The Wild Princess (5 page)

Suddenly Byrne feared the intelligence he'd come to report to the queen might have arrived too late.

Only that morning, he'd paid an informant for shocking news. The Fenians, Irish radicals, apparently had succeeded in doing what Scotland Yard and the Secret Service most feared. They'd brought in two explosives experts from outside of the country, intending to employ them in carrying out a dramatic attack. Their aim was to impress upon the world the importance of the Irish cause. His man couldn't say where or when they would strike, or even what the plot might entail. Only that it somehow involved the royal family.

Byrne's heart hammered within his ribcage. As fast as he was running, the Scot was pulling ahead of him, even though the man must have outweighed him by eighty or more pounds and didn't appear built for speed. Byrne caromed off a stone wall as he rounded a corner; pain shot through his elbow. His breath came in shallow, urgent puffs.

Why the hell did they make these places so damn
big
?

He pressed on as they shot up a flight of steps to the third floor. The screams had turned to sobs and weakening wails. He expected nothing short of a bloodbath.

At last he saw
them.

Two weeping females clung to each other just outside a closed door to one of the rooms in the children's wing. Brown descended on them in a powerful stride—a vengeful giant to be reckoned with. The pair fell back, looking more frightened than comforted by his appearance.

Byrne recognized the youngest of the princesses, Beatrice. A honey-haired, sweet-faced angel of a child. The older woman, in cap and dark-colored day gown, he didn't recognize but guessed from her garb she might be the girl's governess or nurse.

No blood visible yet. Praise be.

“What is it then?” Brown bellowed. “Stop yer catterwallin' and tell me what's wrong, woman!”

The governess waved a limp hand toward the closed door. Byrne drew his Bowie knife from his boot by its carved bone grip and let himself into the room without waiting for Brown. He closed the door softly behind him, lowering himself into a half crouch. A fighter's stance. The muscles of his legs tensed, ready to spring, should he need to move fast.

Pulse racing, eyes hot with anticipation of an attack, he surveyed the room, prepared for the worst. A dead body. An armed intruder. But then why would the women retreat only as far as the other side of a door? Wouldn't that leave their assailant free to pursue them?

Had a bomb been lobbed through the window and failed to detonate? Surely he would have heard the explosion if there had been one. But there was no shattered glass, no smoke, no blaze, no biting metallic scent of black powder. And no Fenian soldier pounced on him with knife or pistol, or tried to escape out one of the windows or through any of the three doors leading out of the expansive bedchamber.

Whoever had frightened the princess and her companion must already have escaped. The question was, escaped to where? If one or more intruders were loose in the castle, the queen was in danger. Brown needed to alert the captain of the guard and—

Byrne's whirling mind clicked into focus at the sight of two dark shapes, followed by a third, scurrying from beneath the princess's bed. They sped across the lovely crimson-and-leaf-green tapestry carpet. All three hairy, squat vermin leaped up onto a small table that had been set for tea with cakes and fruit and delicate china. A long ropelike tail whipped around, sending a teacup and saucer crashing to the floor.

“Rats,” he groaned, relieved but still wary of worse. How the hell had they made their way up to the third floor with hundreds of staff constantly cleaning, polishing, and on the lookout for intruders or the least unpleasantness? Impossible. Unless . . .

Unless someone who wasn't considered an intruder intentionally made a delivery.

His eyes swept the room, nerves sparking like flint on steel. Ignoring the beasts while he searched from floor to ceiling, from armoire to canopied bed. He stopped at a small square of paper—a note?—pinned to the heavy damask draperies surrounding the princess's bed as protection from drafts. He snatched up the paper, stuffed it into his coat pocket, not daring to take the time to read it until he was satisfied that no one lurked in the room to cause further threat.

The door to the hallway flew wide. One of the rats dashed toward the light.

“Shut it!” he shouted at Brown.

The Scot stepped inside and slammed the door behind him. Byrne didn't need to point out the mangy creature racing toward him. Before the thing recognized its mistake, Brown's immense boot came down on its head with a dull crunch.

It lay still.

“The women said there was three of 'em,” Brown snarled. “Nothin' more. Just bloody rats.”

“Right. Two there on the tabletop, having their tea.” They seemed undisturbed by the men's presence, so delighted were they to discover the feast.

“How did they get in?”

Byrne shrugged. “How the hell do I know? Isn't palace security your job?” Not officially, of course. But since the Highlander seemed determined to claim for himself the roll of bodyguard to the queen, to Byrne's mind he might as well take responsibility for this invasion of the private quarters.

Brown glared at him, his face going beet red with anger. “Did you know about this? Was this why you insisted on seeing her?”

“No, not this. Listen, can you deal with things here? I honestly need to speak with Victoria. She'll be in that much more of a hurry to leave as soon as she hears about the rats.”

The Scot gave a snort and a nod of his bearish head. “I'll be done with these filthy demons in two shakes. You talk fast, Raven. I'm gettin' her out of here quick as I can.”

Byrne flew out through the door, slamming it behind him. A bevy of tittering servants, along with a half dozen ladies and gentlemen of the court, had gathered in the hallway. They fell silent, their eyes fixed on the eight-inch blade in his right hand. He sheathed the knife. Behind him, a stream of oaths and the sounds of furniture and fragile things crashing to the floor came through the door to the bedchamber. He smiled. Maybe the rats were more of a challenge than Brown had expected.

“Everything's under control now,” Byrne said to his wide-eyed audience. “Feel free to return to whatever you were doing. No need for concern.” As most started to move away, he pulled the piece of paper he'd found out of his pocket and read it for the first time.

