Lois Greiman (29 page)

Nicol rode beside the impostor. His dark hair glistened in the sunlight. She screamed his name, but he didn’t hear her. Soldiers crushed back the mob, and in that moment MacTavish stepped from the carriage and onto the shoulders of the crowd. It was as if he were running on waves, skimming over heads and backs, coming ever closer to the winding stream of royalty. He was almost there. Almost—

A shot rang out. Tatiana screamed. The soldiers turned. The crowd shrieked, and MacTavish leapt. The gray mare bolted, and the girl fell. Another shot echoed in the milling streets. The crowd shrieked and scattered like chaff in the wind, trying to break free of the terror. But Tatiana raced ahead, pressing her way through the mob, straining to see what she could.

And then Nicol fell.

“No!” she screamed, and scrambled forward on her hands and knees. The viscount lay on the cobblestones, holding his arm. His face was pale, but he was alive. She breathed his name and he opened his eyes and smiled.

“Anna?” he said, seeing past her disheveled hair and shabby gown.

“Get off me!” a woman ordered.

Tatiana turned to the side. MacTavish lay sprawled across Birgit. She wriggled beneath him, and he rose slowly, pulling her up with him, still shielding her from the crowd behind.

Soldiers rushed in, better late than never perhaps, and the girl bent to retrieve her crown from the rough cobbles.

“Arrest him!” she said, pointing to MacTavish, but Tatiana found Nicol’s eyes again.

“Hold,” he said, and rising to his feet, bent to whisper in the girl’s ear.

She turned her gaze toward Tatiana and raised one brow. Not a wrinkle showed on her forehead.

“We’ll return to the castle,” Nicol said, and hurried the girl toward the ornate coach. Tatiana and MacTavish followed.

Birgit ascended first. Nicol winced as he reached for the door.

“You’re injured,” Tatiana said, and touched his arm.

“Aye.” His eyes were intense. “But you are not.”

“I am well.”

MacTavish stepped closer. “We’d best get out of sight,” he rumbled.

Nicol mounted the carriage, but just as he stepped up, he cursed and leapt for the opposite door. It stood open to the dissipating crowds beyond. He stared at the backs of the surrounding guards, then scanned the mob for several seconds and fell into the seat, holding his arm. “She’s gone.”

“The princess?” MacTavish said, and scanned the crowds wildly.

Nicol seemed to notice MacTavish for the first time and raised his brows in question.

Tatiana remained silent, feeling breathless and chilled. She shivered once. A silken cape lay upon the seat. Nicol drew it carefully about her shoulders. The carriage lurched into motion.

MacTavish’s gaze felt heavy and hard on her face. She avoided his eyes. Steadying her nerves, she spoke around the lump in her throat.

“Nicol,” she said, “this is Cairn MacTavish, lord of Teleere. And this…” she began, turning her gaze to the Scotsman with an effort. “This is Viscount Nicol, my most trusted advisor.”

Silence fell like the final note of a dirge into the carriage.

“And you?” MacTavish asked.

She dropped her gaze to her hands, then lifted it to the window. The crowds looked strangely blurry. Hoofbeats clattered along beside the carriage.

“Your Majesty!” Sir Combs leaned down from his galloping mount. She pulled the hood of the cape up to hide her wild hair. “You are well?”

She raised her head and caught his eye with an imperial stare. “Yes,” she said. “I am safe.”

She never heard his response, and though MacTavish said nothing, it seemed as if his silence drowned the chaotic noise of the entire universe.

“Stop the carriage,” he said, his gaze hard on hers.

“What?” Nicol asked.

“What?” she breathed.

But he had already opened the carriage door. The ground whirred below his feet.

She lurched up beside him, grappling for his arm.

“Wait!” she demanded, but he did not.

Jerking from her grasp, he stepped out of the rumbling coach, caught his balance on the rushing street below, and disappeared.

There was nothing Tatiana could do. She was returned posthaste to Malkan Palace, where she was rushed to her chambers to be surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting.

Once there, explanations were simple. Birgit had remained isolated, and lies had become as much a part of Tatiana as her
title. They accepted her explanations of a temporary impostor to replace her when she’d learned of an assassination attempt. What else could they do but accept? She was Tatiana Octavia Linnet Rocheneau. The princess.

