The Barefoot Princess (6 page)

If the mention of hanging terrified her, if his gathering of forces impressed her, she hid it beneath a nonchalance that indicated confidence—or stupidity. And he feared it wasn’t stupidity. “I can almost promise that you’ll never meet another female like me.”

“You imagine you’re unique?” More and more fascinating. Most ladies he knew did everything in their power to look like everyone else, be like everyone else.

“I don’t imagine anything. Imagination is a luxury I can’t afford.”

So. She was a pragmatist. Avery young pragmatist. “I have an imagination. As I look at you, it’s quite active.”

“Imagining my hanging, my lord?”

“No. Imagining you as my mistress.” He laughed aloud at the derision she displayed—and at the truthful, unguarded moment when her gaze flew to his and recognized the truth.

He was a man. She was a woman. They were alone together with no chaperone, talking of matters no ordinary gentleman and lady would discuss. No matter how much they disliked each other, the primal urge sparked between them—and he knew that with a little coddling, the spark could become a roaring blaze.

The question was—did she know? He couldn’t tell. She wasn’t an ordinary doxy, nor was she the typical servant, and certainly she wasn’t a real lady. She eluded his analysis because he’d never had to work at understanding a woman.

From the first moment he’d stepped into society, ladies and opera singers alike had bent their wills to his. They took care not to bother him with their own desires, their own needs. If he needed quiet, they didn’t chatter. If he wished for song, they played and warbled. Not once had he had to bother deciphering a woman’s purpose, for her purpose was always the same—to please him.

Now an enigma stood before him, one who had already outfoxed him.

That would never do. He would beat her at her game. “As a rule,” he drawled, “I don’t take mistresses under the age of twenty. There’s a marvelous enthusiasm but no finesse. No skill.”

She didn’t flinch at his brutal honesty. “I can imagine that would distract from your search for new forms of depravity.”

“So while I can spin my fantasy whenever I wish, I’m afraid you wouldn’t do for me.”

Sarcasm dripped from her every word. “You’re good at imagining, so pray imagine my heartbreak.”

So. She wasn’t yet twenty.

He was twenty-nine.

The need to outsmart this trifling adversary grew more imperative.

“The more I know you, the more I wonder who you are.” He counted off her qualities on his fingers. “You have the accent of a lady. You dress like a peasant. You shoot like a marksman. You view the world cynically, yet you venerate Miss Victorine. Your face and body would be the envy of a young goddess, yet you sport an air of innocence. And that innocence hides a criminal mind and the cheek to pull off the most outrageous of felonies.”

“So I’m Athena, the goddess of war.”

“Definitely not Diana, the goddess of virginity.”

As the last shot hit home, he saw Amy’s mask slip. Blood rushed to her face. She bit her lip and looked toward the stairs as if only now realizing she could have—should have—left this whole discussion behind.

He laughed softly, triumphantly. “Or perhaps I’m mistaken. Perhaps you have more in common with Diana than I thought.”

“Pray remember, sir, that Diana was also the goddess of the hunt.” Amy leaned across the table, intent on making her point—but the blush still played across her cheeks. “She carried a bow and arrow, and she always bagged her quarry. Have a look at the bullet hole in the rock behind you and remember my skill and my cynicism. For we do know things about each other. I know that if you escape, you’ll make sure I’m hung from a gibbet. You know that if I catch you escaping, I’ll shoot you through the heart. Remember that as you cast longing glances toward the window.” With a flourish, she picked up the breakfast tray and walked up the stairs.

Jermyn had learned something else about Amy.

She liked to have the last word.

Chapter 7

W
ho was she? Where was she from?

At the top of the stairs, in the kitchen, Amy stopped and clutched the silver cross that hung on a necklace around her neck. The necklace that united her with her country and her sisters.

Lost. All lost.

Who was she? Where was she from?

Northcliff demanded answers as if he had the right to know. That attitude Amy was used to facing. That attitude she always defied.

But never had she met a man who evinced the interest to subtly probe her mind and discover her secrets. She didn’t like that. She didn’t like him. She didn’t trust him with his open talk about mistresses and his frank admission of fantasies.

About her!

Who was she? Where was she from?

She knew very well she was attractive. She’d known that since she was fourteen. A good number of the years she’d spent on the road with her sister Clarice had been spent transforming her through the use of cosmetics from a drab into a female worth a second look. But Clarice was the handsome daughter. She’d been the one who could charm every man and woman in any village and sell their products and keep them fed. It was Clarice everyone adored. Not Amy.

But to hear Lord Northcliff inform her he would have moved any obstacle to have her as his mistress…

He was jesting. Or a single day without indulging in debauchery had left him ready to be pleased by any female at hand.

But if that was true, what kind of lustful beast would two days create?

And why did she feel a warmth within her, a melting, a stretching of all that was instinctive and female?

Who was she? Where was she from?

Dear Lord. She hardly knew anymore.

