Miranda Jarrett

by Princess of Fortune

  “Oh, happiness and love,” said the queen scornfully. “Next you shall speak of Cupid’s darts and Hymen’s bower! Have you ever heard such nonsense, Romano? What trumpery on which to base a marriage!”

  Isabella listened, aghast. It was her nightmare all over again, only instead of painted ancestors to show their disapproval, she had Darden and Romano clearly wishing to be anywhere else.

  But there was another difference, too. Tom had told her she’d changed, and now—now she realized how exactly right he’d been.

  “Now cover yourself, Isabella, so we might leave,” her mother was saying, “and we shall do what we can to redeem this—”

  “I’m sorry, Mama, but I am staying here,” she said, surprising herself with how firm she could sound as she linked her arm into Tom’s. “You cannot make me leave against my will, and my will is to marry Captain Lord Greaves.”

  “Do not be preposterous, daughter.” Her mother snapped her gloved hand through the air, as if to swat aside Isabella’s objections. “Collect your effects—you do recall which particular effects I mean, you careless girl, do you not? Your father expects them back with him, you know, and as soon as possible. Or have you tossed our family’s legacy into the river along with your virtue?”

  “You mean the jewels, ma’am!” blurted Darden, his face glowing with excitement. “The Fortunaro jewels!”

  Isabella gasped, too stunned to speak. The Fortunaro jewels were at this moment sitting in a willow-basket on the table near the kitchen hearth, wrapped in an oversize napkin beneath a humble layer of cheese, bread, and a roasted chicken, with a bottle of cider on top. But no one except her mother and now Tom were supposed even to know the jewels had left Monteverde. How could Darden possibly have guessed such a close-kept secret?

  “You are mistaken, Lord Darden,” Romano said severely, tapping his walking stick for emphasis. “The Fortunaro jewels would never have been given into the princess’s safekeeping. That is far to grave a responsibility for a young lady.”

  Tom nodded. “True enough, Darden. If the princess had anything like that in her possession, I would have seen them by now, wouldn’t I?”

  The queen laughed derisively. “Given your familiarity with my daughter’s petticoats, I should hope you have.”

  “You do not deny it, then, ma’am?” Eagerly Darden leaned forward, his palms pressed together as if in prayer. “The great Fortunaro rubies are indeed here in England? Here in the care of the dear princess?”

  “She’s not dear to you, Darden, nor will she ever be,” Tom said sharply, slipping his arm around Isabella’s coverlet-shrouded waist to reinforce his point. “And you heard this wise gentleman here. How could the princess have had anything to do with a pack of old jewels?”

  Darden made an exuberant flourish with his hands, the ruffles on his sleeves fluttering in the lantern’s light. “Ah, Greaves, but the Fortunaro rubies are no more ordinary jewels than Her Royal Highness is an ordinary princess.”

  “And how we thank you, Lord Darden,” called a man’s rasping voice from the dark, “for leading us so generously to both!”

  At once Isabella turned toward the voice, toward the sweeping branches of the old willows that gave the cottage its name. The light from Tom’s lantern barely reached so far, just enough for her to pick out the three men. The one in the middle was bent with age or illness, leaning heavily on a cane, but the two others who flanked him were large and strong, the faint light glinting off the pistols in their raised arms.

  And saints in heaven, those pistols were aimed at her.

  “Pesci!” cried Darden, his eyes wide with shock that matched Isabella’s own. So much for their sanctuary, their safe retreat. Beside her, Tom swore, and Isabella knew that in any other circumstances, he’d be throttling Darden, and for once she wouldn’t blame him. “How did you follow me? How did you come?”

  “By river, my lord Darden, the same as you.” The old man’s cackle turned into a wheezing cough. “You took no care to hide your path, my lord. You could not have made it any easier for me or my men if you’d handed us a map.”

  “Who are you, you wretched man?” demanded the queen, drawing herself up imperiously straight. “What do you want?”

  “Once I would have wanted you for my amusement, my revenge, and your pretty daughter, too.” The man’s regret sent a fresh chill down Isabella’s spine. “But now all I can seek are the Fortunaro rubies.”

  Isabella grabbed her mother’s arm. She’d already glimpsed the too-familiar little triangle hanging proudly from the men’s shirts, and she understood the threat, even if her mother refused to. “Mama, don’t do this, I beg you.”

  But her mother shook her off. “You—you are one of my subjects. I can hear it in your accent. I am your queen, and you must obey me.”

  Pesci shook his head. “Once I was your subject, and once you were my queen. But now, Monteverde belongs to the people, to the Trinita. Everything has changed, you see.”

  “No, it hasn’t,” insisted the queen. “Now put those guns away, I say, before someone is injured.”

  “But that is the point of guns, isn’t it? To injure someone?” The old man picked his way slowly closer, shoving aside the trailing willow branches. “Which is why, Captain Greaves, I must ask you to toss yours on the ground.”

  With obvious reluctance, Tom did, the dull metal of the pistols shining in the grass.

