But she kissed him so sweetly.
The vultures were gathering and he and Sorcha had only a little time to save themselves and their countries.
For the first time in his life, he damned his duty and damned his country. He need an eternity to love Sorcha properly.
He didn’t have eternity, so sternly he brought to mind why he’d started this—to thoroughly remind her how much she loved him. He had done that. Yes, he had done that very well.
In stages he drew back. Then kissed her eyelids, her forehead. Then drew back again.
At last she stood on her own two feet.
She swayed for a moment, then straightened her bodice, smoothed her skirt.
He had made an important and inescapable point—she couldn’t resist him.
But when she looked up, her face was still and set. “If you’re done slobbering on me, I’d suggest you get packed. I’m leaving within the hour and I’m not waiting for you.”
He hoped he didn’t look as stunned as he felt. He groped for his lost authority. “We’re going to Edinburgh.”
“I’m going to see my sister. You can go to Freya Crags, you can go to Edinburgh—or you can go to hell.”
The winding road to Freya Crags was better than any road Rainger had yet traveled in Scotland, but that didn’t improve his temper worth a damn. For one thing, there were inns where assassins could stay in comfort and watch for them. There were places assassins could prepare an ambush: barns, rocky outcroppings, lonely stretches. He’d been watching for danger for so long, he felt taut and stretched, and despite the fact every male villager from New Prospera who owned a horse rode with them, he felt as if disaster was poised to descend.
The men would tell him it already had in the person of his bride, one Princess Sorcha.
Rainger eyed her. She rode boldly astride, her breeches beneath her fluttering skirts. Their escorts surrounded her, not only to keep her safe but so they could bask in her attention.
The men, of course, were exhausted after celebrating the wedding far into the night, but they valiantly followed her wherever she led. She enchanted them, she urged them forward with smiles and bribes of sweetly sung songs, and they would do anything for her.
She didn’t bother to extend her enchantment to Rainger. She didn’t bother to look at him. And he found himself jealous of the other men.
The other men—old Montaroe, blushing young Adrian, stout Chauncery, girlish Savill, hulking Alroy, his brother-in-law Vernon, and six other men. It didn’t matter that none of them were a match for Rainger in youth and strength of character, or a match for her in position and nobility. Every smile she sent their way, every virtue of theirs she extolled, every song she sang for them infuriated Rainger.
At last, after three hours, he could bear it no more. The horses needed a breather. The men needed a rest. And he needed to recapture Sorcha’s attention in any way he could.
Before them loomed a gorge where the road wound through low cliffs, and before they entered, he needed to know what these men could do.
Or so he told himself.
“Halt!”
The men pulled up and faced him inquiringly.
She shot him a glare that clearly told him her opinion of his character.
Sadly he considered that better than being excluded.
But he ignored her malice and pointed at the road. To the troop, he said, “This place reminds me of Speranza Gorge in Richarte.”
The older men looked it over and nodded.
“A lot of robberies and murders happened in Speranza Gorge,” Montaroe said.
“Exactly,” Rainger said. “Before we go in, I’d like to see what you can do with your weapons.” If these men were like the rest of the men in Richarte, they were deadly shots, especially with the crossbow. In Beaumontagne and Richarte, on the edge of the mountain wilderness, a man learned to protect his family and property.
Grinning, the men drew their armaments—their pistols, their muskets, their crossbows—from their saddle holsters.
A slab of rock stretched long in the meadow. A lightning-struck tree stood nearby.
“You men with the muskets, shoot at the center of the rock. You men with the crossbows, shoot at the center of the trunk.” Rainger pulled his own crossbow. “I’ll pay five guineas to the man who hits closest dead center.”
“Who’s going to decide the winner, Your Highness?” Alroy asked.
Rainger grinned. “I am.”
The men looked at the crossbow in Rainger’s hand. They groaned and laughed.
Rainger laughed with them.
They lined up to shoot anyway. These men shot for the pleasure of the game, not for the prize.
