The Runaway Princess (14 page)

Yet if he didn't distract himself, and soon, all his restraint would be for naught. He would send Victor and Rafaello away and pounce on Evangeline. On poor, exhausted, bruised Evangeline.

Turning his head, he spoke to his men. “Damned rebels. When they jumped on me from the trees, they almost ripped my arms from my sockets.”

“They cracked my head half open,” Victor added enthusiastically. “And I suspect I shall bleed on and off all night.”

“Oh, yeah?” Rafaello joined in. “They slammed me against a rock. I think they broke my ribs.”

Danior relaxed a little of his tension. This kind of talk he understood; a comparison of wounds, a bit of boasting about who had sustained the most damage. “All in all I think they were saving us for later, like spiders who have caught too many flies.”

Evangeline sucked in a breath. “I don't feel well,” she choked, and her hands fell away from Danior's neck.

Evangeline never actually lost consciousness. She
heard Danior's cry, and felt hands, Victor's or Rafaello's, grab her as she fell. They laid her out on the ground on a cloak, and the chill woke her completely. “I'm well,” she said.

Danior paid no attention. “She's not well.”

“She's a lady,” Rafaello said. “She's too delicate for this grueling trek.”

Victor snorted. “She claims she's not a lady.”

She tried to sit up, but nausea lapped at her, and she sank back. “I just couldn't listen to that gruesome report.”

“We were trying to distract you,” Danior said in obvious irritation.

Turning her head away, she groaned.

His hands reached for her, touched her with remarkable gentleness, skimmed over her throat, her shoulders, down her arms. “You
are
hurt.”

She didn't care how impersonally he was handling her, she wasn't about to let him run his fingers over her torso and points in between. “It's my foot!”

The hands stopped. “Of course.” Standing, he stepped away, and spoke to the bodyguards in a low tone.

She lay on her back and looked up at the sky, trying to imagine a gown of such smooth velvet accented by a handful of twinkling silver spangles. She couldn't. She shivered weakly, her teeth clinking together.

Ever vigilant, Danior twitched the edge of the cloak over her. She fingered it. Rough wool, the scent of wood smoke and tobacco—it must have come from the camp. Rafaello or Victor had filched it.

An argument ensued, and she heard, “A cut foot!” uttered with great indignation. And, “Dominic will be watching there.”

Wrapping her hands around her arms, she wished desperately to be back in England with its scuttling clouds and constant fogs. She wasn't some delicate lady, but neither was she a hardened veteran of war. Her swoon humiliated her, yet she was bruised from rough hands, her wrists burned from the rope, and her foot throbbed with such intensity that she feared a killing infection.

When she'd lived in East Little Teignmouth, she'd read the tales penned by Thomas Aquinas of religious martyrs who died for their honor or their savior, and she'd imagined how she would embrace the stake and ignore the tortures.

Now she knew she wasn't brave. For relief from her pain, she would confess any sin, betray any secret. She had lived a small life, and a small life was all she could handle. She was a coward.

“Evangeline.” Kneeling beside her, Danior opened the sack and rummaged among the contents. “I'm taking you to a village nearby.”

But while
she
might comprehend she was a coward, she felt a remarkable aversion to letting Danior know. “I thought we had to go to Plaisance.”

“We will. Open your mouth.”

“What?”

He popped a piece of hardtack between her lips.

She should have been indignant to be fed so offhandedly, but the crunchy biscuit settled her stomach. Sitting up on one elbow, she chewed slowly and swallowed.

“Better?” Danior's voice was a rumble above her head as he tucked the cloak tightly around her, hoisted her up, and held her against his chest. “Rafaello and Victor will first lead our pursuers astray. Meanwhile, we'll get to Chute, and there bind your foot.”

Her arms wrapped around his neck. “But the border . . .”

“Don't worry. We'll make it.”

Rafaello moved in very close, and spoke with such elegant diction that she could almost see a prince's robin's egg blue cloak. “You mustn't fret about your wounds, Your Highness. The master has the royal touch.”

