The Prince Kidnaps a Bride

by Christina Dodd

  “Do you mean everyone knew?” But she’d been so proud of her disguise!

  “No, but last night most of them couldn’t recognize their hands in front of their faces.” He sounded wry as he said, “You have a way of making a night in a pub into a party.”

  “It was my first time to spend an evening in an inn.” She slewed around in her saddle. “Do you mean it’s not normally so jolly?”

  A spasm of something that might have been amusement passed over his face. “First, calling that place an inn is like calling a sow’s ear a silk purse, and second—it’s usually surly drunkards and belligerent blackguards crouched over the cups until they pass out or stagger home. I know. I’m one of the staggerers.”

  She chewed on her lower lip and worried about the elegant young lord stuck in this tiny burg. “This cannot be good for you. I still think you should apologize to your father and see if he’ll relent.”

  “He relents about nothing, certainly not about a gambling debt so large it stripped him of an estate.” Haverford’s lips curled in scornful disparagement—of himself.

  She hated to see him so disparaging of his weaknesses—and his talents. “Then, much as it saddens me, I must urge you to move on. Find yourself a wife who loves you regardless of your wealth or lack of it. Or travel to India or the Americas and make a fortune of your own.”

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his nose as if he couldn’t bear the reek of her schemes.

  Irked, she faced forward and urged St. Donkey onward. “Well, do something—paint a picture or write a book that will bring you fame and fortune.”

  The silence that followed her suggestion lasted for several miles and had her turning around in the saddle several times to examine his thoughtful expression.

  At last he said, “I hadn’t thought of that—the book-writing, I mean. At Oxford, I was considered a fair scribe with a quill. Perhaps I could write about my travels and sell that, then get enough money to travel some more and write yet again.”

  “That’s the spirit!” She rejoiced to see him lifting himself from the despondency that had draped him like black crepe.

  “You could come with me on my travels.”

  “You don’t know how wonderful that sounds to me!” To travel where she wished, see strange lands, meet new people, be free of responsibility... “But I have a destiny that must be followed or I fear the consequences will be dire.”

  “Damn it!” He cantered forward, close to her side. “Don’t you understand? This isn’t safe. There are wild animals and dangers you can’t imagine.”

  “I can imagine dangers, believe me.”

  “But you don’t see the obvious dangers. You think people are good. They aren’t. They’re all out for what they can get, justifying the most horrific deeds so they can sleep at night. Lying, gambling, cheating, stealing, fornicating—oh, I know I’m not supposed to say that to a lady, but you have to think that some man will try to... to hurt you.”

  “It doesn’t do any good to distrust every man I meet,” she said gently. “If I did, I wouldn’t have you for a friend.”

  He groaned in frustration.

  “But I’m not a complete fool. I do know what you mean.” Recalling the fire at the convent, she glanced around. The road here was still rutted with many wheels, but the farther she went from Hameldone, the higher the mountains rose around her and the more isolated she became. “But dear friend, do you know the meaning of destiny? If I don’t go and embrace it, it will come to find me.”

  “How do you know your destiny doesn’t lie with me?”

  “Oh, Haverford, I wish it did.” She grinned at him, but his ardency made her uncomfortable and she pulled up. “It’s midday and it’s autumn. It’ll be dark before you reach Hameldone if you don’t turn back now.”

  “I have been dismissed.”

  “Yes. It’s time for us to part.”

  “It sits ill with me to think of leaving you here.” He waved a hand at the emptiness that surrounded them. “There’s not one habitation, not one human soul anywhere in sight.”

  “Then, according to you, I have nothing to worry about.” She smiled bracingly at him.

  “Except wild animals and a possible accident.” He looked searchingly at the rocks that broke the soft earth like fractured bones through flesh. “And the humans who hide themselves waiting for prey.”

  “Haverford, I have to ride by myself sometime.” She reached up from her pony and patted his knee. “Don’t worry.”

  “But—”

  “Nothing will happen to me.” She rode along, sending a backward wave at him, but when she glanced back he was still watching her. “Go on, now.”

