Her Highness and the Highlander: A Princess Brides Romance (31 page)

Or perhaps he should say he liked being married to
Mercedes
—and not just because they were having regular, earth-shattering sex, although that
was a distinct benefit.

No, he liked her. She made him—dare he say it?—she made him happy.

Part of him wished he could turn the curricle around and
take her home to Skye. But he’d promised they would go to London first, to see these
friends of hers and to prove whatever it was she felt she needed to prove. Maybe seeing
familiar faces would shake her out of whatever fantasy she was living. Perhaps her
friends could convince her that she was not a princess from some foreign land, after
all.

And if they could not?

Well, he would have an eccentric wife. There were certainly far worse things, and
her illusion was a benign one that caused no one real harm.

He wondered again who she truly was.

As he’d known for some time now, she was educated, well-spoken, cultured, and possessed
of excellent manners. In all ways except her princess story, she was completely sane:
an interesting, intelligent, sweet-natured young woman who wouldn’t hurt so much as
an ant in the road.

Maybe she was a member of the gentry, who had encountered some dire trouble and run
away? Or an aristocrat’s daughter who had fallen on hard times, her penniless state
leaving her prey for unscrupulous sorts of all kinds? Had some man importuned her,
tried to force her into his bed? Had she fought back and escaped? Was that the man
he’d seen watching back at the other inn?

If that was the case, though, why not tell him? He would understand—whatever dreadful
thing might have happened to her, whatever terrible actions she had been compelled
to take in order to protect herself.

On the other hand, it was far more likely she had witnessed some horrific scene. She’d
spoken of murder. Maybe she had seen acts so gruesome it had shattered her sense of
reality, causing her to block out her true past, her real identity. He thought that
the most likely scenario of all, considering her nightmares, which thankfully seemed
to have ceased since their marriage.

If he was patient and gave her time, he hoped her full memory would return. Until
it did, he would continue to indulge this delusion of hers.

Actually, if she were gowned in silks and jewels, he supposed some people might even
believe she was a princess. She was beautiful and refined enough to pass for royalty.
She had worn a crown of wildflowers for their wedding. If he let himself imagine,
he could see her in one fashioned from gemstones and gold instead. Oddly enough, a
crown would suit her.

But however much she might claim to have blue blood running through her veins, she
had given her true self away when she had consented to marry him. Everyone knew that
royals never married anyone except other royals. Were she truly a princess, she would
never have agreed to wed a commoner like him.

Not even for love?

No,
he thought with a well-honed edge of cynicism,
not even then.
After all, what woman would trade away a life of wealth and privilege for the kind
of obscure, ordinary existence he could provide?

None whom he had ever known.

None whom he could imagine.

He thought of her again seated at the Camerons’ kitchen table shelling peas with Sara.
Such an ordinary activity. Such a wholly unprincesslike one, even if Mercedes hadn’t
looked very familiar with the task.

He and Mercedes would journey to London, where she would hopefully be cured of this
temporary self-delusion. Then he would take her home to Skye, where they could build
a new life, and start a new family, together.

Smiling, he tightened his arm around her sleeping form, contented in a way he could
not remember being, perhaps not even as a child.

Closing his eyes, he let himself join her in sleep.

It was raining the next morning, so they put up the leather cabriolet hood on the
curricle. Nevertheless, the hood provided only partial protection from the wet, so
Daniel procured a thick wool blanket to tuck snuggly around her.

Rather than jumping up to ride on the carriage boot as he usually did, Robbie gazed
at them with pleading eyes, whining at the rain. Always a soft touch, Mercedes called
to him to join them in the carriage, to which he happily agreed. Leaping up, he settled
under the blanket at her feet. He was far from a small dog, though, and took up most
of the floor space.

“If he’s crowding you unduly,” Daniel began, “I can try to fashion a cover for him
on the boot.”

She shook her head. “He’d still be soaked through by day’s end. We’ll manage fine.”

Robbie took that moment to wag his tail as if in agreement.

“Do you have enough room?” she asked with a frown.

