by Day Leclaire
“Be careful with this one,” she warned, nodding toward the woman Merrick held. “I know how you are around beautiful women. She’s liable to turn you from a grizzly to a teddy bear.”
Merrick gave a short, gruff laugh. “Don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself,” he said in a surprisingly tender voice. “Compared to von Folke, I really am a teddy bear. Go now. Head straight through the woods. There’s a chapel about a hundred yards in. You’ll find a guard unconscious in the garden just beyond the chapel walls. Put on your veil and sit next to him. When he comes to, tell him he passed out. Tell him whatever you think will work, but don’t let him report the incident.”
She nodded in understanding. Without another word, she hurried into the woods, picking her way as swiftly as possible through the underbrush, careful to make certain that the layers of skirting didn’t snag on any of the shrubs. If she didn’t get to the unconscious guard before he woke, her subterfuge would be pointless and Merrick would be caught before he’d gotten more than a mile down the road.
Emerging into the clearing, she saw one of Brandt’s guards laying spread-eagle in the grass near a stone bench. To her consternation, she noticed a small dart protruding from his neck. Shuddering in distaste, she plucked it free and tossed it in some nearby bushes.
After assuring herself that no one had noticed the exchange—at least, no one had raised an alarm—she took a seat and pulled a handful of pins from a small pocket she’d sewn into her gown. Sweeping her hair into a similar style to the one Alyssa had worn, she carefully anchored the veil in place before arranging the layers of lace and tulle so it completely concealed her features. And just in time. At her feet, the guard stirred.
“What…”
She swiftly crouched beside him, silver chiffon skirting flaring around her. “Are you okay?” she asked in a soft voice, praying she sounded similar to Princess Alyssa. Why, oh, why, hadn’t she asked Merrick to make the woman speak so she’d have a better idea of accent and intonation? It was a foolish mistake. “You tripped or passed out or something. Are you ill? Should I call your superior and tell him you fainted?”
A dull red swept across the man’s cheekbones and alarm filled his brown eyes. “No, no, ma’am. I’m fine.”
“I think they want us inside.” She slipped a shoulder beneath his arm and helped him to his feet, which only increased the spread of embarrassed red across his broad features. “Are you sure you don’t need help? Maybe I should request a doctor for you.”
“Please.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “Don’t tell anyone this happened. It could mean my position in the Guard.”
“Oh, dear. That would be terrible.” She infused a wealth of sympathy in her voice. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll keep it our secret. After all, no harm done. I’m right here, safe and sound.”
The guard nodded in relief. “Yes, Your Highness. I’m grateful that you didn’t attempt to run off when the opportunity presented itself.”
Run off? Her brows pulled together. Why would the guard suspect Alyssa might run, unless…Miri’s breathing hitched. The comment suggested that Princess Alyssa wasn’t a cooperative bride, that the guard wasn’t here as an honorary attendant, but in an official military capacity. But why? What was going on? Was Brandt forcing the marriage? Her eyes closed in anguish. If so, why was he doing it? Was he so desperate to be king that nothing else mattered?
She found that difficult to believe. She knew Brandt. He wasn’t like that. She couldn’t equate the man who’d go to such extreme measures with the one she’d known since the tender age of seven, let alone the Brandt of one short month ago. Tears pricked her eyes. The Brandt she’d fallen in love with.
“Of course I didn’t run off,” she murmured. “After all, where would I go?”
Together they crossed to the gateway separating the expanse of garden from the inner courtyard of the chapel. Guards formed a corridor of uniformed muscle from gateway to chapel entry and she ran the gauntlet without a word. She stumbled as she entered the vestibule, blinded by a combination of the dim interior and the heavily tatted veil.
Her escort slipped a hand beneath her arm, steadying her. “Your Highness?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” she murmured.