His blood ran cold as a December night.

Cursing under his breath, he tucked it away again. He cut a path through the lingering crowd toward the woman who had set off the alarm with Princess Beatrice. The governess looked calmer now, though still pale and red-eyed with fright.

“Excuse me, miss. Was anyone other than the two of you in the room?”

She stared at him, pressing a handkerchief over her mouth. “I . . . well, no. Why would there be?”

“Can't you see she's upset? Leave her alone.”

He spun toward the scolding voice. Princess Louise.

Beatrice had stepped into the arms of her older sister while he'd been in the room. Louise must have arrived at Buckingham earlier that morning from the private estate where she'd stayed with her husband after the wedding.

Louise glared at him, her eyes flashing reproof.

It struck him that this was the first time he'd seen her up close, less than an arm's reach away. Everything he'd heard and thought about her was true. She
was
beautiful, stunningly so. The woman gave off a light—no, more like a brilliant energy that played havoc with his senses. If other females glowed as candles that brightened a room, Louise was one of those newfangled electric lightbulbs, outshining a score of flames.

Her charm was unconventional though. He could see that now. Not every man would appreciate her. She wore a simple day dress of pale yellow, without a bustle, thereby showing off her natural figure. The color was a bold contrast to the dark fabrics of the day's somber, far more formal styles. And she'd left her hair brushed loose and shining down her back, as if she were still a young girl. Or at least young at heart.

He shook sense back into his head and finally managed to form words. “I beg your pardon, Your Royal Highness. I need to know if an intruder or anyone at all—staff, maids, a messenger—was admitted to your sister's room.”

“No, sir!” Beatrice burst out. “There were just those disgusting, horrid rats.” She blinked up at him, eyes bright with tears, face splotchy as a toddler's after a weepy tantrum. “I saw them first. Glowing eyes beneath my bed when I bent down to retrieve a pencil I'd dropped.”

“And a letter? Did you see a note of any kind?”

“No.”

“You're sure?” The words came out more harshly than he'd intended.

“I-I'm pretty sure.” The girl's voice broke. She stared at him, her lower lip trembling as if he had scolded her.

Louise rocked her sister in her arms. “Please, can't this wait? What purpose is served by reminding her of the filthy beasts? And how can knowing whether there were two or twenty people in the room, or letters were left about . . . how can that matter?” She stroked Beatrice's long blond hair with heartbreaking tenderness. “The creatures must have come in through the air vent. Awful things. Now please, do leave us.”

There was extraordinary determination and power in her voice, and in those lovely sky blue eyes, although they looked everywhere but directly at him. She seemed frustrated that he was ignoring her attempts to dismiss him, as if she wasn't accustomed to the help ignoring her commands.
A little bit of her mother in her,
he thought. But he suspected she was more upset than angry, only trying to protect her little sister from further distress.

And she was right about one thing.

Whether or not the governess and young princess saw the note was of little importance. It must have arrived at the same time as the rats. And now that he knew that neither the little princess nor the woman with her had seen anyone in the room, he also knew that both rodents and letter must have been delivered while they were away from the room. Because he was certain that the rats' appearance was not by way of their wandering randomly through vents in the walls. They were meant to cause hysteria, to strike fear in royal breasts. And where better to accomplish that than in the intimacy of the youngest family member's privy chamber?

“I'm sorry,” Byrne said. “I'll go immediately and inform the queen of the situation.”

He was halfway down the hallway when he heard light steps running after him.

“Wait! Wait there. Don't you go a step farther, sir.”

He slowed down, smiling at Louise's challenge even before he turned to face her. But he kept walking backward, wanting to get to Victoria before Brown finished with his rat extermination.

“Yes, Your Royal Highness?”

Louise marched toward him, looking a force to be reckoned with. Shoulders back, head high, eyes aflame—absolutely breathtaking. “Who
are
you, sir, and what exactly are you doing in the family quarters?”

He laughed, amused. She was challenging
him
? He stopped his backward march and planted his feet, forcing her to come to an abrupt halt in front of him.

“My name is Stephen Byrne. I'm here under the authority of Her Royal Majesty's Secret Service, on a mission of dire importance. And you are delaying me, Princess.” He gave her a stony look . . . which seemed to have no effect whatsoever.

“And exactly what mission is that, sir?” Her eyes dropped from his face, down the length of his outfit.

At first he thought her gaze critical of his choice of clothing. Many people in London were. But his garments satisfied more practical requirements than the fashion of the day. The leather duster and vest were a kind of armor, offering far more protection from a knife attack or even a fall from a horse than any cloth topcoat. Plus it hid the Colt strapped to his hip. And he favored for durability the sturdy dark blue canvas material and riveted seams of his pants over anything available in England.

Too late, he realized his garments weren't what interested her. He followed her gaze to the paper corner peeking from his pocket. Before he could stop her, Louise had reached out and plucked the note away.

“Is this it? Is this the letter you were asking my sister about?”

“Give that to me.”

Louise lifted a brow at his tone, ignored his outstretched hand, and muttered something about manners and Americans.

She uncrumpled the scrap of paper. Her eyes flicked over the words before he snapped it out from her fingertips.

The lovely heat in her cheeks drained away to white ash. She looked away from him and anchored her bottom lip between her teeth, as though trying to process what she'd just read.

“Now that you've seen,” he said, “you'll know why I need to speak with your mother. Immediately.”

“Yes, yes of course.” A hand fluttered to her throat. She wavered on her feet.

Instinctively, he clasped his hand around her arm to steady her. Within the delicate goldenrod fabric, she felt fragile to his touch. He released his grip almost at once for fear of bruising her.