“Alone?” Sorcha’s voice squeaked a little.
“Yes. Alone.” If only Sorcha knew how much Mother Brigette feared for her! “I have no one to send with you. That’s why desperate measures are necessary.”
“What desperate measures?”
Sister Margaret stepped behind the screen, Sorcha’s costume in hand.
Mother Brigette waited, half smiling.
“What’s that?” Sorcha’s horror was audible. “You want me to wear that?”
“Don’t worry, it’ll fit,” Sister Margaret said serenely. “Put your arm in here.”
“But I don’t understand,” Sorcha protested. “This is absurd. No one will believe this!”
“People believe what they see.” Mother Brigette tucked her hands in her sleeves and listened to the rustles and whispered protests.
This was not the way she would have chosen to send Sorcha out into the world, but it was the only way. Mother Brigette’s life had required that she make a study of men, asking questions, probing their minds and their hearts, listening to the tones of their voices, and weighing their truths.
Arnou was lying. She didn’t know why, but he was not who he said he was—and that made him dangerous. Dangerous to Sorcha.
Unfortunately, Mother Brigette also judged Mr. MacLaren to be an inferior implement. He brought them supplies, but only because he made a good profit selling their herbs at market. He did as she commanded, but only out of superstitious fears involving papists and holy women and the evil eye. And she would not now use him if she had any other method to get Sorcha away from here. Away from the threat Arnou posed. Away from the threat posed by Sorcha’s title and fortune.
When Mother Brigette judged Sorcha had gotten over her shock at her new wardrobe, she continued, “You’ll have a small bag of coins on a belt tied around your waist. Never dip into this fund except in the direst of emergencies. I cannot emphasize that enough. You must have money to get home, and that will cover your passage.” She subdued her fierceness and gently reminded Sorcha of her obligations to the nuns who had cared for her for so long. “I expect that when you’ve reached your destination, you’ll wish to reimburse the convent.”
“Well. Yes. Of course. But why can’t Arnou travel with me? He wishes to leave the convent. He’s strong. He’ll frighten off attackers.”
“He definitely would frighten off attackers, but Arnou is not bright. You realize that.”
“I have enough intelligence for both of us.” Sorcha sounded confident in that.
She was right. She had intelligence. But her argument proved how unworldly she was. “That you do. But he wouldn’t understand the reason for your garments and I fear in his simplemindedness”—that simplemindedness she found so suspicious—“he would reveal the truth.”
“I don’t understand the reason for these garments!”
“Yes, you do.” Mother Brigette grew anxious to see the results of Sister Margaret’s handiwork. Would this camouflage be as successful as she hoped?
“All right.” Sorcha sounded sulky. “Perhaps I do, but this is so... I look so... ”
It was time to ignore the protests. “I’m also sending a saddlebag filled with medicinal herbs. You can sell the herbs as you need for food or use them in case of illness. You’re leaving on the brink of winter, the worst time of the year for traveling, and while I hope that lessens the chance of robbery, I’m afraid you’ll suffer days of misery and cold.”
“Misery and cold I can endure, but this!” Sorcha’s voice went from dismayed to huffy.
“’Twill be charming,” Sister Margaret said.
Mother Brigette paced across the room, then stopped in her tracks. Pacing was a waste of time and energy. Yet she now wished she’d spent less time encouraging Sorcha’s artlessness and more time warning her about the ways of the world. She had so much she wanted to say, but it was too late for regrets, so she chose her words carefully. “Travel in secret and in shadow.”
“I understand.” Sorcha sounded patient. “I remember Godfrey’s warning about the assassins. I remember the fire in my cell.”
“Be strong in your mind,” Sister Margaret said.
“Keep your knife sharp and utilize all your skills. Fix your mind on the goal of returning to Beaumontagne and let nothing turn you aside,” Mother Brigette added.
“I’m unproven, but not without resources.” Sorcha seemed to understand their concerns and bent her talents to reassure them. “At the bedrock of my being I have my grandmother’s teachings. In addition, I’ve lived the last years with the strongest, kindest, most assiduous women in the world.”
