The Prince's Bride

by Julianne MacLean

  Instead, he lit the lamp on the desk and inspected the collection of books that had been selected for him by the mysterious marquis himself.

  Who the hell was he, and why did he think he could abduct a prince and live to tell about it? It’s not as if the marquis was anonymous. Nicholas knew where he lived.

  Ah, Christ. That did not bode well.

  What the devil was the man up to? What did he want?

  * * *

  Véronique woke the following morning to the sound of glass smashing and a woman screaming outside.

  Tossing the covers aside, she leaped out of bed and ran to the window. Down below on the flagstone terrace was a desk and chair, both smashed to bits, and her sister, Gabrielle, was looking up at Prince Nicholas’s window and shouting. “Are you mad? You could have killed me!” She pointed a finger at him. “Go ahead and try. Unless you have wings, sir, you’ll fall to your death!”

  Was he trying to climb out the window?

  Not bothering to pull on a robe, Véronique dashed to the door in her nightdress and flew into the corridor. Her hair was fluttering about her shoulders when she reached the prince’s door and banged on it with a fist.

  “Prince Nicholas! What have you done? You mustn’t endanger yourself! And please do not vandalize the marquis’s property! I hear he values his furniture.”

  Values his furniture? Oh, that was convincing. She grimaced at herself.

  “Please come to the door and talk to me,” she continued in a calming voice. “How can I help you?”

  She heard the terrifying sound of his heavy boots pounding across the floor and experienced a renewed surge of panic.

  Again she found herself recalling those first few moments in the coach when he’d kissed her—when she feared she might forget her purpose and allow him to ravish her.

  She could not imagine being alone with him now. He was a beast with a dangerous roar.

  Shaking away such imaginings, she laid her open hand on the door and listened. “Are you there?”

  “Yes, I am here,” he replied from the other side. His voice was low and wrathful, very close to the door.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” she said. “You could have hurt someone.”

  “Like your sister?” he replied. “And don’t pretend that’s not who she is. The resemblance is obvious, except she has red hair and you are very blond.”

  Damn him. She had hoped to keep Gabrielle’s presence here a secret, but it was too late now. He knew. They would have to be very careful when this was over. They would have to hide for a while.

  “Yes, that was my sister,” she confessed. “I do not appreciate you frightening her like that.”

  “Frightening her?” he scoffed. “She didn’t appear the least bit frightened. In fact, she has quite a colorful vocabulary. She called me a despicable rogue—among other things—which was wholly unfair, since I am the victim here, not she.”

  “Two steps to the left and she would have been victimized quite mortally,” Véronique argued. “That was very dangerous, sir. Do not do it again.”

  “I’ll do whatever I damn well please, Véronique—and worse—if you do not open this door in the next three minutes.”

  Véronique swallowed over her rising impatience. “I cannot do that. Not until Lord d’Entremont arrives.”

  When at last Nicholas spoke, his tone was only slightly less threatening. “Are you afraid I will try to escape?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “That is my main concern. If you are not here when the marquis arrives, I will not be paid what he has promised me.”

  “It cannot be money that you want,” Nicholas said. “Otherwise, you would have accepted my offer to triple the amount. Does he have some sort of hold over you? Is it blackmail?”

  Véronique could almost feel the heat of her unease burning through her veins, for it was no small matter to have a powerful prince asking about her welfare, as if he actually cared.

  She did not dare tell him anything, however, for she could not be sure he was not simply manipulating her to get what he wanted. She could not be sure he would not use it against her somehow.

  At the same time, she wanted desperately to confide in him and reveal Lord d’Entremont’s cruelty and unfairness. She wanted to say horrible things about the marquis, confess her loathing, and drag his name through the mud, but she could not. Not now, when her home hung in the balance, and he held control of everything.

  “I do not wish to say one way or the other,” she carefully replied.

  “Well, that is as good as a yes.” Nicholas was quiet for a moment; then he scratched a finger against the door, which made her draw back in surprise.

  “What if I promise not to leave?” he softly said. “What if I give you my word as a gentleman that I will remain here inside the house until Tuesday?”

  His voice was soothing, and she found herself listening to his request, considering whether or not she could trust him. Then she struggled to knock some sense into herself. “I cannot take that chance.”

  “Why? Do you not trust my word? Do you believe I would endanger you? All I ask is to be treated like a guest, not a prisoner.”

  “You just threw a desk out the window, sir. That is hardly the behavior of a proper guest.”

  He paused. “I was at my wit’s end. I needed to do something to get your attention.”

  There was a spark of flirtation in his tone, which filled her with mistrust. Véronique knew that he wanted something from her—namely his freedom—and he would likely say anything to get it.

  “I am sorry,” she firmly said. “You must be patient and wait until Tuesday. Is there anything else I can do for you? More books perhaps? Do you have a set of playing cards in there?”

  She heard the sound of something going plunk against the door. His forehead?

