The Princess and the Peer (42 page)

Suddenly the coach door on the side farthest from the fighting was wrenched open. The captain of the guard stood before her, his eyes fierce as he reached in to pull her out and onto the ground.

“It’s you they want,” he said, urging her toward the thick woods, which spread outward like a vast green ocean. “Go. Hide. We’ll search for you when this is over.”

But she knew there was no one left to search for her—except her pursuers. For in spite of her guards’ best efforts, her last glimpse had been of them losing the fight. Even her poor maid was dead, she realized with an anguished pang.

She was alone now and no one would be coming to her rescue.

She stifled a whimper as she heard the brigands crashing through the foliage behind her. They called to one another, their voices carrying on the wind with ease, as if there was no doubt they would find her.

Did they want to kill her too?

Or worse? Because even she wasn’t naive enough not to realize there were things in this world more terrible than death.

Her breath rasped loudly in her ears, and a cruel stitch burned in her side as she forced her feet to keep moving ahead.

But ahead to where?

The forest all looked the same, dense and green and rough.
She’d given up making any sense of her path and was hopelessly lost.

Hide,
the guard captain had said. Yet as she scanned the nearby trees and bushes and rocks, she found nowhere that offered a likely place of concealment.

Then without warning she stumbled, the edge of her toe catching on a tree root. Her hands flew out instinctively to break her fall, and she landed with a muffled thud against the loamy earth, a tiny cry escaping her mouth before she could prevent it.

Everything grew silent—everything, that was, except the thunderous pounding of her heart. She heard the highwaymen stop and call to one another again. Her mouth went dry, listening like a hunted doe as they changed direction and began beating their way through the woods toward her.

It’s over,
she thought as she bit her lip to hold back a sob.
Any second now and they’ll have me.

Then she saw it—a dark, narrow fissure created by a pair of large boulders. The opening wasn’t obvious, certainly not from a standing position. If she hadn’t been lying on the ground, she would never have noticed it. The opening was obscured by a wide tree trunk that had fallen at a slant in front of the rocks. The decaying wood was covered in a velvety carpet of lichen, moss, and mushrooms, the greens and browns causing it to blend into the surrounding foliage so that it appeared all but invisible.

With only moments remaining until the brigands caught up with her, she crawled as fast and quietly as she could. She ducked beneath the trunk, passing only a hairsbreadth away from the wood, which was pungent with decay. She shuddered at the small army of insects moving in winding trails over the trunk, ignoring the creeping sensation that chased across her skin at their nearness. Reaching the other side of the fallen tree, she squeezed herself into the cold stone fissure beyond, then worked quickly to make herself as small and undetectable as possible.

A twig cracked only feet away.

Her entire body tensed, the scent of male sweat and leather coming to her nose. Another scent came as well, sharp and metallic.

Blood?

She trembled and squeezed her eyes closed.

Boots crunched against the undergrowth, and she sensed rather than saw her pursuer survey the area.

“Any sign of ’er?” asked a rasping voice as another man joined the first.

“No. Must’ve been an animal. These woods are teeming with ’em.”

Another lengthy silence descended.

“Let’s keep lookin’. She can’t ’ave gotten far.”

Still, the pair didn’t immediately withdraw; minutes seemed to tick endlessly past before they finally gave up and moved away. But Mercedes didn’t relax, her limbs too paralyzed with fear to function.

How long she sat huddled, frozen, she had no idea. Daylight gradually began to fade, shadows lengthening through the already dappled light of the forest glen.

Only when it began to rain did she finally gather the courage to creep soundlessly from her hiding place. Needles stabbed her cramped muscles, the pain excruciating from having been crouched in one position for far too long. She swallowed the cries that rose to her lips, fearing even now that they might come back, that they might still find her.

When she thought she could walk, she glanced carefully around again to make certain she was alone. Then she ventured forward, thankful for the drenching downpour and the concealment she prayed it would provide as she made her way out of the woods.

“Another ale, sir? Or could ye do with somethin’ a wee bit stronger?”

