The Prince Kidnaps a Bride

by Christina Dodd

  “Yes. More rigid.” He could scarcely stand to look at Sorcha for fear he’d launch himself out of the saddle and into her body.

  She, of course, sounded thoughtful and curious.

  “Frustration puts me in pain,” he said.

  She sniffed. “You don’t have to be in pain. If I had—”

  He lifted his hand in a stop gesture.

  “But if I had,” she insisted, “you’d be riding comfortably now.”

  “No, because I’m not going to stop wanting you because you satisfy me once.”

  “Really?” She sounded charmed by the concept. “You’ll want me more than once?”

  Because confessing would cause no harm and please her, he said, “Morning, noon, and night, my dear. Morning, noon, and night.”

  “Then I’m glad we’re going to an inn. We’ll spend the night together.”

  With minor modifications, that was Rainger’s plan. But he ground his teeth at her perky suggestion.

  “We should take the opportunity to enjoy each other.” Sorcha seemed unconcerned with propriety. She seemed willing to give herself to a man she called honorable and kind. Apparently she had suffered no grief at Rainger’s death.

  And why not? True, before he hadn’t cared what she thought of him. Now her indifference irritated him. “But what about your prince?” At her startled glance, he realized he had almost bitten off her head. Being the foolish Arnou was taking more and more effort, but he managed to sound sheepish. “I mean... you must care about your prince.”

  “What prince? The one I have to marry?” She shrugged with weary lack of interest. “I don’t even know who that is, and I don’t care. There’s a good chance he’ll make me miserable one way or the other.”

  “I meant the prince to whom you were betrothed.” What about Rainger? Tell me how you felt about Rainger.

  “Oh. Him. I never cherished girlish dreams about Rainger.”

  Prying information out of her in such an underhanded manner almost assured he would hear himself described in unflattering tones, but curiosity drove him. “You grew up with him. When he died, didn’t you weep?”

  She urged her horse to ride ahead. She held her spine and neck poker-stiff, and rode so long without answering that he thought she refused to let the lowly Arnou snoop so intimately into her life.

  Finally, she fell back. In a voice so low and calm he had to strain to hear her, she said, “There was so much grief for a while. I was sent into exile alone. My sisters went to a separate location. My father was killed in battle. Grandmamma almost lost control of the country and all of my links to Beaumontagne were severed. The loss of Rainger was... I was sorry, of course. But all my affection for him was old affection, the affection I felt for a playmate. I didn’t admire him as a young man and he barely tolerated me. So losing Rainger was just one more blow in a year fraught with agony.”

  She sounded so composed he scarcely believed any of it. Her father, her country, her isolation seemed nothing more than a test to be endured. Did Sorcha not feel pain?

  Then she wiped a tear off her cheek.

  Ah, now he remembered. In Beaumontagne, there had been Grandmamma and her interminable rules. She’d strictly trained Sorcha. A princess does not wail and weep. A princess always maintains her decorum, for a princess never knows who watches her for guidance in proper behavior. Sorcha might flout some of Grandmamma’s strictures, but not all of them. “How did you survive that year?”

  “I maintained my dignity, of course, but sometimes I wanted to... to express myself in a... a... a... ” She couldn’t say it.

  So he did. “Loud scream?”

  She glanced at him, her eyes wide and almost shocked. “Yes. I suppose I would have liked to... to scream.”

  An hour ago she was naked in his arms, making demands without a care to her position or to propriety. Now she could scarcely express her desire to show sorrow.

  She seemed so open and uncomplicated, but beneath that placid façade, she hid a character forged from the fires of grief and loneliness.

  Sorcha fascinated him.

  And that could be dangerous, for the last woman who had fascinated him almost killed him.

  He was doing the right thing. He was learning all Sorcha’s secrets. He was going to take her to his bed. Before long, she’d be nothing but another woman. And, of course, his queen.

  “Why don’t you scream now?” he suggested.

  “Here?” Sorcha looked around as if engaged by the changing scenery. “On the road?”

  “Why not? There’s no one to hear except me and I won’t tell anyone.”

