The Perils of Pursuing a Prince

by Julia London

  Greer dreamily turned her head and glanced around to see the prince standing just inside the room, his arms folded implacably across his chest, his expression full of fury.

  The sight of him snatched her breath clean from her lungs, and for one terrifying moment, she could not breathe or move. But then the heat of shame flooded her face, and she pushed hard at Percy, who was still wearing an impertinent smile and was much slower to stand.

  “Get off!” she cried, pushing hard, forcing him to stand. She half rolled, half leapt off the divan and with her back to the prince, hastily shook out her skirts and adjusted her bodice. Never in her life had she felt as vile as she did in that moment—she was no better than a common strumpet, carrying on wantonly on the man’s divan, and it mortified her to her very core.

  But then the prince walked into the room, and Greer made the mistake of stealing a look at him. His expression of disgust made her sink even lower.

  He shifted that look of revulsion to Percy. “You both revolt me,” he said, his voice dripping with it. “Had I not arrived when I did, you would have tarnished my house with your fornication!”

  That remark nearly sent Greer to her knees.

  But Percy merely snorted. “Don’t be absurd.” Yet the censure in his voice was incongruent with his expression. For some inexplicable reason, Percy looked almost pleased that they had been caught in such a compromising position.

  It confounded Greer, but at the moment, the look of utter rebuke the prince was directing at her distressed her to the point that she thought she could be ill. She turned away and somehow managed to stumble to the window, where she braced her hands on the casing and tried to compose herself with great gulps of air.

  “I think all the absurdity and depravity in this room lies with you,” the prince said with great rancor. “It is obvious to me that if you seduce Miss Fairchild in such a public manner, she will have no choice but to marry you, and that, sir, is a rather convenient path to her money, as well as yours.”

  The implication stunned Greer; she pivoted about. “That’s preposterous!”

  “Pay him no mind,” Percy said acidly. “If a true gentleman happens upon two lovers, he will look the other way. But a scarred and lonely man will act with jealousy.”

  Percy’s remark caused the prince’s eyes to fill with murderous rage. His body, large and fierce, tensed as though he was restraining himself from leaping on Percy, and Greer expected him to lash out, to strike Percy. But he did not—he turned that rage to her. His unfettered scrutiny shamed her terribly; she pressed her hands to her cheeks and said shakily, “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

  “You owe him no apology!” Percy snapped.

  But she did owe him an apology, they both owed him one, and she was appalled that Percy would consider their conduct above the reproach of any man.

  “You don’t,” Percy reiterated defiantly. “He is not our conscience and he is certainly the last person who should judge us!”

  “Mr. Percy!” she exclaimed, mortified.

  The prince said something in Welsh to which Percy returned a violent stream of what Greer was certain was the worst vitriol.

  It must have been, for whatever Percy said changed the prince’s mien—he suddenly looked very dangerous. Lethal. She believed he could snap Percy’s neck with only one of his large paws. But he surprised her—with a scathing look at the two of them, he pivoted about and strode out of the room.

  When the door closed behind him, Percy swiped angrily at an oil lamp and sent it crashing to the floor. “A cretin!”

  “Mr. Percy!” Greer cried. “He saw us in a most unflattering light! How can you be so cavalier?”

  “For God’s sake, do not come unhinged now!” he snapped at her.

  The admonition chafed. “Have you quite lost your mind? My reputation has just been irrevocably ruined, and you caution me against becoming unhinged?

  “This is hardly the time for theatrics, Greer!”

  “Theatrics!” It seemed as if she didn’t know the man standing so angrily before her at all. “Are you not alarmed, Mr. Percy?”

  “Alarmed?” he scoffed. “I couldn’t possibly care what Radnor thinks, for I know—”

  Whatever he knew was lost, for the door was suddenly thrown open with such force that it hit the wall. Through it swept the prince with three footmen at his back. Two of them instantly started toward them, and Mr. Percy quickly pushed Greer behind him.