Yet not the most wary. But Mother Brigette said nothing of that. “Most important, remember my tale of my maid Fabienne, and trust no man with your truths.”
“But Mother Brigette, I must trust the man who has proved faithful and kind or I’ll believe in no man and in nothing.” Sorcha sounded incredulous and perturbed. “I can’t be like that. That would be a sin in itself.”
“Dying before you reach the end of your journey would be a sin,” Mother Brigette said sternly. “Anything else is forgivable.”
“She’s ready.” Sister Margaret stepped out, beaming. “I know I suffer from vanity, but I also know I’ve done a marvelous job.”
“Come, Sorcha. Let me see you.” Mother Brigette waited with hope and anticipation.
Sorcha stepped out from behind the screen, her cheeks rosy with mortification, her head bent, her fists clenched at her side.
Mother Brigette circled her, examining every detail.
Sister Margaret had wrapped Sorcha’s waist in a length of cotton. She’d dressed Sorcha in a rough brown shirt, loose wool breeches held up with rope suspenders, a black cloak that hung to her knees, and three pairs of socks inside black boots. Her brown, wide-brimmed hat had wool earflaps and tied under her chin.
Mother Brigette smiled gently at Sister Margaret. “Thank you, Sister, you’ve done a marvelous job. Sorcha is, in every way, a convincing young man.”
Chapter 4
“Tis the only horse ye can safely ride, Miss, er, Miss, er... ” Flustered by her disguise, MacLaren gestured to the pony.
“I was trained to ride before I could walk.” Incredulous, Sorcha circled the hairy little beast MacLaren had declared to be her mount on her flight from Monnmouth.
MacLaren’s eyes shifted off to the side. “It’s the only animal I can spare.”
Sorcha looked across the back of the pony. The sun rose behind her, illuminating MacLaren’s squat figure. He looked as if God had taken a man of normal height, lifted His mighty hammer, and with a single blow driven him down toward the earth, compressing him, widening him... driving the goodness out of him, and leaving only dull, damp clay.
Grandmamma would never allow herself to be placed on such a nasty little horse by such a nasty little man. He’d already loaded her saddlebags on the pony, but those could be moved. Straightening her shoulders, she asked coldly, “MacLaren, did Mother Brigette not tell you to mount me on a horse? A real horse?”
“I’m sending my best man to escort you to Hameldone. Ye should be grateful.”
Grateful she was not. Last night Mother Brigette had feared too much of a fuss would alert the enemy about Sorcha’s departure, so Sorcha had bidden a tearful farewell to Mother Brigette and Sister Margaret. The other nuns, the women with whom she’d spent so many years—they would wake soon and discover she was gone, and never would they see each other again. Sister Theresa, so small, so dear, so Scottish. Sister Mary Simon, Sister Mary Virtus, Sister Patricia—all gone from Sorcha’s life forever.
And Sorcha had suffered too much loss; this new blow brought into sharp relief her grief for her father, her worry about her sisters... even her distress that her grandmother had had to bear the burden of rule by herself.
Grateful? To MacLaren? No, she was not grateful.
“Who is your best man?” she asked.
“Sandie the blacksmith.” MacLaren gestured to
the broad-shouldered, barrel-chested blond fellow who loaded his saddlebags for the long ride.
“A pleasure to meet you, Sandie.” She smiled.
Sandie did not. A dour lot, these Scots. Or was it only the people forced by birth and circumstances to live close to stingy and cheerless MacLaren?
“Sandie’s riding a pony, too.” MacLaren spoke as if that would sugar the pill.
Unfortunately, instead it made her realize she’d allowed MacLaren to distract her. In her best authoritative tone, she said, “You have real horses in your stable. I saw them. I’ll ride one.”
“I have two horses, Miss, er, Miss, er... ” He squirmed as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. “One for me and one for me wifey. Which one would ye have me give ye?”
