The Wild Princess (4 page)

His weeping had stopped. For that she was thankful. And he was right; the danger was real for a man like him. “Oh, Lorne. What will we do?”

“Yes, well,
we
. . . that's the question isn't it?”

“Are you saying you wish to annul our marriage?” The prospect of the scandal left her feeling woozy.

“Heavens no!” He stared at her. “You still don't understand, do you?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“I said that I've used you because I knowingly agreed to this marriage to protect myself. If I'm married to a woman of such obvious charms as Her Royal Highness, Princess Louise, how can anyone doubt my sexual inclination? I'm safe.”

“I see.” And now she really did understand. Resentment muted her compassion, though she tried not to show how confused and desperate she was beginning to feel. “But how are we to be . . . to be together, to have children, if you don't have relations with women?”

“That's the crux of the problem, as I see it.” He nodded his head. White-blond waves fell over his forehead, shadowing the azure glow of his eyes. “Louise, I swear to you, I would never have agreed to marry you if I'd thought I couldn't find a way to give you children. I supposed I would be able to make love to you, now and again, for the purpose of procreation, you see. And perhaps a bit more often, if you required it of me.”

“Required it?” She suddenly felt her entire body a-flush with anger. Every muscle tensed. Her head pounded a ragged tattoo.
“Required!”

“For your pleasure. To satisfy your needs. Yes, of course. I believed I would be capable of making a go of it, although I never have done it with a woman.”

“Lorne.”

“You're looking frightfully pale, my dear.” He gently took her by the shoulders and laid her back against the pillows. “I'll get you a drink of water, shall I?”

Louise didn't answer. Couldn't answer. She closed her eyes, felt him leave the bed then return to rest the cool lip of a glass against her lower lip. Was she delirious? This couldn't possibly be happening to her.

She sipped the water. Closed her eyes tighter. Imagined her life spooling out before her over the years, a desolate, childless, loveless landscape. A farce of a marriage.

Members of the royal family never divorced.
Never
. Well, there was her ancestor Henry VIII. But ridding himself of his wives had caused the restructure of religion in England and persecution of thousands. To do so now, to divorce Lorne, would result in unbelievable scandal.

Moreover she'd need to give a reason for separating from him. Telling the truth was tantamount to throwing him to the wolves. And into prison. She must try harder. Surely she could entice him to want her—or, if not that, at least to do his duty.

Louise reached up and slipped one shoulder strap of her gown slowly down and off of her arm. The pearl-studded bodice fell open. Lorne's gaze dropped to her naked right breast. She felt the heat coming off his body escalate.

Drawing a breath for courage, she reached out for the silver buckle at his waist. He didn't move, seemed not to breathe as he allowed her to unclasp his belt. Her fingers trembled as she slipped her hand beneath his jacket and unbuttoned the fly of his trousers.

His face went white. “Louise.”

“Hush. It will be all right,” she whispered. “I don't care about your other life. I really don't. Do this for me, for us. Please. I know you can.” She pressed her hand over his groin, but the rigid manhood she'd hoped to find there, wasn't. Tears filled her eyes. In desperation, she grasped his hand and drew it between her warm thighs. “I'll teach you to love me, my darling.”

Lorne looked at her and seemed to make a decision. He stood and took off his jacket, then his shirt, and sat to remove his boots. She lay back and watched as he rose again, mechanically finished unbuttoning his trousers and stepped out of them, leaving only his linen undergarments snugly covering his hips. Her gaze roamed his hairless, beautifully muscled chest, his firm abdomen. He approached her with an expression of determination, although she could see no sign of an erection, yet.

Then, suddenly, just as Lorne reached out with one hand, as if to caress her displayed breast, something in his demeanor changed. His eyes flared with a new set of emotions. Embarrassment. Disappointment. Revulsion. He pulled back his hand with a sharp curse.

“Damn it to hell—you don't understand, Louise. I
want
to give you children. I told the queen I would be able to do so, but now that the time has come . . .” He took an unsteady step away from her and the bed. “I simply can't do it.”

She propped herself up on her elbows and glared at him. “You discussed this with my
mother
? This plot of yours?”

“Not in so many words.” He shrugged again, wearily, and sat down on the far end of the bed to pull on his trousers even as she looked on in disbelief. “But I believe she knew of my habits, and I expect she only bothered to consider me as a potential husband for you because of your . . . well, earlier indiscretions.”

So he'd known all along she wasn't a virgin. She'd been sick with fear at the thought of telling him, and she needn't have been.
Because he had his own secrets.
The room began to spin.

Never in her life had she fainted, and she damned well was
not . . . going . . . to . . . now
.

Louise sat up so quickly that Lorne leaned away too fast, nearly falling off the mattress.