  Still he remained in place until she rounded the corner and lost sight of him, and only then did it occur to her that she hadn’t pressed him for details as to how he knew she was a woman—and that was information that might come in handy later.

  It didn’t take Rainger long to discover where Sorcha had spent the night. The whole town of Hameldone buzzed with last night’s celebration at the Brown Cock Tavern, and when he asked why the evening had been so special, people were eager to inform him about the carrot-topped lad who’d infused the taproom with his enthusiasm and joy.

  He rode at once to the inn itself. It was small, dark, and common, not at all the sort of place where a princess should reside for even one night, yet as he gave the horses a rest and swallowed a hasty dinner, he listened to the innkeeper and his wife chuckle at the young man’s easy intoxication and his pure-voiced singing... of songs a sailor would blush to sing.

  So much for hoping Sorcha would have the good sense to keep her head down and her wits about her. Apparently she was embracing her newfound freedom with open arms.

  God help him.

  He hit the road toward Edinburgh as soon as he could, hoping to hell she would manage to stay out of trouble long enough for him to catch up with her, because the idea of her on the road by herself... what had Mother Brigette been thinking? Sorcha was a babe in the woods.

  He was an hour out of Hameldone, riding through an increasingly isolated landscape, when he heard a horse galloping toward him. He rounded the corner to see an elegant gentleman galloping along as if the devil himself were on his heels.

  Without being told, Rainger knew it was Sorcha who had caused this flight. So he placed himself across the road and when the gentleman slowed, he shouted, “Have you seen a young lad riding a pony on the road ahead?”

  The gentleman pulled the horse to such an abrupt halt the gelding almost sat on his haunches. “What do you want with her?”

  Her. Damn her, had she trusted this slick, handsome fellow? “I’m her guardian,” Rainger shouted, “and I demand to know—”

  The gentleman rode right at Rainger and took a wild swing, catching Rainger’s cheek with his fist before Rainger jerked backward. “What the hell are you doing, letting her go off on her own like this?” the fellow shouted. “Don’t you know how dangerous it is, letting her traipse through the wilderness on her own?”

  Temper ignited in Rainger and he swung back, smacking the man squarely in the chest. “What the hell are you doing, leaving her out there on her own? At least I’m going after her!”

  “Go after her, then! Take care of her! Someone needs to. She won’t let me close to her!”

  “She’s not yours to keep!”

  “No, damn you, she’s not. But you’d better be good to her, for God needs her in this world.” The gentleman turned and rode toward Hameldone, fleeing like the coward that he was.

  Rainger didn’t waste time watching him go. Sorcha was safe, or had been when that cad left her alone. Now the bastard was right—it was up to Rainger to keep Sorcha safe. He rode like the wind up the road, concentrating on making good time without laming the horses in the muddy ruts. The wind picked up, whistling in his ears, and that masked the warning sounds ahead, but when he came over a ridge he saw the sight he feared most—he saw Sorcha fighting for
her life.

  Chapter 8

  The black-clad horseman barreled down toward Sorcha. Screaming, she dug her heels into St. Donkey’s sides. St. Donkey, bless her, did her best to flee, but even if she’d never suffered malnourishment and ill treatment, she had short legs, a droopy belly, and was ill equipped to escape the unwavering pursuit of a healthy young horse. Sorcha’s wide-brimmed hat flapped in the wind. The attacker caught Sorcha before they’d galloped ten yards, lifting her out of the saddle and onto the horse before him.

  Furious that Haverford’s prediction had come true so soon, she screamed again, a scream laden with frustration and temper. Her cloak tangled around her waist. Flinging herself at the long-armed, ugly villain who gripped her, she had the satisfaction of seeing his expression change from a leer to astonishment. She smacked him under the chin with her head. She heard his teeth clink together.

  He spit blood. His blue eyes turned redrimmed. His face contorted with rage and he made a fist.

  The horse galloped. They were headed for a corner, a dropoff, a tumble of rocks.

