But if they’d been in this room, and if Beatrice had found them, surely she would have been so angry she’d have said something about them. No, if Marie had indeed stashed them away, either they were somewhere else or they were still hidden here, in this room.
But every drawer had been emptied. And even the drawers themselves were pulled free and turned upside down, stacked in the corner of the room, as if Beatrice had thought to make sure nothing had been glued to their bottoms. The linens were torn from the bed. The desk emptied out. Chairs tipped over onto their sides. Framed pictures on the walls lifted to the floor. (The princess must have stood on a chair to haul those down. Impressive!)
In short, everything Beatrice could reach or was movable had been inspected.
Everything she could move
, he thought again.
His gaze fixed on the immense, oak wardrobe standing against one wall. Although its doors were open, contents spilled out, it must still be too heavy for the princess to shift. But the French witch? He remembered the strength of her grip, moments before he’d shoved her off the ledge. Was it possible?
Going to it, then bracing one shoulder against a back corner, he eased the thing forward of the wall a few inches. An equally exhausting effort shimmied the other rear corner forward. He was rewarded with the sound of something with a bit of weight hitting the floor. Gregory grinned, knowing before he saw it.
He got down on his knees and stretched out an arm along the floor, close to the wall. When his hand came back out it held a packet of letters neatly tied up with a red ribbon.
“Foolish girl,” he breathed. To think she believed he wouldn’t find them.
Now that he had these, nothing remained to tie him to her death. Or to Willy’s mischief. All he had to do was burn the letters. And woo a naïve princess. If necessary, he’d force the issue, though cleverly of course. The woman was so pitifully inexperienced, she likely wouldn’t realize what he was doing until it was too late.
“Go to bed, Henry.” Louise touched his arm, flashing him a sympathetic look when he glanced up drowsily at her. He felt so very helpless. Where was Beatrice at this very moment? Was she safe? Had she heeded Louise’s warning in her letter?
When he’d asked Louise if she thought her cautionary words would be enough to keep Beatrice safe, the Duchess of Argyll had said only, “If Bea’s in the mood to listen.” Not terribly reassuring.
“I can’t sleep,” Henry said now. “I’ve tried.”
Outside, the wind slammed anything it could rip free from trees or buildings against the inn’s outer walls. Every now and then the innkeeper, looking as exhausted as Henry felt, shuffled through the room, checking the shutters, staring mournfully at the ceiling, which had begun leaking hours earlier. “Thatching’s likely blown off,” the man had muttered.
Two more men caught in the storm arrived and unceremoniously curled up in opposite corners of the fireplace wall, and fell asleep.
“Nothing to be done until the squall blows itself out,” Stephen Byrne said. “We should all get some rest.”
“How can you sleep through this noise?” Henry held his aching head. “And knowing poor Bea is trapped on the island with that monster.”
“We can’t be certain he’s done anything worse than flirt with the woman you love,” Louise said, managing to actually look a little amused at his pain. “Every young woman deserves to have at least two gentlemen fighting over her, once in her life.”
Henry lifted his head to roll his eyes at her. “You can’t call the Scot a gentleman, if he’s made improper advances toward your sister. Never mind that he’s murdered his fiancée. ”
“No,” she said, looking grimmer. “No, I wouldn’t do him the honor if what Stephen has discovered is true.” She sighed. “I admit that it looks bad for the fellow, even if all we have is hearsay…not a shred of proof.”
Henry slammed his fists down on the tabletop. “You would defend the bastard?”
“I suggest you not take that tone with Her Royal Highness,” a deep voice came at him from behind. He’d forgotten Stephen Byrne had remained in the room, hunkered down on a settee near the inn’s door. Their unofficial sentry.
Henry turned to see the American, now looming over him, wearing an expression he’d only ever seen on a man in combat. Dangerous. Deadly.
Henry drew a steadying breath. “I’m sorry.” He turned back to Louise. “I apologize, ma’am. Truly, I don’t know what’s come over me. I’m just so terrified he’ll hurt her, as he may have done that woman in Scotland.”
“If what we suspect is true,” Louise said, her voice gentle but threaded with determination, “I don’t want him anywhere near my sister either. But until this storm passes the coast, there’s little we can do.”
“Yes, of course.” No matter how hard Henry tried to control is anxiety, his heart refused to stop racing.
They all three sat up with coffee until Louise seemed unable to keep her eyes open despite the hot drink. She leaned against Byrne on the oak settee, and he coiled a strong arm around her and pulled her into his chest. When the innkeeper passed through the next time and gave him a look, Byrne merely met the man’s reproving eyes, and the man scampered away as if the American had pointed a gun at him.
Henry couldn’t have said what time it was when he too fell unconscious. The next thing he knew a strong hand was gripping his shoulder, shaking him. “It’s time, Henry. We’re away.”