Beaumontagne, twelve years ago

With a reckless glance behind her, seven-year-old Amy skidded across the marble floor in the royal antechamber. She flung open the door of the wardrobe. A tall, broad, ancientpiece of fine furniture, it housed the king’s ceremonial capes. In a desperate hurry yet equally desperate to keep quiet, she dived inside. The wood creaked beneath her, and she froze. Because if she didn’t keep quiet…

Footsteps in the corridor.

The light, sharp sound of high heels accompanied by the tap of a cane.

Firm, heavy footsteps, several sets.

“That child is incorrigible.” Grandmamma’s voice. The Dowager Queen Claudia. Coming closer. Entering the room.

It was dark in here. It smelled of cedar. And Amy’s heart beat so hard, she feared Grandmamma could hear the pounding.

With her long, skinny nose and uncanny accuracy, Grandmamma sniffed out Amy’s larks. Would she somehow know Amy was there?

“Do you know what your youngest daughter has done now?” Grandmamma snapped.

“Has she once again slid down the grand banister and landed on our master of the horse?” Amy’s father, King Raimund, sounded patient.

“No, sire.” Sir Alerio whispered like a man who constantly worked with edgy beasts and took care never to startle them. “Princess Amy hasn’t knocked me over for a fortnight.”

Moving with great care among the velvet and silk and fur, Amy put her eye to the knothole in the wood. A cold rain streaked the windows. Footmen moved silently from one candle to another, lighting each one in a vain attempt to alleviate the dim grayness. The usual group of courtiers surrounded her father. Lord Octavio, the lord chamberlain. SirAlerio, the master of the horse. Lord Carsten, the castle steward. Lord Silas, the prime minister.

Except for Sir Alerio, Amy didn’t like the courtiers. Sorcha said they were important, but Amy thought they were staid old men with droopy chins and droopy noses and no equanimity when faced with three active young princesses.

“I’m glad to hear that, Alerio.” Poppa wasn’t as tall as the other men, and he carried an impressive weight around his middle. His luxuriant mustache and sideburns gave his round face a jolly expression, and his purple cape provided a grand sense of royalty.

Amy loved her poppa. She loved him more than anyone else in the world, and right now, she wanted his arms around her. If only the others would go away. If only she could put her head against his shoulder and have him make her world right.

“So, Queen Claudia.” Poppa removed his crown and placed it on the purple cushion Lord Carsten offered. The footman in charge of the crown whisked it away to the safe place, accompanied by two other footmen and Lord Carsten. “Has Amy again climbed the tree along the drive and dropped into the duchess’s carriage?”

Faint chuckles erupted from the courtiers.

Grandmamma turned on them and frowned, and the chuckles became faint, apologetic coughs.

No one could confront Grandmamma’s wrath with composure. She was gaunt and tall, with fierce blue eyes that pierced right through to Amy’s sinful soul.

“When Amy dropped into that carriage, she made the duchess faint!” Grandmamma said.

The gentlemen of the antechamber clucked like a bunch of peevish old hens.

“But she did land exactly in the seat opposite the duchess, and you must admit that is no small feat,” the king reminded her.

Besides, the duchess faints all the time.
Amy sat back on her heels in the stuffy wardrobe and nodded fiercely in the dark. That’s why the duchess was so much fun to tease. The fainting, and the fact she was a widow who had designs on Poppa’s hand in marriage. If she kept visiting the palace on flimsy pretexts, Amy would land right on her next time.

“The duchess has such a delicate constitution, one is forced to wonder if she is entirely truthful about her reaction,” Poppa said gently.

Amy barely caught back her shouted agreement.

“That is hardly the point,” Grandmamma said.

Amy stuck out her lower lip.

“What did Amy do this time?” Poppa asked.

Amy was surprised to hear a note of weariness in her father’s voice, almost as if he couldn’t bear another crisis.

Was he tired of dealing with his troublesome daughter? With her?

“She blackened Prince Rainger’s eye!”

The silence that followed was so full of portent, Amy leaned forward to put her eye to the knothole again—and accidentally bumped the door. With a click, the latch opened. The door swung open. Amy scurried to catch the edge with her fingers. The anteroom flashed before her gaze. Lord Octavio, Lord Alerio and Lord Silas stood with their backs toher, facing the king. Grandmamma paced away from the little group, her cane tapping on the floor. Only Poppa could see Amy. His gaze flashed toward the wardrobe, but he didn’t react.

He seemed preoccupied with her crime.

“She blackened Prince Rainger’s eye!” Grandmamma repeated, as if the report was so dreadful it needed to be reiterated.

Amy got the door closed with barely a sound. She leaned back among the cloaks and calmed her racing heart. It was stuffy in here, but so much better than the alternative—an open door and exposure.

The silence drew out so long that Amy at last cautiously looked out again.

Grandmamma’s blue dress was without wrinkle. Her white chignon rested in perfect order on her head. Her thin lips pressed together as she considered her son. “Do you understand, Raimund?”

“I believe I do. You’re saying that my seven-year-old daughter punched—I assume she punched?” He looked to Grandmamma for guidance.

“What difference does it make?” Grandmamma demanded. Then, “Yes. Yes, she punched him.”

“My seven-year-old daughter punched Prince Rainger—”

“My godson!”

