by Lois Greiman
Savaana drew a deep breath to begin again but there was no time. “You’ll have to draw him toward you.”
Clarette raised one brow.
Savaana crouched lower, barely breathing. “You’re injured.”
Still no response.
“I don’t know how much farther you can—”
“God dammit, just tell me your idea!” Clarette rasped.
“You’re going to be the decoy. I’m going to steal his horse.”
Savaana sat in silence, watching her sister’s face, waiting for an argument or a question. Neither came. Instead, she finally nodded, her expression stony.
“Very well. But if you botch this up, you’ll be an only child again,” Clarette hissed.
“Don’t you want to know how we’re going to do it?”
“I want to know you’re not going to get me killed, too, but that’s not very likely, is it?” she asked, and gritting her teeth, peeked around the base of the tree.
Savaana remained where she was, back braced against the rough bark. “Is he still coming this way?”
“Have you ever brought me anything but bad luck?” Clarette asked, and dropped her head against the tree’s broad trunk. Closing her eyes, she exhaled sharply. “Where do you want me?”
“Can you run?”
She opened her eyes and all but rolled them in exasperation. “Are you asking if I can outdistance a horse? I don’t think so, but I’m pretty sure I could do a damn fine job of passing out.”
Savaana considered that an instant. “That might actually be better. There’s no point in trying to get away.”
“I thought we were trying to get away.”
“Get out onto the trail, then notice him. Act as if you’re startled. Scared.”
“Will it help if I wet myself?”
Savaana reached for her sister’s hand, and for a moment she almost laughed. “Do you think we might have liked each other?”
Clarette met her gaze.
“If we had been together all along. Do you think we would have been friends?”
“I’m told miracles happen sometimes.” Clarette’s tone was jaded, but her eyes were bright. “What do I do after he sees me?”
“Swoon ten feet in front of this tree.”
“Where are you going to be?”
“In this tree,” she said.
Clarette glanced into the branches overhead and winced, but then pursed her lips, setting her face in that chilly expression that was hers alone. “Swear to God, if you get caught, I’m not coming back for you. Sister or no sister.”
Savaana nodded and looked up at the sturdy branch several feet above their heads. “I won’t go easily. He’ll have to kill me.” She frowned, thinking. “Then he’ll take time to examine my body. To make sure I have the tattoo. He’ll have to dismount to do so. Grab his horse, but don’t move too quickly. The best mounts are often skittish. Once you’re astride, head north. Eventually you’ll find the road that goes west to Knollcrest. Don’t stop for anyone until you get there. Gregors is a grouchy old curmudgeon but he’ll keep you safe until Lord Tilmont arrives.”
She drew a steadying breath. “I don’t think your husband’s a bad sort, Clarette. Give him a chance. And if you see Gallagher…” She swallowed, felt tears well, and willed them back behind the floodgates. “Tell him my name is Savaana. Tell him I never wanted to lie to him.” Strengthening her resolve, she rose silently to her feet. “Do you understand?”
“Perfectly. Next time I should get a sister who’s not so bloody bossy,” Clarette said, and standing, stepped onto the trail.
Chapter 30
Savaana watched her sister stumble onto the path. Then she leapt for the lowest branch and caught it with both hands. Pulling herself up, she eased into the multicolored leaves. To her left, the rider was hidden from view, but from her vantage point she could see Clarette limp uphill, eyes downcast as if too exhausted to look up. The seconds passed like hours, but it was probably only moments before she heard the sound of galloping hooves. Clarette turned as if startled. Her eyes widened. She gasped, frozen in place. The hoofbeats thundered nearer. Clarette shrieked and spun about, but she only made it just past the towering oak before her legs gave way.
Savaana waited, strength coiled. And then he was there, almost upon them.
