The Wild Princess (11 page)

“I've been here drinking close to two hours,” he murmured.

Brown released a soft humph of amusement. “Alone?”

Byrne nodded. “One of our friends from up the castle dropped by for a short while. Don't think he saw me.”

The Scot scratched his beard and nodded his head. “Someone I should know 'bout?”

“Maybe you already do.”

“Wouldn't be our bonnie bridegroom would it?” Brown offered him a quick glimpse of bearish yellow teeth, almost a snarl.

Byrne didn't bother to answer. “Does she know?” The words stuck in his throat. He felt the muscles of his neck and shoulders go rock hard. His jaw locked.

“The princess?” Brown drained his current pint, at the same time signaling the barkeep for another. “Expect she does. Victoria said she was sure Louise was aware of the company the man kept in the past. But I don't know. The princess discounts court gossip more often than believes it. This is one rumor she should have listened to.”

“Such a beautiful woman,” Byrne mumbled. “Ah, Louise, Louise . . .” He was feeling dizzier by the moment. The bottles arranged along the bar back blurred and swam before his burning eyes. Pretty shades of amber, ruby, crystalline clear and jade, they looked to him rather like a pretty image through a child's kaleidoscope.

Byrne heard himself talking, as if his voice came from another person across the room. As if he was just sitting there on his stool, listening to a stranger ramble on about whatever rattled through his brain, as blokes do when in their cups. It wasn't until he felt a shadow fall across him, blocking the light from the lamp over the bar, that he looked up to see Brown standing there, fists digging into hips, glowering down at him.

“Watch what you say, laddie,” he growled, threat crowding his words.

“I'll say what I pleash,” Byrne slurred, not entirely sure what he had said but feeling boozily determined to defend his opinions, whatever they might be.

All of a sudden, the anger and bitterness and frustration that had been building inside of him rose as an unbearable pressure in his chest. The thought that this very special woman had signed on for a lifetime of deception and unhappiness was too much for him to handle while in his sodden state. The indignity of her situation burned like a hot poker.

“All I said,” he blurted, “was Louise is bea-oo-ti-ful.” Or something along those lines. More or less.

Brown appeared to swell in size, his head moving toward the ceiling as he drew himself fully erect. “You said more'n that, you villain. It's blasphemous it is. Even thinkin' of putting yourself in that man's place in her bed—”

“I said that?” Byrne smiled. It was the first pleasing thought of the evening. “Well then, who's to say it's such a bad idea. Me and the princess—”

He never got to finish his sentence.

Brown's fist connected with Byrne's jaw, sending him flying off his stool, sprawling on the rough oak floorboards. Although he was nowhere near as large a man as John Brown, and that massive clot of knuckles had the power to shatter bones, Byrne's jaw survived intact. It happened to be one part of his anatomy, he'd learned from experience, that was as hard as Connecticut granite.

He glared up from the floor at the Scot. The room's spinning slowed then snapped into focus as the giant's blow produced a rapid sobering effect.

“I meant no offense to Her Royal Highness,” Byrne said, pushing himself to his feet. “But, Mr. Brown, you and I both know it was bloody wrong, that match. I won't pretend otherwise.”

The Scot's chest expanded as he pulled in a mighty breath that sounded like the wind foreshadowing a violent storm. “I'll not have you so much as lookin' at the lady. Hear me well, Raven. You mind your investigatin' and stay away from Victoria's family.”

Byrne nearly laughed at the man's preposterous bullying but thought better of it. He also should have thought better of his next move. He poked a finger at the center button of the giant's shirtfront, emphasizing his words. “
It's—not—your—place
to give orders to a man in the queen's Secret Service.”

Brown's fists kneaded at his sides. His eyes glowed, dangerous coals. “I says it is.”

This time when the Scot lunged for him, Byrne was ready. He ducked then went in low and fast with a right fist to Brown's gut. Followed with a lightning fast left hook to the ridge of bone just under one eye.