He blinked his eyes open and stared up into The Raven’s face. “What?” He looked around. The two most recent travelers had gone. Only then did his brain get the message:
Silence
.
“The wind has stopped,” Henry said.
“Right, but it’s still raining. I don’t know if a ferry will run in this. We might find a captain from the fishing fleet willing to take us to the island. It will be dawn soon. We should get down to the docks.”
“Yes, absolutely.” Henry staggered to his feet. “How will we—”
“Louise has arranged to borrow the innkeeper’s cart and horse, and a tarpaulin to keep us as dry as possible. I’ll drive,” Byrne said.
With little in the way of luggage they were away within minutes. Exposed to the elements, they were shivering in ten minutes, for the tarp did nothing to keep sudden spits of rain from blowing in beneath it. Henry’s skin felt clammy, his overcoat sodden, but he didn’t complain. All that mattered was reaching Beatrice and seeing her safe.
“Do you know how far it is to the docks?” Henry asked Byrne.
“They say three miles due south.”
“So if a wheel doesn’t get mired in this muck they call a road, maybe an hour?”
“More likely two. We can’t move very fast in this.”
Louise let out a hopeful little cry. “Oh, my, look!”
“What is it?” Byrne asked.
“The sky,” she said. “Do you see, to the south? Doesn’t it seem to be clearing?”
“By God, it does,” Henry cried. “Maybe by the time we reach the water, we’ll have a blue sky overhead.”
Byrne nodded. “And less wind. Bad for a sailing barge, but better if we can find a steamer.”
No one seemed to be around the town wharf when they first arrived. Finally, they located three fishermen at a pub two streets away from the water. One told them that a couple of the larger boats had already gone out. “I’m givin’ it a coupla more hours. Still pretty rough out there.”
“Too rough to cross the Solent for the price of three days’ catch?” Byrne asked.
The man looked interested but only pursed his lips thoughtfully.
“A week’s catch,” Henry upped the ante.
The man smiled. “Give me an hour to make her ready.”
“How long to reach the queen’s house, once we reach the island?” “Relax,” the fisherman chuckled, “I’ll have you folks there for luncheon with Her Majesty.”
“I don’t care who else is looking for Marie,” Beatrice said, letting the heavy velvet draperies fall away from her fingers. “I’m going out too.”
The sky over the Isle of Wight was clearing. Already she could see tattered patches of silky indigo blue, and the wind had dropped to a breeze that hardly moved the leaves in the trees outside the salon’s tall windows. Safety seemed no longer an issue.
“Why do you insist upon trudging through muck and mire, Baby?” Victoria shook her head in exasperation as Beatrice turned toward the hallway door. “The island will be a horrid mess of puddles and downed tree limbs after the storm. Let the men handle the search.”
“We need as many people looking for Marie as possible,” Beatrice said.
“You don’t intend to go out alone, do you?”
“No.” Exasperated, she turned to face the queen, her hand on the gilded door latch. “I suppose I’ll ask one or more of our men to accompany me. On horseback. We’ll cover ground more quickly that way.”
Victoria rolled her eyes. “You’ll feel quite foolish when you discover the girl has simply run off with a villager.”
“That’s not like Marie at all, and you know it, Mama.”
“I wouldn’t have said so before yesterday, but given the suddenness of her disappearance, it seems the most logical explanation.” She sniffed into her handkerchief. “The French are flighty and prone to unrealistic passions.”
It was, of course, a distant possibility. A young woman as attractive as Marie should have had a flock of admirers. But now Beatrice knew the reason why her friend had kept to herself. The child. And probably the pain of a broken heart following her affair with the priest. Had she expected her lover to leave the Church for her? Had he forced her to abandon her homeland and seek asylum in England, to protect his honor? There were so many questions she longed to ask Marie. And she would…if only she could find her.
Beatrice rushed out of the salon and up the stairs. She’d need serious riding gear.
She ran into Ponsonby on her way to her room. “Will you send word to the stables that I require two men to accompany me on the search?” She flung the words at the old man as she raced past on the curving stairway. “Have them stand ready with the horses. I’ll be down in the yard in ten minutes.”
From the stiffening of Ponsonby’s shoulders in his black frock coat, she sensed another lecture coming on. “Princess, is it wise to—”
“I don’t want to hear it!” she snapped.
Determined to get to the bottom of her lady’s mysterious absence, she excused herself for her burst of temper and concentrated on speedily casting aside dress and petticoats for leather and wool that would stand up to a rough and sloppy ride.
Outside in the mews, she checked the sky again. The shroud of black clouds that had covered the island for forty-eight hours had lifted, and the sun shone brightly. Her mother was right though. Puddles everywhere. Impromptu streams of fast-running water crisscrossed the property, and flotsam and jetsam lay all about. The fields would be treacherous with mud, some trails through the woods impassible. It would make more sense to put off the search,
her
search at least, until the next day when the earth had soaked up at least some of the moisture. But Beatrice couldn’t abide the possibility of Marie lying on damp ground somewhere, helpless and cold, unable to walk on a twisted ankle, or unconscious.