“Keep a lookout,” Rainger told Sorcha. That should put her in her place.
She didn’t look as if she were in her place. She looked impatient. “How long is this going to take? Because I want to reach MacKenzie Manor tonight. I want to see Clarice tonight.”
“This is for your own safety,” Rainger said.
“I thought it was so you could boast about your shooting abilities,” she answered.
“I am the prince. I do not need to boast.” Although perhaps that she would be impressed with his mastery had crossed his mind.
Certainly it had crossed the minds of the villagers, for as they shot they taunted each other.
“Give it up, Montaroe. You’re so old and shaky you’ll aim at the tree and hit the rock.”
“Hey, Octavius. The day you shoot dead center is the day you’re aiming at your mother-in-law.”
“Duck, everyone, duck! Savill holds a loaded musket in his hand!”
But the shots were good and true, and Rainger would have trouble deciding which of the men should have the prize.
But first he had his chance to shoot. He moved his horse up to the line. He lifted his crossbow.
“Rainger.” Sorcha’s voice was low and urgent.
Now that he ignored her, she wanted his attention.
“In a minute.” He squinted and aimed.
“Rainger, there are men coming down the rocks.”
He whipped his head around just as a bullet whistled past his ear.
In less than a second, he assessed the situation. As he feared, the enemy had been waiting for them. It would have been best for their foes to remain in the gorge, but when they heard the shots they imagined someone else had attacked their prey. Now they descended toward the villagers, moving with stealth and precision, slipping from one cover to another, trying to make every shot count. They were professionals, mercenaries hired for one purpose—to kill Sorcha, or Rainger, or both.
But the men of New Prospera responded immediately, wheeling their horses with a ululating cry and riding in a circle around Sorcha.
She, smart girl, bent down over her horse’s neck and rode in the circle in the opposite direction. Some of the enemy shots might hit a target, but not easily and not the target intended.
Rainger’s men used their shots wisely, bringing first one mercenary, then another tumbling down the rocks.
“Ride, Highnesses,” Montaroe shouted, “ride for Edinburgh. We’ll keep them off your tail.”
Rainger saw Sorcha’s rebellious glare, but when he indicated that she lead the way, she rode as commanded.
“It’s us they want,” he shouted. “When we’re gone they’ll be trying to follow us and our men can pick them off.”
She nodded and kept riding as hard as she could back up the road toward Edinburgh. They passed through a village, then out onto the flats.
Before them, Rainger saw a barn on one side of the road, a grove of trees on the other, and when he saw movement in the trees he recognized the place they’d find a second ambush.
He loosened his pistol in his belt. He kept the crossbow in his hands.
Two horsemen charged from the barn side, one from the grove.
“Head for the trees,” he shouted at Sorcha.
But she’d anticipated his command. She raced
into the grove, deftly dodging branches, using the trees as cover.
One of the horsemen chased after her.
Two rode at Rainger, one from the left, one from the right.
He squeezed off his arrow. He didn’t watch to see it land, but he heard the scream, abruptly cut off. He bent low in the saddle and off to that side. A pistol shot roared close at hand. He felt the heat as the bullet creased his horse’s neck.
Alanjay flinched and danced in a rearing, furious circle.
“Gently, boy, gently!” Rainger said, and held on.
How many shots did the mercenary carry?
“Gently, boy. Good boy!” He regained control—and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of gunpowder in the trees.
As another shot whipped past him, he used his reins, his knees, and the gelding’s affection for him to turn him toward the grove. “Sorcha!”
“Sorcha. To me!”
At the sound of her name and the words called in her own language, Sorcha automatically checked. But although she recognized the voice, it wasn’t Rainger’s deep rumble.
Who was it?
The trees rushed past her. She dodged branches, cutting in and out, making herself a difficult target to hit. Leaves whipped at her face. Her breath burned in her lungs. But her hands on the reins were sure, and Conquest responded beautifully, twisting and cutting without slipping at all. They were still alive, but they were coming to the end of the grove.
