Nan Ryan (38 page)

“It quickly became a serious romance, and Miss Montez, at the king’s request, stayed on in Hartz-Coburg when the rest of the troupe left for London. She agreed to take up residence in a little-used royal summerhouse at the seashore down the mountain-side from the palace. Soon she was carrying his child. You. When she was six months pregnant, the queen became pregnant with Princess Marlena.

“After your birth, the queen learned of your existence and insisted the king send both you and your mother out of the country, lest her own child’s ascendance to the throne be threatened.”

Robbie Ann frowned, puzzled. “How could my existence have threatened the princess’s right to the throne?”

Montillion hurried on with the story. “Financial arrangements were hastily made with your mother, and the two of you were sent to America with her sworn promise that neither of you would ever return to Hartz-Coburg. And, that no one would ever be told of your true parentage.”

Montillion was quick to explain that it had always been quite fashionable and totally acceptable for a sovereign to take a beautiful actress for his mistress. If Miss Montez had not become pregnant, the affair would have gone on for as long as she held the king’s interest.

Robbie Ann’s green eyes sparkled, and she asked, “Are queens allowed to conduct affairs with handsome young men?”

Montillion colored. “In some monarchies, it has been known to occur.”

“You know, the more I learn about the power and privilege of royalty, the more I think I’d fit right in!” She laughed and tossed her head saucily. “Oh, don’t look so horrified, I was only teasing. You’ve spent the last three weeks with me, and I haven’t embarrassed you once, now have I?”

“Your behavior has been exemplary. No royal has ever behaved more admirably.”

“Why, thank you, Monty.” Impulsively she reached out, touched his sleeve, and said, “And thanks for telling me who I am. You don’t know what it’s like to wonder who your father was. No matter how many times I begged my mother to tell me his name and where he lived, she always refused. She would only say that ‘he was a handsome European sovereign with whom she had been madly in love.’“

Montillion pointed out, “She had no choice. Her continued silence was an important part of the bargain that was struck when the financial arrangements were made.”

“I understand now. She couldn’t tell me.” Robbie sighed softly. “And those ‘anonymous remittances’ that I’ve received through the years … they came from the royal family?”

“Yes. Handled through our agent here in America.”

“That’s how you knew where to find me. You’ve kept up with my whereabouts all these years.”

“I have. And I’ve wondered about you more than you’ll ever know.”

Her somber expression quickly changing, she flashed him a smile as bright as the Texas sun, and asked, “Will I continue to receive my ‘anonymous remittances’ after this?”

He chuckled merrily. “They can no longer be anonymous, but yes, you will still receive them. And, for giving such a laudable performance these past weeks, you may also keep, as payment for a job well done, the valuable emerald necklace that the wealthy San Antonian, Mr. Andrew Forester, so generously donated to the crown.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Why, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do” he said.

And they laughed together.

41

It was late afternoon
when Virgil returned to True’s little adobe house. The princess was on the porch, waiting impatiently for him.

She rose on trembling legs when he dismounted, rushed anxiously out to meet him, and said without preamble, “True is asleep. But I shall never be able to sleep again until I convince you that I am not who you think I am.”

Virgil unhurriedly looped Noche’s long leather reins over the hitch rail, then turned slowly to face her, and said, “And just who do I think you are?”

“An entertainer you met in a Las Cruces saloon who took you to bed!”

Virgil gave her a cynical half smile. “And if you are not she, how would you know this?”

“Because, my dearest,” she said, impulsively wrapping her arms around his trim waist, “she is the woman my factor, Montillion, hired to take my place on the bond tour. A ginger-haired singer he found in a Las Cruces saloon called the Silver Dollar. A woman billed as the Queen of the Silver Dollar.”

Head tipped back, looking up at him, she read both relief and despair in his beautiful brooding blue eyes. Hugging him tightly for a long memorable minute, she released him, then stepped back. “Come with me, Captain.”

Virgil followed her. She led him to the porch where they sat down on the steps side by side. Talking rapidly, she told him that she was not the Queen of the Silver Dollar as he thought her to be. She was a royal princess and she would prove it. She would send a wire to Montillion and have him come to El Paso at once.

Virgil lifted his arms, raked long fingers through his raven hair, then pressed his temples with the heels of his hands. Exhaling heavily, he gazed at the western horizon where the sun was slipping below the serrated mountain peaks.

Finally, he said, “That won’t be necessary.”

“Why not? All I have to do is send a … a … what is it?”

Virgil turned and looked directly at her. “I stopped by Ranger headquarters while I was out. Your factor, Montillion, has wired my commanding officer, telling him of the horrendous mistake I made. And to say that the royal train will arrive in El Paso in the morning to … to—” he paused, swallowed, and his jaw tightened noticeably, “to take you home.”

“So you do believe me? You know that I am telling the truth.”

“Yes,” he said, “I know.”

“Oh, Virgil, that’s wonderful!” she cried happily, and threw her arms around his neck.

Her forehead resting against his chin, she realized, quite suddenly, that it wasn’t so wonderful after all. It meant that tonight was to be her last night with Virgil. An involuntary tremor raced through her slender body. She lifted her head, looked into Virgil’s half-shuttered eyes, and saw her own despair mirrored there.

“Oh, darling,” she said on a sob, “kiss me.”

His tortured gaze dropped to her soft, trembling lips. A muscle spasmed at the comer of his mouth.

But before he could kiss her, True stepped onto the porch, yawning.

“Why didn’t y’all wake me? Why, I’ve slept the entire afternoon away. Now I’ll be awake all night. Won’t be able to sleep a wink.”

