The Prince's Bride

by Julianne MacLean

  Which direction should he roll to hit the chamber pot? Or at least to avoid a bed partner, if there was one.

  He remembered enough about the night before to know that he had left the ball with Véronique.

  Véronique …

  He opened his eyes and blinked up at the green silk canopy in the bright morning sunlight. Was he in her bed? Or had she taken him to a hotel? Why couldn’t he remember?

  Swallowing hard over the intense wave of nausea that rose up in him at the mere idea of moving, he pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead and shut his eyes again. A dizzying, throbbing sensation engulfed him. The bed was spinning like a top.

  Nicholas carefully glanced in the direction of the pillow beside him, but found it to be vacant. Thank God for that.

  Squinting in the blinding sunlight streaming in through the windows, he finally managed to lean up on an elbow and look around the unfamiliar bedchamber. The walls were papered in a busy floral pattern, and the bed itself was an ostentatious display of extravagant French opulence. It was ornately sculpted with images of leaves and cherubs, and covered in shiny gilt. Positively sickening.

  The windows were trimmed in heavy silk drapes and valances in a blue floral fabric to match the walls. The patterns were more blinding than the sun.

  The furniture was also very French, with a showy parade of silly china knickknacks and vases on top of every surface.

  He looked down at himself as well and saw that he was still wearing his clothes from the night before. Minus his sword and boots.

  Where the devil was he? And where was Véronique?

  He took another moment to recover from his uncomfortable awakening and managed to toss the covers aside and sit up on the edge of the bed.

  The room began to spin faster, and his brain throbbed.

  He glanced around for the bellpull. Ah, there it was, on the opposite side of the bed. Slowly, he lay back and managed to roll in that direction, then put his feet on the floor and stood, never letting go of the corner bedpost.

  At last he reached the velvet-covered rope and tugged it three times. Then he lay back down again and closed his eyes to wait.

  A half hour must have passed, maybe more. He wasn’t sure. No one came.

  Again, he struggled to his feet and tugged harder on the bellpull. God, he felt like a decrepit old man. He could barely stand up straight.

  Spotting a pitcher of water on the washstand, he made his way to it and poured a glass, which he sipped slowly.

  Still in a terrible state of agony, he walked to the window to look outside.

  Down below, an impressive manicured garden and rectangular pond with an enormous fountain in the center provided a spectacular view. Beyond that, in the distance, he could see what he guessed to be the English Channel. How far had they driven last night?

  The water sparkled turquoise in the sun. There were a number of ships moored in close proximity to one another, not far from a port village.

  Nicholas frowned as he wondered if Bonaparte was on one of those ships. Perhaps it was not the English Channel. Perhaps it was the Atlantic. Was this Rochefort?

  Dammit. He needed to know where he was.

  Forgetting his headache and swimming stomach, he stalked to the door and grabbed hold of the knob, only to discover that he was locked in.

  He rattled and tugged at it, then slammed his shoulder up against it, but to no avail. The exit was impenetrable.

  The realization that he was a prisoner in this room struck him rather violently, but he swept the notion aside, for surely that could not be. Perhaps Véronique only meant to keep his presence here in her bedchamber a secret, for he was, after all, a royal prince, and they had sneaked out of a ballroom together for a dalliance that could hardly be called proper.

  Feeling ill again and deciding that he should not sound an alarm just yet, he walked unsteadily back to the bed and collapsed on top of the covers to wait for her return. Hopefully by that time, the headache would have subsided and a servant would have brought him some breakfast.

  He pulled the pillow over his head and fell back to sleep almost instantly.

  * * *

  Véronique was just about to spear her roast lamb with a fork when Gabrielle came bursting through the door.

  “He is awake, and he is not happy. You had best come quickly. He is causing a ruckus.”

  Véronique set down her utensils, removed her napkin from her lap, and tossed it onto the table. Her dinner had been brought to her private chamber by the butler only a few minutes earlier, and she wondered if anyone else had heard the commotion.

  She and Gabrielle had been placed in this very remote wing of the house to watch over the prince. Why hadn’t she heard anything? Perhaps she would need to move to a closer room.

  Following Gabrielle out into the corridor, she fought to calm her heart and prepare herself for Prince Nicholas’s wrath. She would have to answer any questions he had through the door, for she’d received very strict instructions to keep him contained until Lord d’Entremont arrived on Tuesday.

  That was three days from now.

  As she hurried down the wide carpeted corridor, the ruckus grew louder and more violent. It sounded as if she and Gabrielle had trapped some sort of wild beast. He was pounding against the door and shouting like an ogre.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  “I’ve had enough, damn you! Open this bloody door before I break it down and tear someone’s throat out!”

  Véronique stopped dead in her tracks and met Gabrielle’s stricken eyes. “Good heavens.”

  “What did I tell you?” Gabby replied. “He is not pleased. What if he does break down the door? Perhaps I should fetch a weapon.”

  Véronique held up a hand. “We must remain calm. I’m sure there will be no need for weapons. I will talk to him.”

  Bang! Bang! Bang! “Who’s out there! Open the fing door!”