Brown swung back at him, powerful as a steam locomotive. If the punch had connected with the intended side of his opponent's head, there was a good chance Byrne might not have stood up again. Ever.

Byrne dodged and ducked again. Fist and arm sizzled over his head.

The rest of the fight happened fast, as bar fights do, eating up no more than five minutes before it was over. But to Byrne's bleary memory, it was a beautiful battle: stools cracking over backs and shoulders, bottles exploding, knuckles smashing and oozing blood . . . until neither man was capable of lifting a hand through his exhaustion.

Only then did the barman climb out from behind his counter, club in hand, and chase them out the door into the night with a warning they'd be paying for the damages.

Eleven

Louise woke to a blinding streak of ochre sunlight slashing through her window that forced her to close her eyes again. She smelled the early blooming lilacs Lady Car had arranged in a vase beside her bed the day before, and the sundried linen beneath her cheek. Urgent-sounding footsteps raced lightly across her room. A cupboard door clicked open then snapped shut.

It occurred to Louise that a terrible emergency must have arisen during the night. But when she sat upright in bed and looked around, she saw that a silver tray had been set on her bedside table, and Car was pulling Louise's blue day dress from the wardrobe.

Louise lifted the domed lid on the sterling salver to find a generous serving of bacon rashers and thick slices of toasted oat bread. Pots of honey and dairy-fresh butter accompanied, making enough breakfast for three.

“What's happened to make you feel the need to fortify me so?”

Lady Car turned to her, concern mirrored in her gentle eyes as she flew back across the room with Louise's clothing. “Your Highness, I fear this morning may prove a bit more taxing than others.”

“Oh, dear.” Louise blinked, preparing herself for the worst. Another intruder? One of her siblings ill? Her mother . . . well, it could be anything if it had to do with her. “Details then. No sugarcoating.”

“Yes, well . . .” Car set royal blue satin slippers to match Louise's dress on the floor beside the bed. “Her Majesty has sent word that you are to rise immediately and come to her as soon as you are dressed. It appears that a serious issue has presented itself. Her secretary would only say that the queen refuses to deal with it on her own.” She shrugged her shoulders in apology. “I'm sorry, that's all I know.”

Something her mother felt incapable of handling without her? Now she was just as curious as worried.

Louise tossed off the bedclothes, struggled out of her night shift, and made a hasty job of her toilet. While her lady laced her up Louise thrust a piece of bacon into her mouth, bit into the toast, and chewed. She sipped her tea, well sweetened with honey. She'd eaten spartanly since the attack on the coach, having lost her appetite for days after. The thought that, had there been a live bullet in the young protester's gun, she might not now be alive, had quite unsettled her.

Louise dusted the toast crumbs from her fingertips then waved off all attempts by Car to dress her hair. “No, no. Leave it loose. It will take too much time.” Anyway, she much preferred to let her long brown tresses fall down her back. Though her mother wouldn't like it.

“I will go with you,” Lady Car offered.

“No. It might be nothing.” But if it was serious, she didn't want to expose the poor woman to unnecessary trauma. Best she face her mother alone.

When Louise arrived, breathless, at her mother's suite, she knocked once then opened the door and stepped inside.

Victoria was sitting primly behind her desk in a black mourning gown whose only noticeable difference from her others was a high starched white collar held together at the throat by a simple cameo pin. The queen's expression was stern, her eyes sparking anger, but it was not Louise's little dragon of a mother who captured her attention. Her gaze immediately shifted across the room to stop on the two men standing at attention in the middle of the crimson-and-gold Persian carpet under Victoria's steely gaze.

Louise clapped a hand over her mouth and gasped. John Brown and Stephen Byrne appeared to have freshly arrived from the front lines of a war.

The Scot and the Raven were a bruised, bloody, scraped, and scabby mess. Their shirts and trousers might have been torn from their bodies, run over by market carts in a filthy road, and restored to their use as garments without any attempt at laundering. And they smelled. Of various forms of alcohol, if she wasn't mistaken.

