Seducing the Princess

by Hart Perry, Mary

  Beatrice drew a breath at another jolt of fear on behalf of the woman who had never been far from her side for two entire years. “Right then, let’s go.” She waved off a young page who stepped forward to give her a leg up onto her horse. She set her left foot in her stirrup and easily swung herself up, expertly negotiating the twist of her body and swish of long leather skirt necessary to land in proper position on her side-saddle. She hooked her right leg over the first pommel and secured her left leg over the lower pommel in case she had to jump the horse over downed trees. “We’ll take the southern path, work our way up the hill then loop back through the densest woods to the house.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Gregory said.

  She led off at a slow trot, not daring to run her horse across the uneven ground, riddled as it was with treacherous gulleys and sinkholes into which her mount might catch a hoof, and snap delicate leg bones. She repeatedly called out Marie’s name, in hopes she’d hear a response. Gregory followed suit, bellowing loudly, although she sensed he put less faith than she did in getting an answer.

  They searched through a stony glade, rode up and down a series of sparsely treed hillocks, continually calling out for Marie. Beatrice’s heart grew heavier with each passing minute. Where could she be?

  At last, riding side by side, they entered the thick of the woods.

  As worried as she was, Beatrice couldn’t help marveling at the forest around her. It smelled fern-fresh and green, bursting with life after the torrential rains. How clever nature was. Clearing out stale air and dust from the earth. Washing it down to give life a new start. Too bad her own life wasn’t like that. What wouldn’t she give for a new beginning? How her heart ached for another chance to be with Henry. Her dear, brave, lost-to-her-now prince.

  “We need to stop and rest the horses,” Gregory said, pulling her thoughts back to the moment.

  “They can’t already be tired,” she objected. “We’ve only been riding a little over an hour.”

  “It’s harder on them than you think, stepping though this mess. Risking injury to one of the queen’s animals isn’t worth it.”

  “But we’ve hardly covered a quarter of the woods between Osborne and the town.”

  Gregory smiled, his eyes sparking with something that almost looked like amusement. “We’ll do it carefully, so as not to miss the poor lass. If she’s on the island, Princess, we’ll find her.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I am just so terribly worried.” She considered telling him about the child and the priest. But that was something from Marie’s past that the girl had meant to stay a secret. She’d honor her friend’s privacy.

  Only then, as Beatrice slid down from her saddle to the mossy ground, did another idea strike her. Maybe that was where Marie had gone. To see her child. The little girl might have taken ill. Marie couldn’t very well have asked permission to go to her child when, as far as the queen was concerned, no child existed.

  She turned and saw Gregory taking down the blanket roll from behind his saddle. “What are you doing?”

  “If we’re going to rest, we might as well do it in comfort. I won’t have you sitting on cold, damp ground.”

  She gave him a tentative smile as he spread out the blanket. “How very thoughtful of you.”

  He produced a flask. “Thirsty?”

  Actually, her throat did feel dry from all of her hallooing for Marie. She accepted the leather-encased container from him, anticipating a cool wash of water down her throat. But when she put her mouth over the opening she caught a whiff of something pungent and drew back. “What is this?”

  “Scotch, to fortify and drive away the cold.”

  She shook her head. “Not for me. It will just make me sleepy. You go ahead, if you like.” John Brown also had a fondness for strong drink. One of the Scot’s habits her mother liked least.

  “A biscuit then?” he offered, popping open a tin he produced from the leather satchel.

  Pursing her lips, she studied his innocent smile, and shrugged. “Thanks.” She took a wafer from him and sat on the blanket. But her nerves pricked at her, little nudges toward action. Move. Ride. Go! a voice urged her.

  She hastily munched the crisp, buttery-sweet shortbread. “I can’t believe you packed a picnic, Greg. This hardly seems the time.” Part of her admitted pleasure that he cared so much for her comfort. Another, much more insistent, grew irritated and impatient. The man was taking this search far too lightly.

  Beatrice watched the horses drink from the nearby stream. They snuffled softly, shook their manes, drank some more. They didn’t look in the least fatigued. Neither was she.

