Seducing the Princess (26 page)

Gregory pounded another nail into a pine board, reinforcing the shutters from inside the stable while the wind did its best to tear them off from the other side. The sound of the gale was horrendous, like a monstrous steam locomotive barreling down upon the island.

Whack.
Words!
Whack
. Her words!
Whack
. Words lost in the howling wind.
His hammer hand telegraphed pain up his arm with each violent strike.

What had the bitch shouted at him as she fell?

Marie Devereaux was taunting him, that was clear enough. But he’d caught only a few words, ripped from her lips by the wind. Even more troubling was that final defiant glare she’d given him. She’d actually seemed pleased. How could that be? She was about to die and she
knew
it!

He plucked another nail from the canvas carpenter’s pouch at his waist, impaled the slat, putting so much force behind the blow, the wood split. “Bloody hell!”

So what now? Assuming he’d never know what the girl had said, dare he proceed as planned?

If he didn’t follow through, he’d have Wilhelm to answer to. Strangely, the German prince’s wishes seemed less important now. Gregory’s reason for wanting Beatrice had changed in the past couple of weeks. Willy required a spy; Beatrice was merely a means to an end, as far as he was concerned. Any connection within the royal household would have done. But Gregory needed her because she was his ticket to the life he deserved. A life of privilege and ease as a gentleman. A life of unimaginable wealth that required nothing more than charming a fat old woman and her daughter. After a while, he’d be relieved of even those obligations. Once the queen made him part of the family, they’d be hard put to kick him out without creating scandal.

Whack.
You’re worrying over nothing.

He thought about the way he’d handled Beatrice’s, and the queen’s, concerns over the missing French woman. He’d acted suitably worried, pretended to be as much at a loss for an explanation as they were. They hadn’t seemed in the least suspicious.

But his mind kept replaying Marie’s parting words, the few he was absolutely sure he had heard above the storm surge:
You’ll hang!

Well, of course the woman had wanted to lob one last pathetic, futile threat at him. Aside from those two words, he’d understood only one more:
kept
.

Kept what? Kept her promise to him? Or maybe, she was saying she’d kept her child safe. Well, that was laughable. Once the money she sent for her bastard’s maintenance stopped, there was little chance the brat would end up anywhere but in a workhouse, or on the street with the rest of Paris’s orphans.

Clearly, Marie hadn’t confided in Beatrice or the queen that she had a child, or that he had blackmailed her into helping him. If she had, the women would have confronted him.

“Mr. MacAlister, sir, all is nailed down that can be.”

Gregory looked out from his darkest thoughts and down the wooden ladder on which he stood. Two junior grooms stood at its foot. “Good lads. Go on then, catch yourselves a sleep. But be ready to wake and calm the horses if necessary.”

“Yes, sir,” the younger one said, looking more excited than frightened.

“And the search, for the missing lady, sir?” the older boy asked.

“Not yet. If the storm weakens during the night, we go out at dawn. Until then, we’ll see nothing in this devil’s soup.”

The boys took off. Outside, the wind’s scream pitched higher. It reminded him of Meggie’s wail of pain when he’d felled her with the rock. He shook off the stab of guilt. The Frenchie meant nothing to him. But that other memory was the price he’d pay his life long. Meggie, he really had loved her. Still, he’d do it all over again if it meant he’d get the princess as his prize.

He climbed down the ladder, looked along the dim alley between stalls. Horses snuffled nervously. Somewhere far back in the barn, one of them repeatedly kicked a hoof against a rail, setting up a hollow rhythm that sounded like a drum beat in a funeral dirge. All the animals were edgy, ears pricked, eyes rolling. Horse hell.

Gregory put away his tools and strolled over to the stable door that faced the stone mansion. He rolled the door open a crack on its iron tracks, and peered across the yard in the direction of Osborne House. The rain slanted away in solid blasts, a gray wall that completely blocked out the house. Not so much as a single chimney, tower, or gable visible.

He looked behind him. The lads were mostly all busy, bedding down. Gregory pulled up his coat collar, tugged his cap down low over his ears, and launched himself at a run, into the storm and toward where the house should be, if it hadn’t blown away.