“What happened to you two?” Louise said. “Were you attacked? Are others hurt?”

Her mother lifted a small, plump hand. “My dear child, calm yourself. The injuries are of their own foolish doing. A common bar brawl, the two of them drinking themselves to irrationality. They deserve no sympathy.”

“Oh, dear.” Louise felt a bubble of relieved laughter working its way up and pressed her lips firmly together.

“It is my understanding, having already received a bill for the cost of damages, that this display was witnessed by at least a dozen men of the town.” Victoria's face resembled a hot, red sun just before it sinks below the horizon. Her body seemed in such agitation it visibly vibrated. “By now the entire countryside will be discussing whatever personal business their drunken lips may have revealed during their scuffle. And by personal business, I mean
our family's
business.” She narrowed her eyes at her daughter.

Louise no longer saw humor in the situation. Did this really have anything to do with her? Or, more likely, with Lorne. “Do you mean—”

“Neither of them admits to the exact conversation.” The queen glared at one then the other of her men. “They claim to have no memory of the argument that started them fighting. But it is clear to
us
they were acting inappropriately and without concern for
our
subjects' respect.” When her mother reverted to the “royal we,” Louise knew she was indeed angry.

Louise let out the breath she'd been holding. Perhaps her mother was overreacting, simply projecting her own worst fears onto the situation. This might be nothing more than two men, who had drunk more than they should have, disagreeing on some inconsequential matter. Like politics. Or the weather?

At least now she understood why her mother had summoned her. Although Victoria counted Brown as a trusted friend (and perhaps more), his size and brusque manner could be intimidating even for the queen. Pair Brown's powerful personality and figure with the dark masculine presence of Stephen Byrne, and the two of them filled the room with a male essence that was nearly overpowering. Victoria had sent for Louise as reinforcement—to provide hormonal balance, as it were.

Louise stepped to her mother's side and laid a hand on her shoulder. She kept her tone solemn. “Gentlemen, your behavior is most reprehensible and cannot be tolerated. At the very least, you have set a poor example for the men beneath you.”

She thought she heard a smothered snicker from one of them at her last words.

The two combatants exchanged quick glances, as if considering saying something more than they'd mutually agreed upon. But in the end, they remained silent, hats clasped in swollen and bruised hands in front of them, eyes cast meekly down at the carpet beneath scuffed boots.

Louise singled out the American to study. She wondered if Byrne ever removed that leather topcoat of his, even for sleep. She'd never seen him in anything but the long duster and close-fitting dark blue canvas riding pants.

She felt a disturbing warmth travel down through her body at the vision that came to her of Stephen Byrne peeling himself out of his “uniform.” She'd experienced the strength of his taut arms and torso muscles when he had crawled on top of her in the carriage. More than once since then she'd wondered—had such proximity been absolutely necessary?

“I have made my decision,” Victoria said, jolting Louise out of an all-too-pleasant reverie. “Mr. Brown, you shall attend to my personal security, and to that of the grounds at whichever estate we happen to be dwelling—Balmoral, Buckingham, Windsor, or Osborne House.” She turned to Stephen Byrne. “And you, sir, shall be solely in charge of the security of my children and our traveling arrangements. I will inform your superiors and ask that you be given whatever support you require. But you are not to trouble yourself with my welfare, or with the property itself, unless Mr. Brown asks for your assistance.” She looked sternly to one man then the other. “Is all of this clearly understood, gentlemen?”

Brown cleared his throat. “But, ma'am—”

“That is the way it shall be, Mr. Brown. I believe Mr. Byrne has shown himself capable in ways I cannot expect of you. His wartime experience with men such as those who have designs upon our safety has already proved invaluable. Even if his only duty were to keep us informed of the Fenians' intentions, I would want him to stay on with us.” She looked at Louise, as if for support.