He didn’t, not really, but neither did he have the heart to make the dog lie out in
the weather. He shifted his left foot several inches sideways. “I’ll manage too.”

Mercedes beamed, her pleased smile enough to drive away any true discomfort.

Then they were off.

They spoke little, the weather so dreary neither he nor Mercedes seemed capable of
mustering sufficient energy for a conversation.

At the first coaching inn, Daniel suggested they stop until the rain ceased, but Mercedes
thought they should press on.

“We’ve had so many delays already,” she said. “We’ll be late arriving in London as
it is without yet another day lost. I don’t want Emma and Ariadne any more worried
than necessary.”

Still, he insisted they take the time to dry their clothes as best they could in front
of a roaring fire, eat servings of a hearty meat pie, and drink mugs of hot tea. Daniel
added a healthy draft of whiskey to his.

Then they returned to the carriage, fortified with hot bricks for their feet and a
new, dry blanket for Mercedes; Robbie crawled happily underneath again.

The rain stopped just after two o’clock that afternoon, dark clouds sliding away to
reveal a bird’s-egg blue sky beyond.
The air held the clean, rain-washed scent that comes after a storm, golden bands of
sunshine shimmering down to bring light and warmth.

Mercedes peeled the blanket from her shoulders, but left the wool folded in half across
her lap with the edges still covering Robbie. The rain might have stopped, but the
dog gave no indication of wanting to emerge from his snug nest. He was, Daniel knew,
well on his way to becoming a highly spoiled canine.

“The next inn shouldn’t be much more than another hour ahead,” Daniel remarked. “After
the day we’ve had, I think we ought to stop, then get an early start in the morning.”

Mercedes sent him a weary smile. “I should probably insist we continue on, but a hot
meal and a warm bed sound lovely.”

“Aye, they do, and not just for sleeping,” he added, giving her a wink.

Her skin pinked with the healthy flush he’d come to love, and he grinned.

They’d been driving for about twenty minutes when they crested over a rise and saw
a coach below that had been pulled over to the side of the road. From the look of
it, one wheel was mired in the mud. A man stood at the rear of the vehicle, inspecting
the situation. He turned as they approached and raised a hand, signaling for them
to stop.

Pulling up on the reins, Daniel slowed the curricle.

“Hello, there,” the man said. “Thank providence ye stopped. I was beginning tae wonder
if anyone would ever come along.”

Daniel took note of the man—black hair, solid build, clothes that were neither expensive
nor shabby. He seemed like any traveler.

“Caught in the storm, were you?” Daniel stated. “The rain can make these roads quite
slick.”

“Aye, indeed,” the other man agreed. “Don’t know how it happened, but we were driving
along one minute and stuck in this ditch the next. Do ye think you could help?”

Ordinarily, Daniel would not have hesitated to lend his aid, but there was something
about the man, and the situation, that didn’t sit right with him. Instinct gnawed
at him, urging him to stay right where he was.

“Who else is with you?” he inquired. “Where is your driver?”

The man paused briefly. “The driver went ahead to find help and I’m with my wife and
sister. They’re waiting just inside the coach.”

“Perhaps they ought to step out. It would be easier to right the coach without anyone
inside.”

The man smiled. “Oh, aye, of course. As soon as ye’re ready, they’ll climb down. Maybe
the lady next to you would like to wait with them. Afternoon, miss.” Respectfully,
he tipped his hat.

Despite the polite gesture, Daniel’s instincts flared again. The stranger had called
her “miss,” which on its surface didn’t seem unusual. Then again, everyone else they
had encountered on the journey so far had assumed he and Mercedes were a married couple,
so why wouldn’t this man as well?

Unless he knew her—or knew who she was supposed to be.

A quick sideways glance at Mercedes told him that she didn’t recognize the man. But
there was something in her expression nevertheless that revealed signs of strain.
Did she too sense that something was not right?

She didn’t answer the man’s greeting, sliding almost imperceptibly closer to Daniel
on the seat. Her unease decided his next move.

“I’m not sure you and I will have sufficient strength to free the wheel on our own,”
Daniel said. “My wife and I will continue ahead and send someone back to help you.
Maybe we’ll meet your driver along the way.”