  “Now let the women go free,” he said, gently pushing Isabella behind him to protect her with his own body. “Neither the princess nor her mother know where the jewels are hidden.”

  “No!” cried Isabella, squeezing around him. “I won’t let you do this, Tomaso, not to save me. By all the saints, I swear Captain Lord Greaves knows nothing of the jewels, signor. He is only being gallant because he—he loves me.”

  “Bella, don’t,” said Tom, his voice so full of warning and love that she could have wept. “There’s no better reason for telling the truth.”

  She raised her chin, not letting herself meet his gaze. For his sake, she must be brave. She was still a Fortunaro, and she still had the heart of a lioness, didn’t she? She’d been so afraid that the rubies would cause her to drown, but she’d never guessed they’d finally drag her down like this.

  “Don’t listen to him, signor,” she said, clutching the coverlet more tightly. “I am the one who brought the rubies from Monteverde to England, hidden in my clothing, and I am the only one who knows where they are now.”

  Pesci smiled, a death’s head grimace. “What a wise, pretty child, to tell me the truth. For once, Darden, what you said was correct, yes?”

  Darden stepped forward, reaching for Isabella’s hands, but when she kept them clasped, he let his own drop awkwardly before him. “I never meant to betray you, my dearest princess. I only wanted to give you my esteem, my devotion, my love.”

  Pesci laughed again, that dry, cruel cackle. “Oh, Lord Darden never knowingly played you false, Princess. He’s not clever or brave enough for that.”

  “That is nonsense, signor,” snapped Isabella, unable to contain herself any longer. It wasn’t just that the man had insulted Darden; he was contemptuous of all of them, and no matter what the risk, she’d had enough. Her coverlet dragging behind her through the dewy grass, she approached the three men, challenging them. “You are the true cowards, hiding behind your blessed Trinita. You say you stand for freedom, but I say you’re only greedy bullies, eager to steal whatever you can.”

  “You misspeak, Principessa.” The old man scowled. “What you have described are the Fortunari, not the Trinita.”

  He nodded, and the man to his right lunged forward and grabbed Isabella by the arm, hauling her back.

  “Let me go!” she cried, yelping with pain as the man’s fingers dug into her wrist. Her first impulse was to break free, struggling to twist away as her bare feet tangled in the coverlet. Then she glimpsed the pistol in the man’s hand, a pistol that could easily kill her, or Tom, or her mother, or any of
the others, and instantly she went still.

  “This is better, Princess,” said Pesci with approval. “You’ll gain nothing by fighting us, you know. You should have learned that by now, yes?”

  She didn’t answer, not trusting herself to say something that would not get her killed. Panting, she shoved her hair back from her face and looked at Tom, his face grimly murderous as he stood with his arms tensed at his sides. He’d been that close to racing to her rescue, and, unarmed as he was, that close to being shot by one of Pesci’s men.

  The old man grunted, watching her with rheumy eyes as he fingered the little triangle at his throat. “So where are the rubies, Principessa? Are they squirreled away in the house, or hidden in one of these trees?”

  She looked back at Tom, her heart aching from the distance between them. Think, she ordered herself, think, think what to do next!

  “Perhaps.” She swallowed hard. “But I will tell you only if you give me your word, signor, that the others go free.”

  That made Pesci smile. “You would place any value in my word?”

  “Then swear by something that matters to you,” she said quickly. “Swear by that triangle around your neck.”

  Instantly the old man’s expression became solemn as his gnarled fingers tightened around the three bound twigs. “Very well. By the Trinita, these others will go free once you tell me where the rubies are hidden.”

  “Daughter!” called her mother sharply. “Do not tell him! Those jewels are your heritage—they are the Fortunaro! No one here is worth them—no one!”

  Isabella hesitated, her focus once again returning to Tom. He nodded, the slightest possible sign of agreement. Yet what was he agreeing to? Surrendering the rubies to save their lives, or keeping the Fortunaro treasure safe?

  “Or perhaps the jewels are not so very far away.” Pesci came closer, his red-rimmed eyes greedy and intent, so close that Isabella turned away from the foulness of his breath. “You said you’d brought them to England hidden in your clothing. Are they still there now, sewn in that coverlet you are clutching so dearly?”

  Shaking with anticipation, he reached for her with his clawlike hand, ready to snatch the coverlet from her naked body.

  “No,” she said, trying to back away while the other man held her tight. “No!”

  Abruptly Pesci gasped, an odd, rattling gurgle, then clutched both hands to his chest, letting the cane drop to the ground, as he finally, forever, toppled over. It was then Isabella heard the gunshot, the bright flash from the corner of her eye. Distracted, the man holding her relaxed his grip just enough for her to jerk free.

  She bent down and snatched Pesci’s cane from the ground, and with a furious yowl she swung the cane as hard as she could at the knee of the second gunman, just as his gun fired. He swore, and through the stinging cloud of acrid gunpowder smoke he grabbed for her. But before his hand could reach her, he snapped backward, the pulpy red blotch of the gunshot bursting from his chest.

