Royal Renegade

by Alicia Rasley

  "I shan't call you that, Your Highness."

  She dimpled at him, and the effect, even through peripheral vision, was dazzling. "Oh, I think you will. 'Your Highness' is so cumbersome, and rather archaic in these modern times, don't you think? And I told you we are becoming kindred spirits."

  He rubbed his forehead hard, feeling another headache come one. "We are not kindred spirits. We are nothing alike. We have nothing in common."

  "We are both orphans."

  All the laughter in him, which had been incipient while she chattered, vanished with her casual words. He was silent, for she was right. Then he shrugged. "That's an easy bet, for I'm eight-and-twenty, and few of us have our parents so long."

  "But you were orphaned early, as I was. I can tell, for there's an aloneness about you—When did your parents die?"

  Reminding himself that she was a princess, and he could not politely refuse to reply, he said curtly, "My mother and sister were killed in an accident when I was six. My father died four years later."

  "How sad. I am so sorry," she said, and she looked up at him with honest sympathy softening her bright eyes.

  Annoyed, he said, "There's nothing to be sorry about, Princess. It has nothing to do with you."

  Startled, she looked back at him, her eyes now full of hurt again. "It's only that I've experienced it myself, as I told you last night. Of course, I never had a sister, though I often longed for one. Was that the hardest to abide? It must have been, because an adult's death is sad, but a child's death is truly a tragedy."

  He wanted very much to order her to leave, but he didn't trust his voice. How sure were her random shots. At first, of course, he'd missed his mother most. But as he grew it was his lively little sister's loss he most mourned. Damn her, how did she drag such nonsense from him. He hadn't thought of his childhood in years, buried it deep, for it did him no good to recall that chaotic time before he had gotten control of his life.

  Oblivious to his tension, the princess asked softly, "Was your sister younger? What was her name?"

  Unbidden came the answer to his lips. "She was two years younger. Merrilee. We called her Merry."

  "Merry and Michael. How nice that sounds. Alliteration, is that what the poets call it?"

  Devlyn suddenly remembered that his parents planned a whole family of "M's"—another girl named Melody and a boy named Mark. At six, utterly unacquainted with the processes of procreation, he thought Melody and Mark already existed and attaining them was merely a matter of hitching up the carriage and driving somewhere and picking them up. After the accident, their fates haunted him, although he had sense enough not to mention it to his father. He used to dream about Melody and Mark, smaller versions of Merry and himself, waiting on the steps of an orphanage for a family who never came.

  Princess Tatiana was immune to silence, probably because she filled it so well. "Do you think she would still be a Merry today? Or would she have matured into a Merrilee? Perhaps she would be a proper young matron, supplying you with a half-dozen nieces and nephews, and despite your seniority, reminding you to wear your woolen scarf into battle." She added wistfully, "I suppose it's odd that I like to imagine how lost loved ones might have turned out. I often wonder what my mother would be like now, rather sweet but a little distracted, always ready to put aside her work to talk to me but never completely understanding. It just helps me remember that they actually existed, when everyone else is so set on denying that. If there's no one else left, you have no one to remember with, and your memories become more and more like dreams, until finally they seem entirely unreal."

  He made some gesture of impatience that she must have taken as affirmation, for she continued in a wondering tone, You see how alike we are. That's why we are so drawn together." There was no mischief in her eyes now as she tilted her face up to look at him, only an odd understanding, and he wondered if, in fact, she did understand him. But the last thing he wanted was understanding. He was suddenly weary of her company, and wanted only to return to his solitary watch and his solitary life.

  So he answered with quiet savagery, "You'd do well not to tell a man that you are drawn to him, Princess. If he reciprocates your feeling, he will take advantage of you; if he does not, he will take you in dislike."

  He was glad of the flash of pain in her green eyes, glad that the dancing light was extinguished, that her mouth trembled with hurt and not laughter. "Now go on back belowdecks, Your Highness. I told you it is improper for you to be here with me."