  Beatrice dusted the crumbs from her fingers and was about to push herself to her feet, when the Scot startled her by sitting down close beside her. She flinched as his hip bumped against hers, hard, knocking into her just enough to interrupt her attempt to stand. He stretched out on his back. Hands folded behind his head, he closed his eyes in repose. Glittery patches of sunlight filtered through the branches overhead, down across his strong masculine features.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she said.

  He seemed not to have heard her.

  Beatrice looked around her in exasperation. The lazy turd! Only then did she think about how far they were from the house—at least two miles. They hadn’t seen even one other person—soldier, staff, or villager—from the search party. Clearly, this was ground that should be thoroughly scoured.

  Never mind. If she had to continue on her own, without the blasted groom, she would.

  She tucked her feet under her hips to stand up.

  Gregory’s hand shot out. Rigid fingers clasped her wrist. His eyes flashed open, fixing on her. “Don’t go, Princess. Let’s talk a bit while the horses recover.” His voice was soft but insistent.

  She stared at him—her earlier wariness swelling to alarm. “The horses aren’t even breathing hard.” He didn’t respond. “Talk about what, Greg?”

  “Us.” He smiled.

  Before she realized what he intended to do, his other hand clamped the back of her neck. He dragged her down on top of him.

  His kiss was hot and moist and adamant. His mouth tasted briny, with a sweet aftertaste of tobacco, and the liquor he’d just swallowed. Beatrice recoiled. But her body betrayed her, responding with an inner heat to the intimacy of finding herself atop a man’s hard chest, his ribs pressing into her breasts, his arms locked around her. She became aware of the thunderous pulse of her own heart.

  Despite the possibility that she felt excited by their closeness, she was compelled to remind him that his behavior was, simply put, outrageously inappropriate.

  “Gregory—”

  He pulled back a few inches, touched a finger over her lips. “Hush. Hear me out. You may still think you need to save yourself for Henry Battenberg. But he doesn’t deserve you.”

  Was the man mad? First, he took physical liberties with her. Now he spoke of her private life as if he deserved to have a say in it. She opened her mouth to chastise him, but his finger pressed so firmly over her lips, she imagined the tender flesh bruising against her teeth. It was an obvious warning.

  Still, Gregory’s tone remained calm, almost mesmerizing. “If Battenberg had been a real man, he would have stood up to the queen and not deserted you. He’d have taken you with him back to Germany. He is a coward. I am not.” His eyes suddenly blazed with dark intent. “I will stand by you no matter what, Princess. You must trust me.”

  “Trust you in what way?” She gasped as he traced one finger down the line of her throat.

  Suddenly, a woman’s instinct took over. The heat that had shot through her body at his surprise embrace seeped away, leaving her as chilled as if she’d been lying on frozen ground. She sensed their roles had altered without her realizing it. He was predator, she was prey.

  Beatrice desperately wanted to get away from him, even if she didn’t fully understand what he expect
ed of her. But she could tell from the intensity of his gaze that he had no intension of letting her go.

  She wiggled just enough to force her arms up and create a small space between them. “Gregory, I’m uncomfortable. Let me up.” The muscles in his arms hardened. She felt the strength in his body. As long as he ignored her wish to be released, she knew she had little chance of escape. And the idea she might overpower him was ludicrous.

  Her mind raced. What to do? What to do!

  He was talking again in that sing-song voice, no doubt meant to reduce her to limp acquiescence. “A man who loves a woman shows his devotion, my sweet Beatrice. Words are nothing. It is his actions that prove him worthy. I will never neglect you as Battenberg has done.”

  His hands slid down her body, skimming over tweed riding jacket and suede skirt, raising up chills as they went. She wondered if he interpreted her shivers as pleasurable. They were not.

  “Stop!” she shouted.

  “Let me prove myself. Let me bring you the happiness you deserve.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now release me!”

  Inexperienced as she was, she knew now that Gregory MacAlister wasn’t the harmless flirt she’d at first assumed. She had to get away from him. Any way she could.

