The Wild Princess (15 page)

Louise leaned back into the divan's cushions and asked Donovan about his modeling and latest painting projects. He shared with her his goal of traveling to France, Germany, and especially to Italy. “Rossetti is teaching me to paint in his style. I want to study in Rome, to see the Sistine Chapel then visit Florence with its magnificent art.”

“I would love to go to Rome too,” she said. “But my mother says Europe is too unstable, too dangerous for us to travel now. Although my sister Vicky lives in Germany.” And might soon become empress, she thought but didn't say to him.

Donovan reached out and played with a tendril of her hair that had come loose and fallen across her cheek. He wound it around and around his finger while watching her eyes. “We will run off together, you and I. To Rome. Yes, Princess? And make love in all the most romantic places.”

“Oh, yes.” She nodded her head in enthusiastic agreement, not sure whether they were playing a game or serious, but wanting to do nothing to discourage such a delicious fantasy.

She lifted the jug to her lips again. The wine had begun to taste smoother. Her eyelids grew heavy with the pleasure of it. Such a lovely, lovely way to spend an hour, or two.

When she moved the rough edge of the jug's rim away from her mouth, Donovan's lips pressed over hers. She held very still, liking the moist, warm sensation of his mouth on hers. The flesh around her lips and down her throat sang. She closed her eyes and savored the feeling. The jug levitated out of her hand. She heard it softly clank on the floor at their feet.

When she raised drowsy eyelids, Donovan was reaching for the silk robe. He swung it around and over his shoulders, like a magician's cape, then leaned toward her, easing her down onto the seat cushions.

“What are you doing?” She laughed, shaking her head at him, confused but delighted that he wanted to be so close to her. The robe sheltered them from the rest of the room, from the world.

“What do you think I'm doing, Princess?” he said, his words throaty and rich to her ears.

She laughed again and shook her head. “Making me feel dizzier still, lying down like this. I think I might've”—she hiccupped—“drunk too much wine.” For some reason, she couldn't stop laughing.

He lowered his body still farther until she felt the entire length of him, fiery warm and lovely, his weight pressing down on her belly, flattening her breasts, snuggling against her hips.

“Just close your eyes and let the wine take you away. You're probably not used to drinking so much. It will wear off.”

“But it is a lovely kind of dizz-dizz—dizziness.” She breathed in and out softly, humming to herself, aware of his hands moving here and there, over the fabric of her dress. His gentle touch soothed her. She imagined herself a contented kitten, lovingly petted by her master. She lay very still. Just breathing. Her eyes closed. Smiling. Sensing his hands playing with the ruffles of her skirt then tangled somewhere between the layers of her petticoats.

“Where are you?” he whispered in her ear.

“Right here,” she murmured drowsily.

Then his fingertips found her skin. And it all felt so natural, as it should be. Skin on skin. His on hers. One flesh indiscernible from the other. Together.

She floated, unwilling to move, unwilling even to crack open her eyes for fear the spell would be broken. His fingers drew little patterns on her stomach, the coils widening, tracing lightly from waist to hips.

Her flesh felt alive, vibrating,
molten
.

“Together,” she whispered. She didn't like being alone. Never had. This was the nicest kind of togetherness she'd ever known. He
liked
her! He accepted her—her body as well as her art.

Louise drew a deep breath and sighed it out again. She curled into his arms. He stroked the length of her arm, the swell of her hip, the roundness of her small breast. She felt she could be happy here, like this, forever.

He kissed her again, deeper, and his hand wandered farther then slipped between her thighs. Ever so gently he cupped the place no one but she had ever touched. Yet it felt right that he knew it would please her.

Why had she never guessed she could
feel
this way?

The room spun as the wine's effect intensified, but his body anchored her, made her feel safe. She reached up and lapped her arms around his slender, boyish shoulders as he moved again. Then some part of him, not his hand, pressed against her resisting flesh. Her eyes flew open at a sharp sting. After that, it was as if no force on earth could ever separate them.

Louise wrapped her legs around her lover's slim hips and held him there as the sound of his pleasured groan turned her world golden. She lay in a shimmering haze, enthralled and amazed at what they had done.

Seventeen

She wouldn't have known that someone had entered the room but for the sudden draft that breathed across her bare skin a moment after Donovan rolled off of her. Only then did she hear the voices.