A bevy of bridesmaids in a rainbow of pastels surrounded her briefly, before reorganizing themselves into pairs for their trip up the aisle. One fluttered to Miri’s side, dipped a curtsey and handed her a bouquet of cascading calla lilies, the lilac color a beautiful complement to the silver tone of her gown. It made her want to cry. This should have been real. This should have been her wedding day. It shouldn’t have been this…this lie.
Why, Brandt?
Drawing a deep breath, she moved to stand beneath the archway that led into the sanctuary. At her appearance, a massive pipe organ thundered out the first few triumphant notes of a wedding march prelude. She knew she was supposed to move forward, to take slow, gliding steps up the aisle. Instead, she stared at the man standing, waiting, in front of the altar.
He made for a striking figure. Tall. Commanding. Ebony-eyed with hair as dark as a starless night, no one would have labeled him as handsome. Not like Merrick and Lander. Brandt’s features were too austere for conventional good looks, the planes and angles of his face hard and uncompromising. Intimidating. Until he smiled. When he did that, his entire expression changed.
And that’s what he’d done when they’d run into each other right before King Stefan’s death. He’d smiled at her and she’d fallen. No, not fallen. Tumbled, helplessly, endlessly, passionately, forever in love. She thought he’d felt the same, that he loved her every bit as much, and she’d planned to go to his bed, to allow what she felt for him to take physical expression. But before they could consummate their relationship, she’d received the call informing her of her stepfather’s death, and had immediately flown home.
To her eternal shame, she’d left Brandt a note. One almost incoherent in its odd combination of love and grief. In that note she’d detailed, in no uncertain terms, precisely how she felt about him along with her hopes and dreams for their future, painting her childish picture in broad, vibrant, adoring strokes. What a fool she’d been!
She glared at the man waiting for her at the altar. That’s what came from being so impulsive—a character trait she’d never been able to overcome—and for flinging herself headlong at a man who saw life in shades of gray, never in color. A man without emotions, who put ambition ahead of everything else. Tears threatened and Miri forced aside the pain and anguish in favor of anger, needing that blinding fury in order to hold all other emotions at bay and get through this next hideous hour.
Taking a deep breath, she moved forward, heading step by step toward a revenge she’d never thought herself capable of. And all the while memories washed over her. Memories of how it had all started.
She was a fool. A total and utter fool.
Here it was well past midnight and she’d managed to lose the group of friends she’d been vacationing with on the tiny Caribbean island of Mazoné. They’d all gone to the grand opening of a new club that had been tucked a few blocks off the main drag. It wasn’t until she’d enjoyed several hours of dancing that she’d discovered she’d lost them. By then the noise and crowd had become overwhelming and she’d decided to head back to the hotel on her own.
It had been a huge mistake. She’d never been accused of having much sense of direction when she actually knew where she was going. In a strange city, late at night, she’d managed to prove to herself just how bad it was. She’d headed out, certain she knew the way back to her hotel. But in just a few short blocks, the ambiance had gone from upscale party scene to dark and threatening. Worst of all, she hadn’t a clue how to get back to where she belonged.
She clipped down the street in a ridiculous pair of four-inch heels at a I-know-where-I’m-going-don’t bug-me pace, praying she’d come across whatever served as local law enforcement, a cab, or a knight on a white charger. Even a knight
in a white charger would do. Anyone who could point her in the right direction or—better yet—escort her there.
Instead of any of those things, she heard a noise that sent chills shooting through her, the scurry of stealthy footsteps, rapidly approaching. The sound echoed through the empty streets behind her, her first warning of impending danger. And then came confirmation that she was in serious trouble, a single voice that commanded, “Get her!”
Without hesitation, Miri hastened around the next corner she came to, kicked off her heels and took off running. Adrenaline screamed through her system, threatening to numb her mind. Her heart pounded so loudly she couldn’t hear over the desperate thrumming. Were they still behind her? Closing? A sob choked her, making it difficult to breathe. She fought against the fear, fought against caving to sheer panic, fought even harder to remember everything Merrick had taught her about self-defense.