  Beatrice lashed out at him, striking his chest, shoulders, face with her fists. Putting everything she had into her assault.

  Nothing she did fazed him. “It’s time,” he whispered in her ear.

  She stiffened and pushed away from him with a shriek of protest.

  He rolled them both over, putting her back against the mossy undergrowth off the edge of the blanket. He pinned her wrists above her head to the damp forest floor. She could feel the moisture seeping through her clothing. His body seemed to take on extra weight, so heavy now the breath was crushed out of her.

  “Stop, Mr. MacAlister. Stop…this!” She tried to scream the words but was barely able to force them out in puffy half-breaths. “No!”

  His gray eyes darkened. He kissed her throat. “I will, my sweet. But first we shall bind ourselves together. And don’t pretend it will mean nothing to you. I know you, my innocent flower, and I know your mother. Once her Baby is no longer a virgin, the queen will tolerate nothing less than seeing you married. To any other man, you’ll be ruined, an embarrassment. You’ll have no one but your loyal Gregory.”

  To her horror she realized his lower regions had swollen, hardened. Forcing himself on her excited him.

  She had, of course, been aware of Henry’s masculine reactions to being close to her. He’d admitted his arousal, and she had been flattered, thrilled. She’d looked forward to discovering ways to please him, to lovingly surrender and joyfully provide for him a wife’s gift of her body.

  This was nothing like what she’d felt with Henry. There was a word for this.

  “Rape hardly recommends you as a husband!” she gasped.

  He was laughing now. Laughing at her! “Not rape, my dear. You teased me. Insisted on having my company alone on our many rides. Remember? Everyone in the mews knows that. Princess Beatrice specially requested me. And there are those who will swear you threw yourself shamelessly at me.”

  Her eyes widened with horror. “That. Is. A. Lie!”

  He kissed her throat again and shrugged, looking pleased with himself. The truth behind his arrogance struck her like a fist to her stomach. Whether he had started the lie or paid others to do it for him didn’t matter. Gossip flew unchecked through her mother’s court. Within days, no one would remember who first told the tale of her obsession with the handsome groom. Society would accept it as the truth.

  In that moment, she believed the manipulative Scot capable of anything. No matter how twisted or cruel.

  “I hate you!” she screamed.

  “Trust me, my darling,” he breathed between her lips. “I will be gentle. Unless you fight me, the pain will be brief, the pleasure delicious.”

  With a burst of strength, she wrenched one hand free of his grip. Before he could duck away, she’d dug her nails deep into his cheek and dragged them down the side of his face. Blood seeped from four jagged trails of flesh.

  “Witch!” His eyes narrowed in stark warning. “Don’t you dare disobey me.”

  Dare? she thought. Her body tensed, from head to toe. She’d spent her entire life doing what others told her she must do. She’d never been able to choose for herself. But now…now! She refused to let Gregory MacAlister make the most intimate decision of her life for her.

  No man will take my maidenhead—without my willing it!

  While he was distracted, sliding off of her in their struggles as he tried to recapture her free arm, she got one leg out from under him, crooked her knee and jerked it up, hard, into his crotch.

  He let out a low, agonized groan and fell off of her, clutching himself. Her wrists throbbed, her chest ached, but she rolled away and onto her feet. She lifted the hem of her skirt and ran for the horses, not risking a glance back over her shoulder to see if he was following her. Or how much of a lead she had on him.

  44

  Henry was the first off the Nancy Ann. He leaped the four feet between the deck of the fishing trawler and splintery dock, his boots landing with a squelchy thud on the sodden wood planks. He caught a line thrown by Byrne and tied off the boat with a naval man’s snug cleat hitch.

  In the distance, he could just see the crenulated stone towers of Osborne House. Not directly atop the chalky cliffs but perhaps a quarter mile back from the shore. The sky had cleared, the sun peeking out from behind the few remaining sooty clouds. He thought to run on ahead of the others except he’d be turned away by the guards without Louise there to identify him. It had been many years since he was an invited guest to the island, and he surely wasn’t expected now, as he was still persona non grata with the queen.