Major Daniel James MacKinnon, late of His Majesty’s Royal Highland regiment, looked up at the serving maid who
waited expectantly beside his table. He had no trouble reading her expression and the unmistakable invitation in her pale blue-gray eyes. Her body was an invitation as well, with her generously curved breasts and shapely hips tilted toward him with the confidence of a woman who knew the power of her own sensuality and wasn’t afraid to show it.

His mouth turned up in an appreciative half smile despite the fact that he had no intention of accepting her offer. “My thanks, lass, but this’ll do for now.” Lifting his tankard, he gave the amber brew a lazy swirl.

The maid wasn’t daunted; her smile widened to display a set of surprisingly even teeth. “Well, ye’ve only tae ask, ye know. ’Tis a raw night out fer all it’s summer, what with this rain pourin’ so fierce-like. Night sech as this, a body could do with a wee bit o’ comfort, I always say. Give me a shout if ye change yer mind.”

She paused, clearly hoping he
would
indeed change his mind. Instead, he raised the tankard to his mouth and drank in slow and silent dismissal.

She gave an audible sigh of disappointment and reluctantly sauntered away.

Most would say he was a pure idiot to refuse the soft comfort of the serving girl’s arms and bed. In his younger days, he would have accepted, and gladly. But he was no longer young—or rather, he didn’t feel young, even if he was only eight-and-twenty years of age in the chronological sense. But after years of fighting and suffering and loss there was nothing of the boy left in him, only a man who was weary in both mind and spirit. Yet finally he was going home to the blue-green vistas of Skye.

But will it still feel like home?
a part of him wondered. He had lost so many there as well in the decade he’d been away. The most painful loss was that of his mother, who had died while he’d been mired knee-deep in mud in Spain; he’d eventually learned of her passing by letter weeks after the fact.

Raising his tankard again, he swallowed deeply and
wondered whether he ought to have the serving maid bring him another ale after all.

In the next moment, the inn’s door opened on a powerful gust of rain and wind.

Daniel glanced over and saw the most curious tumble of skirts and water blow across the threshold. The newcomer appeared to be a young woman, although it was nearly impossible to accurately determine her age beneath the tangle of long, wet dark hair plastered to her head and face; she resembled nothing as much as a drowned cat.

And a none-too-clean one at that.

Her dress was a tatter of rags, the ruined fabric hanging in limp folds that were stained an indiscernible color somewhere between moss and muck. She was covered in grime as well, bits of twigs and pine needles caught in her hair, even though it looked as if she had made an attempt at some point to comb them free. As for her feet, they were encased in a pair of thin, muddy slippers that were clearly inadequate for the terrain—the edge of her little toe was showing through a rent along one seam.

Daniel saw every head in the taproom turn her way, as every pair of eyes fixed on the sorry creature who had wandered into their midst. A few whispers floated on the air.

The innkeeper adjusted the apron over his substantial girth and strode around the long wooden counter that bisected his domain. “Och now, an’ what do ye think ye’re about, drippin’ all o’er me floors? ’Tis a quality establishment, this is, an’ we don’t take yer kind in ’ere. I’m afraid ye’ll have tae go.”

The woman stood unmoving, a shiver chasing visibly over her drenched form.
“Go?”
she repeated in weak disbelief. “But I just arrived. I have been walking for miles.”

Curious,
Daniel thought as he listened to her reply. For a beggar woman, her speech was remarkably refined and not the least bit Scottish.
English, clearly,
he decided, and yet her words held a kind of precise perfection that did not sound completely natural. It was almost as if she had been taught
the language rather than been born to it. Could she be foreign?

He was still puzzling over the possibility when the innkeeper continued. “Miles, is it?” The man scowled. “Weel, unless ye’ve coin tae pay yer way, I canna help ye. Do ye ’ave any coin?”

She stared for a long moment, then shook her head. “No. I never carry money.”

The innkeeper rocked back on his heels, while a couple of patrons laughed at what was clearly the oddest way of saying she was poor that any of them had ever heard.

“Sorry, then, lass, but ye’ll ’ave tae be off.”

