Miss Burton Unmasks a Prince (17 page)

The night had been exactly ideal. In the moonlight, the top of the tower seemed magical. A gentle wind blew, but at this height there was no noise from the castle below. It was as if she and Carlo were alone in the world.

She pulled her cloak closer around her with one arm. Meg loved this cloak. The price must have been very dear, especially for a servant, and it touched her that he would know how much she would appreciate a swirling cloak as she stood on top of a castle tower. She worried at his level of sacrifice. What would such a gift mean to a servant’s livelihood?

Carlo had planned the evening to perfection, choosing the exact things that Meg loved. He made her feel as if her romantic fantasies were important instead of laughable. He liked that she read poetry. He was the first to believe in her when she wanted to recite at the musicale and did not wait to see how her performance was received before applauding her. Carlo was her champion.

She could not imagine being more comfortable in anyone’s company, since she did not have to pretend to be anyone other than Meg Burton around him. When Carlo was near, she didn’t even feel homesick. He cared about what would make her happy and planned a special adventure instead of taking her for a turn about the grounds or visiting in the drawing room. Her stomach shifted uncomfortably as she realized that as a stable hand, it would be unacceptable for him to do either of those things. And she began to worry that the relationship had already progressed too far.

“Are you going to tell me?” he asked, breaking the silence.

Meg lifted her head. “Tell you . . . ?”

“The poem.
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
. Are you going to tell me what it says?”

“No.” She leaned forward, turning her face to the side to look at him.

Carlo raised his brows incredulously. “You are declining an opportunity to quote poetry?”

“I fear it will make you sad.”

“It does not make me sad when your soul speaks to mine, Margarita.” He turned his shoulders to face her more fully but did not release her hand, which had somehow become so warm she thought it could melt butter.

“Very well.” She squinted her eyes, gazing across the tower at nothing for a moment while she collected her thoughts. “But first I will set the stage. Childe Harold is a bored young man who has grown weary of the life of debauchery he leads. The one woman he loves is unattainable, and Childe Harold leaves his home in England in search of change. He describes his travels over the rough sea, nearly regretting his decision to go abroad. He sees Portugal from a distance and marvels at the green lush land, but when he arrives, he finds it a ravaged nation. The people are impoverished, and everywhere he looks are crosses marking graves. Even a man as wicked as he feels pity and sees the injustice in war.

“After a moment of introspection, Childe Harold spurs his horse onward to Spain. And that is where I will begin.” Meg tightened her grasp on Carlo’s hand. She closed her eyes and blew out a breath, then opened them.

“Oh lovely Spain! Renowned, romantic land!

Where is that standard which Pelagio bore . . .”

As Meg continued through the stanzas, Carlo’s gaze seemed to look through her. Emotions flickered over his face. She stopped once, but he asked her to continue.

Meg resumed, telling of Lord Byron’s view of the battles fought and the devastation left behind and his admiration for the bravery of the Spanish people.

When she finished, Carlo remained quiet, staring past her.

“I knew it would make you sad,” she said quietly, aching inside as she watched him.

He slowly turned his gaze to her and appeared to come out of whatever memory he had been lost in. “It is very beautiful and very true. Thank you, Margarita. I told you, it does not make me sad when your soul speaks to mine.” He lifted their entwined hands, brushing her knuckles across his lips.

At the intimacy of the gesture Meg’s heart came to a standstill.

“Although, I wish your soul did not always prefer to speak in English.”

She could not bring her mind to work while her heart was pounding so loudly in her ears. Meg didn’t look at Carlo as she gently pulled her hand away and tried to calm herself by cleaning up the dishes and food, placing their picnic back into the basket, and looking anywhere but at him. “I have only read a bit of Spanish poetry, and even then, it was a translation, of course. I would like to read more, but I only know a handful of Spanish words—and one of them is ‘ducky.’ I do not think Quintana ever mentions ducks.”

Carlo took the basket from her.

Meg stood, walking toward the wall, trying to create distance between them to quell the growing attraction she felt and the fear it spurred. “Manuel José Quintana, perhaps you have heard of him. He wrote
El Duque de Viseo
, but now he serves as the secretary to the Cortes Parliament in Cádiz.” Meg knew she was babbling, attempting to cover her nervousness.