  “No.” She shook her head firmly. “The moment is past.”

  “Should the moment of bereavement go past without marking it with sorrow?”

  She blinked at him as if astonished. “Arnou, that is very wise.”

  Wise? Yes. Because he knew about despair. He knew about mourning. “Give a loud, long scream of rage and anguish. You’ll feel better.”

  “I feel fine.”

  Ah. There was Grandmamma’s girl! “The ghosts of your departed will rest easier. At least I know Rainger will rest easier.” He should be ashamed of manipulating her like this, but he wanted—no, needed—to think she had mourned him.

  “All right. I could try it.” She filled her lungs with air. Tilted her head back. Sat there for a long moment. Then exhaled in a gust. “I can’t. I feel foolish. I’ll wait for the proper opportunity. Life being what it is, grief will present itself soon enough.”

  “Yes.” Sooner than she realized.

  Before he met Sorcha, he had intended to take her back to Beaumontagne, there to marry her, command her army, march into Richarte, and kill Count duBelle.

  It had been a sound plan, one that required a deception of Sorcha.

  But deception didn’t matter. All that mattered was producing a princess to wed so he could take back his country.

  Everything depended on him. Men—his best friends—had been dreadfully hurt, had died to break him out of that dungeon. He sought to free his people from the dreadful burden of the oppressor. He sought the crown.

  He sought revenge.

  Sorcha, with her soft lips, nubile body, and wide, innocent eyes, would not stand in his way.

  Nor would his weakness toward her.

  Her merry voice broke into his reflections. “You have such a grim expression, while I’m so happy. Do you know I’ve never kissed a man before?”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” He wouldn’t have to kill another man.

  “Kissing you was very pleasant.”

  “Pleasant. Really.” She had a unique and marvelous way of insulting a man. “And a raging ocean storm is cute.”

  She thought about that. “You’re right. Kissing you was more than pleasant. It was... magnificently overwhelming.”

  He grunted. He hid a smile. That’s more like it.

  Then the urge to smile faded.

  When he was seventeen, he’d believed every ounce of flattery poured into his callow ears. He was a hard man to cajole now—except when the words fell from Sorcha’s lips. Then they sounded sincere.

  He couldn’t keep his hands off her. He accepted that. But a way existed to delude Sorcha, satisfy her grandmother (although not completely, because her grandmother could never be completely satisfied), and permit him marital rights.

  He was not going to deflower Sorcha on the ground. Their mating was a matter of state. They had to wed in the official church of Beaumontagne and Richarte, the Church of the Mountain. They had to marry before representatives of their countries, people who would swear the ceremony was performed and was proper in the eyes of God and man. And they had to show sheets stained with the proof of her virginity to prove she’d been with no other man.

  Tomorrow morning, they would arrive at the village he sought. The village of exiles.

  Tomorrow night, he would hold Sorcha in his arms.

  Chapter 16

  Sorcha couldn’t quite put her fi
nger on what was so unique about this village.

  The houses looked different from the other houses in Scotland. Yes, they were humble, but their roofs had a bit of a tilt at the front of the ridge beam. The windows were lower and wider. Silver crosses were tacked up over the front doors—crosses she recognized. Crosses identical to the one she wore around her neck.

  Revelation struck Sorcha with the power of a sledgehammer. This was a Beaumontagnian village transplanted to the wilds of Scotland.

  “I recognize this place,” she said.

  “You’ve been here before?” Arnou lifted a skeptical eyebrow.

  “No. Yes.” She didn’t know what she meant. “It reminds me of my home.”

  “Isn’t that a coincidence?” He didn’t sound particularly surprised. “I hear there’s a good inn here, and staying there would be a chance for you to clean up before we arrive in Edinburgh.”

  “Is that really the reason you want to stay at an inn?” She shot him a flirtatious glance.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes.” She sighed. Why was the man so stubborn? Why wouldn’t he make love to her? Last night they had slept together in a barn, and all night long he’d been ready and willing. When he had held her for warmth, she’d felt his cock pressed against her back.

