Some Enchanted Evening (34 page)

She couldn't live for Robert or with Robert, so for Amy's sake Clarice would ride away from Robert MacKenzie and never look back. If, fifty years from now, she still cried into her pillow at night, well, that was the burden a princess carried.

Sniffing, she straightened her shoulders. "All right. I've come to a decision."

Clearly delighted, Henry said, "I knew ye'd see things our way!"

From across the bridge she heard shouting.

Gilbert studied her. "I dunna know that she's seeing things our way."

"She has t' see love is more important than anything else," Tomas argued.

The yelling grew louder.

Clarice paid little attention. "There are different kinds of love. One is a love of duty and of honor. Hepburn knows that love. So do I."

Now the yelling made her stop to look. It penetrated even Henry's hearing, bringing his head around. It wasn't a pleasant sound, this shouting. It was discordant, containing a current of fury that caused Clarice to rise.

Shuffling their feet, the old men strained their eyes to see across the bridge — where, stomping in the lead, came that bully Clarice had met the first day she came to Freya Crags. The man who'd made fun of her, bet her ten pounds she couldn't make Amy pretty, then sneaked away before she could make him pay. What was his name?

Hamish spit on the ground, a crude and scornful statement. "We've got trooble. It's little Billie MacBain."

Billie waved his fists, his face screwed into a wild triumph. Behind him marched soldiers. English soldiers. And striding beside Billie MacBain . . . dear Lord!

Clarice staggered backward.

Beside Billie MacBain marched Magistrate Fairfoot, the man from whom she'd stolen Blaize. Tall, distinguished-looking, he carried the weight of his office on him and had a twist of cruelty to his mouth.

"English knaves," Henry bellowed, but this time there was so much shouting, no one heard him except for his friends and Clarice.

"They're hunting me." Clarice shouldn't panic. She'd been in worse straits. "It's me they want."

The old men didn't look shocked or ask her what she'd done wrong. Benneit said, "Then we'd best get ye oot o' here before they can get their filthy hands on yer royal person."

Some of the villagers, women mostly, trailed after the English. The soldiers carried muskets over their shoulders, and they glanced about as if they would love to fire on the crowd.

"Oot the back o' the alehouse." Hamish urged Clarice toward the dim interior. "There's an alleyway behind the shop."

Her heart thundered in her chest. This was what she feared. This was her nightmare.

Gilbert said, "Don't worry, Yer Highness. We'll point them in the wrong direction."

She looked again at the oncoming troop. She swallowed. She nodded. "Thank you." She ran for the inside of the alehouse, calling back, "Thank you!"

As she freed the latch, she was already planning how to get to Blaize. She wouldn't be able to saddle him, but she could use the mounting block and ride him bareback. They'd take the paths across the countryside, ride toward MacKenzie Manor. . . .

Her lungs hurt as if she'd already run for miles.

No. No, she couldn't go back to MacKenzie Manor. Fairfoot would hunt her down there, denounce her as a criminal, and tell the ladies they had been defrauded. They'd be willing to hang her themselves.

Robert wasn't there to save her.

Besides, she couldn't go running to Robert. Not now. Not ever.

Poking her head out the door, she checked the alley. It was empty. The soldiers hadn't planned ahead. They hadn't covered her escape.

Quietly she closed the door behind her. The wind whistled through the alley, tearing at her hair, chilling her bones. Clutching the lapels of her jacket, she kept her head down and hurried to the corner.

With any luck she'd be gone before Magistrate Fairfoot realized she wasn't in the shop. Before he got his filthy hands on her, used her as an example to all the women in his district, and raped and hanged her.

Her heart thumped in her chest. She could make it. With each step she became more sure. She was going to make it.

She turned the corner.

And ran right into Colonel Ogley's arms.

Chapter Twenty-eight

He who lies down with dogs shall rise with fleas.

— The Old Men of Freya Crags

The next morning, as Robert approached MacKenzie Manor, he reflected with satisfaction on a ring in his saddlebag. He didn't know if its beauty was enough to entice Clarice to marry him, especially after the way he'd treated her in bed . . . well, he had enjoyed
that.
In fact, he'd never been so close to heaven.

In all honesty, he couldn't say he was sorry. Not when he thought of how wonderfully she'd tasted, or the way she'd moved under him, and the warm clasp of her body around his cock, like a living glove holding him, stroking him . . .

The gravel of the drive crunched under Helios's hooves. The trees dripped big splashes of rain on him while protecting him from the steady drizzle. Robert caught sight of MacKenzie Manor, and hoped that the ring's glittering stones would keep Clarice's attention long enough for him to plead his case. How odd to feel so uncertain about someone he hadn't known existed a week earlier! But somehow she'd insinuated herself into his heart.

The house loomed before him now, and he urged Helios faster.

It appeared Waldemar was right. Robert did love her. Loved her more than he'd ever loved anything or anyone.

As he dismounted at the front steps of MacKenzie Manor, Millicent flung open the door and rushed toward him. As soon as his feet touched the ground, she grabbed him by the shirtfront and demanded, "Where have you been?"

He didn't suppose there was any use lying to her anymore, so he said, "In Edinburgh, seeing Waldemar off."

"Leaving me to try and protect Princess Clarice! A bad choice, Robert, a bad choice indeed."

At once he knew. Something had gone wrong. Ogley. In a fury so deep and instantaneous he could scarcely speak, he said, "Tell me."

"She's been arrested!"

He looked up at the wide double doors and saw Prudence standing there, looking forlorn and confused.

Millicent continued. "Colonel Ogley found this magistrate from Gilmichael —"

Robert didn't wait to hear another word. Handing Helios over to Pepperday, the waiting hostler, he said, "Saddle the fastest horse in the stable." Helios had had a hard ride from Edinburgh. He couldn't make it all the way to the border.

