“Stop, Mr. MacAlister. Stop…this!” She tried to scream the words but was barely able to force them out in puffy half-breaths. “No!”
His gray eyes darkened. He kissed her throat. “I will, my sweet. But first we shall bind ourselves together. And don’t pretend it will mean nothing to you. I know you, my innocent flower, and I know your mother. Once her Baby is no longer a virgin, the queen will tolerate nothing less than seeing you married. To any other man, you’ll be ruined, an embarrassment. You’ll have no one but your loyal Gregory.”
To her horror she realized his lower regions had swollen, hardened. Forcing himself on her excited him.
She had, of course, been aware of Henry’s masculine reactions to being close to her. He’d admitted his arousal, and she had been flattered, thrilled. She’d looked forward to discovering ways to please him, to lovingly surrender and joyfully provide for him a wife’s gift of her body.
This
was nothing like what she’d felt with Henry. There was a word for this.
“Rape hardly recommends you as a husband!” she gasped.
He was laughing now.
Laughing
at her! “Not rape, my dear. You teased me. Insisted on having my company alone on our many rides. Remember? Everyone in the mews knows that. Princess Beatrice specially requested me. And there are those who will swear you threw yourself shamelessly at me.”
Her eyes widened with horror. “That. Is. A.
Lie
!”
He kissed her throat again and shrugged, looking pleased with himself. The truth behind his arrogance struck her like a fist to her stomach. Whether he had started the lie or paid others to do it for him didn’t matter. Gossip flew unchecked through her mother’s court. Within days, no one would remember who first told the tale of her obsession with the handsome groom. Society would accept it as the truth.
In that moment, she believed the manipulative Scot capable of anything. No matter how twisted or cruel.
“I hate you!” she screamed.
“Trust me, my darling,” he breathed between her lips. “I will be gentle. Unless you fight me, the pain will be brief, the pleasure delicious.”
With a burst of strength, she wrenched one hand free of his grip. Before he could duck away, she’d dug her nails deep into his cheek and dragged them down the side of his face. Blood seeped from four jagged trails of flesh.
“Witch!” His eyes narrowed in stark warning. “Don’t you
dare
disobey me.”
Dare?
she thought. Her body tensed, from head to toe. She’d spent her entire life doing what others told her she must do. She’d never been able to choose for herself. But now…
now!
She refused to let Gregory MacAlister make the most intimate decision of her life for her.
No man will take my maidenhead—without my willing it!
While he was distracted, sliding off of her in their struggles as he tried to recapture her free arm, she got one leg out from under him, crooked her knee and jerked it up,
hard
, into his crotch.
He let out a low, agonized groan and fell off of her, clutching himself. Her wrists throbbed, her chest ached, but she rolled away and onto her feet. She lifted the hem of her skirt and ran for the horses, not risking a glance back over her shoulder to see if he was following her. Or how much of a lead she had on him.
Henry was the first off the
Nancy Ann
. He leaped the four feet between the deck of the fishing trawler and splintery dock, his boots landing with a squelchy thud on the sodden wood planks. He caught a line thrown by Byrne and tied off the boat with a naval man’s snug cleat hitch.
In the distance, he could just see the crenulated stone towers of Osborne House. Not directly atop the chalky cliffs but perhaps a quarter mile back from the shore. The sky had cleared, the sun peeking out from behind the few remaining sooty clouds. He thought to run on ahead of the others except he’d be turned away by the guards without Louise there to identify him. It had been many years since he was an invited guest to the island, and he surely wasn’t expected now, as he was still
persona non grata
with the queen.
He paced up and down the dock, scanning the waterfront while he waited for the duchess to disembark. Byrne was tossing their luggage up onto the wharf. Luggage that Henry couldn’t have cared less about. All that mattered to him was seeing Beatrice unharmed and safe.