“Oh. Only two horses. I didn’t realize. I can’t take your wife’s. Of course not. I suppose this pony will do me very well as long as—” As long as she didn’t have to run away from a pursuing villain. “Well, the pony will do.” Despite the fact the pony’s belly hung loose and her ribs showed. “Thank you, MacLaren.”
He nodded. “Aye.”
“What’s her name?” she asked.
“Whose name?”
“The pony’s.”
“She doesn’t have a name!” He snorted and stumped his way down toward the harbor. “A name for a damned pony!”
Sorcha watched him go, then turned to face Sandie. “Well, I shall name her St. Donkey, for the animal that carried Mary to Bethlehem.”
“Think well of yerself, don’t ye?” Sandie asked sourly, and with a bump of his knees urged his pony up the road.
Hurriedly, she mounted and joined him. St. Donkey’s gait jarred her teeth almost loose and Sorcha suspected the poor dear had a limp, but she was determined to make the best of this journey. It was, after all, a real adventure.
At the top of the hill, she turned in the saddle and looked across the rambunctious ocean to the rocky island where the convent buildings lifted their arms to God. As she watched, a mist enveloped it, and it disappeared into the swirling depths like a dream she could never revisit.
“C’mon, then,” Sandie said roughly, “or I’ll ne’er get back before the Sabbath.”
Sorcha sniffed back her tears, pulled a white handkerchief from her sleeve, and blotted her cheeks, then rode toward Sandie.
He stared at her watery eyes.
“What?” she asked.
“Ye’ll ne’er convince anyone o’ yer disguise if ye keep on that way.” Shaking his head, he urged the pony down the narrow path.
She looked down at herself. She was dressed just like a man. It was the perfect disguise. So what did he mean?
“What way?” she called, and hurried after Sandie. “Why can’t I convince anyone of my disguise?”
He hunched his shoulders and kept riding. “Ye cry like a girl.”
“Only once! And not for very long!”
He didn’t answer.
“I won’t do it again.”
Still he didn’t answer.
“I’ll be as tough and coarse as any man!”
At last, one more gruff sentence issued from his mouth, impressing on her how unalterably easy it was to dupe her. “MacLaren’s na got a wife.”
“You can go in now.” Sister Theresa smiled at Arnou as she opened the door to Mother Brigette’s dim office.
He stared at her as he walked through the door. Never in the two days he’d been here had she smiled at him, and he found her civility almost spooky.
No outside light pierced the cavern of the chamber, and he blinked as his eyes adjusted from bright sunshine. A single candle flickered on the desk where Mother Brigette sat, her pen scratching across a paper.
He was on a mission, but he didn’t forget his disguise. So he shuffled forward to stand before her. He grinned. He pulled his forelock. He pretended to be a fool. “Mother Brigette, where is Miss Sorcha?”
Mother Brigette placed the quill in its stand, sanded the letter, and corked the ink. She looked up. “Why do you ask, Arnou?”
“I was supposed to row her to the mainland today and she’s nowhere to be found.” He bobbed his head, rearranged the rag over his eye, and did an absolutely smashing imitation of a fisherman who’d been smacked in the head by one too many cod.
“There’s a good reason you can’t find her.” With elaborate care, Mother Brigette folded her hands on the desk before her and examined him with all the charity of a rat dog examining a rodent.
The first pinpricks of danger crawled down his spine. “Why is that?”
“She left last night.”
Forgetting his disguise, he straightened. He bent a fierce glare on the commanding woman. “What?”
“She is beyond your reach.” Mother Brigette returned his glare—and in her cool gray eyes, he saw fierce intelligence.
The pinpricks became jolts of alarm.
“You’ve lied to us, Arnou. You’re not who you say you are.”
Her glacial voice cooled his wrath, made his sense of self-preservation kick in.
He glanced around. A nun lurked in each corner.
But what threat were they?
Mother Brigette continued, “And I know a man can force his feet into small boots if the reward is great enough.”
Damn! This woman with the perceptive gaze knew what he’d done.
He glanced up.
A fishing net hung from the ceiling. A rope dangled from it.
