Nan Ryan (10 page)

Six days ago they had left Fort Worth and traveled the short thirty miles to Dallas. The reception they’d received here had been as warm and rewarding as that in Fort Worth. And as profitable. Bond rallies had drawn huge crowds of monied tycoons eager to invest. And nightly parties and banquets had brought out the city’s glittering aristocracy.

Tonight was to be their final night in the city. At dawn tomorrow, they would board the royal train for the long journey south to San Antonio.

Montillion was well pleased.

“You must remember, at all times, that the princess royal was reared from birth in the hermetically sealed atmosphere of privilege,” Montillion continued to educate and instruct. “She had a German nursemaid, a Swiss dresser, and a French tutor.” He fell silent for a moment, shook his head, and, as if thinking out loud, said, “She never had the normal exchanges with other children. Therefore, she never learned the need for patience and unselfishness. As a child she never had to deal with sacrifice and challenge, was never called upon to cope with others’ feelings.” Montillion again paused thoughtfully for a moment, then stated, “However, you must never forget that a monarch’s personal and public character are revealing qualities.” He stopped speaking.

“Not to worry, Montillion,” the glowing, elegantly gowned Robbie Ann said, turning slightly to favor him with a full-lipped smile, not the least bit offended that he had told her these things over and over again. “I shall be so very regal no one will suspect that I’m not Her Royal Highness.”

Convinced, Montillion smiled back at her. Dressed for the evening’s glittering gala, she did not look like what she was—an actress of easy virtue. She was stunning. Regally beautiful in a long graceful gown of ice-blue chiffon. The gown’s tight bodice was cut so that her smooth ivory shoulders were attractively framed, but her full, rounded bosom was modestly covered. The princess’s sapphire-and-diamond necklace graced her pale, delicate throat. Her oval face was naked of paint and powder save for a hint of berry-stain color accentuating her full lips. Her exquisite emerald eyes were lined with a double row of thick silky lashes that were so inky black they had no need of further emphasis.

“I am finished. You may rise now, Your Highness,” said the baroness, playing her part with the pretty young woman she had so carefully dressed and coiffured.

The queenly, ginger-haired beauty stood. Montillion came to his feet, offered his hand. She took it, and together they retired to the suite’s spacious sitting room. There Montillion, totally dedicated to the success and welfare of his charge, told her, “This evening should be a fairly easy one for you. The governor’s carriage will arrive at eight thirty. You will be driven just down the street to the Baker Hotel. Dinner is to be served at precisely nine o’clock, and you will be seated between the mayor of Dallas and the Texas governor. After dinner, the dancing will begin at ten. Everyone will be dying for a dance with you, as usual. But you may, if you feel tired, leave anytime after eleven, explaining to your hosts that you must rise early tomorrow for our departure.” He paused and graciously inquired, “Are you up to such a full evening?”

“Am I up to it?” she repeated, a wide smile stretching her full lips “Are you teasing me? I absolutely adore attending these soirées and meeting all these rich, glamorous people. I could do this for the rest of my life!”

A slight warning frown flickered across Montillion’s face. He looked her straight in the eye and—for the first time ever—called her by a name other than Your Royal Highness. “Robbie Ann, my dear child, your enthusiasm is admirable and refreshing, but you must remember, at all times, that this extravagant existence you are now enjoying is only temporary. You are a great actress. You are playing a role in a show that will soon close.”

Robbie Ann’s wide smile slipped slightly. “I know. Yes, I know.” She sighed wistfully. “It’s going to be hard to give all this up.”

Montillion nodded knowingly. He understood fully. What young woman wouldn’t love having everyone agreeing with her, clinging to her every word, granting her every wish. Who wouldn’t relish being constantly treated with awe and deference? Who couldn’t fancy gliding through a gracious, gilded life as if surrounded by some bright mystical nimbus?

A knock on the suite’s heavy carved door drew Montillion from his reverie.

“The carriage is here, Your Highness,” he said in a loud, clear voice.

“My gloves, Montillion,” said Robbie, with a mere hint of pomposity.

He handed her the gloves, then whispered, “Curtain going up, my dear. Break a leg.”

Princess Marlena had been asleep for more than an hour, but it seemed as if it had been only a few minutes when she was jolted awake by the sudden sound of a gunshot.