  Another shot, and another; she’d lost count now, ducking low and praying she wouldn’t be hit, too. Yanking the coverlet back over her shoulders with one hand, the cane still in the other, she turned to look for the other gunman. But he, too, was down, sprawled face first in the grass, one leg twitching while the rest lay still, too still for anything but death.

  And then, just like that, it was over.

  “Bella!” Tom dropped the smoking pistols from his hands and swept her up into his arms, holding her tight, reassuring himself as much as her. “Bella, Bella, my love, you’re not hurt!”

  “Of course I am not hurt,” she said, with a long, shuddering breath as she hugged him back. She was shaking with excitement, and now with relief. “Oh, Tomaso, I’m so glad you were not hit, either!”

  “No,” he said, breathing hard. He leaned back, hungrily searching her face as if he could never see enough of it. “You’re safe now, love. We both are.”

  “Look at him, the evil one,” said her mother, her face hard with hatred as she stood over Pesci’s body. “Darden thought he’d shot the old devil, but there’s not a mark on his wicked carcass. Who would have thought he’d a heart to fail?”

  She reached down and tore the triangle from the dead man’s neck and threw it as far as she could, then turned and spat on his chest. “May you already be burning in hell, old man, and stay there in the flames for all eternity!”

  Isabella turned away, unable to share her mother’s vindictiveness. She had been too much a target of the Trinita to want revenge with more violence, more hatred. All she wanted now was peace.

  “You’ll be safe now,” said Tom softly, understanding. “Pesci was the leader here in England. Without him, there’s nothing left.”

  She nodded. With the rush of excitement fading, she felt so exhausted she might have slipped to the grass if Tom hadn’t held her.

  “The others?” she asked. “Darden?”

  “Romano escaped unharmed. They’d no interest in him. But as for Darden…”

  Tom’s expression was sorrowful, and Isabella knew. She twisted free and hurried to where old Romano was bending beside the marquis, the red stain on Darden’s white shirt blossoming like a gruesome flower. His eyes were already glazing over, his soul nearly gone, but with a final effort they held steady as Isabella dropped to her knees beside him.

  “I—I was a hero,” he gasped. “For you, Princess.”

  “I know,” she said softly, taking his chilling fingers. “I know.”

  And then, like that, he too was gone.

  Without a word, Tom raised her to her feet. Shaking, she squeezed her eyes shut, her cheek pressed against his chest. This night, this much hatred and death—it was all too much, and for what? He would always be her true hero, her true love, but there would also be a place in her memory for poor Darden, and what he’d done for her.

  “Isabella.” Her mother had composed herself, her beautiful features again serene as she drew her fan from inside her cloak. “You do have the rubies, don’t you?”

  Isabella turned, separating herself from Tom’s embrace. “Of course I have them, Mama, though now I wish I’d tossed them into the river for all the sorrow they’ve brought this day.”

  “That is the way of the Fortunaro rubies.” Her mother smiled. “They say their color grows a deeper crimson with each drop of blood shed for them.”

  “Then you take them back, Mama,” said Isabella with a little catch in her voice. “Back to Monteverde, or Parma, or anywhere other than here. I want nothing more to do with them.”

  “I will.” Her mother’s eyes glittered. “But you’ve done well to guard them this long, daughter. You are a Fortunaro at heart, no matter what reckless path you follow.”

  Isabella reached for Tom’s hand, her fingers linking into his. “I have already decided, Mama.”

  “I thought as much.” Her mother studied her over the top of her fan, her eyes as hard as the rubies she’d reclaimed. “Everything has changed in this foolish world of ours. Nothing is as it should be any longer. This man has stolen your maidenhead and saved your life, and now you will tell me you have no choice but to stay here with him.”

  “I love him, Mama,” said Isabella. “I love him. Why is that so difficult to understand?

  Her mother sniffed with disdain. “If you remain, daughter, I can promise you nothing in the future. When the Fortunaro return to power and your father regains his throne, there will be no place for you. Any children you bear to this Englishman will be no better than bastards in Monteverde. Is this love of yours worth that?”

  Isabella nodded. Mama would no more understand her choice than Bella could understand her mother’s reasoning.

  “Hah. You always were a willful child.” Her mother sighed, and bent forward, kissing Isabella on her cheek. “I suppose there’s little left now for you but to marry your English rascal, and make yourself as happy as you can in this dreadful country.”

  Isabella tried to smile, knowing this was as close to a blessing
as her mother would ever give.

  “You heard your mother, lass,” Tom said, drawing her gently back into his arms. “Marry me, and I’ll make you happy, even in this dreadful country.”

  “Yes, Tomaso,” said Isabella softly. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  And to Isabella’s endless delight, they did, and she was, day after day after day.

  ISBN: 978-1-4592-3701-8

  PRINCESS OF FORTUNE

  Copyright © 2004 by Miranda Jarrett

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

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