  Long after she disappeared, he could conjure up the image of her brutally biting at her lip to keep from crying, her small fists balled up on the railing. He'd done it again, rejected her innocent friendship, only this time he'd remained stalwart in his cruelty.

  She stayed away for a week, avoiding any contact with him as if he were the devil, or, more likely, a bishop. Once she banged her head ducking into the nearest open hatchway when she saw him belowdecks. Devlyn heard her stifle a cry of pain and almost went to her. But with an unwilling rush of empathy he knew that her embarrassment would be more intense than the physical pain, and continued on his way.

  But on those night watches, which now lasted so much longer, Devlyn had the time to contemplate the one-person invasion force Russia had sent to his homeland. The princess seemed younger than twenty, although her body was supple, womanly, and her sulky lips promised more than they could probably fulfill. She had a child's lack of discretion; the intensity of her joy and her anguish was overpowering. And all the provocative behavior her companion doubtlessly lamented was the product of innocence, not corruption. She was just teasing, he thought, trying out the femininity she only recently discovered in herself. Her emergence into womanhood, like a butterfly from a chrysalis, was lovely, a gift of benevolent nature, delicately hurtful to watch. Once she was wed to that monstrous Cumberland, and her innocence would be only the first casualty.

  But her fate wasn't his worry. He would deliver her to Wellesley and go back to the war and forget her and her unsettling ability to ferret out feelings he had buried long ago.

  One night a week out of Gibraltar, they came within a quarter-mile of a warship, French, by the looks of her. But the moon had set and he couldn't decipher the standard flying above her. He and the helmsman doused the running lights, and the cabin boy, nesting in a dinghy, was dispatched to wake the captain. They'd had a few similar encounters earlier in the voyage as they left the Aegean Sea, but their small sloop, as Devlyn had predicted, attracted no undue attention. This ship didn't even hail them, didn't notice them probably. Devlyn sensed the helmsman holding his breath as they passed the great ship, her masts towering above them, her sails the only spots of light in the dark night.

  Once they were a safe distance away, Captain Dryden observed with a wry glance, "Now I know I will never be able to impress you again with the adventure of free trading. Believe me, most of our voyages are not so uneventful. Occasionally we even have to make a run for it."

  Devlyn replied that he wasn't finding the voyage the least bit tedious and realized that his courteous statement was quite true. This voyage had been an enlightening experience; whether due to his unwonted solitude or the presence of the princess, he didn't like to examine.

  The next night, as they approached the coast of Spain, she came out on deck, sliding the last few feet to the rail as the sea had turned a bit rough. She flung back her ruby velvet cloak in a dramatic gesture but refused to look squarely at him. Her full mouth was set in a resolute line at odds with her tentative glance, quickly repealed, at his face.

  "I didn't want you to think you had defeated me. I am not so easily vanquished."

  "This is not a battle," he said quietly, breathing evenly despite her nearness.

  "Yes, it is—for you." She didn't explain this, only adding with a shrug of one small shoulder, "Oh, I'll go along well enough without you, although I do not often get to offer my friendship and it does hurt to be refused. But others will want to be my friend, I kn
ow it. I am not vain, but I do think I can keep people amused. I made even you smile, didn't I? And someday I might even find a friend as fine as you."

  He was about to protest that they were not friends, that she was merely his charge and an unwanted one at that, but she turned those expressive eyes on him and said very kindly, "But I shan't think you'll ever find another friend like me, for you don't want one, and no one else will ever disregard your wishes and insist on being your friend despite your cruel nature and utter lack of imagination."

  He shook his head then, hiding his smile, glad she was back, wishing she would leave. But seeing only his gesture, she bored on relentlessly. "Oh, I know you don't want me, but I am your friend, and I will not let you push me away, and someday your heart will melt a little and you will know I was right and you will thank me for it. You don't need to say anything, and we shan't speak of this again, because I've spent a week gathering courage to push myself forward like this. For you're so hard, Michael, you are, and I shan't ever be so bold again."