  “Would you kill an unarmed man?” he demanded of the prince as the footmen advanced.

  “God in heaven,” the prince spat. “Get him out of my sight!” he roared.

  “If you want to settle this like gentlemen—” Percy tried, but the footmen grabbed him. He began to struggle, ranting in Welsh at the prince, his face red with anger. Greer screamed as Percy fought mightily against them. One of the men managed to twist Percy’s arms behind his back, which effectively entrapped him.

  And yet the prince stood by, watching him through narrowed eyes, his massive legs braced apart, his thick arms folded. When the man had tied Percy’s hands, the prince nodded curtly, and they began to drag Percy from the room.

  “Mr. Percy!” Greer shouted, terrified. “Owen!”

  Her protector did not hear her, as he was cursing his host and the three men who dragged him away. When they had left the room, and she could hear Percy’s shouts moving away from her, the prince slowly turned his head and looked at her so coldly that Greer panicked; she instantly shoved up against the wall and frantically searched the room for an escape.

  “Stop acting so fearful, Miss Fairchild. You will come to no harm under my roof—I am not like your lover.”

  He said the word in a way that made her feel dirty. “He is not—” She quickly thought better of debating that now, given what the prince had seen, and thought about her own neck. “What do you intend to do with me?”

  “I don’t know,” he drawled, his eyes hungrily raking over her as he casually moved forward. “What do men typically do with whores?”

  Greer gasped and eyed the door. But the prince shook his head. “You cannot escape. I will not allow Percy to ruin you and take your inheritance, no matter how much you obviously would enjoy the ruining.”

  “You are a wretched, vile man!” she snapped.

  “How easily you toss such words about, given your own reprehensible behavior, Miss Fairchild,” he said, and moved again.

  So did Greer.

  He paused and sighed, muttered something in Welsh, then pushed a hand through his hair before settling both hands on his waist. He peered at her, assessing her. “Will you come of your own volition, or will you force me to take you?”

  Take her? Terror choked her. “Take me where?” she cried.

  “I intend to keep you apart from Mr. Percy for a time so that you are not tempted any deeper into ruin. Will you come willingly?”

  “I will not go willingly with you.”

  He smiled dangerously. “Frankly, I think a poor, stranded woman of low morals is not in a position to choose,” he said, and suddenly lunged at her.

  Greer screamed as she made a mad dash for the door, but he easily caught her and overpowered her. She struggled, but he held her tightly, his arms like iron bands around her. Her breasts were mashed against the wall of his chest, her body pressed against the hard length of his.

  He smiled meanly as she struggled, his gaze dropping to her lips. “Whose kiss do you prefer, Miss Fairchild? Or are they all the same to you?”

  She cried out and turned her head.

  He caught her face in his big hand and roughly forced her to look at him, his gaze on her lips again. “One would think you’d be more selective with whom you lie. But I suppose a pound is a pound—”

  With a cry of fury and fear she kicked him hard in the shins. If the man felt it, he gave no indication. He stood there, holding her as if she were nothing, his heated gaze drifting to her bosom. Greer continued to struggle breathlessly, but he seemed not the least
bit winded, restraining her until she was spent.

  She stopped struggling and the tears began to well.

  “Stop that,” he said gruffly. “There is no need for crocodile tears.”

  “Please don’t kill me,” she said weakly.

  He snorted, let his hand drift to her throat. “Killing you is not the first thing that comes to mind, Miss Fairchild,” he drawled.

  She thought he would kiss her, thought he would force himself on her right there, but he suddenly picked her up. Greer shrieked and tried to free herself, but he tightened his hold so easily that she was completely helpless.

  He carried her out the door and down the corridor to a stairwell she had not seen before. He put her on her feet there, but held her in his unbreakable grip before him as he forced her up the stairs.