She forced herself to focus. Elbows. Elbows were the strongest point on her body. If her attacker got close enough, she’d use them. Then nails to the eyes. A fist to the nose. But first she’d toss her purse toward them, hoping that would satisfy long enough for her to get away. The credit cards and few dollars she had on her could be replaced.
Other things couldn’t.
Rounding another corner, she ran straight into a wall of muscle. Oh, God. Please, please, please! Don’t let this be happening. Somehow they’d surrounded her, cutting her off front and behind. Bouncing backward a couple steps, she tossed back her waist-length hair so it wouldn’t impede her and threw a punch—one the man casually blocked. So was her knee to his groin and her elbow to his midsection. Each countermove was accomplished with an economy of movement and a smooth grace that spoke of long practice. The realization that she didn’t have a chance against this man filled her with unmitigated terror. She opened her mouth to scream, but to her horror all that escaped was a pathetic whimper. Parrying a final blow, the man caught both of her wrists in his hands with terrifying ease.
She twisted her arms in an attempt to break his hold, an exercise in sheer futility. “Please—” The word escaped in a sob. “Let me go.”
Two
“Relax.” The man’s voice rumbled from six full inches above her. “I won’t hurt you.”
“Then let me go.” She spared a swift glance over her shoulder. “Please!”
“Stop fighting me and I will.”
A thread of amusement drifted through his comment, and there was something about his voice that struck a chord deep inside, some quality that she would have recognized if she weren’t so terrified. Before she had an opportunity to respond, footsteps skittered behind her. It had to be whoever had been chasing her earlier. They came to an abrupt stop when they caught sight of her and who she was with, and hovered uncertainly. The man holding her released her wrists. Sweeping her behind him, he turned to confront her pursuers.
“Don’t be afraid. I’ll take care of this,” he murmured. Raising his voice, he called to them. “This little one is mine now. Turn around and walk away and I won’t have to hurt you.”
She peeked out from behind his back, wincing when she saw there wasn’t just one or two, but three of them. Heaven help her! She wouldn’t have stood a chance. They shifted and bobbed, reminding of her of a pack of hyenas working up the nerve to attack.
“Maybe I’ll just run,” she offered apprehensively.
He shook his head. “They’d only give chase.”
She heard it again, that quality in his voice. But before she could analyze it, he glanced over his shoulder at her. She caught a brief glimpse of a hard, hawklike profile and the glitter of cold, determined dark eyes. It matched the rest of him and she shivered, realizing that this man could very well prove more dangerous than all three at the end of the block combined.
He had Lander’s impressive height, but was built more like Merrick. Lean and sinewy, she could feel tense, well-defined muscles through the jacket of his tux. Why hadn’t she noticed before? He was wearing a tux. She supposed there could be the occasional well-dressed assailant out there. But she seriously doubted anyone interested in offering her harm would run around attacking women while wearing formal wear. For the first time since she’d gotten herself into this mess, she breathed a little easier. But only for a moment.
The three men at the end of the block were talking quietly. At a guess, they were discussing their options. Maybe working up their courage. She knew the instant they’d reached a decision. In unison, their heads swiveled toward her, their smiles shining bleached-bone white in the darkness. As one they came, swift and assured, forming a wide half circle as they moved forward. A pack of predators circling their prey.
The man she cowered behind didn’t so much as twitch. He simply stood and waited. “Aren’t you going to do something?” she asked nervously, plucking at the back of his tux jacket. “Maybe we should run.”
“Do as I say and you won’t get hurt. Stay behind me and keep out of the way.” He shot her a swift warning look. “Don’t run.”
Right before the three were on top of them she caught the distinct flash of steel in each of their hands. She called out a warning—ridiculous, as well as pointless, considering he could see far better than she what they held. Nor did her warning do any good. He still didn’t react. The assailants took two more swift steps forward and that’s when the man protecting her responded. The explosion of movement lasted less than thirty seconds. A short, chopping blow. A kick. A punch. And all three were down, sprawled in a disjointed heap while their weapons clattered discordantly to the pavement.