He was less than six feet from the servants’ entrance before he saw the stone foundation loom up before him through the maelstrom. He caught himself against the building’s wall. A sentry came to alert and shouted a challenge. The man looked miserable, standing out there in the downpour in helmet and what looked like a tarpaulin slung over his shoulders. Gregory identified himself and signaled that he wanted to access the kitchen. The soldier waved him inside, looking envious.

Gregory shouldered open the door; the wind caught it and slammed it shut behind him. Breathing hard he stood for a moment, listening to the house. Not a sound. All had gone to their beds. He stood dripping on the stone floor, thinking about what to do next.

Beatrice’s bedroom was two floors above the basement kitchen. Marie had told him that’s where hers was as well, just next to the princess’s. But exactly which room it was, he didn’t know.

He removed his boots then his Macintosh and hung it on a peg by the door with others belonging to staff. Miraculously, his shirt had remained dry. His pants were soaked through from cuff to knee, but there was nothing to be done about that. In stocking feet, he stealthily moved through the servants’ parlor to the back stairs used by the staff so as not to be seen while carrying out their daily tasks.

When he reached the floor dedicated to the royals’ rooms he padded silently along the plush crimson carpeting. The low flames of the gilded gas sconces cast a murky, mustardy light on a long row of closed doors. He was suddenly terrified that, whatever door he chose, it might be the wrong one. If caught, he had no excuse for being here. None at all.

So much was at stake. He couldn’t afford to make a foolish mistake now.

He froze, debating whether to take the risk and just start opening doors.

It was at that moment Gregory saw a tiny square of color stuck to a door on the left side of the hallway. Soundlessly, he moved closer. A note. He pulled the paper free.

Marie, please come to my room and wake me, regardless of the time
. HRH Princess Beatrice

He smiled. Puzzle solved. This was Marie’s room. If she’d kept anything she had hoped to use against him, he’d find it.

Beatrice startled at the sound of the door latch clicking open.
Marie? At last!

She stood up from where she’d been sitting on the edge of the bed, sorting through papers she’d found in a box in the bottom drawer of Marie’s dresser. Her heart soared with hope then just as quickly crashed when she saw it wasn’t her lady at all.

“Gregory, what are you doing here?”

Her mother’s groom visibly flinched, apparently not having seen her until she spoke. “I-I was just…” He looked over his shoulder into the hallway, as if wanting to turn back the way he’d come, then glanced down at the piece of paper in his hand. He laid it on the fireplace mantle. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness. I thought—“

“This is Marie Devereaux’ room. Whose were you looking for? All of the grooms are rooming in the loft over the stables, are they not?” He must have known he didn’t belong in this part of the house because she was sure she saw a flash of guilt in his eyes.

“Yes, Princess, of course.” His gaze swept the room then snapped back to fix sharply on her. “The queen,” he said.

“What about the queen?”

“She asked that I search for Mademoiselle. Don’t you remember?”

“Yes, search the grounds and island, after the storm passes.” She narrowed her eyes at him, wondering at his brazenness, daring to enter the private domain of the royal family without permission. She was certain her mother hadn’t given it.

“And since we can’t search outside for hours,” he continued, “and your lady has been missing this long, I thought it important I begin right away. Inside the house.” His eyes skipped around the room again, seeing to take in its dishevelment—clothing, books, papers, tossed and piled here and there, marking the trail of Beatrice’s frantic hunt. “I thought, well, if there’s any place we might find a clue to where she went, we’d find it in her room.” He smiled.

She considered his excuse and, at last, let out a held breath. “Yes, of course, exactly what I thought.” She waved an arm across the mess. “As you can see, I’ve done my worst with this room, but I’ve found—” she hesitated, thinking of the letter revealing the child “—I’ve found nothing.”

“Nothing?” His expression—half pleased, half vexed—puzzled her. “Really. Not a hint at where we might find her?”

She breathed in, out—and felt a crinkling sensation against her chest. She’d tucked the note from the child’s caretaker in France down inside her dress bodice, to make sure she didn’t lose it. “Sadly, no clues at all.”