Before she could scream, a loud, masculine voice shouted from a few yards away, “Identify yourselves or prepare to meet your maker!”

“Put the shotgun down, Cecil,” Virgil called out, “and come on out here.”

“Ranger Black? Virgil? That you?”

“None other,” shouted Virgil Black to the man who had not yet shown himself. “What’s the matter with you, Cecil? You’re jumpy as an old woman.” Virgil lifted the princess from the saddle, deposited her on the ground.

“What are you doing?” she asked, blinking up at him. “Why are we stopping here where some lunatic is shooting at us?”

“To buy you a horse,” he replied in a low, level voice.

She frowned, looked around, and saw a weathered log cabin tucked in among the pines. Beyond the house was a plank corral.

“I do
not
want a horse, thank you very much!” she said irritably, still jittery from the gunfire.

Virgil dismounted, stood close beside her. “Why, I thought you’d be pleased, Red. Surely you don’t want to ride all the way to El Paso in my arms.”

“Well, no, of course not, but …”

The cabin door flew open. “If you had a lick of sense, you’d be nervous too!” came a booming shout as a rangy, raw-boned man with salt-and-pepper hair and a mouth too full of teeth came hurrying toward them. “That really you, Virgil?”

“In the flesh.” Virgil turned to smile at the rancher.

Cecil Watson reached them. Clasping Virgil’s hand in a strong grip, he said, “You’re not here to arrest me, are you, Captain Black? Why I haven’t even cheated at cards in quite a spell.”

Smiling, Virgil said, “Then I guess I’ll let you up this time.” Cecil’s attention shifted to the princess. Virgil put his hand on her arm, drew her forward, said, “Cecil, this is Red. She and I are taking a little trip together, and she needs—”

“Help me, please,” the princess anxiously interrupted. “This dimwitted Ranger has me confused with someone else and he will not listen to reason! You see, I am Princess Marlena of Hartz-Coburg and I—I” She stopped speaking. Her head snapped around. She caught Virgil Black shaking his head and rolling his eyes as if to say she was delusional. She looked back at the rancher. He was grinning broadly, leaving little doubt that he didn’t—wouldn’t—believe a word she said. She sighed in exasperation and told them both, “I
am
Princess Marlena of Hartz-Coburg and you are a pair of fools who can both go to blazes!”

Cecil Watson chuckled merrily, clapped his hands, and said, “You’re a mighty fiery little thing, whoever you are.”

Virgil Black spoke. “As I was saying before being so rudely interrupted, Red needs a nice, gentle horse. Think you can help us out?”

“Got just the mare,” Cecil said, grinning, “A big dappled gray with great stamina. So docile a child would be safe on her, and as smart as they come.” His twinkling eyes on the princess, he said, “Wanna’ come have a look at her, miss?”

“I most certainly do not!”

“I’m sure the mare will be perfect,” Virgil said. “Why don’t you go on out and get her saddled while Red and I go inside so she can change clothes.”

“Mighty fine,” said Cecil Watson, nodding as he turned and headed for the corral.

“Change clothes?” the princess repeated acidly. “I can’t very well change clothes, now can I?
You
left all my luggage at the train depot, remember?”

“I’ll loan you some of mine.”

He turned to unstrap his gear from behind the cantle.

Her hands went to her hips. She said, “I would rather go naked in a blizzard than to wear anything that belongs to you.”

“Suit yourself,” he said calmly and restrapped the gear.

“I shall. And furthermore,” she told him, grabbing his arm, turning him to face her, “I have never been on a horse in my life and have no intention of learning to ride now and you can not make me.”

He said nothing, just looked at her with an unexpected flash of mocking humor glinting from his eyes as if he knew he could make her do most anything he wanted. She felt a premonitory twinge at the troubling thought. This man, she felt certain, would have control of any situation in which he was involved. Would he have control of her as well?

No. No, of course not. After all, he
was
a man. Men had always been drawn to her like wasps around a lump of sugar. This tall Texas Ranger might suppose he was so rugged and impenetrable that nothing could get to him, but he was wrong. He would fall victim to her charms just like all the others.

Then it would be she who was in control.

She watched in silence as Virgil Black unbitted the stallion and allowed him to dip his great head to the full water trough and drink contentedly. In minutes the rancher, Cecil Watson, was leading the saddled gray mare toward them.