Pivoting, the man dropped an arm around her shoulders and urged her away from the scene. As soon as he realized she was shoeless, he slowed the pace and helped her avoid anything that might cut or injure her feet. “Where do you belong?” He ushered her down a dark alleyway and onto a street that actually held traffic. Up ahead she could see the welcome glow of lights. “What’s the name of your hotel?”
She swallowed against the dryness in her throat, struggling to get her brain functioning again and her breathing slowed now that the crisis was over. “I’m staying at the Carlton,” she said, naming the only five-star hotel on the island.
He inclined his head in a courtly manner. It was one she’d seen countless times before at royal functions and public occasions, and one that held her riveted. “As am I.”
And that’s when it hit her, why his voice had struck such a chord, why even his mannerisms seemed familiar. “I know that accent. You’re Verdonian!” They stepped from shadow into light and she caught her first good look at him. “Brandt.” His name escaped in a soft gasp of wonder and delight. The realization that she’d escaped almost certain disaster without injury—thanks to this man, no less—made her almost giddy with relief. She’d always considered him a knight in shining armor. Tonight he’d proved it. “Brandt! It is you, isn’t it? Don’t you recognize me? It’s me. Miri Montgomery.”
Brandt stared at her, not quite able to equate the awkward teen he vaguely remembered with this vibrant, gorgeous woman he’d just rescued. “Miri?”
“Oh, thank you.” Lifting onto tiptoe, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed first one cheek and then the other, before planting a gentle, lingering kiss on his mouth. Her lips were petal-soft and warm, not quite as skilled as his last lover’s, but experienced enough to know what she was doing—and what she was offering. Pulling back, she gave him a broad smile. “Thank you so much for saving me.”
His hands settled at her waist, a tiny waist covered by a mere slip of a dress. Damn it! She was practically naked. What the hell was she thinking, running around like that? And who had let this…this child loose in one of the most dangerous sections of Mazoné? When he found out, he’d make the man regret it to his dying day. Instead of returning her smile, he frowned in disapproval. “What are you doing here, Miri?”
“I’m on vacation.” She slipped her hand through his arm in a companionable gesture, seemingly unaware of the way her grasp
pressed her breasts tight against his sleeve. “How about you?”
He fought not to react to her as a woman. It wasn’t right. She was practically family, not to mention far too young. “No, I mean, what were you doing in the part of town where I found you? You could have been hurt…or worse.”
“I got lost.”
Anger vied with concern. “Where’s your family? Where are your brothers? Who’s looking out for you?”
She blinked up at him. As soon as she registered his annoyance, her chin rose and she gave him a level stare from bottle-green eyes. He’d forgotten how stunning those eyes were, how they reflected her every thought and emotion. Confusion. Irritation. Affront. “I’m looking out for myself,” she replied evenly. “It’s been so long since we last saw each other, you’ve probably forgotten there’s only seven years between us, Brandt. I turn twenty-five next month.”
Was it possible? Had so many years passed since he’d last seen her? His gaze swept over her once again, seeing the woman who’d ripened from the child he remembered. It only served to fuel his anger. “That makes you old enough to know better than to wander through a dangerous section of town at two in the morning without an escort.”
She waved that aside. “I’m old enough to take care of myself.”
“Is that what you were doing when you were running from those men? Taking care of yourself?”
She released his arm and dipped into a practiced curtsey, somehow managing to imbue it with amused sarcasm. “You always did do intimidation well, Your Highness. Tonight you excel at it.” Her smile flashed again. “Come on, Brandt, stop acting like my hidebound old uncle. You’re not. Nor do I want you to be.”
He lifted an eyebrow. If she found him intimidating, she didn’t show it. He’d have to see what he could do about that. He approached, crowding her. “What would you have done when those three caught you?”
