The Perils of Pursuing a Prince

by Julia London

  “His looks?” Miss Fairchild said uncertainly.

  Surprised, Margaret looked up and stared at the young woman, trying to detect artifice in her, but she could not. Miss Fairchild seemed genuinely surprised by what Margaret had said.

  “He is rather plain in his looks,” Margaret said. “His sister is very handsome and she received all the attention when they were children. Rhodi was big and plain and he was teased mercilessly. They used to call him Goliath.” At Miss Fairchild’s blank look, Margaret frowned. “Surely you have noticed the scar?” she asked, touching her face in the place Rhodi’s scar coursed his face.

  “Of course,” Miss Fairchild said, frowning slightly. “But it is merely a mark. I grant you, he is not handsome in the way men are thought to be handsome in London, but neither is he homely. And he possesses the most arresting pair of green eyes I’ve ever seen on a man.”

  Margaret was so taken aback she did not know what to say.

  “He seems to me to be comely in a rough sort of way,” Miss Fairchild said, her dark brows furrowing in thought. “There is a word,” she muttered, tapping the arm of the chair on which she sat. “Ah, yes. Virile,” she said, brightening with the thought. “That’s it.”

  Something inside Margaret warmed as if she’d swallowed something hot. It was little wonder Rhodi loved this woman. Yet why could she not seem to shake the feeling of doom?

  Nevertheless, she smiled. “Others have not been as generous as you, Miss Fairchild. His mean looks, coupled with a bit of local nastiness, has made him a bit of a recluse in the last five years.”

  “Nastiness?”

  Margaret debated telling her the ugliness Owen Percy had visited on Llanmair but thought the wiser of it. It was too vile to be repeated, certainly, and Rhodi felt so strongly about it. With a smile, she shook her head. “I am sure the prince will tell you in due time.”

  But Miss Fairchild suddenly sat up and leaned forward, looking at Margaret with intense blue eyes. “Will you confide in me, Mrs. Awbrey? Has it something to do with Kendrick?”

  Margaret gasped softly with astonishment. “How do you know that?”

  “I don’t,” Miss Fairchild said quickly, easing back a bit. “I have guessed from the things he has said.”

  “I pray you, don’t mention it to him,” Margaret said hastily. “It is not something any of us mentions,” she added, and could not entirely suppress a shudder at the memory.

  Rhodi had never really overcome his guilt about the girl’s death and the length of time it took to find her. When they did at last discover her body, it had been half eaten by animals. Rhodi believed, of course, because he was an honorable man, that he might have prevented it somehow, might have discerned what evil was in Owen’s mind.

  But if Rhodi was meant to bear some of the guilt, then all of Powys might have shared it with him, for everyone knew the sort of man Owen Percy had turned out to be. And while no one could ever prove what happened to Morwena Yates—whether she’d met her early demise due to madness or maliciousness—the disgruntled sorts on the wrong side of Rhodi’s adjudications always cast aspersions on the prince’s actions that awful week.

  Miss Fairchild was watching her closely. “I don’t understand.”

  “Miss Fairchild, if I may be quite frank,” Margaret said carefully, “it is not something that could ever be discussed in polite society.”

  Whether or not Miss Fairchild believed it, she did not question Margaret further. But Margaret noticed that she grew more subdued as their conversation reverted back to the soirée. She nodded and commented politely when it was appropriate, but she no longer seemed particularly engaged, as if her mind had wandered elsewhere.

  Once again, Margaret felt the cold shiver of doom sweep over her.

  Twenty-seven

  T he luncheon seemed interminable to Greer—she could scarcely bear to sit and listen politely as Mrs. Awbrey suggested what Rhodrick might do for the soirée he was determined to host.

  She tried to listen, but her mind was occupied elsewhere: Kendrick. It was like an enormous beast sitting quietly in the corner of the room, its secrets swirling about them as they dined.

  But indeed it did exist, in a forest clearing not six miles from here, so large that it could not possibly be missed, and too wicked for anyone to acknowledge outright.