  Véronique gasped and stepped back in horror, then recovered from her shock and strode forward to pound her own fist on the door. “Watch your tongue, sir! There are women out here!”

  Her retort was met with silence, while her heart pummelled her rib cage and fired her blood through her veins like a white-hot flood of terror.

  “Is that you, Véronique?” he asked in a much calmer voice.

  She inhaled shakily. “Yes, it is, Your Highness, and I apologize for the locked door. Are you all right in there? Do you require anything?”

  Again, her words were met with silence. She glanced at Gabrielle, who took hold of her hand as she used to do when they were young girls and she needed comfort and reassurance for some reason.

  Véronique squeezed her hand and nodded to convey that everything would be fine. In all honesty, however, she felt as if they had captured a lion, and the only thing standing between them and its sharp teeth was this single wooden door.

  “I’m well enough,” he replied, sounding surprisingly polite after the rather disturbing vocal display mere seconds ago. “But why is the door locked, darling? Do you not have a key?”

  She stepped closer. “I am sorry, I do not,” she explained, and said nothing more.

  He was quiet again, and she could well imagine that he was struggling to make sense of things while listening carefully up against the door.

  She nervously cleared her throat. Her body was buzzing with awareness. She felt extraordinarily alert.

  The silence went on and on.

  “Your Highness?” she said. “Are you there?”

  Of course he was there. He was locked inside.

  The floorboards creaked on the other side of the door. “Why is the door locked?” he asked, and she recognized the height of his agitation.

  “Because I am not supposed to let you out. You are to remain here until Tuesday, when Lord d’Entremont arrives. I believe he wishes to speak to you about something. If you will notice, there are fresh clean clothes for you in the wardrobe.”

  “Who is Lord d’Entremont? And where are
we?” Nicholas asked, ignoring her reference to the clothes.

  “He is a French marquis, and this is his house. We are near Dieppe.”

  He paused. “Have I met him before?”

  “I do not know.”

  Another pause. “What does he wish to speak with me about?”

  “I am sorry … but I do not know the answer to that question either.”

  The sound of Nicholas’s heavy footsteps pacing back and forth behind the door caused her to look sharply at the doorknob. She was expecting him to break through at any second, and was tempted to open the door to avoid such a calamity, for she was not equipped to do battle with him physically. But she could not risk that he might flee before d’Entremont arrived.

  “What is your relationship to the marquis?” he asked.

  Gabrielle squeezed Véronique’s hand. “I am simply—” She hesitated, for she wasn’t sure how to explain it. “—I am his courier, so to speak.”

  The pacing stopped. “Are you telling me that you were hired to deliver me here? That he is paying you?”

  She saw no benefit in lying to Nicholas. He was not a fool. He was already seeing this plot for what it was, and he would only grow more frustrated if she withheld information from him. She would therefore reveal as much as she could.

  “That is correct,” she said, “but I have not yet been paid. I will receive nothing until he arrives and speaks to you.”

  “On Tuesday,” Nicholas added.

  She labored to keep her breathing steady and under control, even while this strange conversation from opposite sides of a locked door was taking a dreadful toll on her nerves.

  “Yes.”

  Again he was quiet, then: “You are aware—I hope—that what you have done is against the law. It is kidnapping, Véronique, and I am a person who will most definitely be missed. I am a prince of Petersbourg, here in France for diplomatic purposes. When my brother finds out what has occurred, there will be serious consequences. Are you sure you want to be involved in such a plot? If you unlock this door now and take me back to Paris tonight, I give you my word that I will not press charges against you. I don’t even know your last name, for pity’s sake. Let me out of here now, take me back to Paris, and I will allow you to simply walk away from this. No questions asked. Then I will deal with d’Entremont separately.”

  Her mind was now swimming in panic, but she would not be deterred. She had promised the marquis that she would deliver and hold Prince Nicholas here until Tuesday, and she would not let anything keep her from doing so, for they had an agreement, and she needed the marquis to fulfill his part of it.

  “I am sorry, Your Highness, but I cannot take you back to Paris. You must remain here.”

  His angry footsteps approached the door, and he banged so hard on it that it rattled in the jamb. Both she and Gabrielle jumped back to the opposite wall, as if he were coming at them with a knife and there was no door to protect them.

  But there was a door, and they were safe. At least for now. She must not lose her courage.

  “What does he want to see me about?” Nicholas asked again.

  “I told you before, I don’t know.”

  “Does it have something to do with Bonaparte?”

  Véronique gave no answer, for she did not know the marquis’s intentions, nor did it matter. She only wanted her house back.

  “Does he want me to negotiate for the emperor’s freedom? Because I assure you, he will be wasting his time discussing such a thing with me, especially if he means to get what he wants through barbaric methods such as this.”

  “Please believe me, Your Highness. I have no idea why he wants to see you. He did not share that information with me.”

  Gabrielle leaned close to her and whispered, “You don’t think the marquis will harm him, do you?”

  Véronique immediately put her finger to her lips to hush her sister.

  “Who is that?” Nicholas asked. “Who is with you?”