“What are we going to
do,
Lorne?” she shouted at him. Only one other time in her life had she been this furious with another person. “What do you imagine our life together will be like?”

He sighed. “I imagine, my dear, very little of it will be
together,
as you put it. If I were a man like so many others, I'd be supremely blessed to have you in my bed. But I'm not and won't apologize for my taste in lovers.” He looked surer of himself now as he continued dressing. “My concern is what I've done to hurt you. I know now I cannot make love to you any more than I can to any other woman. It's simply not in me. I'm sorry that there will be no children, at least not from these loins.”

“Then you tell me what the hell I'm supposed to do. Am I then expected to seek a lover?” she shouted at him, having recovered enough to shift from crushed to furious. How could he put her in this position? Worse yet, how could her mother have contrived such a union?

A shadow crossed Lorne's delicate features. “I don't know, my dear. I can't tell you what to do.” He smoothed his shirtfront, took a shuddering breath. “If it becomes known that you enjoy the company of other men, and I do nothing to interfere, surely questions will be asked. Suspicion will fall on me.”

“Then I shall be forced to remain celibate? Be denied children? Denied pleasure in a man's arms?”

He shook his head, as if acknowledging the unfairness of the situation but helpless to suggest a solution.

Suddenly, his face brightened. “I have something to offer you that other husbands don't.”

“And that is?”

“Freedom
.” He quirked one eyebrow and smiled, looking pleased with himself.

She scowled at him, confused.

“Freedom,” he explained, “to be Louise.” He stepped back toward the bed, took her hands again, moved his face close to hers and spoke with something that sounded like admiration. “You've never wanted to be like other female royals. That's what I've always admired about you, my dear. You've lived a Bohemian life among artists and friends you've chosen from among commoners as often as from nobility. Amanda and her family being a case in point. You've aligned yourself with reformists for the rights and protection of women. You've built for yourself a truly independent lifestyle. All of this would be taken from you if you married any other man in our day.”

She stared at him, momentarily speechless.
He was right
. He was so very right. Hadn't all of these reasons been behind her wishing to delay marriage?

“You will allow me to make my own life,” she said, feeling a little calmer now.

“Yes. And in return, you will protect me by being my wife in all ways but in bed. We will help each other as we can. It is the best I can offer, my darling Louise.”

He stood then, looking down on her with those beautiful eyes of his, as guiltless as a child's, as winsome as a puppy's. She had to look away. Her heart could take no more.

“My word,” he murmured, “you
are
lovely. It's a miracle no man has yet captured your beauty in a painting.”

But one has,
she thought.
He
did. Donovan.

“Please,” she said, her voice barely above a hoarse whisper.
Please don't reject me.
“Try again, Lorne. For me.”

But when she reached out to him, he pushed her away with a look of utter disgust. “No. Not now, Louise. Not ever.” He shook his head in violent denial. “I'm sorry. So . . . so very sorry.”

And then he was gone.

Louise stared up at the ceiling over her marriage bed. Her eyes misted over, blurring the gilded cupids at each corner of the painted ceiling. It occurred to her that this was to be the first in a long series of lonely nights for her. And her appearances in public, as half of a happily wed royal couple, would be a sham. She lay back down, pressed her face into the silk pillow, and wept.

Four

Stephen Byrne rode his mount at a gallop, leather duster flapping against his road-muddied boots, up to the Queen's Guard stationed outside the iron fence at Buckingham Palace. He presented his credentials and, when waved through the gate by the captain of the guard, rode into the yard.

Byrne adjusted the stiff-brimmed black felt hat John Batterson Stetson himself had fashioned for him when they'd met up in San Angelo, Texas—Byrne's birthplace. But that's not where his thoughts were today. He was relieved to see the queen's party hadn't yet left for Scotland. Some of the tension released from his road-weary back.

Three days after the grand celebration surrounding Princess Louise's wedding to the marquess, carriages lined the raked gravel drive, looking like a parade of trained circus elephants—tail to nose. This was to be the couple's honeymoon, though not a traditional one, because it included not only the queen herself but also part of her court. Starting with the largest and most ostentatious coach reserved for the queen and newlyweds to share, the carriages diminished in size and luxury to the humblest flatbed cart piled high with overflow luggage. The line of conveyances stretched around the drive, nearly to the Indian chestnut trees in the winter-ravished gardens.

Each carriage was accompanied by a driver and footman. Most appeared already to contain their passengers, but for a few gentlemen of the court who had become impatient and stood off to the side, idling about and smoking. He'd say from their irritated expressions they must have been cooling their aristocratic heels for a good while already.

He, for one, was glad the procession was running late. Catching up with the royal party on the road north would have made his task far more difficult. As it was, he thought the fuss and spectacle of the excursion to Balmoral, in the north of Scotland, ridiculous and foolhardy. He might have been amused had the situation been less serious. But things were far more grave than anyone in the queen's entourage could possibly guess.