  Oh, she was not enjoying this. She didn’t want to keep him locked up. She wanted to open the door and see him. Talk to him. Apologize for flirting with him, and slipping laudanum into his champagne glass.

  “Please, Véronique,” he said. “I am begging you. If you unlock the door, I promise I will behave.”

  Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest, and again she had to remember that he was a seductive genius. He knew how to play women like musical instruments.

  “Try to think of this as a holiday … some much-needed time to yourself to do nothing but lie around and daydream. Surely a man in your position rarely enjoys such a luxury.”

  She heard his finger scratch the door again and moved closer to press her ear up against it. She could hear him breathing.

  “I wish you would trust me,” he whispered, so close, only an inch away, as if he knew exactly where her ear was resting.

  Her body grew warm. It felt as if he were close enough to touch. She could almost feel his breath on her neck.

  “What does he hold over you?” Nicholas asked. “Tell me. I can help you. You and your sister.”

  She forced herself to back away. “No, I don’t think you can.”

  But that wasn’t entirely true. He was a prince. He could do anything. She simply wasn’t sure that she could trust him to follow through on such a promise. Not after what she had done to him.

  “Please do not make this more difficult than it already is,” she said. “Just wait for the marquis.”

  “Fine,” he replied. “If that’s the way it must be. But I will ask something of you in return.”

  “Yes?”

  A few seconds passed. Did he even know what he wanted to ask?

  “I promise not to destroy any more furniture,” he said, “or throw anything out the window—myself included—if you will come again and talk to me, to help pass the time. Perhaps bring a chair and stay awhile.”

  Véronique wasn’t sure if he genuinely desired her company, or if this was a clever scheme to trick her into eventually opening the door for him.

  It didn’t matter, she supposed, because she wasn’t going to break. She had come th
is far. The hard part was over. She’d be a fool to throw it all away now.

  “Fine,” she said, “I will return in a short while after I am dressed.”

  “You’re not dressed?” he inquired, almost playfully. “You are truly bent upon torturing me, aren’t you?”

  Véronique couldn’t help but chuckle at the flattery, even while she suspected it was another form of trickery.

  “You’re wasting your time if you think you’ll be able to charm me into setting you free,” she told him. “I know your reputation, remember?”

  “I remember a lot of things.”

  Dear Lord. He was impossibly charming when he wanted to be. Just the sound of his voice sent her spinning back into the excitement of their brief encounter in the coach, when he had touched her so enticingly.

  But she must be sensible. There could be no further intimacies between them.

  “I will return later,” she said decorously as she turned to go. She stopped, however, when she spotted Pierre at the far end of the corridor, leaning one shoulder against the wall, picking at his teeth with a small stick as he watched her.

  Pierre … who had driven the coach and helped carry Nicholas to this room. Pierre … who held the key to the lock and was the only person who could open the compartment to deliver meals to the prince.…

  Suddenly conscious of her improper state of dress, Véronique gathered her collar in a fist and closed it about her neck as she approached him.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. “And how long have you been listening?”

  “Long enough,” he replied. “After the commotion on the terrace, I had to check on His Royal High and Mighty. The marquis won’t be pleased when he finds out about that desk.”

  Véronique raised her chin. “Do not look at me as if it is my fault. The marquis will have no one to blame but himself. I would consider it the proper cost of locking a man up against his will.”

  Pierre always seemed to wear a permanent scowl on his face, and this morning was no different. “Someone’s going to have to clean that up,” he said, “and it ain’t gonna be me.”

  She squared her shoulders. “Why not you? You’re as much a part of this as I am.”

  “I have to go fetch him his breakfast.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Then I suggest you alert the butler. Though I suspect he’s already aware of the situation.”

  Pierre had made it clear when they arrived that he did not get on well with the servants. He worked among them, but considered himself apart—and above them. He wouldn’t enjoy having to speak to the butler about such a matter, for the butler was an intimidating man and did not consider Pierre to be his superior.

  Véronique tried to shoulder her way past Pierre, but he grabbed hold of her arm. “I’ve got my eye on you.”

  He gazed leeringly down the length of her body.

  Véronique pulled her arm free from his grasp, gave him a fierce look of warning, and quickly headed back to her own chamber.

  Chapter Four

  Nicholas was pacing back and forth in front of the bed when the sound of the sliding door in the wall alerted him to the arrival of breakfast.

  Immediately, he moved to the large portrait that swung open on squeaky hinges, and opened a second door that slid upward like a sash window. There, in the large compartment, he found a tray with eggs, toast, and coffee. The aroma filled his nostrils and fed his obsessive desire to find a way out of here.

  After removing the tray, he set it on the nearby chest of drawers, then tried again to open the second sliding door at the back, but it was locked securely, as it had been the night before.

  He had checked behind all the other portraits in the room to search for another means of escape, but found nothing. It was as if this room had been constructed for the purpose of keeping someone prisoner and delivering meals.

  What sort of place was this, and what did the French lord want from him?