She rounded the corner of the stables and found Gregory already mounted, holding the reins to her horse. Attached to his saddle were a leather satchel and a rolled blanket. Medical supplies, she assumed.
She looked around. “Where is our other man?”
“Those who can be spared have already left.” Busy adjusting his stirrups, he didn’t look at her. “We’ll catch up with them soon enough.”
Feeling only a little uneasy striking out alone with the ardent Mr. MacAlister, she sighed. Surely he’d behave himself under the circumstances. “Fine. It’s probably best we spread out anyway. Which way did they go?”
He hesitated, as if trying to remember. “Half of them toward the cliffs. They’ll take the high road along the shore.”
“And how many are off toward East Cowes?”
“Four. And three more took the bridle path through the fields. We can cover the woods.” “Isn’t it less likely Marie would have ventured into the forest during a storm—being that’s away from the house instead of toward it?” she asked.
He shrugged. “If she was already out walking there, she might have imagined it wiser to seek shelter where she was, rather than try to cross open fields, exposed to the worst of the wind.”
Beatrice drew a breath at another jolt of fear on behalf of the woman who had never been far from her side for two entire years. “Right then, let’s go.” She waved off a young page who stepped forward to give her a leg up onto her horse. She set her left foot in her stirrup and easily swung herself up, expertly negotiating the twist of her body and swish of long leather skirt necessary to land in proper position on her side-saddle. She hooked her right leg over the first pommel and secured her left leg over the lower pommel in case she had to jump the horse over downed trees. “We’ll take the southern path, work our way up the hill then loop back through the densest woods to the house.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Gregory said.
She led off at a slow trot, not daring to run her horse across the uneven ground, riddled as it was with treacherous gulleys and sinkholes into which her mount might catch a hoof, and snap delicate leg bones. She repeatedly called out Marie’s name, in hopes she’d hear a response. Gregory followed suit, bellowing loudly, although she sensed he put less faith than she did in getting an answer.
They searched through a stony glade, rode up and down a series of sparsely treed hillocks, continually calling out for Marie. Beatrice’s heart grew heavier with each passing minute. Where could she be?
At last, riding side by side, they entered the thick of the woods.
As worried as she was, Beatrice couldn’t help marveling at the forest around her. It smelled fern-fresh and green, bursting with life after the torrential rains. How clever nature was. Clearing out stale air and dust from the earth. Washing it down to give life a new start. Too bad her own life wasn’t like that. What wouldn’t she give for a new beginning? How her heart ached for another chance to be with Henry. Her dear, brave, lost-to-her-now prince.
“We need to stop and rest the horses,” Gregory said, pulling her thoughts back to the moment.
“They can’t already be tired,” she objected. “We’ve only been riding a little over an hour.”
“It’s harder on them than you think, stepping though this mess. Risking injury to one of the queen’s animals isn’t worth it.”
“But we’ve hardly covered a quarter of the woods between Osborne and the town.”
Gregory smiled, his eyes sparking with something that almost looked like amusement. “We’ll do it carefully, so as not to miss the poor lass. If she’s on the island, Princess, we’ll find her.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. I am just so terribly worried.” She considered telling him about the child and the priest. But that was something from Marie’s past that the girl had meant to stay a secret. She’d honor her friend’s privacy.
Only then, as Beatrice slid down from her saddle to the mossy ground, did another idea strike her. Maybe that was where Marie had gone. To see her child. The little girl might have taken ill. Marie couldn’t very well have asked permission to go to her child when, as far as the queen was concerned, no child existed.
She turned and saw Gregory taking down the blanket roll from behind his saddle. “What are you doing?”
“If we’re going to rest, we might as well do it in comfort. I won’t have you sitting on cold, damp ground.”
She gave him a tentative smile as he spread out the blanket. “How very thoughtful of you.”
He produced a flask. “Thirsty?”
Actually, her throat did feel dry from all of her hallooing for Marie. She accepted the leather-encased container from him, anticipating a cool wash of water down her throat. But when she put her mouth over the opening she caught a whiff of something pungent and drew back. “What is this?”
“Scotch, to fortify and drive away the cold.”
She shook her head. “Not for me. It will just make me sleepy. You go ahead, if you like.” John Brown also had a fondness for strong drink. One of the Scot’s habits her mother liked least.
“A biscuit then?” he offered, popping open a tin he produced from the leather satchel.
Pursing her lips, she studied his innocent smile, and shrugged. “Thanks.” She took a wafer from him and sat on the blanket. But her nerves pricked at her, little nudges toward action.
Move. Ride. Go!
a voice urged her.