  For the first time she realized—he was going to knock her out. Kill her. This time she screamed in fear.

  She twisted in a desperate bid to free herself—and beneath her, the horse balked and reared. She found herself airborne, her cloak wrapped over her head. She curled into a ball, braced for the agonizing impact of her bones on brutal rock. She landed, hard, on a patch of grass.

  It took a minute to catch her breath. Another to realize she was alive and well. Another long, torturous minute she spent fighting with her cloak, trying to escape the dark folds so she could see which way to run. She jumped when something snuffled at her.

  St. Donkey.

  “I’m hurrying!” she yelled at the beast. Throwing aside her cloak, she came to her feet.

  In the distance, she heard the thunder of galloping hooves, felt the pounding beneath the ground. Her eyes were blurred with tears of pain and shock, but she looked for a safe place. She glimpsed two strange riderless horses running loose.

  She stopped. She tried to understand what had happened.

  In the distance, on the rocks, the limp form of her attacker lay smashed.

  Was he dead?

  His head was cocked at an odd angle.

  He was dead.

  A man stood over the top of him. It looked like Arnou. Arnou... it couldn’t be. Impossible. She’d left him behind at the convent. Besides, this Arnou was different. He looked tall, strong, stern, cruel. A wise woman would be as frightened of this man as Sorcha was of her assailant.

  “Arnou.” Her faint voice couldn’t reach across the distance. That irritated her. If this was Arnou, she had nothing to fear of him. She hollered, “Arnou!”

  He turned to face her, then turned away. In that quick glimpse she recognized the dark hair, the chiseled features of the man she’d met at Monnmouth. But he didn’t wear the rag that covered half his face. From her vantage point, it appeared he had both eyes.

  She blinked.

  Lifting his arms, he tied the rag around his face, and when he faced her again, his menacing demeanor disappeared as if it had never existed at all.

  “What happened?” she shouted. She found herself running toward him. “Did you kill him?”

  St. Donkey trotted after her, then stopped to graze.

  “What?” Astonishment etched Arnou’s face. “I didn’t kill anybody. I came riding over the hill and saw you struggling with him. You shoved him and jumped free of the horse. He swayed back and forth, couldn’t get control, and his horse bucked him off.”

  She stopped running. “Are you saying I killed him?”

  “No, miss. I’m saying you saved yourself, because it sure looked as if he was going to kill you.” He bobbled his head as if he were amazed and in awe.

  “I think he was.” As the realization sank in, her knees wobbled.

  “But you saved yourself,” Arnou repeated.

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re a really good adventurer.”

  “I never knew I could do anything like this.”

  “You’re a heroine.”

  “Yes, I think I am.” His words battered at the wall of her fear, and replaced it with a guilty sort of pride. “We should find him a priest.”

  “It’s too late for a priest. Besides, he’s not a good man.” Arnou put a gentle hand on her arm and turned her away from the sight of the broken body.

  “Do you suppose he was the one who set the fire at the convent?” Her head buzzed with the possibilities—or possibly because of the fall.

  “I suppose he is. Him or the guy who hired him.” He gave her a little shove. “Go on. I want to see if the blackguard has anything in his pockets that would tell us about him or why he was after you. Why don’t you go and catch the horses—there are three, his one and my two—and I’ll let you know what I discover.”

  “All right.” She could do that. She’d be glad to do that. Capturing the horses would keep her busy and her mind away from the awful results of her flight.

  As she wandered away, Arnou called, “You took care of yourself.”

  Sorcha nodded.

  “Mother Brigette would be proud of you.”

  Mother Brigette would be proud of her. She was proud of herself. She’d met her first challenge—and that challenge had been an attempt on her life—and she’d triumphed.

  And now she had a job to do.

  Sorcha caught the first horse easily. An unsaddled mare, it stood patiently waiting at the top of the hill and when she took its reins, it followed her like a lamb.