  He would find out soon enough, he supposed. In the meantime, he must keep up his strength and prepare for his meeting with the marquis. Or preferably, escape before that moment arrived. So he dug into his breakfast and ate heartily.

  As he spooned some fruit preserves onto a slice of toast and bit into it, he considered his plan for the day. His best hope was Véronique. He would do what he must to win her trust before Tuesday. In fact, he would do whatever was required, for he didn’t know what the marquis had planned for him.

  It was going to be an interesting day, he realized, because despite all the charm he was about to send through that locked door, he still wanted to wring her bloody neck, and would take great pleasure in doing so, as soon as he had the chance.

  * * *

  “Slow down, you’re going too fast,” Gabrielle complained as she struggled awkwardly to help Véronique carry the blue upholstered chair down the corridor toward the prince’s chamber.

  “Try to keep up,” Véronique replied, walking backwards. “Is that better?”

  “Yes, but what are you going to do in this chair all day? What will he want to talk about? Does he want you to read to him, or sing to him?”

  Véronique glanced over her shoulder to ensure she didn’t bump into anything. “I’m not certain. All he said was that he wanted company to help pass the time.”

  Shuffling along in their heavy skirts, fumbling with the chair, they finally reached the prince’s chamber and set their cargo down.

  “Be careful,” Gabrielle whispered. “He might have some dastardly plan in mind.”

  They both turned their heads at the sound of Nicholas striding across the floor inside the locked room.

  “Is that you, Véronique?” he asked.

  “Yes. I am here with Gabrielle. She helped me carry the chair.”

  “Were there no servants at hand to perform such a task?”

  Gabrielle’s eyes shot to Véronique’s, and she frowned.

  “There are plenty of servants here,” Véronique explained, “but the marquis has instructed them to keep out of this wing until he returns.”

  “Ah, so my imprisonment is a secret.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  He paused. “What about the driver who brought me here? Has he been sworn to secrecy as well?”

  “Yes.”

  They were all quiet.

  “Is your sister still with you?” he asked.

  Véronique gestured for Gabby to reply.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” she said. “I am here.”

  Silence again.

  “We have not been formally introduced,” he said. “I am Prince Nicholas of Petersbourg. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Gabrielle couldn’t help herself. She curtsied. It was all very strange. “It is an honor, sir.”

  “Yes … well, I must apologize for nearly crushing you with the desk earlier today. It was not my intention. I simply didn’t see you there.”

  “Apology accepted,” she replied. Then she darted a glance at Véronique and grinned like a schoolgirl before mouthing the words: He’s lovely.

  Véronique put her hands on Gabby’s shoulders and turned her around to face the other direction. “My sister was just leaving,” she said.

  With a teasing smirk, Gabby headed back to their own chamber.

  A moment later, Véronique sat down, while the sound of a chair being dragged across the floor inside the room kept her waiting. She heard Nicholas sit down as well.

  “What do you wish to talk about?” she asked. All her senses drummed with awareness as she leaned forward. His chair creaked as he settled into it.

  “You,” he replied in a low voice. “Put your hand up against the door,” he added. “Place it flat on the middle panel, halfway down.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s lonely in here, Véronique, and I have not been able to think of much else besides the other night when you lured me out of the ball. Have you thought about it?”

  She tried to fight it, but was compelled to answer
honestly. “Yes, I have.”

  Closing her eyes, she imagined his open palm on the other side, only an inch or so away, and ran the pad of a finger over the smooth texture of the wood.

  “What specifically do you think about?” he asked.

  Her heart fluttered like the wings of a bird, and it took some effort to speak in a steady voice. “Our conversations, mostly.”

  That was a lie.

  He was quiet. “You don’t think of how we danced? Or how it felt when we were finally alone together in the coach, and I held you in my arms? Or was the spark between us all an act?”

  “It was not an act,” she said. “But that is irrelevant, because we will not see each other again after this. Besides, I am not the sort of woman who routinely leaves masked balls with strangers. That part, at least, was an act.”

  “I see.”

  Her arm was growing tired, so she lowered her hands to her lap.

  “Is there anything else I should know that was not real?” he asked. “You are not married, are you? Or betrothed to someone?”

  “No, I am unwed.”

  “With no chaperone that night.”

  “The masks made it possible,” she explained. “I entered without revealing my true identity to anyone.”

  “Not even to me,” he replied with a sigh.

  She heard him stand up and walk away. Leaning close, she listened carefully.…

  “I am pouring a glass of wine for myself,” he explained, as if he could sense her curiosity. “Pity you are not in here with me. I would pour you a glass as well.” He returned to his chair. “But that would be improper—for me to invite an unwed lady, such as yourself, into the private chamber where I sleep. Unfortunately I do not have a reception room to make it respectable.” He paused. “This is a rather odd room. Have you been inside?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, “on the night we brought you here. Pierre carried you in, and I made sure you were comfortable before we left you.”

  She heard him tap his finger three times against the wineglass. “Was it you who removed my jacket, shirt, and boots?”