Her pursuer was herding her into the meadow. There she would be an easy target.
She had to stay alive.
“Sorcha!” the stranger’s voice called again. “Let me help you.”
Who was it?
“Let me help you again.”
She broke out of the trees. She heard the thrashing behind her as the rider broke free, too.
Stay alive.
And that required bold action. Using all her skill, she turned Conquest in a sharp circle and galloped right at her pursuer.
She saw a huge bald man on a gigantic horse. His features were battered. His pale eyes were narrowed. He wore a sword and a dagger.
“Godfrey!” She recognized him now.
Godfrey was Grandmamma’s trusted emissary and bodyguard, the man who’d taken Sorcha from her sanctuary in England to the convent in Scotland, the man she thought protected her from harm—and he pointed his pistol at her.
“Whoreson!” she shrieked in fury. She stared with narrowed eyes right at him. How dare he? How dare he point that at her? How dare he threaten her with harm?
His pistol wavered. He fired. He missed.
She whipped past him at close range and back into the trees. She could see someone racing straight at her. Two somebodies.
Rainger, galloping with all his might. And another whoreson right on his tail.
At the sight of her careening toward him, the second whoreson grinned a black-toothed grin. He lifted his musket, aimed at her—
And Rainger turned in his saddle and blasted him with a shot from his pistol.
Blood blossomed in his chest and he blew backward off his horse.
Once again Rainger turned forward. But too late.
Godfrey dashed toward him, sword upraised.
Just in time, Rainger caught a glimpse of the steel. He leaped out of the saddle. He hit the ground on his back.
Godfrey’s blow whistled in the air where Rainger had been.
Alanjay galloped away.
Godfrey turned his horse back toward Rainger, intent on his prey, riding as hard as he could.
Rainger was motionless. Winded? Or dead?
Not dead. Please, not dead.
Godfrey’s gaze never wavered from Rainger’s body.
She saw the outstretched branch.
Godfrey did not.
She shrieked his name. “Godfrey!”
At the sound of her voice, he turned—and the fat branch knocked him out of the saddle.
The branch cracked under the impact. She gasped with relief and prayed that Rainger would rise.
Even on the ground, Godfrey was formidable, but she still had Conquest beneath her, and for Rainger, Sorcha and her horse wouldn’t hesitate to stomp Godfrey into the ground.
Then, thank God, Rainger stirred. He was alive. He shook his head, rolled to his feet. With a glance he assessed the situation, and while Godfrey gasped for breath, he charged. He leaped on him. He slammed a fist under his chin.
Godfrey’s head snapped back. He twisted like a dervish.
Sorcha saw the glint of a knife in his hand. “Look, Rainger!” Foolish to yell a warning—but she already knew she was a fool.
Rainger grabbed Godfrey’s arm. The men wrestled, straining, muscles bulging.
Grandmamma had chosen Godfrey for his strength. He was hulking, so much larger than Rainger.
Sorcha couldn’t sit here on Conquest and watch the struggle. She looked around for a weapon.
The branch. She grabbed the end, leaned with all her weight, and broke it free. She rode toward the grappling men, lifted the branch over Godfrey’s head—and the men rolled.
Rainger was on top.
Sorcha could do nothing.
Without warning, the knife disappeared. She heard a bubbling gasp and realized—one of the men had been stabbed.
Bounding out of the saddle, she ran toward them.
Rainger staggered to his feet, blood on his hands and shirt. He looked down at Godfrey.
The knife blade was buried in Godfrey’s chest.
She stopped, her relief so great she swayed. Rainger was alive. That was all that mattered. Rainger was alive.
He glanced at her. “All right?”
“Yes. Just... yes.”
Kneeling beside the thrashing Godfrey, Rainger leaned over him. “Did Count duBelle hire you?”
Godfrey laughed, a gasping sound. “Years ago.”