He looked back at Mother Brigette.
She held the end in her hand.
A trap.
“No!” he shouted.
“Yes.” Her voice was flat. She pulled.
He tried to run, but it was too late. As if he were a tiger marked for death, the net enveloped him.
This had happened before.
But he wouldn’t go back to prison. Not without a brawl.
Maddened by panic, by fury, by anguish, he fought, growing more and more tangled.
“Arnou, that’s enough.” Mother Brigette’s voice slapped at him. “Calm down. We’re not going to hurt you!”
Nothing she said could mitigate his terror. He would not be snared again.
A short, burly Scotsman stepped out from behind a screen. He flung a rope around Arnou’s chest. The bastard gave a jerk, tightening it.
Between the net, the rope, and the panic, Arnou choked. He tried to claw himself free.
“MacLaren, don’t kill him!” Mother Brigette warned.
“He’s crazed,” MacLaren rasped.
Arnou saw the gleam in MacLaren’s eyes. MacLaren liked trapping a man. Liked choking him. Forgetting the net, Arnou lunged at him.
Because MacLaren was right. Arnou was crazed.
He wouldn’t go back. He would not return to hell.
He tripped. He fell. He thrashed on the floor, intent on killing MacLaren.
He heard high, chirping cries of anguish.
But they didn’t come from his mouth.
Four nuns rushed forward from every corner of the room.
The net tore at his face, snagging the rag over his eye, ripping it away.
He froze, aware of what had been revealed.
Sister Theresa gasped. “His eye. He has an eye!”
“A perfectly good one.” Mother Brigette’s wrath pierced his fear, bringing him a moment of lucidity. “I was right. He’s lying.”
The nuns threw wool blankets over him.
Darkness enveloped him. Smothered him. Panic returned with renewed strength. Again he fought his bonds.
The heat built up. The air slipped away. He couldn’t breathe. And before he lost consciousness, Arnou grimly reminded himself—he’d lived in the dungeon in a cell the size of a coffin. For years, he’d survived without light, without warmth, without decent food. His spirit had taken blow after blow. Friends had died. He’d been beaten year after year with a whip, with a cane... finally, after an interminable time filled with blackness and depression, his spirit had broken, and nothing mattered
anymore.
But somehow at that moment when all hope was gone, he’d discovered a tiny light within himself. Slowly, painfully, he’d come back from the brink.
He would come back again.
Because he was different now. Hardship had burned away his soft, privileged self, leaving nothing but steely resolve and a cool killing instinct.
He would have Sorcha. He would save his kingdom.
He was, after all, Prince Rainger.
Chapter 5
The Gala Palace in Beaumontagne
Three years earlier
With one skinny fist, Rainger punched a hole through the glass, then listened for a shout, which would betray that the guards had heard the crash.
Nothing. For now, his luck held.
Snaking his arm inside, he unlatched the window. The window swung open easily at his urging. He slithered into a dark, cavernous room and took a long breath of air rich with the scent of money. He was in the antechamber of the Gala Palace, where even in the depths of night the walls glinted dully with gold. No candles lit the darkness, but his eyes easily adjusted. He’d been staring into darkness for so long, he no longer recognized the light.
He had only a few minutes to find the fragile old queen and force her to do as he commanded. For if he was taken, he would be thrown into a prison cell—and he was far too familiar with prison to go quietly.
She lived in the west corner, where she received the afternoon sun. He remembered her needle dipping into her embroidery, over and over, dragging thread behind it while her cold, clear voice nagged on and on...
Stopping, he closed his eyes and swayed, lost in memories and sick with the need to avenge himself. And sick with hunger. God, it had been two days since he’d eaten, eight years since he’d eaten well.
Then his eyes snapped open, and swiftly he moved into the corridor. He moved without sound through the silence, halting to listen at every corner. The guards were outside on the castle walls. In the palace, nothing moved. Not even a mouse dared disturb Queen Claudia’s rest.
The Prince Kidnaps a Bride Page 4
