by Jo Beverley
He covered her hand with his and squeezed. “I’ll help as best I can, you know that. But yes, in the end you will be on your own.”
It took only a moment to say, “So be it.”
“Oh, my dear . . .” His pleasant, intelligent, honest face was almost anguished. “If you do this and find nothing, will you put it all behind you?”
She wanted to drag her hand from his. She wanted to scream no! But in her heart Justina knew he was being reasonable. They were all being reasonable, all the family, all the friends, all the people who begged her to forget.
She met his anxious brown eyes and even squeezed his hand back a little. “If I have the opportunity to really search at Torlinghurst and find nothing, then yes, I will try to forget Jack Beaufort and move on in my life.”
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THE DRAGON AND THE PRINCESS
Available now from InterMix
“Being the Sacrificial Virgin Princess of Saragond stinks.”
“I’m sure it does, highness.”
“Seven years. Seven interminable years!” Princess Rozlinda leaned forward on the Royal Mage’s table. “Not only have I been SVP longer than anyone before, today I doubled the previous record. And,” she swept on before the mage could speak, “Princess Rosabella’s term ended when she was sixteen. How old am I?”
“Nineteen, highness.” But Mistress Arcelsia’s aged eyes seemed to say, Magic cannot solve this.
Rozlinda whirled away, her skirts brushing knickknacks, her veil snagging on something. She yanked it free, not caring if the silk ripped. Stupid, stupid thing!
Nineteen, and she’d never flirted with a man, never danced with a man, never kissed a man. She hardly ever spoke to a man outside her family. She had eight elderly lady attendants whose sole purpose was to make sure the SVP stayed V.
The mage’s sanctum lay at the top of the highest tower of the White Castle of Saragond and through the window, Rozlinda could see all the way to the Shield Mountains. “I feel like a bird in a cage. Look, but don’t touch. See but never go.”
“Now that’s not true, Princess. You can ride out any time you wish.”
A moving cage is still a cage. But Rozlinda turned back, attempting a smile. None of this was Mistress Arcelsia’s fault, and a princess should make all around her comfortable. “Perhaps I will later.”
When she went riding, her knights escorted her. She’d still have her ladies to protect her from her knights, but they’d be there. Young, virile men in their silver armor and bright, heraldic tunics, so masterful on their prancing white horses.
Much good would it do her. Could anything be more cruel? The SVP Guard should be as wizened as her tutors and her ladies.
“Sit down, Princess. We’ll try scrying again. Perhaps you’ll see your future.”
“As I never see anything,” Rozlinda muttered under her breath, “that’s not encouraging.”
But she gathered her skirts and sat on the stool before the deep golden bowl. In her disgruntled mood, she sat on her trailing veil, dragging her conical headdress to one side. With a hiss, she rearranged herself and pushed the hennin straight so the silken bands beneath her chin weren’t choking her.
“I don’t see why being SVP means a person has to dress this way.”
“Tradition, Princess.”
Rozlinda looked at Mistress Arcelsia’s white robe and scarlet velvet cloak. “No one wears clothes like yours, either. Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Not at all, Princess. They are the outward sign of my position and skill, and very comfortable.”
“Mine are merely the outward sign of being the youngest fertile female of the blood, and they’re awful.”
“Princess, do try to put your mind into a state receptive of magic.”
“Fat lot of good it’s done so far,” Rozlinda mumbled, but only because the mage was drawing water for the scrying bowl and wouldn’t hear. They both knew Rozlinda didn’t have a scrap of magical ability, but they pretended.
Mages could do magic, or so they said. Rozlinda rubbed a finger on the rounded edge of the bowl. “Is there some magical way to bring on Izzy’s flowers?”
Mistress Arcelsia turned so sharply water sloshed. “No there isn’t, and it wouldn’t be right. You know better than to tamper with fate.”
“I’d suspect she was concealing the bleeding if she wasn’t so desperate to be SVP.”
“Princess Izzagonda would never do such a wicked thing. After last time.”
Last time, when the ceremony had gone awry.
Mistress Arcelsia poured the water into the bowl. “I’m sure she’ll flower before the dragon comes. She’s thirteen, after all.”
“I’m not afraid of the sacrifice. I’m just tired of the Princess Way. Another year seems unbearable.”
“The fates have their reasons.”
“The reason,” Rozlinda said forcefully, “is that the royal family is having fewer and fewer girls, and no one seems to be doing anything about it.”
“There is nothing to be done—”
“Then hasn’t it occurred to anyone that we’re doomed?”
The royal family of Saragond existed solely because their female blood had a mystical power to appease a dragon—the blood of a princess who had flowered but remained a virgin, that was. They married only within their line so that the blood would remain strong.
“Well?” Rozlinda demanded.
Mistress Arcelsia walked behind her. “Clear your mind for magic, Princess. Perhaps you’ll receive wisdom.” She put her hand on Rozlinda’s neck and pushed, so she had to look into the depths of the golden bowl. “What do you see?”