She hastily munched the crisp, buttery-sweet shortbread. “I can’t believe you packed a picnic, Greg. This hardly seems the time.” Part of her admitted pleasure that he cared so much for her comfort. Another, much more insistent, grew irritated and impatient. The man was taking this search far too lightly.
Beatrice watched the horses drink from the nearby stream. They snuffled softly, shook their manes, drank some more. They didn’t look in the least fatigued. Neither was she.
Beatrice dusted the crumbs from her fingers and was about to push herself to her feet, when the Scot startled her by sitting down close beside her. She flinched as his hip bumped against hers, hard, knocking into her just enough to interrupt her attempt to stand. He stretched out on his back. Hands folded behind his head, he closed his eyes in repose. Glittery patches of sunlight filtered through the branches overhead, down across his strong masculine features.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she said.
He seemed not to have heard her.
Beatrice looked around her in exasperation.
The lazy turd!
Only then did she think about how far they were from the house—at least two miles. They hadn’t seen even one other person—soldier, staff, or villager—from the search party. Clearly, this was ground that should be thoroughly scoured.
Never mind. If she had to continue on her own, without the blasted groom, she would.
She tucked her feet under her hips to stand up.
Gregory’s hand shot out. Rigid fingers clasped her wrist. His eyes flashed open, fixing on her. “Don’t go, Princess. Let’s talk a bit while the horses recover.” His voice was soft but insistent.
She stared at him—her earlier wariness swelling to alarm. “The horses aren’t even breathing hard.” He didn’t respond. “Talk about what, Greg?”
“Us.” He smiled.
Before she realized what he intended to do, his other hand clamped the back of her neck. He dragged her down on top of him.
His kiss was hot and moist and adamant. His mouth tasted briny, with a sweet aftertaste of tobacco, and the liquor he’d just swallowed. Beatrice recoiled. But her body betrayed her, responding with an inner heat to the intimacy of finding herself atop a man’s hard chest, his ribs pressing into her breasts, his arms locked around her. She became aware of the thunderous pulse of her own heart.
Despite the possibility that she felt excited by their closeness, she was compelled to remind him that his behavior was, simply put, outrageously inappropriate.
“Gregory—”
He pulled back a few inches, touched a finger over her lips. “Hush. Hear me out. You may still think you need to save yourself for Henry Battenberg. But he doesn’t deserve you.”
Was the man mad? First, he took physical liberties with her. Now he spoke of her private life as if he deserved to have a say in it. She opened her mouth to chastise him, but his finger pressed so firmly over her lips, she imagined the tender flesh bruising against her teeth. It was an obvious warning.
Still, Gregory’s tone remained calm, almost mesmerizing. “If Battenberg had been a real man, he would have stood up to the queen and not deserted you. He’d have taken you with him back to Germany. He is a coward. I am not.” His eyes suddenly blazed with dark intent. “I will stand by you no matter what, Princess. You
must
trust me.”
“Trust you in what way?” She gasped as he traced one finger down the line of her throat.
Suddenly, a woman’s instinct took over. The heat that had shot through her body at his surprise embrace seeped away, leaving her as chilled as if she’d been lying on frozen ground. She sensed their roles had altered without her realizing it. He was predator, she was prey.
Beatrice desperately wanted to get away from him, even if she didn’t fully understand what he expected of her. But she could tell from the intensity of his gaze that he had no intension of letting her go.
She wiggled just enough to force her arms up and create a small space between them. “Gregory, I’m uncomfortable. Let me up.” The muscles in his arms hardened. She felt the strength in his body. As long as he ignored her wish to be released, she knew she had little chance of escape. And the idea she might overpower him was ludicrous.
Her mind raced.
What to do? What to do!
He was talking again in that sing-song voice, no doubt meant to reduce her to limp acquiescence. “A man who loves a woman
shows
his devotion, my sweet Beatrice. Words are nothing. It is his actions that prove him worthy. I will never neglect you as Battenberg has done.”
His hands slid down her body, skimming over tweed riding jacket and suede skirt, raising up chills as they went. She wondered if he interpreted her shivers as pleasurable. They were not.
“Stop!” she shouted.
“Let me prove myself. Let me bring you the happiness you deserve.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now release me!”
Inexperienced as she was, she knew now that Gregory MacAlister wasn’t the harmless flirt she’d at first assumed. She had to get away from him. Any way she could.
Beatrice lashed out at him, striking his chest, shoulders, face with her fists. Putting everything she had into her assault.
Nothing she did fazed him. “It’s time,” he whispered in her ear.
She stiffened and pushed away from him with a shriek of protest.
He rolled them both over, putting her back against the mossy undergrowth off the edge of the blanket. He pinned her wrists above her head to the damp forest floor. She could feel the moisture seeping through her clothing. His body seemed to take on extra weight, so heavy now the breath was crushed out of her.