Still half asleep, woozy from the wine, Louise left her lovely, dreamy lethargy with reluctance. She instinctively reached for the silk robe to pull it back up over her. She'd leave it to her lover—
Her lover! She had a lover
—to chase off whoever had intruded upon their intimacy. But when the voices rose, filling the room with bursts of angry words, her eyelids fluttered open.

Donovan stood naked, his manly bottom turned to her as he shouted and waved his arms at someone she couldn't yet see. “Least you could do is bloody well knock. What are you doing here? You were supposed to be at the—”

“Which one of your tarts you got in here now?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

“Don't be talking like that in front of her,” Donovan scolded. “She's special she is.”

This generated a great deal of amusement from not one person but, it sounded to her, like two.
Two men
, from the raucous bass boom of their laughter. Inside the room now. And she was . . . well, rather indecent at the moment.

It occurred rather fuzzily to Louise that she should probably make herself more presentable and help Donovan chase off these two jokers, whoever they might be. But her head felt as capable of thinking as a bushel of turnips. She reached down and pulled the silk robe up to her chin.

As her fingers moved up her body she realized how embarrassingly few articles of her clothing remained where they should have been. Her eyes shot wide open at the suspicion that events might have transpired she couldn't quite recall. Not in detail anyway. And that made her wonder how much time had passed since she'd climbed the stairs to an unexpected taste of heaven in Donovan's arms.

The fogginess in her brain altered in an instant to a throbbing sensation, which was far less pleasant. Louise pressed her palms over her face, feeling as if she needed to hold it in place. The room swam. Her stomach soured. At last she forced herself to drop her hands and locate Donovan again.

He was stepping into his trousers, tugging them up to his waist while the heated conversation among the men continued. But now he no longer blocked her view of the two intruders. Older men. Both much broader in the shoulders, fuller in the belly than her young lover. The dark-haired, taller of the two tried to get a look at her even as a half-clothed Donovan dodged back in front of him to keep him from seeing her.

“I doubt she's any different than the others,” the other man said in an offhand way. “Yes, let's do have a peek at her, Gabe. Weren't you saying you were short a model for tomorrow?”

“Ah, yes.” His friend laughed. “I need a Mary for my stable scene. Think she'd suit, Donovan old boy?”

Louise roused herself enough to pull up her blouse, which had fallen beneath her breasts. She was beginning to recall details now. Donovan's hands soothing her. His kisses. His . . . forbidden caresses. She'd let him do things to her that she'd admittedly enjoyed, though now that the wine's effects were retreating, she suspected her mother might object rather strongly. Her governesses had often emphasized that princesses ought never to allow themselves to be caught alone in a room with a grown man who wasn't family. No reason was ever given for the rule.

Now, she believed she knew.

Her face flushed with heat at the thought of their recent intimacy. But she wouldn't have wished away her night with Donovan for anything.

It seemed laughable to fear something so beautiful and natural. This was how lovemaking happened. This secret way of showing tenderness and passion was what being a woman was all about. And after all, she was eighteen years old . . . and a woman.

A surge of excitement and pride nearly chased away the worry that she'd unwittingly crossed a forbidden line. But sorting out these tangled feelings, and the arbitrary rules of society, would just have to wait. She had rather more pressing wardrobe issues to deal with.

Her skirt and petticoats and chemise, in extreme disarray, had become bunched up around her waist. She tugged them down under cover of the robe. Where her drawers had gone, she'd no idea.

Meanwhile, Donovan was having little luck trying to physically force the two men out of the room. Decently covered now, Louise sat up straight, tossed off the robe, and swung her legs off the side of the divan. She planted her bare feet firmly on the floor and stood up, hands on hips, aiming her haughtiest glare at the two strangers.

“These are not public rooms, gentlemen,” she announced quite loudly. “How dare you barge in here like this. I demand you leave at once and give us our privacy.”

Her little speech had an unexpectedly powerful effect. Eyes wide, jaws dropped, the pair appeared stunned to the point of speechlessness. Louise combed her long, brown hair away from her face with her fingers, patting the waves into place, feeling sure the pair would now tactfully depart.

However, the strangers appeared to have frozen into biblical pillars of salt. They stared at her, shifted horrified gazes to each other then back to Donovan.

The one called Gabe was the first to move, and it now occurred to her that this was probably the artist Dante Gabriel Rossetti. So perhaps he had a right to be here, as this was his studio. Still, she thought his manners quite abominable.