“Yes, I know Señor Quintana.” Carlo came to stand next to her. He looked at her strangely.

Of course he knew of Manuel Quintana. Certainly every person in Spain did. Meg’s mind was racing, and she took a deep breath. She needed to stop rambling on like a ninny.

“I . . .” Meg didn’t know what to say. Her mind was in chaos, and she did not understand what she was feeling. Part of her wanted to run away, and another part could not bear the idea of leaving. She looked across the duke’s forest and pulled her cloak around her shoulders.

She felt Carlo’s eyes on her, but when she looked at him, she found she could not raise her gaze above his collar. She was afraid of what she would see in his eyes but, more than that, afraid of what he might see in hers.

Carlo turned her to face him and with a finger lifted her chin. He studied her intently, but she was not afraid; rather she was comforted by his gentle expression.

He was the same man. Whatever she had felt when he’d touched his lips to her fingers had not changed their friendship. Her chest relaxed, and she breathed freely, relieved. She did not know what had come over her, but she wouldn’t allow it to cause discomfort between them.

Carlo took a pocket watch from his vest pocket and glanced down before replacing it.

Meg couldn’t help but wonder where the timepiece had come from. She realized it must have been one of the prince’s castoffs. The idea bothered her. She wished Carlo didn’t have to depend on that man for his livelihood.

“The hour grows late. We should return,” he said.

Meg nodded. She helped him fold the blanket, which he replaced in the basket.

Then he offered her the torch, but before she took it, he leaned close and tapped his finger on her nose. His brow lifted. “Beware, Margarita. I do not know if we shall escape this tower unscathed.”

Meg’s lips lifted in a smile. She took the torch, noting with satisfaction how her cloak fell back from her shoulder in waves as she raised her arm. “I am glad to have a brave knight to protect me.”

She took his hand again, feeling the instant reassurance of his closeness. Meg did not hear any fluttering and was glad that the bats had abandoned the tower for the night. It was much easier descending the steps, likely because they were not cautiously venturing into the unknown. They stepped out the door, and Carlo swung it closed, locked it, then took the torch from her, returning it to its brace on the balustrade.

Carlo offered his arm, and Meg slipped her hand beneath his elbow. They walked between the rows of torches on the battlements.

“Do you think Patito and Bonnie might want to go for a ride tomorrow?” she said, feeling a bit shy. “If—”

But her words froze in her mouth when she saw men moving along the top of the wall toward them. Armed men.

Carlo pushed her behind him. He pulled the sword from its sheath with a hiss of metal. “Margarita, I fear we are under attack!”

Tremors began in Meg’s hands and fingers. She clung to Carlo’s arm, and he led her to the side of the walkway. “Carlo, what do we do?” She pressed a hand over her mouth, holding back the scream that was fighting its way out.

“Do not fear, fair maiden. I will protect you.”

Even though her pulse was thrashing painfully, she paused at his words. It did not sound like something Carlo would say if it were truly villainous men coming for them.

Carlo stepped to the first man, his sword raised. “
En garde
, villain.” He flung back the cape from his shoulder with a flourish.

The man in front of him seemed to hesitate. He and Carlo stared at each other, and Carlo nodded his head slightly, lifting his brows.

“We will conquer this castle and take the fair maiden to our hideaway.” The man’s voice was monotone, and he shuffled his feet. He spoke with a thick accent, and Meg’s fear began to abate as she realized the man was Spanish.

“Never!” Carlo cried and leapt toward the man, bringing his sword down. The man lifted his own weapon, blocking the strike. Carlo spun around with his cape flying, as he executed some moves that his opponent seemed to anticipate perfectly and block; although the man lacked any enthusiasm and appeared rather humiliated by the entire experience.

The attacker let out a pitiful groan, and holding his chest—which Meg noticed had not been injured in the least—he ran off.

Carlo turned to the next man. “And now, you black-hearted wretch, let us see if you’ve a taste for blood!” He charged at the man, who appeared to have more skill than his comrade. He put up a good fight before running off, cradling his own nonexistent injury.