Daniel tightened his fingers around the reins, intending to set the horse into motion.

Before he could do so, the man drew a gun from his pocket and pointed it at Daniel’s
chest.

“I am sorry you feel that way,” the stranger said in a hard voice that no longer sounded
the least bit Scottish. “But I’m afraid you’ll need to stay a while more. Why don’t
both of you climb down and come over here?”

He motioned with his gun to emphasize his command.

Behind him, the coach door opened and two men emerged. He heard Mercedes gasp as they
leapt to the ground.

Daniel’s grip tightened again on the reins as he calculated the odds of racing the
horse forward and trying to outrun them. But he couldn’t take the risk, not with Mercedes
exposed and vulnerable inside the open curricle.

“All right,” he called, letting the reins drop from his hands. “We’ll do as you ask.”

“Daniel,” Mercedes whispered. “I don’t think we should.”

“Trust me,” he murmured.

“That’s right,” the man said, jeering, having obviously overheard his comment. “Trust
him.”

“There’s no need for the gun,” Daniel said. “Why don’t you put it away?”

The man tossed out a laugh. “But it’s my favorite weapon. I think I’ll keep it for
now.”

“As you like.”

Sliding sideways, he leaned forward as if he were preparing to climb down from the
curricle. Instead, he closed a fist around the
sgian-dubh
in his stocking.

“Mercedes, get down!” he shouted, reaching out with his left hand to push her out
of harm’s way, while he threw the dagger with his right a second later.

The man screamed as the blade pierced his arm, the gun falling from his suddenly limp
fingers to the ground.

The horse whinnied, jostling the carriage. The other two men charged forward, coming
for them.

Daniel reached for the gun he kept under the seat and moved his thumb to prime it,
but before he could fire, one of the men was on him, wrestling him for the weapon.

Beside him Mercedes screamed, beating her fists against the second man as he tried
to pull her from the carriage. A
surge of brute strength flooded through Daniel and instead of trying to pull the gun
free, he used it like a club, bashing it hard against the other man’s skull. Blood
poured from the wound and with a thud, the brigand crumpled to the ground.

At the same moment, a fierce, angry snarl erupted from the floor of the curricle and
Robbie launched himself out from underneath the blanket. He leapt bodily onto the
man assaulting Mercedes and bit down hard, going for the man’s face and throat.

The man shouted in pain and stumbled backward, trying to free himself from Robbie’s
vicious bites. He kicked and hit at the dog, and Robbie whimpered, but the animal
wasn’t deterred, snarling even louder as he sank his teeth in harder.

The man yelled and crumpled to the ground, putting his arms over his head for protection.

Deciding he would call him off in a minute, Daniel turned to Mercedes. “Are you all
right?”

“Y-yes, I think, I—” Then she screamed again.

Daniel swung around just in time to see the first man pounding toward them, Daniel’s
knife clutched in his hand, his useless arm hanging bloody at his side. His dark eyes
were hot and wild with a murderous rage. With a harsh cry, he raised the knife to
strike.

But Daniel moved faster. Lifting the gun, he fired.

The blast hit the man square in the chest, propelling him backward, where he fell,
arms spread, onto his back in the road.

As a scarlet stain spread wide across his shirt, his eyes stared skyward, empty now.

M
any hours later, Mercedes laid her knife and fork neatly across her dinner plate,
leaving most of her meal untouched. There was nothing wrong with the quality of the
food, but her appetite seemed to have deserted her. Daniel sat across from her at
the table in the inn’s private parlor, silent as he ate his meal with a kind of calm
determination. She watched him for several long moments before turning her gaze away.

From his place on the rug near the fire, Robbie wagged his tail, his eyes luminous
with devotion. In reward for his earlier defense of her, she had ordered a thick venison
steak prepared for his dinner, cooked rare and cut into pieces, served with plain
boiled carrots and fresh peas. He’d wolfed it down, even the vegetables, with clear
enthusiasm, then padded over to relax in front of the fire.