Having recovered his mobility, Rossetti stepped forward with a vicious snarl, grasped Donovan by the shoulders, and gave him a rough shake. “Tell me this isn't who I think it is. Tell me, you fool.”

Donovan turned to look at her, and for the first time, his eyes looked worried and his bravado visibly leaked away. He lifted his lips in a tremulous smile. “Mr. Rossetti. Mr. Morris. Really, it's all right. She
wanted
to be with me. She did. She came of her own free—”

“Tell
me her name.
This instant!
” Rossetti's eyes blazed, dark fired and fearsome as a hellhound's.

“I am,” Louise said, taking an only slightly tipsy step forward while thrusting her chin high, “Princess Louise Caroline Alberta of England—Your Royal Highness to you gentlemen. And now I demand you leave us.”

Rossetti's companion let out an audible whimper and fell back two steps, a hand over his heart, gasping for air. “Gads! What have you done, boy?”

In the awkward silence that followed, Donovan regained his composure. “You have no right to criticize me, Morris. The way you and Rossetti use this studio, your women coming and going, day and night. Why can I not have a little fun as well?”

Fun?
she thought.

Her head was hurting worse after the exertion of standing up and defending herself and her lover. Louise plopped back down on the divan, exhausted, and dropped her face into her palms. But not before she saw Rossetti lunge forward and cuff Donovan on the side of his head. The violence of the blow sent the young man staggering. He fell to the floor with a look of shock and wounded pride.

“Stupid boy! Have you no sense at all? Do you have any idea of the trouble you've made for yourself? For all of us? What do you think our good queen will say when she learns her daughter has been fornicating with a guttersnipe?”

Louise winced, her eyes still covered. The artist made their love sound wicked, dirty . . . and it wasn't. It was a wonderful, sweet miracle. Couldn't he see that? Their bodies had fitted together so perfectly. It was as if they'd been fashioned to become one. Adam and Eve. Tristan and Isolde. Paris and Helena. They were meant to be together.

She loved Donovan. And he clearly loved her if he wished to be so tender and close to her. How could true love shared between a man and a woman be wrong?

But in the weeks that followed, she remembered bitterly, the dangers of a princess falling in love with the wrong man became all too clear.

Eighteen

Balmoral, 1871

Within hours after the royal family's arrival at Balmoral, Byrne had been certain he would go mad with restlessness. Something about that day when they'd left London for the north haunted him. Something far worse than rats. The instincts of a military man warned him he'd best find out what was setting his nerves on edge before the unknown took them all by disastrous surprise. And that was why he'd left the Scottish royal estate to trace the wedding party's original intended route.

As Byrne had already explained to Louise, and soon after to her mother, he'd discovered what he suspected and most feared—evidence that the rat incident had been a ruse, part of a larger, more deadly plot by the Fenians to kidnap a member of the royal family.

But, unlike her daughter, the queen refused to believe him. “The vermin were obviously just a cruel prank, meant to frighten poor Baby, nothing more. We shall rise above the incident and ignore it.”

Byrne shook his head in frustration. “Let me return to London. I'll find out who among the radicals is calling the shots. If our Secret Service boys capture the Fenian officer in charge,” he said, “we may disrupt their chain of command, get other names from him, and capture key figures in the Irish Republican movement.” To his mind, a preemptive strike was critical to the safety of the queen and her family.

“Your duty is to remain with us here, my Raven,” she insisted. “Headquarters in London will look into your theories and search for this Fenian officer.”

He had to satisfy himself with sending a courier with a message to his superiors, requesting they assign men to the hunt. After seeing off the rider, he walked back inside the castle, sat in one of the dark, empty salons, and brooded. He didn't hold out much hope of results. His experience thus far in the queen's Secret Service had shown him how green and untried this infant branch of the government was.

His hands tied, Byrne tried to concentrate on the task of keeping tabs on Victoria's four youngest children, traveling with her to Scotland. Arthur, at twenty-one years old, and Leopold, just eighteen, seemed far younger and less worldly than most young men he'd met. They liked to ride and hunt with companions in the court who had accompanied the queen. Mostly they seemed content to occupy themselves in ways easy for him to monitor. Beatrice, “Baby” to the queen and sometimes to her brothers, was nearly always with her mother. Again, easy to know where she was and keep her safe. But her older sister, Louise, was a challenge.