Once in the bathing room, she was washed in scented waters, dressed in yards of silk and fussed over, but even before they’d laced on her slippers, Lady Evelyn rushed breathlessly into her sitting room.

“Your Majesty,” she said, bowing low. She was no longer a young woman, but her face looked flushed with excitement. “Lord Paqual begs an audience.”

Tatiana was weary. Weary as she’d never been weary before. So Paqual wished to speak to her. Was he a traitor? And what was she to do about it? Yes, she was the crown princess, but hardly did she have autocracity. Paqual had powerful friends. She wished she could say the same.

“Show him in,” she said. Lady Mary rushed forward with her slippers, but she waved them aside. Being barefoot in the presence of her eldest counselor no longer seemed such a heinous crime.

The high, arched doors of the chamber opened. Paqual hurried forward and fell to his knees. Taking her hand in his, he kissed her knuckles.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “I was so very worried. When I heard of the attack on your person, my heart stopped in my chest. I—”

“It stopped?” she asked. The world seemed strangely vague.

He paused in his soliloquy to glance up at her. “Nearly so, Your Majesty. I was that worried when—”

“But it did not stop.”

He looked momentarily confused. “Mayhap for a moment, but all is well now that I see you are whole.”

She stared at him. “Yes, all is well. Did you wish to speak to me about something of import?”

A frown momentarily marred his aged features, but he rallied. “The assassin is dead, Your Majesty.”

Tatiana sat very still. Someone had died. The news affected her strangely, as if she were somehow far removed from this entire mess, far away from the horror of being royalty. And yet, because of her someone would never draw another breath. Would never laugh, would never cry. Her people believed he had almost killed her, but it was all a lie. All an outlandish twisted falsehood. “Who was he?” she asked, and felt that she cried inside, for him, for the unfairness, and maybe for herself.

“His name was Fitzgerald of Milton.”

She watched him carefully. “You know already?”

“Your spies are many and range far, Your Majesty.”

“Why did he do it?”

“He was a hired assassin. Of that much we are certain.”

“Who hired him?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if immensely tired. “Sir Combs interrogated him before he died.”

“And?”

“He was paid by MacTavish of Teleere, my lady.”

She said nothing, but listened as the final pieces of a puzzle fell into place.

“Your enemies are strong, my dear,” he said, and patted her hand. “But your allies are many, and eager to risk their lives for you.”

She nodded. “And who was it who killed the would-be assassin?” she asked.

“That is the strangest truth yet,” he assured her excitedly. “For it seems Prince Edward of Romnia was visiting our city when he saw the gunman in the tower. ’Twas the prince himself who fired the shot that killed the wretched traitor.” He
dropped his head and kissed her hand again. Tears? Were there tears in his eyes? “I owe him my very life.”

“The prince saved my life?” she asked. It felt, almost, as if she were in a void, a deep chasm with steep walls and no air.

“Yes. I believe it was an act of God.”

Pieces of a strange, abstract puzzle seemed to fall into place like pebbles in a stream. “Yes,” she said. “Thank God and whatever unlikely coincidence brought him to that exact place at that exact moment.”

“He is very concerned with your well-being, Your Majesty, and begs for an audience.”

She glanced up at him. “And it would surely be rude to refuse him after all he has done.”

“Shall I send him forth then, Your Majesty?”

“Certainly,” she said.

He kissed her hand again, then backed away at a crouch. The prince of Romnia entered only minutes later.

He was as lanky and lackluster as she remembered from her childhood. She rose to her feet, extending her hand. “I am told I owe you my life, Prince Edward,” she said.

He pursed his lips. They were very pale, but the bright circles of artificial color on his cheeks well made up for that lack. “You owe me nothing, Your Majesty,” he said, and bowing over her hand, kissed her knuckles exactly as Paqual had. She drew away as quickly as she could. “’Twas my duty and my honor as your ardent admirer.”

She smiled. It seemed amazing that she could still do so on cue. “Tell me, Your Highness, what brought you to Sedonia?”

“I heard there was a carnival on your fair shores.”

“Have you no carnivals in Romnia?”

His cheeks seemed to brighten under the ruse. “My ship needed to take on provisions.”