“But I need to speak to a magistrate. My coach was set upon by highwaymen.” She trembled and wrapped her arms around herself. “I n-need to report the crime. I n-need shelter and s-somewhere to rest until my friends can be contacted.”

Her teeth began chattering, though whether from cold or fright, Daniel could not tell.

The innkeeper goggled. “Highwaymen, is it, you say? In these parts? Where? On what road?”

She shook her head. “I do not know. I told you— I’ve been walking through the storm. It was on the main road south—or at least I think it was the main road… I don’t know any longer.”

“And where is the rest of yer party? What became of them?”

A shudder went through her and she swayed on her feet. “Might I have a seat, if you would be so good?”

She waited, making no move to seek a chair on her own; it was, Daniel realized after a moment, as if she expected someone to bring the chair to her.

No one did.

Daniel saw her tremble and sway slightly again. Was she going to faint? Given her condition, it was entirely possible.

Used to making quick decisions, he stood and picked up the mate to the straight-backed wooden chair in which he’d been sitting. His boots echoed against the pine floor as he
carried it across to her and set it down. When she didn’t immediately react, he took a gentle hold of her elbow and steered her onto the seat.

Only then did she look up, her gaze meeting his.

Her eyes were like a pair of dark, luminous pools, deep and soulful and unspeakably beautiful. Their color was brown, but not an ordinary brown. Instead their hue was an intriguing mixture of ripe earth and night sky with hints of black and gold woven through to create a shade quite unlike any he had ever glimpsed. The closest comparison he could make would be to a cup of intensely rich, fine Belgian chocolate he’d once had occasion to drink—warm and sensual and indescribably sweet. Even so, the color of that chocolate did not do her eyes justice.

As for the rest of her, it was difficult to tell, since her pale visage was obscured by a layer of dirt and fear—very definitely fear. But not, he sensed, of himself.

“Thank you,” she murmured softly—so softly he nearly missed the words.

“So ye were set upon?” the innkeeper continued.

“That’s right,” she answered, turning her head to look at the older man.

“Robbed ye, did they?”

“N-No, not exactly. They—” Her words trailed off, the small bit of color that had come into her face leaching away so that she looked as pale as death.

“If they didn’t rob ye, what daed they want? McCrawber’ll want ter know. He’s no magistrate, but he does fer the law around these parts. Surprised he’s not ’ere this evenin’. Comes in most nights. Must be the rain.”

“Yes. The rain is very cold and unpleasant,” she said, another tremor rippling over her skin.

She must be in shock, Daniel decided. He had seen it often on the battlefield, men who could walk and talk and function yet who didn’t seem quite right for all that. Men who’d seen too much, more than they could handle. What, he wondered, had she seen?

“Weel, so what was it the highwaymen was after?” the innkeeper persisted.

She said nothing at first, then seemed to rally, drawing herself upright. “I would prefer to discuss the incident with this… Mr. McCrawber… once he can be summoned. In the meantime, I should like a room with a warm fire, a hot bath, and a meal, if you please. You will be recompensed in full for your services once my family and friends can be notified.”

“Is that so?” The innkeeper folded his arms over his chest. “And just who is yer family? And these friends o’ yers? Where dae they live?”

Daniel stilled so as not to miss her answer. The rest of the patrons did also, as the unusual woman in their midst was proving to be as entertaining as a play.

“My friends are the Earl of Lyndhurst—although he was recently made an archduke as well—and his wife, Her Highness Princess Emmaline of Rosewald,” she explained. “At present, they are in residence at their London town house for the Season. My friend Princess Ariadne is staying with them for the summer. As for my family, my parents are Crown Prince Frederick and Princess Marie-Louise of Alden.”

Silence hummed through the room like a living being.

“Alden is on the Continent, in case you are unfamiliar with my country,” she added, as if she believed that to be the cause of all their wide-eyed stares. “It is small and not as well-known as others, such as Prussia or Austria-Hungary. Many people are only vaguely aware of it.”

Once again no one said a word.

“Now, if you will bring me a pen and paper, I shall write to my friends with all necessary haste,” she continued. “You do have a rider, I trust, who can relay a message for me?”