If Victoria had given him the sole task of looking after the fourth princess, that alone would have kept him busy. The woman never sat still. She often rode out from the granite Aberdeenshire castle on her own, on a mount of her choosing from her mother's stable. With nearly fifty thousand acres of estate to explore she sometimes disappeared for half a day before he located her again. Other times she dashed off letters in support of one of her pet causes. Then she'd walk—walk
alone
, mind you—into the village to post them. Or she spirited Beatrice away from their demanding mother to call on neighbors. How to keep up with the princess without neglecting her siblings was beyond him.

What made his job even more difficult was her damned stubbornness. She repeatedly ignored his warnings, refused to wait for an escort before venturing out, and seemed in general to resent his presence, even though he was there for her protection.

It was almost as if she didn't care for her own safety. As if she were daring the radicals to target her, intentionally presenting herself as a target. To save others in the family from attack? He had no idea how the woman's mind worked.

His attempts to rein her in had become increasingly exhausting. But once again he went in search of her as he made his usual rounds through the castle, checking on each family member, passing by scores of guardsmen, stationed at close intervals along the corridors.

Byrne found Arthur and Leo playing a game of chess in the castle's billiard room, looking very dapper and gentlemanly, dressed formally for dinner in kilts, as their mother preferred when they were in residence at Balmoral. Like nearly every other room in the castle, this one had been treated to the ultimate in Highland decorative touches, transforming it into a traditional shooting lodge. Tartan draperies and upholstery, framed clan crests, mounted stag heads, wall pennants, collections of Claddagh quaiches, pewter candlesticks, cushions with needlepoint hunting scenes. And everywhere the symbol of the thistle carved into woodwork, furniture, and worked into tapestries.

The two young princes ignored his appearance in the room, as they would any servant.

Good
, he thought.
At least they're safe for the time being
. He preferred they take as little notice of him as possible. That meant less chance of their remarking on his absence if he decided to ignore Victoria's orders and slip away for a day or more.

He continued in search of Louise. Down a flight of stairs, through a long gallery lined with shields, armor, and priceless art, then into the orangerie—smelling of loam and earthy molds, warm and humid to benefit the tropical plants collected there under glass. He'd learned it was one of Louise's favorite places, but she wasn't there now.

Where had the woman got to?

His thoughts circled back to his darkest concerns as he continued his search.

He should just get on the train to London. Go do the job he was meant to do. Find the bastard who was hatching plots against England's monarch. And yet . . . he had a feeling that if he blatantly disobeyed Victoria, she'd send him packing. Her dismissal would force headquarters to take him off royal protection entirely. Send him back to America. To his shattered country still reeling from civil war, scarred, mourning her lost sons, unable to heal. He didn't want to be there, not now.

To be relieved of his responsibility for the survival of the British monarch and her brood should please him. But he felt a strange compulsion to watch over this odd little family. He felt tenderness toward them he couldn't explain, despite their eccentricities.

Of all of them, Louise seemed the most vulnerable of the pack. As stubborn and bossy as she could be, something about the woman pulled at the threads of his soul, unraveled him inside, drew him bodily toward her. He was unable to define her hold over him. He'd fought it. But that insistent tug held strong, making him wonder all the more urgently now—where the hell was she?

Sometimes he wondered if these feelings about the princess explained his animosity toward the young marquess. Was he jealous of the man? Certainly not. Jealousy required a man to believe he had a claim on a woman. And he had no right at all to Louise. None whatsoever. And never would have.

He stopped in front of the drawing room Louise favored most often. He pushed on the door with one finger. It glided open on silent hinges. And there, at last, she was. Louise reclined on a settee by the window, a book open in her lap, her lemon yellow skirts pooling around her on the seat cushion, her rich golden brown hair spread across a needlepoint pillow.

His heart stopped.

She seemed to know he was there even before she turned her head to coolly observe him with her pretty eyes. He opened his mouth to excuse himself for interrupting her rest but she spoke first. “You are discreet, are you not, Mr. Byrne?”

“Princess?” He stepped into the room, shut the door behind him.

“I mean to say”—her eyes slipped away from his as he moved toward her—“your attitude, manners, and dress are unconventional, to say the least. But since my mother seems to trust you, and she demands loyalty, honesty and discretion, may I expect you to treat me with the same regard?”

What the hell was the woman talking about? Could this have anything to do with her faithless husband? For a terrifying moment he feared she might have discovered that he'd followed Lorne and was going to request detailed information about the marquess's nocturnal adventures.