“Enough, Rafaello,” Danior interposed pleasantly enough, but beneath his voice flowed an undercurrent of molten steel. He shrugged the shoulder with the bag slung over it. “I put more faith in the supplies the sisters gave us.”

“Of course, master,” Rafaello said.

“We'll meet three days hence in Plaisance.” Danior spoke quite pleasantly, but it was clearly an order. “Go with God.”

“And you, master.” Rafaello melted into the forest's shadows.

Victor was different, of course. Nothing elegant about him. Instead he ruffled Evangeline's hair and in a voice that grated like fingernails on a slate, he ordered, “Watch out for him. If anything happens, I'm holding you responsible.”

The man never wavered from his mistrust, and* Evangeline discovered she took an odd comfort in his consistency. “You would.”

“I would,” he confirmed. Then he, too, faded into the darkness, leaving her alone with the prince.

Immobile, Danior strained to listen to the night sounds of the forest. The creak of the treetops in the wind, the scuttle of small creatures in the underbrush, but from the bodyguards, no sound as each man made his way into the lonely depths of the forest. They were assigned to protect their royalty, and from what Evangeline had seen, they did so ungrudgingly.

Yet it gave her an odd sensation to know another human would offer his life for hers, especially when she'd so recently faced her own cravenness.

“Danior, I'm really—”

“Sh.” He stood still another minute, then, carrying her in his arms, he started toward the west. They came to the creek, and as he sought a crossing clear of trees, Evangeline thought he lingered in the moonlight.

“Someone will see us,” she murmured.

“Yes,” he said. “Be quiet.”

They slipped into the forest on the other side, and he walked confidently west until they ran into a well-traveled path: The character of the timberland changed. The spicy pine gave way to the drier scent of cork oak.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Sh,” he said again.

He seemed driven, moving quickly, paying little attention to their surroundings. His carelessness struck an odd note with her; she'd grown used to having him constantly scouting for peril.

They crested the ridge, and she looked down on a village nestled in a mountain valley.

“Chute?” she asked quietly.

“Yes.” He paused again in the open, then walked down the hill. “Be silent now,” he instructed. “Say nothing.”

Mystified, she nodded.

The path curved. He walked straight—into the trees.

She wanted to speak, to question him, but she knew he must be up to something. He sat her on a flat stone and stealthily crept back to the path. He squatted there, watching.

She could see his silhouette against the moonlight on the path, and she marveled at his immobility. The cloak didn't mitigate the chill or the unyielding quality of the rock. The eerie atmosphere made her restless, and she ached all over.

At last he came back to her. Without a word he knelt before her. She put her arms around his neck, and he lifted her again. She almost groaned from the
pain in her aching biceps and abused joints. But he didn't complain. So neither would she.

Now again he set a pace like the one she was used to; watchful, covert, almost inaudible, yet smooth and swift. They were ascending again, for the wind carried the pine scent, and her perception of wildness increased. They were leaving civilization behind, and she and Danior were the only humans awake in this world of untamed creatures and primitive trees. She thought she saw glowing eyes peering at them from the brush, but she clung to Danior, amazed by her confidence that he would keep her safe.

Then she woke with a start to find him settling her into a mound of pine boughs and tossing the cloak over her. “Stay put,” he murmured and disappeared into the darkness.

Cold and alone, she blinked painfully at the stars shining down through the branches, and she wondered if she was truly awake even yet. She could hear the burbling of water, smell a faint odor of sulfur. Mist floated past in endless wisps like London fog that had lost its way. There wasn't a waterfall, so where . . . ?

Lifting her head, she looked around. She lay on the edge of a clearing caused by a pool that arose from seemingly nowhere. Ferns draped the shoreline, steam rose from it, and as she watched, bubbles rose to the surface.

She sat up. A hot spring. Danior had brought her to a hot spring. She'd read of such things—she'd read of almost everything—but she'd never seen one.

She'd never bathed in one.