  “No one,” Véronique replied. “I was talking to myself.”

  He was quiet for a few heated seconds, and all Véronique wanted to do was flee. She didn’t want to have anything more to do with this, but she must weather it. She must.

  “Whatever he is paying you,” Nicholas said, “I will double it.”

  Gabrielle raised an eyebrow.

  Véronique shook her head and mouthed the word no.

  Gabby rolled her eyes and shrugged in defeat. Then she took hold of Véronique’s arm and pulled her down the hall, farther away from the door. “Why can’t we just put a bullet in his brain?” she whispered.

  “I hope you are not referring to the prince,” Véronique whispered in reply.

  “Of course not. It’s Lord d’Entremont who needs to be murdered. Or locked up—and somewhere a lot worse than this. Where can we find a dark dungeon with rats?”

  Again, Véronique lifted a finger to say hush, and returned to the door.

  “I can hear you whispering,” Nicholas said. “I know you are not working alone, so I will ask again. Take me back to Paris tonight, and I will triple whatever he is paying you.”

  Véronique sighed heavily. “I told you that we cannot accept your offer. Again, I apologize for this, Your Highness. We do not mean to cause you any distress or discomfort, but you must wait for Lord d’Entremont. Do you have everything you need? Are you comfortable?”

  Silence again. Then: “Am I comfortable? Are you bloody insane?”

  Véronique stepped forward and placed her open hand flat on the door. “Please be patient, sir. I will make sure dinner is brought to you posthaste, and I will try to make this as painless as possible. You must trust me.”

  She didn’t feel quite right speaking those words, however, because she had no idea what the marquis intended to do with Prince Nicholas when he arrived. Or why he had wanted him brought here in the first place.

  “What I’d really like to do is wring your neck,” Nicholas said in a quiet, threatening voice that caused her blood to run cold in her veins.

  The memory of their thrilling encounter at the ball danced through her mind. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the door as she recalled the touch of his lips on her neck, and the way he spoke about the loss of his father, and other intimate things. He probably regretted all of that now. Regretted ever setting eyes on her, which filled her with sadness, for there would never be another flirtation with this man, nor any more intimate conversations.

  “I would like to say that was uncalled for,” she replied, “but I suppose I deserve it.”

  “Yes. That and a whole lot more. You’re making a mistake, Véronique.”

  She had a knot in her stomach the size of a turnip, but she could not let her emotions steer her away from this task. She had been warned that Prince Nicholas was a handsome and charismatic rogue who enjoyed sexual conquests. She could not allow herself to fall for his charms—though he was hardly charming at the moment when he expressed such an urgent desire to wring her neck.

  “I will have a meal sent to you now,” she said, stepping away from the door. “And you are correct. I am not working alone, so there is no point trying to break down the door and escape. There are guards here,” she lied, “and no one will care if you continue to shout and pound on the door. You will only tire yourself. I therefore suggest that you make yourself comfortable and read one of the books on the shelf by the window. I was told that Lord d’Entremont selected those books for you personally. They came from his private library.”

  “Are you suggesting I should feel honored?”

  Véronique wiped the back of her hand across her perspiring forehead. “I am simply trying to make this as painless as possible for you, sir. Now I must go and arrange for your dinner.”

  Turning away, she met Gabrielle’s concerned gaze and signaled for her to follow quickly.

  Véronique was surprised that her prisoner offered no further protest. She and her sister were able to escape to the staircase—without
hearing any more angry or profane demands.

  * * *

  Bloody hell, he wanted to do far worse than wring her neck.…

  Nicholas backed away from the door and curled his hands into tight, murderous fists.

  When he thought about how Véronique had smiled at him from beneath that bejeweled mask when their eyes first met at the ball—how she had appeared so demure and innocent—he wanted to spit. Every detail of their encounter had been part of this sinister plot to lure him to her coach, drug him, and abduct him in the dead of night to the French coast.

  Was Véronique even her real name?

  Damn it all to hell.

  Nicholas turned away from the door, stalked to the window, and looked out at the Channel.

  God help her when he found a way out of this room, for he would not rest until she was rotting away in a prison somewhere, just as Napoléon would soon be doing.

  Chapter Three

  A supper tray arrived through a secret compartment in the wall, which enraged Nicholas to a heightened degree after he’d spent a full hour waiting at the door, listening for footsteps, while brandishing a vase over his head.

  Nevertheless, when he heard the sound of a sliding door and the switch of a latch behind a picture frame, and discovered a hot dinner of roast lamb with spiced gravy and a full bottle of fine French wine, he was not entirely disappointed, for he needed his sustenance if he was going to deal with his captors effectively.

  And who were his captors, exactly? he wondered as he wolfed down the tender meat and enjoyed more than half the bottle of wine, followed by a dessert of flaky raspberry pie and a selection of sweet biscuits and cream.

  As soon as he finished the meal, he slid the knife into his breast pocket and set the bottle on his bedside table.

  When the sun went down he found matches on the mantel, briefly considered setting the bed on fire to force someone to open the door, but decided against such a drastic escape strategy in case everyone decided to save themselves and leave him to burn.