The courtiers backed away from the scene as if fearing incineration.

“Yes. I know who he is. Rainger is your godson and my eldest daughter’s betrothed. He is also sixteen years old, and you’re saying my seven-year-old daughter punched him inthe face hard enough to blacken his eye.” King Raimund laughed briefly and rubbed his forehead with his fingers. “What a fighter she is!”

“I did not bring this to your attention so you could admire the child!” Grandmamma’s voice did not rise with irritation. Rather it grew colder.

Amy huddled back in the wardrobe among the ermine trimmings. She shivered.

“No, of course you didn’t. And I’m not admiring her.” Poppa laughed again. Cackled, in fact. “I’m wondering what we should do to toughen up Prince Rainger.”

“Toughen up…! I never!”

Amy had never heard Grandmamma sputter before, and she rather enjoyed it.

Poppa got control of himself. Stopped laughing. “You have my word.” Putting his arm around Grandmamma, he led her toward the door. “I’ll take of the matter.”

The gentlemen of the antechamber all nodded pontifically.

“But Raimund.” Grandmamma’s thin, penciled-in eyebrows winged skyward. “I’ve always taken care of disciplining the girls.”

“You brought me this problem. Obviously you want me to handle this,” Poppa said. “I’ll take care of the matter.”

Oh, no. Amy sat back in the wardrobe. Poppa was going to take care of the matter, that matter being
her.
He had never taken care of the matter before. Now Poppa was going to…oh, no.

The gentlemen of the antechamber waited until the footman had shut the tall door behind Grandmamma before they broke into speech. All of them. At the same time.

Amy couldn’t understand a word, but she didn’t care. Shewas too busy rubbing her cheek against the silk lining of Poppa’s Christmas cape and sniffing the scent of cigars on his clothes. She associated the scent with rare moments spent with a kindly father who had too many duties and too little time for his daughters. Now she was a
matter
to him.

Vaguely she heard Lord Octavio say, “Sire, did I detect a threat from the emissary from France?”

“I think you can safely say that was a threat.” Poppa sighed.

“And another threat from the emissary from Spain?” Sir Alerio asked.

“We pay a steep price for living on the spine of the Pyrenees between two old foes,” Poppa said.

Something about the tone of Poppa’s voice made Amy edge forward and look into the room. “Yet sire, I don’t think Spain or France are our primary opponents.” Lord Silas’s voice was high, almost feminine, but Amy knew Poppa listened to him more than anyone.

“No.” The king allowed Sir Alerio to remove his cloak.

“The revolutionaries—” Lord Octavio said.

“Yes,” Poppa agreed. “The revolutionaries.”

“In Richarte and in Beaumontagne, too. The whole region has been subverted!” Lord Octavio said.

“We need to send Prince Rainger back to Richarte escorted by a large armed guard,” Poppa instructed.

“Damn the French for setting Europe afire with revolution. Damn them for insinuating that old royalty should give way to new blood!” Lord Silas’s drooping chin quivered with indignation.

Sir Alerio strode toward the wardrobe where Amy hid. In horror, she realized he was going to hang up the king’s cloak. Now.

She scooted back among the other cloaks, back into the deepest corner, and huddled into a little ball, her head on her upraised knees.

In the antechamber, she heard the door open and shut, and Lord Carsten’s voice said, “It was a bad time for the crops to fail.”

“You’re stating the obvious, Carsten!” Sir Alerio opened the wardrobe wide.

Light and air streamed in, but she peeked out to see if he spotted her.

“Someone has to,” Carsten answered hotly.

Poppa overrode the incipient quarrel by raising his voice. “Put that away, Alerio, quickly, and get back here. I have instructions for you.”

“As you wish, Your Highness.” Sir Alerio hurriedly hung up the cloak and slammed the door hard enough to make Amy’s ears ring.

She slithered into a relieved little mound.

“We need to purchase grain, as much as possible,” Poppa said. “I’ll go out and talk to the people and reassure them, but in the meantime, let me know if more riots break out.”

“If there are more riots, Your Highness,” Sir Alerio said, “you must consider sending your family away for—”

Poppa shushed him sharply.

Amy lifted her head. She scooted forward and looked out the knothole. She wanted to hear what Sir Alerio had to say. Sending your family away for…what? A few days? A vacation?

“You know what to do.” Poppa waved the gentlemen away. “For now, I’d like to be alone.”

The courtiers bowed and backed out of the antechamber. The massive door shut with barely a sound.

Poppa moved to the ancient throne and seated himself, and ruffled his brown hair. He
did
look tired, as if he’d suffered too many sleepless nights. She didn’t understand. How could her father suddenly look so defeated?

Then his kindly voice said, “Amy, come here.”

Her father was looking right at the wardrobe.

How had he known she was there?

“I used to hide there when my father was king,” he answered quite as if she’d asked. “And you were lucky only I saw you when the door swung open.”

Cautiously she pushed the door wide. She inched her foot out until it reached the floor. She craned her neck around to see Poppa watching her steadily, and she smiled with all her teeth. Her daddy loved her. She knew it. But he expected her to behave, not like a princess, but with kindness.