  “I am not what you think I am!” she insisted, dreading their destination, dreading what he intended to do to her, and frantic to bargain her way out of this. “What you intend to do is criminal! Be forewarned that I will bring it to the attention of the highest authority!”

  The prince snorted and pushed her up the stairs, his body pressed against her back, his anger and strength propelling her.

  “You are despicable!” she said as he shoved her up the stairs. “You have nothing to say for yourself because you know what you intend to do is despicable!” She believed it—as they climbed that spiraling staircase, the many things Percy had told Greer about the prince of Powys began to percolate like a bad brew in her mind. He was a murderer, a thief, and she feared for her virtue and her life. She caught a second wind and began to struggle again, trying to kick him and scratch him, but he merely caught her by the waist and hauled her up the stairs as if she were a small child.

  They reached the top of the stairs and went up another, narrower set, and finally arrived at the topmost landing. There was a single door. He held her with one arm around her waist as she tried to claw free, her back to his chest, her legs against one powerful thigh that tensed as he used the other leg to kick the door in.

  He pushed Greer inside. She stumbled across the room, catching her balance against a chair as the prince calmly walked in behind her and stood just over the threshold.

  She was panting. Tears over which she had no control were sliding down her cheeks. She took in her surroundings as she caught her breath. They were at the top of a turret, in a round room with three windows. There was a bed, a single chair, and a writing desk. Greer assumed that behind a privacy screen was a water closet and a basin.

  She believed she was in a bedchamber and turned a look of pure abhorrence to him.

  “You shall be comfortable here for a time,” he said as his gaze slowly traced the length of her body, making her feel exposed. “You will not be harmed, Miss Fairchild. Whatever you might think of me, your fears are for naught—I do not consort with whores.”

  The word sickened her, but not as much as the thought that suddenly occurred to her. He was going to leave her here. She would be forgotten and eventually disappear, just like a fairy-tale princess in a tower. She panicked again and made a lunge for the door, trying desperately to pass him and escape, but he caught her in his arm and held her with infuriating ease.

  “Unhand me!” she screamed, her fury unleashed, clawing at him, kicking him, attempting to bite him. He tried to subdue her, but she bit his hand at the same moment she kicked his shin.

  “Stop!” he roared, and with a grunt of effort, he whirled around with her in his arms and shoved her up against the wall, holding her there with both arms. “Calm yourself,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Exhausted, Greer gave in with a whimper. Her eyes searched his face—the jagged scar, the ever-present shadow of his beard, and the hard, cold glint of his eyes. It was useless. Whatever he would do with her, he would do—she was powerless to stop it. More hot tears slid down her face.

  He frowned darkly and pushed away from her, let her go. Greer closed her eyes and hugged herself tightly for a moment, thankful for the small reprieve. When she opened her eyes, he was standing at the door, his hand on the knob. He held her gaze for a long, heated moment, then stepped out, pulling the door shut.

  As the door began to close Greer’s panic swelled again. With a screech, she launched herself at the door the same moment he shut it, fearing that when the door shut, she would be locked in this room until she died. She fell against the door, heard the tumble of the lock, and the panic rose like bile in her throat.

  She screamed and pounded her fists against the door. “Mr. Percy!” she shrieked. “Mr. Percy!”

  She heard nothing but the sound of receding footfalls.

  She screamed again, flailing at the door with her fists, using both hands to try and force the handle.

  When it became clear she could not escape through that door, she looked frantically about, and ran to one of the windows. She was high above the ground, fifty feet or more, with no way down.

  It was hopeless. She was locked in, destined to die here. Greer leaned against the wall, her cheek pressed to it, as sobs racked her body—sobs so great that she could scarcely hold herself up and fell to her hands and knees, desperately trying to drag air into her lungs before her fear choked the life from her.

  Eight

  W hen Greer had cried herself dry—there was not another tear in her body, she was certain—she took a big gulp of air and picked herself up off the floor. Given the paucity of furniture in the room, she opted for the bed. She lay on her back, stared up at the bare ceiling, and had a rather stern talk with herself.