  Still... “Cleaning up is a wonderful idea.” To take a bath, a real bath in a real tub, sounded like heaven. Not as much heaven as sleeping naked in Arnou’s arms, but she wouldn’t mention it again. At least not now. A covert attack might serve her better. She’d bathe and wear the nightgown that the ladies at Madam’s had given her. She’d display herself to Arnou and he’d be stricken with craving and give in to her desires... .

  They turned into the street that led to the town square. There she could see that the buildings were taller and wooden signs hung over the doors—the Red Rock Pub, the Glacier Peak Butcher, the Silver Springs Inn. A cluster of a dozen men and women were gathered around the well in the middle of the square. The women wore small embroidered caps and white aprons. The men wore black breeches and red suspenders. Finally, clinching her suspicion that this was a group of exiles, she saw that the well had a small pointed roof and posts painted blue.

  “Look at that!” She pointed.

  “It’s a well,” Arnou said prosaically.

  “It’s more than a well. The point on the roof deflects any evil from above. The blue blesses the water and keeps away the evil eye. These are traditions in Beaumontagne and in Richarte.” To see the reality of it again fed a longing she’d denied for a long time.

  “So Beaumontagne and Richarte share the same traditions?” Arnou sounded as if he knew the answer but was humoring her.

  “They share a border. They share traditions. They share a language. They share a church. They fight about everything.” She grinned, because for Beaumontagnians to complain about Richartians and for Richartians to complain about Beaumontagnians was the most ingrained tradition of all. “Do you know? Are the people here foreign?”

  “Foreign?” Arnou directed his I’m puzzled glance at her. “Like from another country besides Scotland?”

  “Never mind. I’ll find out.” She urged her horse forward.

  A woman with a wealth of wrinkles on her lips, her eyelids, and her earlobes sat on the bench at the well. The village priest in his traditional black cassock and three portly gentlemen stood sampling a wine. Five young women, sisters, Sorcha thought, leaned together watching Sorcha and chuckling as if they found her entertaining. One caressed the bulge of her belly where her baby rested. And two women of perhaps forty-three argued over the well’s bucket.

  As Sorcha rode into their midst, the people in the square stopped speaking and stared cautiously. She broke into a smile, for the faces had sharp noses, high cheekbones, creamy tan complexions, and every eye color. She’d never seen these people before, but she knew them. They were part of the handsomest nation in the world. She burst out, “Are you Beaumontagnian?”

  They drew back as if her enthusiasm alarmed them.

  With a grin, Rainger let her go. She wasn’t going to get hurt here. The villagers were cautious, but they would find out soon enough who she was. Then they’d understand their good fortune. For now, Sorcha could shower them with her bubbling exuberance and, unless he missed his guess, she’d win them over before they even knew her name.

  “Because I’m from Beaumontagne,” she called. “Are you exiles from the revolution?”

  “Some of us are from Beaumontagne, some from Richarte.” Sharp-eyed, thin-lipped, and all bony angles, one older woman abandoned her argument over the bucket and made her way toward Sorcha. “So how do we know you’re Beaumontagnian?”

  Sorcha dropped into the language of their home. “I’m a long way from home, but at the hearth of my people, I am always welcome.”

  At the sound of the familiar proverb and Sorcha’s sweet and easy rhythm, the woman placed a hand over her heart.

  A murmur swept the small group.

  “Welcome. Welcome.” The woman broke into a smile. “Forgive my caution. We haven’t seen anyone arrive from home since we got here. We had to flee the old countries and settled here in New Prospera for safety. Safety isn’t always that easy to achieve when some people in Scotland resent the intrusion, and some are frightened of people who speak a different language.”

  A stout gentleman pushed his way forward to stand by the lady. “I’m Mr. Montaroe, the innkeeper. This is my wife, Tulia. Come in and have some wine. Relax, eat, and tell us what you know about Richarte.”

  “And Beaumontagne,” Talia said.

  “I don’t know anything. I haven’t been home for ten years, but I’m going there now.” Sorcha glowed as she spoke.