  Catching the other horses wasn’t quite so effortless. One of them, a fine gelding, was saddled and nervous, prancing in an excess of nerves. It took Sorcha several tries before she managed to catch the reins, and a long, soft-voiced discussion of the gelding’s beauty and good nature before the horse allowed her to take it to grass and tether it there.

  The last horse, her attacker’s, was raw and wild, a horse broken too soon, still rebelling against the restraints. She caught him at once, but he reared and fought, and it took all her skill and concentration to bring him down and gentle him. When at last she’d coaxed him into a tether, she found Arnou standing, hands on hips, watching her. “You didn’t help me,” she said.

  “You didn’t need it.” That foolish grin he wore so convincingly spread across his face. “You’re as good with horses as you are with boats.”

  Like a splash of icy water from the Irish Sea, she remembered that he had let her dive into the ocean to bring in the boat he wanted, and the familiar sense of exasperation settled in. This was Arnou. He was satisfied to let someone else, particularly Sorcha, perform the labor to make his life better.

  She pressed her aching palms together. “How did you find me?”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose. I wanted to go home, that’s all.”

  “How did you get two horses?” Horses worth a lot of money.

  “I traded the boat for them.”

  Hm. She wouldn’t have thought that boat would be the worth of two horses. “That must have been a fine boat.”

  “It was!” he said enthusiastically.

  She studied him. He was dirty again, but he didn’t smell. Instead, he was splashed with mud from the road. A sturdy truncheon, about a foot long, hung from his leather belt and he looked capable of using it. In fact, out here Arnou seemed large and reliable. She’d thought about traveling with him for safety; now it appeared she could. “How did you recognize me?”

  A frown knit his brow. “Why wouldn’t I recognize you? You look like yourself.”

  Logical answers that made her want to shriek imprecations at him. “Have you noticed how I’m dressed?”

  “Like a boy, but you still look like yourself. I suppose you’re dressed that way for travel, heh?”

  “That’s right, and you mustn’t tell anyone that I’m a girl.”

  “All right.” Going to the still-fractious horse that the attack
er had ridden, he laid gentle hands on him. The young horse jerked and shied, but Arnou petted him, spoke to him, until he calmed.

  Sorcha wouldn’t have thought that a sailor would have so much experience with horses.

  “You have an awfully high voice for a lad,” Arnou said.

  “Oh.” Arnou had a good point. Perhaps her speech was the reason Haverford had penetrated her disguise so quickly. “I can make it deeper.”

  “That would be a good idea.”

  “Did you... did you find anything on that man that explains why he attacked me?”

  “He had money.” Arnou lifted a laden purse off his belt. “Lots of money.”

  Shocked by Arnou’s callus action, she asked, “You took his money?”

  “He’s not going to use it where he’s going.” Arnou sounded logical and looked indignant.

  “No.” Abruptly she turned away. “So he was paid.”

  “I suppose, but I don’t know why anyone would try to kill you. You’re so pretty and nice!”

  Should she tell Arnou the truth?

  No. This most recent threat proved the truth of Grandmamma’s ironclad adage—royalty trusts no one.

  “If we hurry, we should be able to find shelter before nightfall.” He walked around her pony, then around the stranger’s young horse. He looked them over with an assessing eye. “And if we sell these two beasties, we’ll have enough money to finance our journey.”

  “Sell St. Donkey? I can’t do that!” Did Arnou mean he would travel with her? Her heart lifted at the thought of having him at her side. This hearty man would discourage attacks from robbers and assassins, and the road wouldn’t be nearly so lonely.

  But... oh, dear. Her conscience wouldn’t allow her to let him ride into danger with no warning. Even Mother Brigette would agree, she had to tell him the truth. “I’m a princess,” she blurted.

  Grinning, he nodded.

  “Someone wants to kill me.”

  He nodded again, his face falling.

  “They’re hunting me right now.”

  Once more he nodded, his lower lip sticking out.

  “That man”—she gestured toward the broken body—“was undoubtedly the vanguard of something much worse, and if you go with me, you’ll be in danger.” She waited for him to say something, to somehow indicate his horror at her situation, and his.