  Greer was beside herself with curiosity, wanting to know exactly what had happened there, what Rhodrick could not bear to be reminded of. She thought about what she’d been told both by Percy and Mr. Jones, and about the wretched, horrible things that Mrs. Awbrey’s comments had seemed to allude to.

  She felt ill with doubt, unable to comprehend how easily she ignored her first chilling instincts about him and then fallen so completely in love with him. But how could she have been so wrong? Could a man who made love as passionately as he have taken the life of another?

  Passion. She was suddenly reminded of a remark Aunt Cassandra had made once about the earl of Plymouth, who had, unfortunately and rather publicly, struck his wife. It had surprised many, for the earl was a passionate man and everyone knew of his adoration for his wife.

  It had not surprised Aunt Cassandra, however, who’d said, “A passionate man is as passionate in his anger as he is in his bed. I don’t know why anyone should be surprised.”

  Perhaps Greer had been blinded by the prince’s passion for her, for what did she truly know about him other than that he had captured her imagination from the moment she’d laid eyes on him? His presence that day, so fierce and predatory, had stirred fear in her, but it had stirred something else, too, something raw and primal. Their first few meetings had been frightening, but she had been drawn in, seduced by the mystery of him.

  And now that she’d come to know him more intimately than any other man she’d ever known, it seemed as if she hardly knew him at all.

  She had to go to Kendrick today. She wasn’t really sure how Kendrick would answer her questions, but she felt almost as if something were pulling her there. She had to be in that house, to feel that house—but first she was forced to suffer an interminable luncheon, throughout which Rhodrick said little more than was absolutely necessary. While Mrs. Awbrey talked, his gaze never seemed to leave Greer for more than a moment.

  When, at long last, Mrs. Awbrey had taken her leave, Rhodrick and Greer had retreated wordlessly to the salon. Once inside, when he had dismissed a footman and shut the door behind him, he turned and smiled, his gaze sweeping hungrily over her body.

  But before he could speak, before he could take her in his arms, she blurted, “I have a secret.”

  His expression changed. One brow arched above a slow smile. “I am intrigued. What is your secret?”

  Her smile, however, had faded. She extended her hand and said, “Will you walk with me?”

  He glanced at her hand, then lifted his gaze to her eyes. His smile had gone, too—he understood something had changed. “I suppose you intend to tell me that you’re leaving soon. Or perhaps you mean to tell me where it is you go when you leave this house. Whatever you mean to say, the trepidation in your eyes suggests that you do not expect me to like it.”

  Greer smiled tremulously. “If you will walk with me, I will show you—”

  “Walk where?”

  For a moment, she feared she would lose her courage, would succumb to Mrs. Awbrey’s warnings. But she could not hide so easily. Something had changed inside her. “I’ve been to Kendrick,” she said, surprising herself.

  His demeanor changed at once; she had the distinct impression he was struggling to keep from exploding. “And how is it,” he said icily, “that you have been to Kendrick?”

  “On horseback,” she said uncertainly. “I…I saw it the day I tried to leave Llanmair, and I remembered where it was.”

  His reaction could not have been swifter or more volatile. He suddenly turned, swiping angrily at a chair and sending it teetering on two legs before falling to the floor in a loud crash. With his hands on his hips, he
let loose a string of Welsh, then glared at the window for a moment, his shoulders lifting with each deep breath. When he had calmed himself enough to speak, he turned to face her.

  His eyes were blazing. “Please tell me that I have misunderstood you, Greer, for I do not think I can abide any other answer.”

  She felt the first crack in her resolve. “You said I might go wherever I pleased, did you not?”

  “Anywhere but Kendrick,” he snapped. “That I expressly forbid. I have forbidden it to everyone in this county!” he thundered. “The gate is locked, madam! There is only one possible way you might have gone through a locked gate!”

  “You mustn’t blame Mr. Jones,” Greer said hastily.

  “Jones?” he roared.