She leapt. Screaming as she did so, she hit him just as he was turning toward her. He lost his grip on his sword. It spun into the air, and then he was falling, grappling for her as he tumbled to the ground. She landed in the grass and leapt up, ready to spring toward the horse, but as she did so, he snagged her ankle. She shrieked and tried to yank free, but he was pulling her down. She toppled to the earth, fighting like mad.
“Run!” The word was a garbled shriek from her lips as she fought for freedom, but he was a trained warrior and had already recovered from the fall. She struck him in the face with her fists and scrambled to her feet, but suddenly his hands were on her throat. She felt her trachea compress, heard the blood pound desperately in her head, watched the world go black. But in that instant he was torn away. Air pumped into her lungs, and in some vague part of her brain she realized the noise she heard was not her pulse, but the hooves of the horse that had just trampled her attacker.
“Get on!”
She turned in a haze to find Clarette wheeling that same horse toward her.
“For God’s sake hurry!” she shrieked as Savaana wobbled to her feet. She reached for the animal’s heavy mane with her left hand, grabbed the saddle’s high cantle with her right. It was like coming home. Her heel arced across the gelding’s croup and then she was up, grabbing her sister’s waist as she straightened. The horse reared and leapt forward, racing down the trail. It was then that Clarette cursed.
“The Irishman!”
Savaana leaned to the right, gazing past her sister’s streaming hair. And there in the middle of the path not forty feet ahead was Sean Gallagher. He stood as steady as a stone, a pistol raised in his right hand.
The air left Savaana’s lungs in a hiss. She shook her head, unwilling to believe. He wouldn’t betray her. Couldn’t. But what did she know of him really?
“Dammit!” Clarette swore, and yanked their mount into the ragged underbrush just as a shot rang out.
The women gasped in tandem. Savaana twitched, tensed for the pain, but there was none. Someone screamed in agony behind them. Clarette spun the gelding in a circle just in time to see a man topple onto the trail. Facts jumbled like falling stones in Savaana’s scrambling mind. Another shot sounded, and then, like a toppled sycamore, Gallagher dropped to his knees.
“No!” The word was torn from her lips even as a Ludrick stepped from behind a boulder not ten feet from where Gallagher had fallen.
Morning light gleamed off his brass buttons, flickered on the curved sword he carried in his right hand, the sword he pointed at the Irishman’s still form.
“Come to me.” His voice was heavy with an almost familiar accent. “Come to me and he will live.”
Beneath them the gelding half reared with restive energy. Clarette glanced into the woods. So close to safety. Savaana could all but feel her thoughts. But the villain smiled.
“Go and he dies,” he warned.
“The trees are our only chance,” Clarette hissed.
“How will it be, princesses?” he asked.
“You barely know him,” Clarette said, but Savaana was already slipping over the horse’s rump. Her legs shook as she landed behind the animal.
“Don’t be a fool!” Clarette rasped.
“Disappear,” Savaana ordered her, and lifted her hands as she raised her voice. “My life for his,” she called.
“Don’t do this,” Clarette said, circling the gelding.
The Ludrick grinned, a white swath of humor across his dark features. “Yours and your sister’s.”
Savaana shook her head again. “She’s not my sister.”
“And you lie like a Beloreich.”
“Sh
e’s my maid. You will let my maid and the Irishman go free.”
“Your maid?” he said, and laughed as he glanced at Clarette. “I think not. She’s all but identical to you.”
“It was planned that way,” Savaana said, still advancing. “So that she could take my place if needs be.”
He straightened, tall and lean and swarthy. “If such is the case, I would suspect you to be the hireling since you are the one to sacrifice yourself.”
Savaana drew herself up to her full height. “Do I look like a commoner to you?”
“You look like a Beloreich!” he said, and spat, but hatred was hardly new to one of Rom blood.
“And hence too good to hand myself over to a Ludrick.” She was guessing wildly, hoping desperately. Gallagher remained unmoving on the rocky ground. “Yet I will surrender myself to you if you spare the man and my servant.”
He hesitated. She hurried into the breech, trying to appear calm, controlled, though her heart was racing.