As he came, he said, shaking his head, “Now it ain’t my place to ask why the two of you are ridin’ through the high country like you are.” He paused, hoping Virgil would volunteer the reason. Virgil said nothing. Cecil continued, “But I am obliged to warn you, Virgil, that it’s not safe to have a woman with you out on the trail.” He stopped, grinned at the princess, and added, “Especially such a pretty one.”

“You think she’s pretty?” Virgil said in a flat Texas twang, glancing pointedly at her, his blue eyes glacial. He shrugged wide shoulders. “I never noticed.”

The princess shot him a wilting look.

Cecil grinned broadly, clapped Virgil on the back, and indicating the long raw nail scratch on Virgil’s dark cheek, teased, “Looks to me like you did notice and she set you straight pronto.” He roared with laughter, then sobered and said, “I’m serious now, Virg, about it not bein’ safe. All them really bad thieves and thugs are back in New Mexico. J. J. Harlin, Saw Dust Charlie, Billy the Kid, Little Jack, the Cutter. Even the Pockmarked Kid.”

“So I hear,” said Virgil.

“Not to mention the Apaches,” Cecil went on as if Virgil hadn’t spoken. “They say that young, crazy chief Thunderfoot is so bad that when he gets his hands on a—”

“We’ll watch our step,” Virgil cut in, not giving Cecil the opportunity to say more.

He, like Cecil, had heard the grizzly, stomach-turning stories of what the wild young Apache did to defenseless white women. Thunderfoot was, it was said, like a cruel cat with a mouse. He enjoyed playful torture. He relished subjecting his helpless female victim to hours of sexual degradation, then he would set her free. Only to pounce on her again when the poor suffering soul thought she’d gotten away.

“Why don’t you two spend the night here?” Cecil offered. “Leave in the morning.”

“Thanks, but we better be getting on down the trail,” said Virgil, counting out some bills, paying the rancher a fair price for the mare and saddle. “There’s still a good three or four hours of sunlight.”

Nodding, Cecil stuffed the money in his shirt pocket, took the long leather reins of the dappled gray, and handed them to the princess. She looked at him, made a face, looked at Virgil with mean, snapping eyes, and shook her head forcefully.

“I am not riding this big ugly beast!”

“You’ll have to forgive Red,” Virgil said to Cecil. “She didn’t get her nap out and she’s a little cranky.”

In the blink of an eye he turned to her, put his hands on her waist, and lifted her up onto the gray. Perched precariously on the saddle, she protested loudly when Virgil, without so much as a by-your-leave, turned her about. Then casually lifted one of her legs up and over until she was seated astride, her stockinged knees exposed by her high riding skirts.

Her face red with humiliation and anger, she said, “I demand to at least have a sidesaddle! I cannot ride astride in a dress!”

Concerned with her dilemma, Cecil Watson apologized. “I’m sorry, Miss. I don’t have a single sidesaddle on the place.”

Virgil was not so sympathetic. Holding the reins of her mare, he swung up onto the back of his stallion. “I offered to loan you clothes more suitable for riding, but you refused.” He leaned down, extended a hand to Cecil Watson. “Much obliged to you, Cecil. Come on down to Texas for a visit real soon.”

“I will. I surely will,” said the smiling horse rancher. “And you give old True my regards.”

“Will do.” Virgil pulled his hat brim lower, reined the black around, and put him into a trot.

Her emerald eyes now wide with fright, her skirts blowing up into her face, Princess Marlena clung to the saddle horn and silently cursed the big bullying Ranger of Texas who was no part of a gentleman.

When her fear lessened a little as she became more accustomed to being alone atop a cantering horse, she glanced up at the Ranger to be sure he wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t. He was keeping the black a few feet ahead of the mare. His back was to her, his eyes on the trail.

So she reluctantly tore one hand from the saddle horn and attempted to push her dress and petticoats down over her knees. But as soon as she managed to cover one leg, the other would be exposed from midthigh to ankle. Frustrated, she kept jerking the skirts back and forth, this way, then that. She sighed. She groaned. She ground her teeth. She huffed and puffed.

And she felt her rising anger reach the boiling point when, without ever turning his head or glancing over his shoulder, the Ranger said in that irritating, slow Texas drawl she so despised, “Relax, why don’t you, Red. After all, I’ve seen your knees before.”

“I am not speaking to you!” she hissed.