  She couldn't let it go, however, and had to add, in an ostentatiously wise voice, "Do you know the Russian fable of the oak and the reed? The oak was so hard and strong and stood so straight that he scorned the little reed, which was slender and weak and bent with every breeze. Then a typhoon hit, and the terrible wind crashed through and tore the oak down, while the reed merely bent and sprang back again unharmed."

  "Typhoons," he replied after a moment's contemplation, "occur only over the sea, and I hardly think you'd find many oak trees there."

  Her chuckle shimmered in the cool air. "Oh, Michael, I was speaking metaphorically. You are always so literal." She touched his bare hand so lightly that he thought he might have imagined it, and then she was gone.

  Chapter Seven

  At sea

  During the next week, the Coronale sailed unaccosted through the Straits of Gibraltar and into the Gulf of Cadiz. From here, the voyage was a familiar one for Devlyn, as he had sailed home from Cadiz or Lisbon several times in the last four years. When they edged close to the coast, he could recognize landmarks like Cape Saint Vincent, where Britain had won a great naval battle, and Settibal Bay just south of Lisbon. Soon he would be only miles offshore from the army encampment, and he wondered at his own lack of curiosity. The army could have been overrun, the war lost, for all he knew. On this sloop, he was effectively cut off from all the intelligence and information that had shaped his days for so long. And he didn't miss it at all.

  The princess joined him occasionally on the night watch, apologizing that she couldn't always slip away from her companion. Devlyn found himself waiting each night for her cheerful greeting, and was both relieved and disappointed whenever she did not come.

  When she did join him, they kept their conversation light, confined to neutral topics like life in England and literature. They did not discuss her future or his past, or anything of note at all. She was charming, effervescent, alluring, and he longed for the sight of the English coast so he would be free of her finally.

  She liked to ask his advice on how to go about in society, even when he warned her he seldom did. "But you are such a good observer, Michael," she coaxed. "Tell me all you can remember."

  He’d given up telling her not to use his Christian name. And now, her eyes were so soft with pleading that he searched his memory for social rules. Surely he'd had some instruction on them at Eton, but, if so, having never had much of a chance to put it to use, he'd forgotten it all.

  "When I'm home on leave, I've more interesting things to do than dance attendance on the patronesses at Almack's in hopes of getting a voucher. Let me think now. We men don't have to worry about breaking the rules, you see, for ladies are the ones who suffer disgrace mostly. Oh, I know you can't dance more than twice in one evening with the same man. And you can't dance with any man who hasn't been vetted by your chaperone."

  The princess tilted up her obstinate chin and took issue with this, as she always did when, after a great effort, he managed to remember some detail in the code of conduct. "Why ever not? I will wager the best dancers would never pass muster. My dancing master Pierre Michelet—I did learn to dance, so you needn't think I am totally lacking in social graces—Michelet was a shocking loose screw, for example. He could barely stand by noon, for he hid a flask in his coat. But he danced like an angel, for all his inebriation, and recited lovely poetry at the same time. Now I should rather dance with him—three times!—than once with some estimable dullard who would step on my slippers and prose on about the hunt."

  "If you are only going to discount everything I say, Your Highness, don't ask for my advice," Devlyn replied coldly. "If you want to risk social ruin by dancing seven times with Dishy Mitchelson, you are welcome to. Just don't tell me I should have warned you."

  "Who is Dishy Mitchelson?" the princess asked, her green eyes alight with anticipation.

  "An aging roue, fond of opium and innocents, in several combinations." Fortunately, she had no idea what he meant, only frowning prettily and then dismissing that as she dismissed most of his counsel.

  "Well, you must admit, most of these rules are silly." She smiled at him, one sophisticate to another, her hand cupped in languid inquiry under her chin. "And I can't believe they are meant to apply to royalty. Aren't you English terrible snobs? Why, your princes get away with murder and bigamy and—and indebtedness! Surely princesses are also allowed a bit of latitude. Otherwise, what has happened to the divine right of kings?"