The journey required days of hard travel and necessitated overnight stops at the estates of the queen's wealthiest subjects, who would then be obliged to provide lavish food, suites of rooms, and entertainment for Her Royal Majesty and her court. At least a portion of the passage might have been made easier if Victoria had agreed to use the new northern train line that she and Albert had enjoyed riding together. But she claimed now to hate the noisy, smoke-belching locomotives. So the trip up and back would be by plodding coach, through village after village after factory town, making the work of her security detail a veritable nightmare.

Aside from his feelings about the idiocy and unnecessary risk of such a trip, he had other opinions of the royal goings-on. If
he
were marrying—which he wasn't, and never would—he'd damn well
not
take his mother-in-law and her friends along on his honeymoon. But then, the more he'd seen of the young marquess, the more he wondered if Lorne might not care one way or the other about protecting his private time with his new wife.

Nearly a year earlier, Byrne had first come to England as a member of Her Royal Majesty's elite Secret Service, on loan from President Ulysses S. Grant's detecting force, based in New York City. Now, as before, he did as he was commanded to do. He reported directly to the queen and never asked questions. Almost never.

To his frustration, his first assignment in England had less to do with the Crown's security than with good old-fashioned matchmaking. “I require tactfully acquired personal information on several gentlemen I am considering as potential husbands for my fourth daughter,” the queen had told him.

“But, ma'am,” Byrne protested, “I'm sure there are other sources for such—”

“This is my preference,” Victoria said firmly, her gaze fixed on him like a leech. “You will say nothing to others of this assignment and report directly to me.”

There seemed no point in arguing.

Slowly he warmed to his task as he came to learn more about Princess Louise from a discreet distance. She was a blue-eyed beauty with a flawless oval face and long, soft brown hair. Her figure was much more agreeable to his taste than those of her sisters or mother. Somewhat taller than any of them, she lacked their classic Hanoverian bosom, which seemed perfect for the prow of a ship but less so for a lady in real life. And she was by far the best dresser of the bunch. To his mind, Louise would have no trouble at all finding a husband on her own.

He doubted she even realized he was watching, and investigating, her as closely as he was her prospective mates. He collected a detailed personal history for each gentleman as well as an inventory of assets, debts, assignations, and religious inclination. To this he added any gambling, drinking, or other addictions or obsessions Victoria might find distasteful in a son-in-law.

At first, the Marquess of Lorne was one of five men on the queen's list and, to Byrne's mind, by no means the most promising. He'd felt sure, once he informed Victoria of the marquess's habitual attendance at certain disreputable gentlemen's clubs in London—including the infamous Cleveland Street Club—as well as the gentleman-only private parties and weekend hunts in the country (no ladies allowed), she would immediately eliminate the minor lord as a contender for her daughter's hand. Byrne had been shocked when the marquess rapidly vaulted to the top of her list.

This had awakened his curiosity.

Why would the Queen of England allow such a common—no, not even that—a
questionable
union? One that had the potential to result in scandal. Her three eldest daughters had married extremely well. Vicky, the Princess Royal, wed Prince Frederick William of Prussia. There was every reason to believe that “Fritz” would someday become emperor. Alice married Louis IV of Hesse and already had produced an heir and spares. Bashful Helena (known as Lenchen in the family) was only twenty-five but had presented her royal husband, Prince Christian of Schleswig-Holstein, with three babies.

Whereas, and this was what puzzled him and he noted in his journal:
The marquess of Lorne offers little more than a minor hereditary title and a modest Scotch duchy. As far as I can see, he has little money of his own and no skills other than a love of the hunt.

To Byrne's surprise, the newspapers barely blinked at the announcement of the engagement. Instead they gossiped that this must be a rare but true love match. All of London gushed at the romance of the pairing and dismissed the unsavory rumors involving Lorne.

But Stephen Byrne was a military man accustomed to ferreting out secrets. And he smelled a whopper.

He didn't have to wonder for long why a Scottish subject of the queen, with a less than gleaming reputation, might hold out hope of winning this particular English princess as his wife. While on an unconnected mission to the Isle of Wight, Byrne ran into two gruff old pub sitters. They were only too willing—for the price of a couple of pints—to gossip for his benefit on the subject of the royal family.

“Years back, when the princess was not much more'n a girl, she showed up on the island with only a tutor for company. Polite folks said her mama sent her here to study, away from London's distractions.”

“At Osborne House,” the other local man supplied, “the royal family's estate.”

“And what did folks who weren't so polite say?” Byrne asked, after offering another round of liquid lubrication.

The more talkative of the two leaned closer to the queen's agent. “Was a rumor, sayin' the queen was pure frantic to get her daughter away from boys at her school. Chaps that might lead her astray.” He winked.