  He paced up and down the dock, scanning the waterfront while he waited for the duchess to disembark. Byrne was tossing their luggage up onto the wharf. Luggage that Henry couldn’t have cared less about. All that mattered to him was seeing Beatrice unharmed and safe.

  He turned to observe the condition of the beach while he waited. The storm had kicked up a snarl of glistening emerald seaweed, small and large branches of twisted driftwood, and black bladder-kelp along the sandy shore. A half dozen green and red wooden boats from the fishing fleet remained beached, high above the water’s edge, and appeared not to have suffered from the storm. His impatience growing, he was about to shout at Byrne that he would run on ahead of them and take his chances with the queen’s guard, when he caught sight of a cluster of men huddled around something much smaller than a boat, smaller even than any of the men themselves.

  One of them pointed toward the Nancy B. The others turned as one to observe the three strangers. A fellow in a wool cap broke from the group and ran toward the wharf.

  “Do you know this chap?” Henry called out to the captain.

  “Bryan Axelrod, one of the islanders, sir. A mackerel fisherman like me.”

  Perhaps it was an unusual sea creature that had washed up and the young man was looking to make a few coins by offering to show it off to tourists. Well, Henry had no time for that nonsense.

  “Ho there!” Axelrod hollered. “Are ye from the queen’s house?”

  “We’re on our way there. Why do you ask?” Henry heard steps on the dock behind him and turned to see Louise and Byrne coming along. At last!

  “A sad state of affairs, sir. A woman’s body washed up on the beach.”

  Henry’s heart stopped. Beatrice? No! Oh, God, no. His heart hammered in his chest. Tell me something to prove it’s not her!

  The fisherman continued talking, “She ain’t from round here. Not an island woman, no sir. Way she’s dressed, we figured she might be from the queen’s household.”

  “A maid maybe?” Henry guessed. Please let it be!

  The man winced. “More likely, one o’ th
e Court. Seein’ how she’s dressed so fine.”

  Henry felt the world implode around him.

  “What’s all this about?” Louise demanded, stopping beside them. She tucked a strand of hair back under her straw hat but the breeze tugged it loose again.

  “There’s been a terrible—an accident.” Henry swallowed. Then swallowed again, barely able to speak. “A woman has drowned. They’ve found a body. Not sure whose. There.” Unable to force another word from his stiff lips, Henry pointed down the beach.

  Byrne peered over Louise’s head. “You’re sure you can’t identify her, sir?”

  “Nay. As I was tellin’ the gentleman here, we think she may be from Osborne House. Not an hour ago, men from the queen’s house came along this way, searchin’ for a young miss. If this is her—” The fisherman shook his head. “Trouble is, we don’t want to upset Her Majesty until we’re certain.”

  “I see.”

  “If you could send someone down from the house, sir?” The man looked pleadingly at Stephen Byrne.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “No!” Louise said. Henry jerked his head up, shocked at the sharpness of her response. “I know everyone in the household. Let me look at the body. I’ll tell you if the poor thing is one of ours.”

  Henry stared at her. “Surely you can’t be serious, Duchess. A drowned body? You can’t think to submit yourself to the distress of—” And if it is Beatrice, her sister?

  “Don’t even try, Henry.” Byrne rested a hand on his shoulder and shook his head, even as Louise took a determined step around the men then off the dock. One corner of the American’s lips lifted in a weary smile. “She won’t listen.”

  “Indeed, she won’t,” Louise called back over her shoulder. “Let’s get this sad business over with.”

  Louise marched off down the strip of storm-ravaged sand, leaving the men no choice but to follow her. When they arrived at the corpse, the protective little group of males around it parted and stood reverently back, caps in hand, whiskered jaws clenched, eyes downcast. Henry stared down at the tragically bloated face of what he assumed was a young woman not much over twenty years. Although her clothing was stained with sea water, and brown sludge from the cove’s bottom, he could still discern the quality of the garment. The fisherman was right. This was no village girl.