"M'lord, we have Blaize."

Robert turned his sharp gaze on the hostler. "The magistrate didn't take him?"

"The princess left him in the stable in Freya Crags. The stableman sent me a message," Pepperday said. "I went and got the stallion immediately."

Hepburn acknowledged the important information while absorbing and interpreting the rest. "Then saddle Blaize."

Pepperday ran toward the stables, calling back, "Aye, m'lord. Anyone who rides like Her Highness doesn't deserve t' hang on an English gibbet."

Grabbing his saddlebags, Robert raced for his room with Millicent and Prudence on his heels. He'd done this a hundred times before. Left on a mission at a moment's notice. He knew what to do.

Once there, he emptied the saddlebags and loaded them with supplies. A knife. A good, strong coil of rope.

His hands were shaking. He was sweating.

Another knife. A pistol. Another knife. His lockpick kit.

"Robert." Prudence's voice trembled. "Why do you need so many knives?"

He glanced up, surprised to see his sisters in the room. 'Tm good with knives."

"I thought you were good with your fists," Millicent said.

"That too." He wished Waldemar were still with him. To free someone from prison was a two-man task. But Robert would have to do it on his own, or die trying. And death wasn't acceptable, for if he died, Clarice would hang. Looking around, he asked, "Are there any fireworks left?"

"Yes." Millicent went to the door and ordered they be brought to the stables.

"Why?" Prudence asked.

Robert glanced up at his little sister. Her face was white. She bit her lips, and her eyes were too large in her frightened face. "Fireworks might come in handy." Swiftly he brushed his knuckles across her cheek. "Don't worry."

Prudence turned with a sob and ran from the room.

The ring.

As an afterthought he thrust it into the bottom of the saddlebag. He would give the ring to Clarice tonight, after he had rescued her — for he would rescue her. He wasn't sure of her answer, but a lass who had just been rescued would be most grateful to her rescuer. Not that he wanted gratitude from Clarice. He wanted — would have — love. But gratitude might weight the scales a bit.

"You
can
get her out," Millicent demanded rather than asked.

"Yes." Flinging the saddlebags over his shoulder, he headed down the stairs toward the stables.

Millicent followed. "You did all those heroic deeds for which Colonel Ogley took credit. Isn't that correct?"

"Maybe."

"So you can rescue her. Isn't that correct?"

"Perhaps." What did he know about the fortress at Gilmichael? "It depends where they're holding her. I'll be playing with a fixed deck of cards, and they'll be holding the trump."

In a voice that made the servants jump, Millicent demanded, "Can one of the men go with you? Can I go and help?"

Touched by the offer, he said, "No, dear. No. No one here can help with this. It's likely to be dirty and painful, and —" For the first time since he'd swung out of the saddle, he looked at Millicent, really looked at her, and realized she hadn't gone back to her previous plain appearance. She was as beautiful as she had been the night of the ball. "Is Corey smitten?"

"Yes." She sounded truculent. "I suppose he is."

"Why? What has he done?"

She kept up with Hepburn's long strides without complaint. "He won't leave. He says he's here to give me support in my hour of need." Her eyes sparkled with a dangerous light. "How spending time chasing me around trying to get me to listen to hunting stories is support, I will never know."

As they approached the bustling stables, a tiny ray of amusement pierced Robert's grimness.

She continued. "Corey's nothing but a big, dumb . . . foxhunter."

Apparently Corey had fallen from grace with a vengeance. "Yes, dear sister, that's all he's ever been."

She waited while Robert asked if Blaize was being saddled, then she said, "I thought . . ."

"You thought that Corey's pretty face hid some depths? None at all. He's vain and he's selfish, he's none too bright, and he's used to every woman falling at his feet." Robert plunged into the depths of the stable. "But in Corey's defense, he hasn't a mean bone in his body, and if he's telling you his hunting stories, that means he's miserably in love with you."

"Well, I am not in love with him," she said crisply.

Pepperday was dealing with Blaize's hostility at being saddled by a man other than Robert.

Accepting the fireworks from one of the stable lads, Robert placed them in his saddlebags while he asked Millicent, "Is Corey going to offer for you?"

"I suppose. I don't want to marry him. At least, not now."

Robert couldn't wait for Pepperday to manage Blaize any longer, and shouldered him out of the way. "What
do
you want to do?" He tightened the cinch on the saddle.

"I think I want to go with Prudence to Edinburgh." Millicent handed him the bridle. "I want to enjoy her Season, and see what other men are out there."

As he placed the bit in Blaize's mouth, Robert wondered — had Millicent changed? Or had she always been like this but hadn't known how to become her real self? Flinging the saddlebags over Blaize's back, he asked, "Marry someone you like better than Corey, then?"

"I've got my own fortune. Perhaps I will never marry." She kissed his cheek. "I can't believe you're still here. Go and fetch Princess Clarice. That magistrate is a blackguard, and after this no one will ever consider Ogley a hero. I'll make sure of it."

Swinging himself into the saddle, Robert urged Blaize into a gallop.

He heard his sister call, "Bring Clarice home!"

Clarice sat wide-eyed in Gilmichael Fortress in a cell in the dark on an iron bed with her knees tucked up to her chest, and wondered if rats ate princesses.

Probably. Unfortunately.

More unfortunately she was getting sleepy, for in the day and a half since she'd been taken, she hadn't had a lot of rest.

She'd survived a wretched ride out of Freya Crags on a broken-down horse Colonel Ogley had procured, may he rot in hell, with the rain beating down and the wind whipping her hair around her face. Her hands had been tied before her, as if a dangerous criminal like her could escape the escort of an English troop of ten armed men.