes. She would not give up. She had to assume— hope— that Jean-Pierre would release her at some point. Perhaps she could goad him, excite him with the thrill of the chase. In that case, she would need to quickly seize a weapon.

  And there were weapons aplenty. Firearms hung on the walls, shiny and bright, rifles and pistols. But she dismissed them as possibilities; although she had shooting experience, she didn’t dare depend on their being loaded.

  Crossed swords and knives hung there, too. Unfortunately, she hadn’t lied when she said she had no experience with swords. She had swung one once in her life, to separate Raul’s and Danel’s wrists. With a sword, she was likely to hurt only herself.

  She’d have better luck handling a knife, but her arms were shorter than Jean-Pierre’s and she’d be killed before she could swing.

  Of course, she’d seen the pistols on his belt. She’d never have a chance, anyway.

  But she didn’t know how to die, didn’t want to die while Raul was alive. So she had to try to live.

  When she heard a quiet footstep in the corridor, she tensed in fear, her gaze glued to the open door.

  Then … Raul stepped in. Raul, wet and muddy, grim and determined, with a pistol in one hand and an arsenal of weapons strapped on his chest and belt.

  She withered in the chair, and tears of relief sprang to her eyes.

  She had never seen anything look so good.

  She was alive.

  He was alive.

  Together they could beat any odds.

  If he was happy to see her, she couldn’t tell.

  But she was happy enough for them both.

  With a glance, he assessed the situation, signaled for silence, and hurried to her side. Putting his pistol on the floor beside him, he pulled a knife from his belt and went to work on the ropes that bound her.

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  He nodded, concentrating on his knife and the ropes.

  “How did you get in? Did you have to fight?” She kept her voice low.

  “Two hundred years ago, my family lived here. We have always known all the secret passageways.” He glanced up at her, his voice as quiet as hers. “And there are no guards or servants to be found anywhere. They know the storm is upon us, and they are hiding.”

  “Yes.” When her hands were free, she touched his face. “I truly love you.”

  He glanced toward the door, cocked his head, and listened. Helping her to her feet and giving her one of his pistols, he said, “Get out.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Come with me.”

  “I’m on a hunting expedition.”

  “No.” She tried to hand him back his pistol. “Together we have a better chance of escaping.”

  “I will finish off the de Guignards here and now. It is time for this to be over. It’s time to avenge my mother’s death … every Moricadian death.” His green eyes were cold and flat. “I can’t do that if I have to worry about you.”

  But you’re going to die. You’re going to die! Her own voi
ce screamed the words in her head, but she couldn’t say them. She knew what he had to do. She even understood it.

  He placed the pistol back in her hand. “Shoot anyone who tries to stop you.”

  But before she could make her decision—

  stay or

  leave— a voice spoke from the door. “If only it was going to be that easy.”

  Jean-Pierre. His rifle was pressed against his shoulder, pointed at Raul. He was going to kill Raul.

  Victoria didn’t even think. In one smooth motion, she cocked the pistol, lifted it, and shot.

  The bullet hurtled fifty feet, from one end of the throne room to the other, and struck at the rifle’s wooden butt, blowing splinters into Jean-Pierre’s face. The rifle roared, but the shot went wild. Jean-Pierre threw the weapon aside.

  Raul sprang across the table and charged.

  Jean-Pierre scratched at his injured eyes and reached for his pistol.

  Raul plowed into him.

  The two men slammed to the floor and slid across the slick white marble, the pistol rolling end over end into the corridor. Raul landed on top, hit Jean-Pierre under the chin, smashed his head to the floor.

  Jean-Pierre went limp.

  Raul shouted to Victoria, “Get out. Shut the doors.

  Get away!”

  She ran to do what he wanted … or at least, some of what he wanted.

  He turned back to Jean-Pierre. “This is between him and me.”

  But he’d lost the advantage.

  Jean-Pierre came off the floor and rammed Raul into a suit of armor.

  Metal screeched, clattered, and thundered in a storm of iron clad hail.

  Raul seized a breastplate and slapped Jean-Pierre across the side of the head.

  The metal rang like a bell.

  Jean-Pierre’s head quivered and he dropped flat on his back.

  Victoria slammed the doors shut and slid the defensive wooden bar into the ancient iron brackets.