  Rainger wondered if she’d only just realized that, if all went well, she was within weeks of returning.

  “What about him?” Mr. Montaroe pointed to Rainger.

  “He’s from Normandy,” Sorcha said.

  Tulia scrutinized him. “He looks Beaumontagnian.”

  “No, he looks as if he’s from Richarte,” Mr. Montaroe corrected stiffly. “Not every handsome young man is from Beaumontagne.”

  “They are if they’re fortunate,” Tulia retorted.

  One of the five young women deliberately caught Rainger’s gaze. She wasn’t more than twenty, pretty and flirtatious. She indicated first the innkeeper, then his wife, and rolled her eyes. At once Rainger realized they fought like all Beaumontagnians and Richartians were prone to do. And as three other young ladies bearing a marked resemblances to Mr. Montaroe and Tulia made their way toward the front, he thought the Montaroes made love with equal fervor.

  Sorcha smiled easily. “Actually, this is my traveling companion, Arnou. We were hoping to stay at your reputable inn before we continue on our way to Edinburgh and from there to home.”

  “Beaumontagne seems safe,” Mr. Montaroe said, “but rumor says Richarte is a shambles under Count duBelle’s rule.”

  At the sound of duBelle’s name, the old woman spat on the ground and the younger women buzzed like angry bees.

  “I will go to Beaumontagne,” Sorcha said. “It’s time.”

  Tulia turned to her husband. “I think we should go, too. We could stay with my parents—”

  “No,” he said. “When the prince comes back and my properties are returned, then we’ll return. Not before.”

  “Prince Rainger? But... he’s dead.” Sorcha looked from one to the other for confirmation.

  “Rumor claims he escaped from Count duBelle’s dungeon and is even now gathering an army to take back his country.” Mr. Montaroe’s hazel eyes glowed green.

  Rainger watched as Sorcha’s expressions changed from astonishment to pleasure and then, with a glance at him, to dismay.

  Sorcha looked from Rainger to Mr. Montaroe. “I can’t... can’t believe that,” she stammered. “Godfrey said Rainger was taken by Count duBelle and killed.”

  “I don’t know who your Godfrey is, but he was wrong. That young man wa
s put in the dungeon for years and by God’s grace escaped.”

  “When?” Sorcha demanded.

  “We heard the report almost three years ago.” Tulia sounded hopeless. “In an English paper. But they’re notorious for lying, trying to build people’s hopes.”

  Three of the girls surrounded their mother. One took her in her arms.

  The priest spoke quietly in her ear.

  Tulia wiped a tear off her cheek, nodded, and straightened her shoulders.

  “So!” Mr. Montaroe slapped his hands together. “How many rooms will you require?”

  “One,” Rainger said.

  Everyone turned to stare at him as if he were a trained bear who had spoken.

  “One? What are you talking about?” Sorcha asked. “I thought you said you wouldn’t—”

  “I’m not leaving you alone.” Taking her hand, he pressed it in his. “It’s too dangerous.”

  Under his intense consideration, her lashes fluttered. In her excitement, she’d forgotten to deepen her voice and now, for the discerning eye, she acted like a female with her mate.

  The priest noticed, of course. He moved forward to stand before them. A tall, broad-shouldered man, he sternly examined his guests. “Are you married?”

  “Married?” Mr. Montaroe harrumphed. “Father Terrance, your eyesight is failing you. These are men.”

  “That little one’s a woman, you oaf.” His wife dug her elbow into his side.

  “No.” But he focused on Sorcha at once, and examined her from every side. In incredulous tones, he said, “No!”

  “I saw it at once,” Tulia said.

  “Woman! You did not.” His eyes bulged as he glared at his wife.

  “I did. Beaumontagnian women have an instinct about these things,” she said loftily.

  Rainger listened in amusement as the Montaroes squabbled in an undertone.

  The pregnant woman stood near Rainger’s boot. She cast him an amused glance and said, “My parents never agree on anything.”

  Then, in a single voice, the Montaroes said, “You can’t stay in the same room unless you’re married.”

  “Except that,” the young woman said.