  Behaving like a madwoman would not solve her predicament. She had to clear her mind and think. So she forced herself up, walked behind the screen to the basin and water closet, washed her face, straightened her gown, and tried to repair her hair, which had come undone from its coif. It could not be salvaged, so she combed it with her fingers, letting it hang down her back, and began to pace the floor.

  She walked round and round that room that afternoon, studying her situation from every conceivable angle. She ran through a gamut of emotions—a sharp fear about what would happen to her, fury that she’d been taken prisoner, and creeping doubts about Percy. She was beginning to think of things that did not make sense—such as his lack of funds and his sudden desire to marry her.

  Oh God, how she wished for Phoebe and Ava! She needed someone to talk to, someone who would tell her if she was right or wrong about him. She reached no conclusions other than the most obvious: she had to escape this place at once.

  But she had no idea how to go about escaping, and had paced herself almost into exhaustion thinking about it when she heard a commotion on the stairs outside her door. The sound alarmed her, and she looked around for something with which to protect herself. Thank God, the bloody fools had left a fire poker. She snatched it up, brandishing it in both hands, her legs braced apart, ready to strike.

  “Greer!”

  It was Percy. Percy! His voice was so unexpected that a wave of relief nearly buckled her knees. She dropped the poker and rushed to the door, grabbing the handle, knowing it was locked, having tried a dozen times or more, but hoping nonetheless.

  She couldn’t open it. “Owen, I am here!” she cried, pounding on the door. “I am here, I am here! Open the door, please open the door!”

  “Greer, please listen carefully,” he said on the other side of the door.

  “Open the door!” she shrieked.

  “I am going for help,” he continued, his voice earnest. “I shall ride to London and your cousin and ask that she bring all the force she can bear down on this place!”

  “I’m going with you!” Greer shouted, banging her fists against the door. “Please open the door!”

  There was a pause, and in that moment, Greer felt her heart sink. Her gut instinct told her she’d been deceived.

  “I cannot,” he said, his voice much quieter.

  “Percy! Open the door!”

  “I shall return as soon as I am able, you mu
st trust me! You must be strong, darling! The prince will not harm you; he has given me his word. But you must be strong!”

  “No!” she screamed, beating the door again with her fists. “Don’t you dare leave me here!”

  “I shall return as soon as possible, I swear it to you!”

  “Percy! Don’t leave me!” she screeched.

  But it was too late—she could hear him running down the steps, and her only hope running down the steps with him.

  “Percy!” she screamed again, but she knew he was not coming back. Not now, not ever. After a moment, there was nothing but silence, and Greer dissolved into despair, flinging herself facedown on the bed, as disconsolate as she had ever been in her life.

  Ifan reported to Rhodrick that Miss Fairchild had refused supper, and had, in fact, kicked the contents down the steps when Griffith, a footman, had divested her of the fire poker she had wielded with the intent of braining him.

  Rhodrick believed she’d be ravenous this morning, and carried the tray up himself. He knocked on the door, but heard nothing. He adjusted the tray he held, fished in his pocket for the key, and fit it into the lock, fully expecting to be attacked the moment he entered the room.

  But Miss Fairchild surprised him. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, her legs tucked up under her gown, her hair unbound and spilling wildly about her shoulders, watching him warily with the stormiest blue eyes he’d ever seen.

  “Bore da. Good morning,” he said quietly.

  She did not respond.

  He deposited the tray on the writing table. “You must be hungry.”

  Her response was a look so full of loathing that it made Rhodrick feel a wee bit off-kilter. He turned his face away, looking at the tray, and from the corner of his eye, saw Miss Fairchild rise and calmly walk to the table. She gave him an icy glare, and with one swipe of her hand, she sent the tray flying to the floor. With another withering look, she impudently passed so close to him on her way to the bed that her skirt and arm brushed against his body.