The thought gave birth to action. Huddled under the rough cloak, she stripped off her wretchedly inadequate evening slippers and her stockings. She slipped the elegant rag of a gown off her head. She untied her petticoats and wiggled out of them, and plucked at the fine linen chemise that covered her from shoulders to knees.

But no. She would retain the chemise.

Chill nipped her as she discarded the cloak across a bush. Holding onto a trunk, she stood painfully, and limped to the pebbly shore. The ground beneath her feet was pleasantly warm, for the heat of the earth huddled close to the surface, undeterred by the frigid night air. Traveling with Danior was like living the life of Marco Polo. She discovered one thing after another.

She stuck the toe of her injured foot in the water. “Hot!” She jumped back a little, then inched her toe in again, then all her toes. It
was
hot, beautifully hot, just like the luxurious bath she'd taken at Château Fortuné with servants carrying steaming buckets and a fine bar of milled French soap to wash with.

So what if she didn't have the soap?

Shivering, holding her breath, she inserted her whole foot. The laceration stung like a thousand bee stings. Every sinew clenched, and tears flooded her eyes. Gradually, the sensation eased. She inhaled the steam off the pool, and edged deeper. Her other foot, her ankles, her aching calves . . . her eyes closed, and she allowed the warmth to work its magic on her sore muscles.

She had died and gone to heaven.

She giggled when she realized how far she had fallen, that she considered a private moment in a pebble-bottomed mountain hot spring a celestial treat.

The pool was wide, with a weak current that flowed toward an outlet hidden in the shadows, yet when she reached the middle, she found it only as deep as her knees. Substantial stones jutted from its depths here and there, and she placed her palm on one of them and languidly lowered herself into the water.

She filled her cupped hands with water and washed her face. She scrubbed at her skin beneath the water. Then she slipped beneath the surface and scoured her scalp with her fingertips. Dirt and ash slipped away, and not even the uneven stubble of her burned hair could distress her now.

Coming up for a breath, she breathed deeply of the cold mountain air, and she smiled.

Amazing how a brush with death could transform the loss of a modish haircut into a triviality.

She let the current push her spine against the gentle slope of the rough-textured stone. Her head fell back, and her eyes closed as heat enveloped her. Her mind drifted with the current, free of earthly care.

“Don't you ever stay where you are put?” he said from directly above her.

Opening her eyes, she smiled on Danior—until she took in his dishabille. He wasn't wearing a shirt or trousers. His only garment was a tight white pair of underdrawers that made her thankful for the
darkness, although the night's illumination made it possible to view the muscles in his shoulders and arms. “Huh?”

The moon, almost round, sailed directly above them. His head was bent and his face shadowed, but she thought he surveyed her thoroughly. Seemingly satisfied to find her unharmed, he stirred the contents of a small bowl with his finger. “No harm done.”

“Good of you to approve.” She wanted to wave her hand airily, but found it too much trouble to lift her arm. Yet through the layers of relaxation, she felt the stirring of wonder and a distant unease.

It seemed a little late to wonder what he must have thought upon returning and seeing her gown and petticoat strewn about. Did he consider it an invitation? Did he think she wished to become intimate with him?

And did Evangeline care?

Leona had warned her about men like this. Why hadn't she warned her about her own wanting, need, softness?

As he strode toward the shore, she noted his broad shoulders. He could push a plow all day—or carry a woman all night.

He made his way into a small cluster of stones from which steam rose in unsteady puffs. Kneeling, he placed the bowl inside, then picked up a small clay crock—where did he get that?—and waded back to her. His legs cleaved the water, his arms swung freely; maybe he wasn't a peasant, or a prince, but Poseidon rising to claim his bride.

The thought fed that tingle of uneasiness.

“Here.” He thrust the crock toward her. “Drink this.”

Visions of a mysterious drug slipped through her mind. “What is it?”

“Fresh water from a cold spring. Drink.”

Thrusting it into her hands, he turned and left her feeling foolish.

But still she sniffed the crock before she drank. It smelled like dirt, but the contents were water, and she tipped it up and swallowed.