  “If there is a divine right of princesses to disgrace themselves, I haven't heard of it," Devlyn replied dampingly. "It is most amusing, your highness, how you speak as a democrat, even an anarchist, until the subject comes to your own prerogatives. Then you are the most monarchical of royalists. Divine right! You might still believe that in Russia, but we English have long since discarded such naivete. Of course, naivete is rather your hallmark, isn't it?"

  She was stung by his conflicting accusations of hypocrisy and naivete, but attacked the most insulting first. "I am not naive! I have read widely of society doings and gossip, and I daresay I know the major figures in London better than you!" She regarded him challengingly, and he raised one hand in surrender. "So I am sure I shall appear sophisticated and exotic to society, and no one will guess how isolated I have been. I shall be considered all the crack, and bang up to the nines."

  "Where did you pick up those expressions?" he inquired, his mouth twitching.

  "From the novels Buntin's sister sends."

  "Penny dreadfuls. And of course, you want to sound just like the thieves in the Rookery, correct?"

  "The heroes speak cant, too," she responded defensively, turning her little back just to punish him. "And some of them are fine as a fivepence." But after a moment, she added unwillingly, "You think I should not speak like that?"

  "Oh, do. You'll sound just like an unweaned pup down from Eton for the season."

  She considered this, glancing back at him to judge his sincerity. "You don't think I sound more sophisticated?"

  "That wasn't the word that came immediately to mind."

  "I suppose I must trust you," she conceded with a heavy sigh. And here I'd written out a dictionary and memorized it—a waste of time, you'll say."

  "Perhaps you can publish it and sell it to unweaned pups at Eton," he suggested, and laughed when she took him up on the notion.

  “Like Dr. Johnson's dictionary! I could call it 'Dr. Denisova's Dictionary of Thieves' Cant for the Elucidation of Unweaned Pups.' How would I go about finding a publisher?"

  "I haven't the slightest idea," he replied chillingly and hastened to change the subject. "Whether you see yourself as naive or not, Your Highness, you must be wary of real sophisticates. That fancy title of yours is going to attract some true Spanish coin minters." At her bewildered frown, he added, "You must add that to your dictionary. Flatterers who will take advantage of you. Such as a social-climbing jezebel who will pledge her undying friendship when all she wants
is entree to Carlton House."

  “And the men?"

  He let the horizon watch itself briefly and gave her a speculative glance. "Surely you know how a man may take advantage of a woman."

  Her lashes swept down to hide her eyes; whether with coyness or shyness he couldn't tell. "I told you I was isolated. I have never been to a party, except at Versailles, and no one paid me any mind there, except Napoleon."

  Except Versailles. Except Napoleon. Devlyn felt insignificant just standing next to this princess with her "excepts." He fought the urge to ask her what the Corsican monster was really like, and whether Versailles was as splendid as reputed, and what she was doing there anyway, if she had been so isolated.

  But she was tumbling on. "So I have had no contact with men—Spanish coin minters or no. Except," she added softly, "for my cousin Count Korsakov.'

  Another except. "Who is your cousin Count Korsakov?"

  "Just an officer in the Kaluga Reserve Corps. He paid me special attention for a short time." A delicate blush rose in her golden cheeks, and she fumbled with the ribbons of her hood, refusing to look up at him.

  As if he were a bystander in his own body, Devlyn was intrigued by the hot emotion that arose in him. "And what form did this attention take?"

  "Oh, he would visit with me and tell me jokes. He was excessively silly, but he knew wonderful jokes." The toe of her red kid slipper drew a sequence of circles on the polished deck. "He told me he was going to ask my Uncle Dmitry for my hand. But I never saw him again. He was posted to the Kamchatka Peninsula—that's on the eastern coast, almost five thousand miles away. My uncle had other plans for my hand, I suppose."

  Devlyn asked evenly, not sure he wanted to know the answer, "Were you very disappointed?"

  The little red slipper continued its careful circling. "A bit. I thought I'd never get out of there, you see. I thought I'd probably die there in the west wing without ever having lived, without ever having anyone of my own. And Peter—poor Peter. He lost everything—of course, it would have been very wrong to marry him just to escape, wouldn't it?"