The couple seated on the porch steps exchanged quick looks of disappointment. The prospect of having True wide awake until far into the night was frustrating. They needed to be alone. They needed to talk and touch and kiss and … say good-bye before tomorrow came.

The princess felt panicky. She didn’t think she could bear it if she and Virgil were never to be alone again. There was so much she wanted to say to him. So much she wanted to hear him say to her.

She was in agony as the minutes ticked away and late afternoon turned into evening. When the sun had set completely and twilight settled in, True finally rose from his rocking chair and asked if she would help him cook supper. She agreed and preceded him to the kitchen. Virgil, following them in, took the opportunity to bathe, shave, and change into clean clothes.

When the meal was almost ready, True said to the princess, “You can call Virgil in now.”

“Here I am,” said Virgil, stepping into the kitchen doorway, filling it with his tall, lean frame.

And taking the princess’s breath away. Looking, oh, so handsome in a freshly laundered white shirt and faded, neatly pressed denim pants, Virgil took his place at the table without glancing at her. But she couldn’t keep her eyes off him.

His strong masculine presence had never been quite so exciting and potent. Nor had he ever been more good-looking. His jet black hair, still damp from his bath, gleamed in the lamplight as he bent his head slightly to take a forkful of food.

When he picked up a tumbler of iced tea, her attention was drawn to his hands. To those beautiful, brown, long-fingered hands. She felt her breath grow short and her stomach clench. She looked away, silently praying that those lean dark hands would touch her again, all over, at least one more time.

When Virgil finished eating, he complimented them both on the superb meal, pushed his chair away from the table, turned it side ways, and lit a slim brown cigar. Then he sighed, leaning back in his chair, his long body stretched out, legs crossed at the ankles.

He looked totally relaxed and at ease, and the princess felt her spirits sink. How could he be so … uncaring? How could he sit there in calm repose while she was so edgy, she was about to jump out of her skin? She was heartsick. This time tomorrow night she would be gone out of his life forever, yet he wasn’t at all upset.

She was.

More upset than she had ever been in her life. So miserable the pain was almost physical. The unhappy princess rose from the table and reached for Virgil’s empty plate. Her breath caught when his hand shot out and his tapered fingers firmly encircled her fragile wrist, stopping her.

Never releasing his hold on her, he said, “True, think you can manage the dishes by yourself?”

“Been managing for the past thirty years, so I expect I can,” said True, his gray eyes twinkling. “Why? Y’all got something better to do?”

Virgil gave no reply. He snuffed out his cigar in an ashtray. Then he came to his feet, drew the princess gently by the wrist around the table to him. He released her wrist, gently turned her about, and with his open hand at her back, guided her through the house and out the front door. Her heart thrumming with anticipation and excitement, she didn’t ask where they were going. She didn’t care so long as she was with him.

When Virgil lifted her up into the saddle atop Noche, she knew he meant for them to ride tandem. She was glad. She wanted to be as close to him as possible.

Without a word, Virgil unwound the reins from the hitch post, drew them up over Noche’s neck, and swung up behind the princess. He wheeled the big black around and galloped him down the narrow, dusty road.

Encircled in his long arms, a foolish smile of pleasure on her face, the princess relaxed against Virgil, loving the feel of the night wind in her face and the solid support of his firm chest at her back. When Virgil put Noche into a comfortable, long-strided lope, she sighed and wished that this ride never had to end. She wished she could spend eternity astride this big, dark, powerful stallion, wrapped in the arms of this big, dark, powerful man.

She wished—sincerely wished—that she were not a royal princess, but was instead the saloon singer he had taken her to be. If she were really the Queen of the Silver Dollar, she could stay there in Texas with him. She could, if she were the saloon singer, spend the rest of her days trying to make him love her as she loved him. As it was, she would spend the rest of her days trying to make herself forget how much she loved him.

When the winded stallion reached the rocky outcroppings of the Franklin Mountains, Virgil drew rein. Snorting and blowing, Noche came to a plunging halt. The princess turned her head, looked up at Virgil’s strong masculine profile struck by the moonlight.

He glanced down at her and finally spoke, “I brought you way out here because I had to be alone with you one last time if only for a little while.”

“I’m so glad,” she replied honestly. “Back at the house, you seemed so relaxed, so totally at ease. I thought you didn’t want—”

“Sweetheart, sweetheart,” he said, “I wasn’t relaxed at all, I was miserable.” He smiled then and said, “It was like last night when I couldn’t get away from the don. Remember?”

“I’ll never forget,” she said, smiling back at him.

“You trust me now, don’t you?”

“With my life,” she answered truthfully.

Pointing, he directed her attention to one of the mountains’ jutting peaks. She gazed at a unique spire of rock that rose well above its two neighboring crests. It looked like the sharp, slender blade of a knife.

“You can’t see it from here,” Virgil said, “but at the pinnacle, there’s a smooth, flat mesa about the size of True’s front parlor. It’s a special place to me. When I’m up there, it’s like I’m alone in the world. The trail up is so perilous, no one ever intrudes.”

“Can we go up there?” she asked.

Those were the words Virgil wanted to hear. “That’s why I asked if you trust me. I want to take you up, but I know how terrified you are of heights. As I said, the trail up is treacherous. So if you’d rather not … if you’re afraid, I—”

“I’m afraid of nothing so long as I’m with you.”

Not trusting his voice, Virgil didn’t reply. His heart hurt. And he knew it was going to hurt a whole lot worse tomorrow.

42