“Why?” Sorcha rushed to his side. “Why would you betray Grandmamma?”
“For money. Isn’t that always the reason, Godfrey?” Rainger stood and whistled, calling in Alanjay and Conquest.
“He said... he said... why would I work for a woman when I could work for him?” Godfrey spasmed with pain.
Sorcha touched his shoulder. “No man is tougher than my grandmother.”
“Not me.” Godfrey’s breath rattled in his lungs.
Rainger looped the reins of their two horses over a branch. He looked around alertly, and she knew he stood ready to snatch her up and run at a moment’s notice.
But she hated to leave even Godfrey alone to die.
“You... you princesses were such sweet girls, pretty and soft,” he murmured. “Nice to me.”
“Yes.” Sorcha and her sisters had been nice to Godfrey. They felt sorry for him because he had to work for Grandmamma.
“I couldn’t bear to kill you.” Godfrey tried to inhale, but he coughed instead. “So I sent you away... where no one could find you. And he found out—”
Rainger glanced around at the mayhem in the small grove. “Godfrey!” he said in a loud voice. “How many more assassins are there?”
Godfrey didn’t seem to hear him. His eyes had turned glassy and he stared at Sorcha as if he couldn’t look away. “When I shot at you, you were angry.”
“But your pistol wavered.”
“After all these years... still couldn’t kill you.” Blood trickled from Godfrey’s lips. “When you’re angry, you look... like your grandmother.”
The thunder of hooves shook the ground.
Rainger looked up the road, then said urgently, “Godfrey! How big is the reward to kill us?”
Godfrey was drifting into another world, and only Sorcha kept his attention. “When he found out you... were alive, he gave me one... last chance. He thought since you knew me I could get you... but I still couldn’t do it.”
Rainger reached for Sorcha to bring her to her feet and take her away. Then they heard the shout. He relaxed. “It’s the men from New Prospera. We’ll be safe... f
or now. We’ll ride for Edinburgh and home as quickly as possible.”
Still in that dreamy voice, Godfrey said, “No matter how much it cost me, I couldn’t... kill you. But I could have killed him.” His gaze slid to Rainger. Abruptly, reason returned to his clouded blue eyes. “The reward is a thousand gold guineas, Your Highness. You figure out how many men are after you.”
Running toward the road, Rainger flagged down the villagers.
Godfrey whispered, “Tell Queen Claudia... in the end, I didn’t betray her.”
Chapter 22
Sorcha stood on the deck of the Luella Josephine as it cut through the water toward Southern France. The voyage would take less than two days and, she hoped, leave their assassins in the dust.
Yet Godfrey was dead.
Alroy was wounded.
On the road to Edinburgh, the men of New Prospera had had to fight off three more attacks. They had ridden through the night, and when at last the party reached the ship, the villagers had taken Alanjay and Conquest and promised Sorcha they would be well loved.
Then Rainger and Sorcha had boarded and waited, nerves stretched thin, until the ship sailed on the tide.
But at last she was on her way home—on her way home with a man she knew so well, yet barely knew.
She ignored the prickling sensation at the base of her neck. She wanted to watch the shoreline of Scotland disappear over the horizon into the morning mist, and she did. Yet all the while, she was aware that Rainger stood on the deck above, dressed in black, scrutinizing her with his dark gaze.
Who did he see standing by the rail? She wasn’t the same girl she’d been when she’d been forced from Beaumontagne. She wasn’t even the same woman who’d left the convent. But yesterday, when she saw Rainger on the ground and believed him unconscious and possibly dead, she had learned something very important.
It didn’t matter that he’d made a fool of her or that he’d burned her sisters’ letters. Arnou or Rainger, she still loved him—which made her a bigger fool than ever.
But she needed to talk to him. Really talk to him, and explain how she felt and who she was.
He would want that, too. For their marriage to survive, he would have to understand her pride as she understood his.
The Prince Kidnaps a Bride Page 21