  She instinctively moved behind the chair he had hit, picking it up and putting it between them. “Why are you so angry? It’s an empty house!” she said, her voice belying her fear. “Let me show you something, Rhodrick—”

  “There is nothing you can show me that will ever induce me to—”

  “Please,” she interjected. “I give you my word I have legitimate reasons for needing to see it.”

  He closed his mouth, but his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “A legitimate reason?” he said acidly. “All right. Show me your legitimate reason.”

  “It is not what you think,” she insisted, then nodded her head at the door.

  “Show me,” he said, and gestured for her to precede him through the door. Without a word, Greer turned and walked briskly out of the salon and into the main corridor. Rhodrick was instantly beside her, and for once did not bother to hide his limp. She took him down the servants’ stairway into a narrow corridor that twisted and turned its way to another larger corridor. From there, she led him up to the main floor and the portrait gallery.

  “In here,” she said, and pushed open the oak doors of the gallery. As they crossed the threshold, she half walked, half ran to the painting of the picnic and whirled around to him.

  Rhodrick remained at the door, his arms folded over his chest, his expression terribly dark.

  Greer pointed at the painting. “This was where my mother was born. That’s her in the painting. You can see a resemblance to this hand portrait I have kept,” she said, removing it from her pocket and holding it out to him.

  He strode forward, taking the small portrait from her.

  “And Mrs. Bowen confirmed that she is indeed Alis Bronwyn Vaughan,” Greer added.

  Whatever she might have expected, she did not expect to see the color drain from his face. He gaped at her, then shook his head. “I grant you, I have been a fool, Greer, but do not make the mistake of thinking me so great a fool as to believe your fraud.”

  “This is no fraud! It…it is too fantastic to believe, I know, but there she is!” she cried, pointing to the tiny portrait and then the painting on the wall.

  Rhodrick’s entire body convulsed, and he was suddenly moving forward, his eyes on the painting.

  “Look,” Greer said desperately. “Remember this?” she said, holding up the small charm she wore around her neck. He glanced at her necklace, then at the painting. “You told me it was Welsh, and now I see it here!” she said, pointing wildly to the painting. “My mother is wearing it!”

  Rhodrick peered at the painting. “It is a common amulet,” he said. “Many women have them.”

  “My mother left this to me. Aunt Cassandra gave it to me when I turned sixteen.”

  Rhodrick lowered his gaze, closed his eyes, and braced himself against the wall, as if he’d suddenly been struck by a pain. He muttered something in Welsh, then looked at Greer, his expression gone from angry to ill. He stared at her, myriad emotions flashing through his eyes. He looked horrified by her.

  “Who are you?” he demanded at last. “What sort of bloody game are you playing?”

  “I think a better question is who are you?” she retorted, her voice trembling with rage and such regret. “Why do you forbid everyone from Kendrick? What secret do you hide there?”

  “You don’t understand,” he said, his tone deadly.

  “I do! I know what happened, what you seek to hide!”

  “What in God’s name are you talking about?” he roared, his expression turning black. “Is this another of Percy’s lies?” He suddenly surged forward and caught her by the arm. Greer shrieked with fear, but he yanked her against his body before she could react. “Are you capable of understanding the truth when you hear it? For if you are, then you will see Kendrick as I have seen it. But be forewarned, madam—if you want the truth, you will have all of it.”

  Greer felt as if she were choking—she could not seem to find her breath, much less her voice. Fear had taken its place—wild, consuming fear.

  But he gave her no quarter. With his hand gripping her arm tightly, he dragged her from the gallery, marching her along with surprising strength and speed for a man limping as badly as he was.

  In the foyer, he shouted for the horses to be saddled at once, sent a frightened chambermaid running for Greer’s cloak, and ignored Ifan when he asked, in a voice full of alarm, if he could be of any service.

  It seemed forever before the horses were brought around, and during that time, the prince did not soften a moment. His jaw bulged with the force with which he clenched his teeth, and his breathing was hard. The moment the horses were brought into the courtyard, he jerked Greer along with him. He ignored the young stable boy who had placed a mounting block alongside Molly, and lifted Greer to the saddle himself, tossing her up in spite of her protests.