“Think what a hero you will seem to the others. There are others, I assume, who detest me as much as you.”
“More than sands on the beach.”
“Yet you are the one who captured me,” she said, and raised her chin. “Step away from the Irishman.”
“I do not take orders from gunoaielor.”
“I remain at your disposal only because he lives.”
“I can kill you simply.”
“I see you know very little of me,” she said, talking slowly, rhythmically, though her hands shook with terror. Had she seen Gallagher move? Did he yet live? “I was raised by the wild Rom, taught to fend for myself.” She didn’t let her gaze stray from the brigand’s eyes, but she was sure now that Gallagher’s hand had inched forward, as if searching for a weapon, as if planning a coup. She had little time before he did something foolish, then. And what of Clarette? Savaana dared not turn to see what she was doing. “Step back,” she ordered.
“I do not take orders from gunoaielor,” he snarled, and raising his sword, turned toward Sean.
In that moment, Savaana launched herself toward him, flipping end over end. But he leapt from her reach. She crouched, one hand on the earth, and tried to spin away, but he yelled as he charged. She twisted toward him and covered her face with her arm as his blade sliced downward. But at the last instant he arched his back, hissed, and rose on his toes.
Savaana scrambled backward, and as she did, he toppled forward, his sword clattering to the ground just inches from her feet.
She squeaked in terror and skittered back another few inches.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She yanked her attention from the knife embedded in the brigand’s twitching body. Gallagher stood, legs spread, expression thunderous.
“You’re alive,” she breathed, and felt her heart lurch crazily in her chest.
“A body should never be without a fine blade,” he said, but she was already racing toward him.
He braced himself for the impact, and then she was in his arms.
“You’re alive,” she said again.
“So far,” he agreed, and winced as she hugged him.
“I love you,” she breathed.
“And I you,” he said, and pushed her away a scant inch. “But who are you, lass?”
She laughed, euphoric, terrified, tremulous as she touched his face. “I think I might be a princess.”
He scowled, trying to assimilate that. “And her?” He tightened his arm around Savaana’s waist, almost oblivious to the pain in his side as Clarette rode near.
“My sister.”
He nodded at the woman who rode close. “My brother sends his regards,” he said.
“Your brother?”
“Alastar Buckingham.”
Clarette’s scowl deepened. “You couldn’t have fallen for someone whose brother I hadn’t slept with?”
“There may not be anyone,” Savaana said, and as she did, a half dozen uniformed men stepped from hiding.
Two had guns. All had swords. One was a giant with a scarred lip and ancient eyes.
“I remember—” Savaana began, and stepped forward, but Gallagher snarled a warning and shoved her behind him.
The men came to an abrupt halt. “Your Highness,” said the nearest, and dropped to his knees. The others followed suit.
A noise sounded in the woods. They turned as a unit. Three of them disappeared into the trees, silent as wraiths. But the eldest stepped toward her.
“Come now, cea dulce, we shall get you to safety,” he said, but Gallagher put his arm across her body.
“She goes nowhere until I know far more than I do now.”
“We have searched for the princesses for many years. There was a time we thought a woman named Milicent Hennessey might possess the Rough Jewels and therefore must be Her Royal Highness, but when we reached her place of residence, she was gone.”
Milicent Hennessey, one of Clarette’s many aliases, Savaana thought.
“Our search continued, but when His Majesty died with no heirs to take the throne, our quest became more urgent. We sent agents to scores of London shops in the hopes of finding the jewels and therefore the princesses. But ’twas luck more than anything that brought us to Smith’s small shop only a few days past. And therefore to the princess.”
“So you had her accosted in an alley?”
“We felt it necessary to make certain she was one of the two for which we searched. To see the moon tattoo for ourselves.”
A muscle jumped in Gallagher’s jaw. “You sound like little more than thieves and lechers.”