“Ah well.” He studied her for a moment then stepped closer. “You must be exhausted, Your Highness. If there’s anything more to find, though I doubt there is as you’ve given the place a good tumble, why not let me give it a try. You should rest.”

Beatrice bit down on her bottom lip and looked around the room again. She’d searched everywhere, hadn’t she? Surely if anything was worth finding, she’d have come across it by now. “Well, look if you like. Poor Marie, I’m becoming so worried about her. What if she’s out there in the storm even now, injured and helpless?”

“Then we’ll find her in the morning.” He stepped closer and shook his head in sympathy. “How bad can it possibly be? If she twisted an ankle and can’t walk back to the house, I’m sure she’s smart enough to shelter somewhere until she can be found. A little soggy and cold, but she’ll survive.”

“I hope you’re right.” Beatrice said, thinking she indeed was tired and would go to her room. She must have been standing much nearer to Gregory than she realized because, when they both turned at the same time, her breast brushed his chest. He reached out and closed a strong hand around her arm, stopping her.

She looked up at him, not surprised this time but ready to reprimand him for breaching protocol, again. The soft longing in his eyes stopped her. “What is it Gregory?”

He frowned. “Have you ever wished with all of your heart for something you believed was beyond your reach, Princess?”

“What?” She laughed. “This is a new side of you. Have you turned poet?”

“Please, Bea, don’t mock me.”

He bent still closer, bringing her focus to his mouth, a sensuous mouth. She felt enveloped in his manly scent—the freshness of the outside air, sea salt, horse flesh, leather. Beatrice shut her eyes just long enough to regain her composure and quell the little shiver of arousal.

“Gregory.” She laughed nervously. “One of us needs to leave this room.”

“I just want you to know, Your Highness. I will always be your defender, your champion, no matter how you feel about me.” He rushed on before she could interrupt. “But I am only a man. I can’t control the passion that wells up inside of me whenever—”

“Stop,” she said firmly, suddenly embarrassed. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You saved my life that day in the park. And you’ve done a lot to make my mother happy, because of her attachment to her horses. But—”

“But you would never accept me as your lover?”

Her breath caught in her throat. Hadn’t she at least once fantasized such a thing? Knowing Henry was lost to her. Despising the idea of living out the rest of her years, a lonely virgin?

“No,” she said, suddenly sure of herself. If love waited for her, somewhere, sometime, it was with a man other than Gregory MacAlister. Her mind might become muddled at times, but her heart spoke clearly to her. Feeling relieved, and generous in light of her decision, she determined to hurt his feelings no more than was necessary.

“Dear Gregory.” She removed his fingers from around her arm and touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Can we not just be friends?” Hadn’t Louise set her an example, befriending commoners, believing they were every bit as worthy of her friendship as people with titles?

He gave her a fraction of a smile although no light touched his eyes. “Friends then,” he said stiffly. “Of course, Princess. And you still have my promise of loyalty.”

“For which I’m grateful.” She lowered her hand from his shoulder. “Now, if you like, continue the search—here and elsewhere in the castle. I shall see if I can get some rest and plan on joining the search party as soon as calmer weather calms makes it safe for us to venture out. In the meantime, if you do find her—”

“I will send her directly to you,” he promised.

“Good.” She was halfway through the door to her own chamber when he spoke again.

“I’m glad you at least trust me.”

Beatrice cast him a final smile over her shoulder.

When she’d shut the door behind her, she stood for a moment with her back pressed against the heavy wooden panel. It felt reassuringly solid.

Odd
, she thought, remembering the slip of paper he’d laid on the mantle in the other room.
Why did he take the note off the door?

Beatrice slid the bolt home on the connecting door then did the same to the hallway door. She stepped close to the dying embers of the fire Marie would have prevented from going out during the chill night. Suddenly, she felt terribly cold.

Gregory looked around the room. Beatrice had torn it to pieces. “Kept,” he muttered. “Kept…kept…kept
what
, my little French traitor?”

There was only one thing he could imagine might have given the doomed woman the strength to laugh in his face.
The letters
. He had instructed her to burn them. What if she hadn’t?