  He mounted his horse with the same speed, then barked an order in Welsh. A stable boy with eyes as wide as moons grabbed the reins of her mount and handed them to him.

  Without a word, without so much as a glance at Greer, he spurred his horse on. Molly neighed her displeasure, but she broke into a gallop behind Cadfael.

  Greer fought to stay in the saddle; Rhodrick rode recklessly through the forest without a care for her safety or his. He led her down an overgrown trail she had missed previously, but he was not deterred in the least—he was merciless in his desire to reach Kendrick.

  At Kendrick, he dismounted in one fluid movement and was striding toward her in his strange gait before Greer could peel her fingers from the pommel. He brought her down in such a manner that her body scraped against his, then took her elbow in his iron grip and pushed her toward the gate, which he kicked open with such force that it banged back against the stone wall.

  After he pushed Greer through it, he let go of her and strode on to Mr. Jones’s cottage.

  “Rhodrick, do not harm him!” Greer shouted, running after him.

  But Rhodrick scarcely heard her—he scarcely heard anything but the roaring in his head, the events of that ignoble week so long ago crowding his thoughts and dredging up memories of sights and sounds and smells he’d long since buried, not to be resurrected. Alis Bronwyn. How could he have missed the resemblance? He’d seen Alis Bronwyn only twice after she’d grown, when she’d come back to Kendrick to visit her uncle. She had grown into a dark-haired beauty like her daughter, and while Rhodrick knew she’d married, he hadn’t remembered she’d married a Vaughan until that moment in the gallery.

  He feared he might kill Jones. He had saved him from jail, had given him refuge and a simple job instead of hanging him as most had wanted. Rhodrick had seen something good in him, something that his terrifying attachment to drink had almost drowned.

  This was his thanks for having saved him? He couldn’t stop one woman from entering that wretched house?

  Jones was dead asleep, of course, lying on a dirty mattress next to a jug tipped over on its side. The place reeked of cheap whiskey. Rhodrick kicked the bottom of Jones’s feet—three times before the man was roused—then grabbed him by his dirty collar and hauled him up. “I told you no one was to enter the house,” he said in Welsh.

  Jones’s eyes went wide. “I did not, milord! On me life, I did not!”

  “Then Miss
Fairchild is a liar, is that it?” He could see from the expression of fear that passed over Jones’s eyes that the man was lying, and it was all the excuse Rhodrick needed to haul him out of the cottage, tossing him onto the ground in the midst of his chickens, sending the lot of them flapping around and squawking. Jones rolled onto his knees, managed to push himself up. “Hear me out, milord,” he begged in Welsh.

  “There is nothing to hear!” Rhodrick roared. “The one thing I asked you is to keep this house closed! Is it so much to ask that she be allowed to rest in peace?”

  Jones scrambled to his feet and shifted his gaze to Greer. “I beg ye, miss,” he cried imploringly in English. “Tell his lordship ye gave me no choice!”

  “I didn’t,” Greer said frantically, the abject fear in her eyes piercing Rhodrick’s heart clean through. “He told me I was forbidden to enter Kendrick, but I went on. There was nothing the poor man could do to stop me short of physical force.”

  “Why?” Rhodrick bellowed heavenward in an explosion of frustration as the bleary-eyed Mr. Jones stepped out from between them, watching them both warily. “Why are you so determined in this? It is time for the truth, Greer. Is this another of Percy’s schemes? Does he seek to defile this house again?”

  Her expression turned furious. “For God’s sake, it has nothing to do with Mr. Percy!” she cried angrily. “I told you! This,” she said, gesturing wildly to the house, “is where my mother was born. Where she lived! I have nothing of her, nothing but a few trinkets, save this house!”

  If by hook or by crook Percy had put her up to this, the wench was about to discover the extent of Percy’s depravity. Rhodrick closed the distance between them and grabbed her arm. “I will show you the house you hold so dear,” he said, yanking her along at a clip. “And I will tell you how Mr. Percy has ruined it for all time. You should steel yourself, madam, for I assure you, you will not like the tale.”