Rozlinda sighed and concentrated. She had no magic, but she’d been trained all her life to respect ritual and tradition, and daily magical exercises were part of that. Part of the Princess Way, which was all to do with saving the world when the dragon came. If only it would come today.
“Clear the mind, Princess!”
Rozlinda squinted, trying to see images in the scant play of light on still water. She puffed a breath to stir the surface.
Snakes? Ribbons? A jelly pudding?
“Nothing, Princess?”
Mistress Arcelsia’s assumption that as usual there would be nothing snapped Rozlinda’s patience. “I see water. A river, I mean, not the bowl. A deep one.” Might as well be dramatic. “There’s a storm coming. Lightning. A golden fish leaps out.”
“A golden fish! An excellent omen.”
She suspected that Mistress Arcelsia knew she was lying, but carried on anyway. “A man catches the fish. In a big, black net.”
“Alarming, Princess. What sort of man?”
“A . . .” Rozlinda’s imagination faltered. A knight, a prince, a brute? But then she gasped.
She saw a man!
She blinked, but this was no ripple-image. It was as if the round bowl had become a window through which she saw a strangely dressed, pale-haired man. He was standing by a river or lake, but in sunlight.
“Describe the man, Princess.” Mistress Arcelsia’s bored voice seemed from another world, and perhaps she was. Rozlinda was finally having a vision!
“The picture’s changed. Now I see a sunlit scene. Countryside. Water. And a different man.”
“Tell me more.” A sharp tone showed that the mage knew the difference.
Rozlinda strained to catch every detail.
“He’s not from around here. Long pale hair but dark skin. Not like the dark of Cradel. A sort of bronzish gold. His clothes are strange, too. A sleeveless leather jerkin such as a farmworker might wear, but cut tight. And no shirt underneath.”
Rozlinda had to swallow. That leather was almost like a second skin and left his brown, muscular arms open to her inspection.
“And?” the mage prompted.
Rozli
nda dragged her eyes away from more manly perfection than she’d seen as an adult. She grew hotter. The jerkin went down to his thighs, but his legs were covered by garments as form-fitting as her own silk stocking.
“Princess?”
“Green hose, brown boots.”
How inadequate. How deceptive. But she felt that if she truly described this man he might be snatched away as a forbidden treat.
It was as if he were drifting toward her, or she toward him. Details became clearer. His arms weren’t totally bare. “Metal bands around his arms, upper and lower. They look like gold. Can’t be. He’s no prince. You can’t see this, Mistress?”
“No, it’s your vision. Blond hair, you said?”
Rozlinda concentrated again. “Not really blond. More white.”
“Old?”
“No, not at all. It’s . . . this is a strange word for hair, but it’s bone colored.”
“I see.”
“You do?” Rozlinda tried to sit up, but Mistress Arcelsia pushed her down.
“Tell me more. Tell me everything.”
Something urgent in the mage’s tone both excited and scared Rozlinda. It had been so long since anything different had happened to her that she didn’t know how to react.
“Pale hair. Loose down the back but in thin plaits at the front. Glinting, as if woven with shiny wire.”
“Is he alone?”
“Yes. No! He just looked to his side and spoke to someone, but I can’t see who. And it would have to be someone in the water. Or in a boat. The water rippled. Perhaps someone’s swimming. He’s picking up a bag and hanging it from his shoulder. A scruffy bag. Definitely not a wealthy man. A thief, do you think? Is this some warning about thievery? He’s walking toward me.”
Rozlinda tried to shrink back, but the mage’s hand was firm on her neck. This was a vision, she reminded herself. A prognostication or an omen. Important.
“Is there anything else about him that you haven’t told me, Princess?
“He walks well.” Rozlinda became lost in the easy grace of that walk. Not a trudge at all, but a smooth swing, as if the whole world was his to walk over and he intended to do it.
As he drew closer, she noted more about his face. It was as handsome as the rest of him, with a square chin, high cheekbones, and chiseled symmetry, but the set of his mouth was grim and his startling pale amber eyes were cold.
And looking straight at her.
“Let me up!”
Mistress Arcelsia’s hand clamped her down. “More, Princess. Tell me everything!”
Panting with fright, Rozlinda looked anywhere but at those eyes. “Leather belt. Pouch. Knife. A buckle. It looks to be . . .”
“Be what?”
“Set with dragon eye stones. It can’t be. Only princesses of the blood wear dragon eyes!”
Who was this man? What did this vision mean?
Deep inside, instinct answered: Nothing good.
Keep reading for a preview of Jo Beverley’s new novel
A SHOCKING DELIGHT
Available from Signet April 2014
Lucy has looked forward to greater involvement in her father’s business empire and eventually being his heir, but he has announced that he’s to marry again in hope of getting a son. Her world turned upside down, she’s going to escape for a few weeks by taking up an invitation to move to Mayfair for the ton season. Her friend has pointed out that in order to fit in she should forget about her usual serious reading matter and take some novels, so she visits her favorite bookshop.
Lucy went to the shelves of slim volumes with gilt lettering.