Meg realized her hands were still covering her mouth, but instead of holding back a scream, she was completely delighted. Carlo must have practiced and choreographed his fight with these men. Were they the prince’s guards? And though she had long since realized the performance was for her benefit, she also recognized that Carlo was an exceptionally talented swordsman.

He blocked, thrust, and parried, all the while maintaining his ridiculous banter. Meg was mesmerized as she watched him fight with a combination of grace and strength. In merely a few moments, each of the enemies was defeated and ran off to nurse their wounds—or more likely their pride.

Meg pressed her palm to her chest, and the back of her hand to her forehead, as if she would swoon. “Oh, you have rescued me, brave hero.” She giggled.

“Do not return, you lecherous cads!” Carlo called after the retreating men as he returned his sword to its scabbard. His cape waved behind him when he turned toward Meg, breathing heavily, and wiped the sheen of perspiration from his forehead. His eyes were alive with excitement, his face flushed, and before Meg knew what happened, he swept her into his arms and pressed his lips to hers.

The world around them disappeared, and Meg was aware of nothing but the softness of Carlo’s lips, his strong arms encircling her, and his heart beating beneath her palms. Her blood surged and heated, and she was swept away on a sea of emotion that slowly abated as their lips parted and Carlo brushed his thumb along her neck.

His eyes bore into hers, and she saw within them a fire that both terrified and thrilled her.

“And Eden revives . . .” she murmured, leaning her head against his chest. She slowly emerged from her haze, blinking her eyes.

A shock jolted through her system. And her eyes snapped open. She realized that she clung to Carlo, her hands fisted in his cape. “No,” she said, and then more forcefully, “No!” She pushed against him.

Carlo’s face clouded in confusion. “Margarita?”

She should have never allowed this to happen. She had let her loneliness, her desire for friendship to dictate her actions, and now it had gone too far. Carlo was a servant. She could not form an attachment with him.

And what if they had been seen? Such a thing would lead to her disgrace, and for him—her stomach lurched. Daniel or the duke would have to call him out to defend her honor. He would be transported—or worse.

Tears began to fill her eyes, and her throat constricted. “Carlo, we cannot. If we are discovered . . .” Her words choked on a sob, and she turned, covering her face with her hands.

Carlo turned her back to him, pulling down on her arms.

“There is nothing to fear.”

“Don’t you understand?” Meg’s voice rose. And she was shaking. “You are a servant. You will be punished or . . .”

He shook his head. His expression held none of the fear it should. “No, Margarita, listen to me.”

Meg wanted to put her hands over her ears. She could not listen anymore. Not when she cared for Carlo more deeply with every word that he said. She pulled her arms from his grasp and ran blindly away. Carlo called her name, but she did not stop.

At last, Meg stumbled through the doorway of her bedchamber. She did not remember by what route she had arrived. It seemed as though her mind had been replaced by mist. Her head ached, her heart ached, and she could no longer hold back her sobs. She lay down upon her bed fully dressed and allowed her tears to soak her pillow.

Why had she done this? Why had she not done what she should and attended dinner at the Newtons’ with her hosts and the rest of the guests?

She had known as soon as Daniel had explained their situation and her duty to marry a man of means that she was not destined for a love match. But to fall in love with another, one who she would never be able to be with? It would have been better to have remained ignorant than to know what she would lose.

Meg gasped as the ache in her heart turned painful. She had fallen in love with Carlo. And had he fallen in love with her? Why did she allow this to happen? Not only was it out of the question for her to love a servant, but if the truth were known to anyone, it would disgrace not only her, but the duke and Serena. She could not allow this to continue.

She would put her feelings aside and turn her attentions to other gentlemen, those who could help her family out of their predicament. And it would not do to maintain a friendship with Carlo. The only course would be to sever all contact with him. It would be better for both of them. The very idea hurt so enormously that Meg gasped again, wrapping her arms around her chest to try to stop the aching. She wept until no tears remained and fell asleep wrapped in a soft billowy cloak, her heart shattered.