Louise nodded her agreement. “I don't see that it can hurt to have another pair of eyes inside the castle or close by the family as we travel, in case of another emergency.” Louise stifled a grin as she added, “I am sure the two of you will find ways to cooperate and not be at each other's throats.”

Her mother allowed a whisper of a smile, as if satisfied with a task fully accomplished. But Louise wasn't convinced of her own words as she observed the two men. The Scot stood, huge feet planted like the roots of an elm tree, eyes focused straight ahead, his expression blank. He reminded her of a naughty schoolboy who hadn't a shred of remorse for what he'd done. When she turned to the Raven again, she thought how apt his nickname was—his black hair falling like wing feathers over his forehead, those peculiarly piercing black eyes no less intent or dangerous than those of the young man who'd wildly flung himself through the coach window, pistol in hand.

But the American, she was beginning to believe, posed a different sort of threat.

He seemed to her the emotional opposite of her beautiful, gentle husband. The black to Lorne's white. The blazing summer to Lorne's chill winter. And a tougher more mature version of her artist-lover Donovan. While her husband had lied to her about who he was, Donovan had deceived her by telling her he loved her then leaving without a word of explanation. But Byrne seemed as if he'd never waste the energy to devise a lie. Anyone who disagreed with him, didn't care for him, or got in his way . . . well, that was too bad. He'd tell them what was what.

Stephen Byrne was hidebound, powerful, unnerving—and she felt drawn to him in ways she found deeply, viscerally troubling.

“Louise?”

“Hmm?” She startled, then turned to her mother, wondering what she'd missed while her mind wandered.

“The men have their instructions. Leave me now, all of you. I have much work to do.”

Louise realized Brown and Byrne had moved to the door but were standing aside, waiting for her to leave the room ahead of them, as was proper. She inclined her head to them in passing; they bowed briefly. They smelled of sweat, the lingering sweetness of liquor, and the slightly ferric aroma of dried blood. She hoped they'd bathe very soon.

Louise listened to the regular rhythm of their heavy steps, echoing behind her as she started up the stairs back to her own room. Not a word passed between them or to her. Then their footfalls began to fade as they moved farther away.

Before she passed out of hearing, she heard Brown's guttural threat from a distance, hushed as if he intended no one but Byrne to hear. “I'll be watchin' ye, laddie.”

Sighing, Louise climbed the stairs to her privy chamber, paying little attention to servants as they rushed past her, preparing for that evening's formal dinner and concert. Her comparisons of Lorne and Byrne, and even with dear Donovan, grew increasingly more disturbing.

What if the nascent love of two young people never had the good fortune to mature into what it was intended to be? It was this last scenario that pained her most deeply when she thought of Donovan. What might have become of them had they a little more time together? Their affair—or, as her mother put it,
Louise's
fall from grace
—was the most thoroughly poignant, thrilling, consuming relationship she'd experienced with any human being. And the only one that involved sex.

Yet their love had evaporated into the ethers without resolution. Because Donovan. Dear. Beautiful. Exquisitely tender and intoxicating Donovan abandoned her.

Why? Why did you leave me?

Louise rushed through chilly stone corridors draped in priceless tapestries depicting classical themes in rich crimson, sapphire, and jade hues. Intended to defeat the eternal Scottish drafts and dampness, they did nothing to warm her now. Back in her room, a painful lump in her throat, tears threatening, she shooed away Car and collapsed into the velvet-curtained window seat that overlooked Balmoral's early spring gardens.

Louise hadn't seen Lorne since they'd arrived, except at family meals. They'd barely spoken a word even then. Her body, so ready for a man's touch just days ago, ached with need. Her womb would forever remain barren. Her heart never cry out in ecstasy.

Passion!
How she yearned for it again in her life.

She let the tears she'd held back for so long come, releasing the pain, soothing her with memories of a happier time when she believed with the innocence of youth that no one could take her dreams from her. That was the year she recalled being allowed to venture into the world of commoners . . .