“Are you asking,” he began carefully, “if I am keeping secrets
for
you . . . or
from
you?”

She winced, as if stung by an invisible insect. “Not exactly. I'd simply like to discuss your ability to keep sensitive information to yourself.”

He'd never liked court word games or the witty social banter so loved by the aristocracy. Its aim was to inflate the ego of the cleverer player and poke fun at the person who couldn't keep up with the riddles and plays on words. He was tired, desperate to make progress toward stopping the Fenians, and fast losing patience with whatever sport this woman was proposing.

“Why don't you come right out and say what's on your mind, Your Highness?”

She glanced at him sideways, her eyes flashing. “Americans. So abrupt.”

“We get to the point quickly. It has its advantages.”

“Yes, well, I suppose that's true. And perhaps this is one of those times when plain talk is most appropriate.” She let long dark eyelashes drift closed over her blue eyes and folded the book shut in her lap. When she opened her eyes again and pushed herself up to sitting on the settee, she again let her gaze slide past him and out the window at the end of the room. “I have a favor to ask of you, Raven.”

He narrowed his eyes at her use of the queen's code name. He thought he knew what was coming. She was going to ask him to turn a blind eye to her husband's dalliances. Or, even worse, as he'd first suspected, she wanted him to spy on Lorne. He said nothing.

She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if reaching inside herself for the courage to continue.

“Some years ago,” she began in the softly distant voice that might have signaled the beginning of a child's fairy tale, “when I was attending art school in Kensington, I made many friends. They were good people and great fun to be around. I felt a delicious sense of freedom while there. No castle walls to contain me. No tutors, parents, or staff to constantly control my life. No court gossips to report my every move. I became my own person, a little canary sprung from her cage.”

“The queen allowed you to attend a public school with commoners, unchaperoned?” Knowing Victoria, he couldn't believe that was possible.

She flashed him a mischievous smile. “Not precisely. I gradually convinced my mother that, while I was in my classes, it would be a waste of one of her ladies' time to sit with me. Eventually a footman became unnecessary as well. All I had to do was bribe my driver to spend the day with his daughter on the other side of the city. Then I could come and go as I pleased during the day.”

“Naughty girl.” He kept a straight face, giving away nothing of the little he already knew of those years in her life.

“Yes, well, I suppose I was. As well as naïve, and foolish.” She brushed a hand through the air, as if waving away the years as well as her innocence. “At any rate, there was one particular friend, a young man not much older than I at the time—eighteen. His name was Donovan Heath. A special companionship developed between us.” Color rose beneath the ivory surface of her cheeks. She immediately stood up, tenderly clutching her book to her bosom as if it were a child. She walked with a brisk step away from him toward the window and stared out into the distance. “He became very dear to me, Mr. Byrne.”

From her protective tone, he understood she would reveal no more about the relationship. But he was fairly sure from her wistfulness and sudden high coloring that this encounter, however far it had gone, had been her first romantic experience. He'd been told by more than one lady that a woman never forgot her first lover.

Byrne held back the questions that immediately sprang to his mind. More than anything, he wanted her to continue talking. Her voice came to him as a kind of melancholy melody. Her words, lyrics heavy with emotion. He sensed this conversation was not only difficult for her; this might also be the very first time she'd spoken about this matter for a long time.

“One day, Donovan just went missing,” Louise said, keeping her back to him, her gaze reaching far and away, as if she could see out the window and past the distant hills purple with spring heather. “He gave no indication that he would be leaving London or that our friendship should end. I looked for him, of course, concerned for his welfare. London can be a dangerous place. But none of his friends knew where he'd gone.”

“He broke your heart.” The words came out before he could bite them back.

“No!” She spun to face him, her eyes bright with denial.

He watched her take a breath in an attempt to compose herself, but it didn't seem to work. She put her book down on a table and paced in agitation in front of the window, hands clasped over her skirt, gaze fixed in fierce concentration on the carpet.

“That's
not
how it was, Mr. Byrne. I was just worried about him. You see, he had no money. He depended upon others for a little work and food. He mostly slept in artists' studios. The poor boy might have fallen sick, or been injured. Don't you see? He had no one to go to for help, except to me.” She stopped and turned to Byrne, looking directly into his eyes, as if to force him to understand. “And
he would have come to me.
I am certain he would have . . . if he could.”