The doorbell tinkled. She glanced to see who’d entered and her attention was caught. She realized why. The tall young man was dressed in country style. Leather breeches and top boots were not the norm around here.
He asked Winsom if he carried books about agriculture and was directed down one of the narrow passageways between the shelves. He walked there with a little more vigor than she was used to seeing in the neighborhood. He was also quite handsome. . . .
Lucy turned firmly away to concentrate on a different sort of folly. She’d long known that to marry would undermine her ambitions to become a merchant and was armored against good looks and even charm.
The Spectre Bride. Betty had enjoyed that one and shared the story. Lucy felt no desire to revisit the idiotic plot.
Midnight Nuptials.
Forbidden Affections.
Were all novels about love and marriage?
The Animated Skeleton. That sounded amusing, but her eye was caught by the title Self-Control. That was the one about Laura Montreville, canoes and Canada. Anything further from self-control was hard to imagine.
She moved on, but then turned back. She could remember quite a bit of the story, which meant she might be able to get away with only pretending to read it. She took the two volumes and looked for another novel.
Love and Horror. Now there was a combination that promised good sense. Was it about the horrible fates that lurked behind love? Even though her parents had been happy together, she’d long been aware that her mother had been demented by love to act as she had, and that it could easily have led to horror.
She took down the slim volume, flipped past a preface and came to the opening.
The storm was beating tempestuously and the lightning glaring around the playhouse . . .
She smiled, imagining animated lightning angrily glaring at the audience. But then it seemed Mr. Thomas Bailey was only just entering the playhouse. He took his seat, where he fell to sighing and weeping at the play, grieving for a lost wife.
That was too real a horror for Lucy. She was about to close the book when a line caught her attention. She read the words again. He’d lost his beloved two hundred years ago? How could that be . . . ?
Blast it! She’d read the entire first chapter, gobbled it down without thought.
She shoved the dangerous book back on the shelf, but then took it off again. She might have to truly read novels now and then so she might as well have ones that went down easily. She added the two volumes of The Animated Skeleton for good measure.
Five volumes was more than enough and the clock was ticking away the minutes, but she couldn’t resist turning to the section containing books on trade. She could at least look at the shelf where Winsom kept the new books.
The country gentleman was there, but further down, so no need for alarm.
No need for alarm in any case.
Clearly even a brief exposure to novels deranged the mind.
Observations on the Use of Machinery in the Manufactories of Great Britain. She knew all the arguments against machinery, but progress could not be halted.
A Treatise on the Abuses of the Coal Trade tempted simply because she knew little about it, but it formed no part of her father’s businesses.
An Introduction to Trade and Business. She certainly didn’t need that.
On the top shelf she read, The Evils of the Free Trade.
There had recently been parliamentary debates about how smuggled goods harmed legal trade by undercutting prices. The so-called Free Trade was also damaging agriculture because men who could make money through crime didn’t want to work the land. She couldn’t take such a book to Mayfair, but she could buy it for later. Also, her father might be interested in it.
She went on tiptoe to reach it.
“Allow me, ma’am.”
She froze. He was almost touching her as he reached easily for the book.
He looked at the title. “You’re interested in smuggling, ma’am?”
Lucy wanted to tartly ask why not, but she murmured, “For my father,” as she took the book. She was going to have to act a part for weeks, so she might as well start now.
“If there are any other volumes on the higher shelves I could
assist you with. . . .”
He had a pleasant voice, and was only attempting to be kind. She didn’t like being rude, so as she said, “No, thank you,” she glanced up and gave him a slight smile.
She was caught by blue-gray eyes, all the brighter for being surrounded by skin that confirmed him to be a stranger in her world. No City man was exposed to the elements enough to tan like that.
Handsome as she’d thought.
Square jaw.
Fine lips . . .
A warm smile. An interested smile.
She quickly moved away, pretending to look for another book as her heart slowed its pace. She didn’t know why she’d been so overset by a smile.
Calm again, she turned to go to Winsom’s desk, make her purchases and leave, but realized she’d made a mistake. She’d moved away from the front of the shop so the country gentleman now stood in her way. He wasn’t doing it deliberately, for he was once more looking over the shelves, but the passageway was narrow and he was large. She’d have to push by him to get out.
Leave, she silently urged him, aware of time passing, but he took down another book and opened it.
Winsom’s clock chimed the half hour.
Lucy walked away from him to go around the shelves, but then came to a halt. This was one of the cul-de-sac sections that ended only with a window.
Oh, what was the matter with her? Was a brief reading of a novel enough to turn her into an overwrought idiot? She’d be running away to a French convent, next, or taking ship for Canada.
She adjusted the six books in her arm and walked forward.
Alerted, he glanced round, and then pressed back against the shelves to give her more room. She nodded and passed, squeezing away from him as much as she could, pulling in her elbows.
One volume slid free to slam to the wooden floor with a sound like a pistol shot. She stared at it, mind empty of what to say or do.
He bent and picked it up. “Love and Horror,” he read from the spine. “Lighter reading than smuggling, but an odd combination of words.”