She remained silent. He was a poor liar.

“And…” he added, “I had business here in Skilan.”

She almost closed her eyes to the ridiculousness. “So threefold reasons then.”

“Yes.”

“And it was pure coincidence that put you at that exact spot at that exact moment?”

His lips opened and closed for the briefest moment. “I believe it was an act of God,” he said.

“Yes.” She glanced toward the window. “God must be very bored.”

Nicol poured himself a bit of sherry with his left hand. His right arm was bound up against his chest. The bandage looked starkly white against the dark skin of his neck.

Tatiana watched him. “Does it hurt?” she asked.

He pulled his gaze from the window, saluted her with the glass and drank the contents. “Only when I’m not drunk.” He sounded even more jaded than she remembered, and far more tired.

“Did you find the girl?”

“Birgit?”

Tatiana nodded.

“No,” he said. His voice was slightly slurred. Perhaps he was already drunk. “I believe now that she did not disappear into the crowd as I suspected, but hid beneath the carriage.” He chuckled a little, as if amused by some dark humor she did not understand and lifted his glass in a sort of salute. “I will not find her.” He gazed out the window. “Not Megs.”

She felt herself go cold. “Megs?” she said. “Her name was Megs?”

Nicol glanced up at her sharp tone, then shrugged his hale shoulder. “’Tis hard to say exactly. She seemed to have a host of names. The more I learned of her the less I knew.”

“You said she was a barmaid. ’Tis what you told me.”

“Aye, ’tis what she said at first—when I caught her nip-ping my pockets.”

It seemed as if the world was spinning slowly off course. Her counterpart, the girl she had put on her throne, was a pickpocket, and not just any pickpocket, but the very lass who had stolen MacTavish’s brooch. “She stole from you, Nicol? You put a thief on my throne?”

He glanced at her, and for a moment a fraction of his usual levity shone in his eyes. “A very clever thief, Anna. Not only could she steal a pocket watch in a moment’s time, but she can deceive with the barest effort.” A shadow crossed his features, but he shrugged it away. “And she was beaut…” He stopped himself, but his gaze remained on her face. “You must admit, she looked astoundingly like you. I can’t help but believe that you would be much alike in the same situation. But I am sorry.” He paused. “I should not have put you in such a situation, though I admit, I hoped you would learn the value of the common man.”

“You are an amazing person, Nicol,” she said. “A viscount who is also a champion of the people.”

For a moment she thought he would argue, but he did not. Instead, he raised his glass in a sort of toast. “Aye,” he said, “a viscount and a champion. What an unlikely combination.”

She frowned at him, and he grinned.

“You would have liked her, Anna, had you known her. Whether she was a thief or a countess.”

Perhaps Tatiana would have argued six months ago. But now…“So she is free,” she said.

His mouth quirked slightly, as though he knew her meaning, but would not address it. “I won’t find her,” he said. “Not unless she wishes to be found.” He filled his glass again. “And since she has your crown and half the royal jewels, there’s little enough for her to return for.”

Something about his tone caught her attention. Or was it the cast of his eyes? “Are you in love with her, Nicol?”

He raised his brows. “Since when did you begin wondering about others, Anna?”

The room went silent. “Have I been so selfish?”

He laughed, but the sound was empty. “Yes, you have.”

She nodded, thinking far more than she cared to think. “I will be choosing a husband soon.”

He was watching her carefully. She was just as careful to let nothing show on her face.

“What do you know of the prince of Romnia?” she asked.

“Ahh, Prince Edward.” He drank again. “Let me think. He plays the lute like an angel, I am told. Oh, and I’ve heard he dances divinely.”

She watched him for a moment. “And have I been
that
shallow?”

His dark eyes were somber, and maybe, behind the bored veneer, there was sadness, desperation even.

“No,” he said, “you have not.”

“Then tell me what you know of him.”

He watched her for several seconds, and for that same span of time, it seemed he could read her thoughts, her doubts, her fears. “He couldn’t shoot a pigeon out of his own ear without a cannon and a full battalion.”

“Luck is a strange phenomenon at times,” she said.

“And rarely seen in such astounding proportions.”

“Then who shot the would-be assassin?”

“That I don’t know.”

“Can you find out?”