In fact Byrne had already learned that Louise, who was perhaps seventeen or eighteen at the time, had been studying at the National Art Training School in South Kensington. Some of the students were a bit wild and experimented with strong drink, laudanum, and other drugs. He wouldn't have been shocked if sex had been part of the mix.

If Louise had gotten herself deflowered or, worse yet, knocked up, Byrne speculated the queen would have had more than enough reason to remove her daughter from her unsavory friends and shield her from court gossip. Aside from Louise's reputation as the wild child of Victoria's family (which might mean anything or nothing, given the shaky validity of London's rumor mill), if she was no longer a virgin her choice of husbands would be severely limited.

But Lorne—what if Lorne had his own secrets to hide? Even if he were innocent of what British law termed “debauchery,” a man with his eye on gaining status in society would make no complaint against a wife who came to him experienced, ruined, tarnished, compromised, or whatever label society cared to brand her with, particularly if she provided an entrée into the royal family.

Now, back at Buckingham, Byrne caught the eye of an equerry of the royal mews and handed over the reins of his horse. He strode toward the diplomatic entrance to the palace to report a different sort of news to the queen, but his mind lingered on Louise. What did a spirited young princess think of the match her mother had made for her? At the very least, it would seem, the queen had set her daughter up for a celibate life.

To his mind, this was an unthinkably cruel act and an utter waste of womanhood. The few times he'd been in a position to observe the princess, his body had responded with healthy approval. And, he'd noticed, he was not alone in his lust. The woman was a looker.

Louise's passing figure turned men's heads everywhere she went. Moreover he suspected she rather enjoyed the attention. Her eyes sparkled with sensual playfulness. The fact that she always behaved in the most proper way, at least whenever he'd observed her, made her all the more intriguing to men.

Distracted by these troubling thoughts, Byrne watched the gray, frost-covered paving stones pass beneath his feet without really seeing them. He crossed the courtyard, took the stone steps, approaching the door that would take him into the great hall and from there to the queen's private offices.

The heavy chestnut wood door, studded with fist-size iron bolts, swung open ahead of him. He paid no attention to whoever had conveniently opened it for him until it struck him that something solid blocked his way, entirely filling the doorway.

Forced to stop and wait until the object moved out of his path, Byrne looked up to find a towering, kilted John Brown, fists braced on his tree-trunk hips.

“And where do you think you're goin', laddie?” the Scot's voice rumbled.

Laddie?
Byrne glared up at the man. Even bareheaded, Brown gave the appearance of standing nearly to the height of the tallest of the queen's fur-helmeted Hussars.

“I'm on Her Majesty's business,” Byrne said. “She expects me.”

“She does, does she? You'll have to come back after she returns from the north.”

Byrne refused to be intimidated. Brown might have charmed the queen, but the American agent knew the man for what he was—an iron-nosed, hard-drinking bully.

“I need to see Her Majesty before she leaves for Balmoral.”

“She's with the prime minister.”

“Gladstone?”

“And Mr. Disraeli.”

“In the same room?” Benjamin Disraeli was the former PM and a fierce rival of Gladstone's. “She's a brave woman.”

“I'll not argue that,” Brown said. “Soon as I get those two rascals away from her, we're off. As it is, we're behind schedule. I don't intend to have her out on the road after dark tonight.”

“Then I'd better go straight in and give her an excuse to dismiss them.”

Brown folded his arms over his chest and stood firm. “Turn around, Raven, and fly away.”

Byrne narrowed his eyes at the other man. No one but Victoria called him Raven these days. The name
Byrne
was Irish for
blackbird
. Raven had been his code name during the American War between the States. The queen fancied pet names for those around her, and she seemed delighted to have discovered this one for him. “It sounds deliciously sinister,” she'd once told him. At the time he'd thought she must have been reading that queer American author, Mr. Poe.

He was trying to gauge how far to push Brown when a shriek of terror echoed through the castle and continued reverberating off the stone walls even as both men spun toward the cry.

“The kitchen?” Byrne said, thinking perhaps one of the maids had burnt herself or dropped a tray of china, although he'd heard no crash from the basement where the servants labored.

“The bairn's wing!” Brown shouted, as though to orient himself. The Scot drew a dirk of impressive length from his belt and took off at a loping run.

As Brown seemed to have forgotten him in the frenzy of the moment, Byrne took it upon himself to follow rather than find his own way to the trouble. He was far from familiar with the twisting halls of the palace, a veritable maze of hundreds of rooms.

High-pitched screeches to rival the performance of an operatic soprano echoed through the hallways, growing ever louder as they ran.

Definitely female,
he thought
. Definitely hysterical.
Two of them, he guessed, from the varying octaves.