The soldier drew himself to his full height. “I am Teodor of Bancastle, master of Delvania’s royal guard. My people have protected the Beloreich since the mountains rose from the flatlands.”
“Then your people have failed.”
“And for that I deserve death,” Teodor said, and dropping to his knees, gripped his blade between both palms, extending the grip.
“Holy hell,” Savaana said, and stumbled backward. “What kind of place is this Delvania?”
“’Tis a place of honor and fortitude, cea dulce. Of courage and endurance, and strength.”
“Cea dulce?” She tried the words on her tongue. They felt almost familiar.
“It means sweet one in our language. ’Twas what your princess mother called you before your exodus. Dorin traveled with you to this land. He was to keep you safe, but he lost you in a battle with the Ludricks.”
The giant nodded, broad face solemn, ancient eyes sad. “For that, I, too, would be happy to die now that I know you are safe,” he rumbled.
Savaana winced. “I don’t think I like this Delvania,” she murmured.
“I do,” Clarette said, and Savaana turned toward her, breath held. Their gazes met and melded, sharing a dozen wild thoughts.
“Gentlemen,” Savaana said, raising her voice and facing the guards once again. “Meet my older sister, cea dulce.”
Epilogue
Janica Ellabeth Beloreich, Queen of Delvania, wore a gown of powder blue to her coronation. Its train, studded with precious stones, was fourteen feet long and carried by five royal bearers. Her chestnut hair was upswept, secured by a dozen golden pins and embellished with a score of glistening diamonds. A thousand excited subjects lined the street down which she rode. Beneath her, an ivory stallion was led by two liveried guards. A cheer like thunder roared through the city as she waved one graceful hand. It was a storybook parade, but for the snarling giant who strode beside the queen’s mount. Though Dorin had changed into Delvania’s royal colors, he looked incongruous and dangerous as he held back the pressing crowd.
Tears filled Savaana’s eyes as she watched from a balcony half a block away. She was dressed in the bright layered gown she had worn while entertaining the crowds only minutes before, and about her neck was a string of rough stones. Beside her, Sean wore a blacksmith’s simple garb—leather breeches with a linen tunic. He smelled of wood smoke
and freedom.
“She looks like a princess,” Savaana said.
“I believe in this case that’s actually an insult,” Lord Tilmont said. He and Grandfather had accompanied them from England. But while the elderly Rom became reacquainted with relatives, Tilmont watched the festivities, saying a man should really be present at his wife’s coronation. Although, in truth, their marriage had been annulled weeks before. Apparently Princess Janica had been promised to another well before her birth, making her union with the baron simply unacceptable.
“She looks like you,” Wicklow corrected. But his name wasn’t really Wicklow, of course. Or Gallagher. It was Michael Sean Buckingham. And he wasn’t a penniless metalsmith. He was a gifted craftsman, a clever businessman, a wealthy merchant. He owned Smith’s Ornaments, where Savaana had gone to have the necklace appraised. Indeed, he owned that shop and several others. Not to mention the foundry where the wares were created. Yet he seemed content to dress in worn leather and to shoe weary cart horses while others strutted past like preening peacocks.
“Do you think so?” Savaana asked, and felt her sister’s separation with poignant tenderness.
Sean watched her. “Do you regret your decision, then?”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t bear confinement,” she said. “No matter how beautiful the cage.”
But he continued to watch her as if trying to read her mind. Maybe he was jealous. She liked the thought of that, but if such was the case, she couldn’t see it in his expression. He made a perfect blacksmith, strong, solid, comfortable with his place in the world. But she suspected he would also make a perfect gentleman. And a perfect father. She felt a bubble of giddy happiness rise inside her. “She has the adoration of thousands,” he reminded her.
She watched him, drinking in every arresting feature, every dark, wayward hair. “And I have you.”
His emerald eyes sparked with feeling. “That you do, lass. For as long as you’ll have me.”
She touched his cheek. “Forever, then.”
Tilmont cleared his throat, but they barely remembered his presence.