He turned to observe the condition of the beach while he waited. The storm had kicked up a snarl of glistening emerald seaweed, small and large branches of twisted driftwood, and black bladder-kelp along the sandy shore. A half dozen green and red wooden boats from the fishing fleet remained beached, high above the water’s edge, and appeared not to have suffered from the storm. His impatience growing, he was about to shout at Byrne that he would run on ahead of them and take his chances with the queen’s guard, when he caught sight of a cluster of men huddled around something much smaller than a boat, smaller even than any of the men themselves.
One of them pointed toward the
Nancy B
. The others turned as one to observe the three strangers. A fellow in a wool cap broke from the group and ran toward the wharf.
“Do you know this chap?” Henry called out to the captain.
“Bryan Axelrod, one of the islanders, sir. A mackerel fisherman like me.”
Perhaps it was an unusual sea creature that had washed up and the young man was looking to make a few coins by offering to show it off to tourists. Well, Henry had no time for that nonsense.
“Ho there!” Axelrod hollered. “Are ye from the queen’s house?”
“We’re on our way there. Why do you ask?” Henry heard steps on the dock behind him and turned to see Louise and Byrne coming along. At last!
“A sad state of affairs, sir. A woman’s body washed up on the beach.”
Henry’s heart stopped.
Beatrice
?
No! Oh, God, no.
His heart hammered in his chest.
Tell me something to prove it’s not her
!
The fisherman continued talking, “She ain’t from round here. Not an island woman, no sir. Way she’s dressed, we figured she might be from the queen’s household.”
“A maid maybe?” Henry guessed.
Please let it be!
The man winced. “More likely, one o’ the Court. Seein’ how she’s dressed so fine.”
Henry felt the world implode around him.
“What’s all this about?” Louise demanded, stopping beside them. She tucked a strand of hair back under her straw hat but the breeze tugged it loose again.
“There’s been a terrible—an accident.” Henry swallowed. Then swallowed again, barely able to speak. “A woman has drowned. They’ve found a body. Not sure whose. There.” Unable to force another word from his stiff lips, Henry pointed down the beach.
Byrne peered over Louise’s head. “You’re sure you can’t identify her, sir?”
“Nay. As I was tellin’ the gentleman here, we think she may be from Osborne House. Not an hour ago, men from the queen’s house came along this way, searchin’ for a young miss. If this is her—” The fisherman shook his head. “Trouble is, we don’t want to upset Her Majesty until we’re certain.”
“I see.”
“If you could send someone down from the house, sir?” The man looked pleadingly at Stephen Byrne.
“Yes, of course.”
“No!” Louise said. Henry jerked his head up, shocked at the sharpness of her response. “I know everyone in the household. Let me look at the body. I’ll tell you if the poor thing is one of ours.”
Henry stared at her. “Surely you can’t be serious, Duchess. A drowned body? You can’t think to submit yourself to the distress of—”
And if it
is
Beatrice, her sister?
“Don’t even try, Henry.” Byrne rested a hand on his shoulder and shook his head, even as Louise took a determined step around the men then off the dock. One corner of the American’s lips lifted in a weary smile. “She won’t listen.”
“Indeed,
she
won’t,” Louise called back over her shoulder. “Let’s get this sad business over with.”
Louise marched off down the strip of storm-ravaged sand, leaving the men no choice but to follow her. When they arrived at the corpse, the protective little group of males around it parted and stood reverently back, caps in hand, whiskered jaws clenched, eyes downcast. Henry stared down at the tragically bloated face of what he assumed was a young woman not much over twenty years. Although her clothing was stained with sea water, and brown sludge from the cove’s bottom, he could still discern the quality of the garment. The fisherman was right. This was no village girl.
But all Henry cared about—God forgive him—was that this was not his Beatrice. Wrong hair color. Wrong features. Wrong everything. Assuredly, thankfully,
not
her. He thought he might weep with gratitude.
Beside him, Louise gasped. “Oh, no!”
Henry spun to face her. “You know her?”
“This is Marie Devereaux, my sister’s lady-in-waiting.”
Byrne stepped forward, gripped her arm and whispered into her ear. “The effects of desiccation. They can be distorting, misleading.”
“No. No, I’m absolutely sure it’s her. Poor dear. How could this have happened?”
“Then what about Beatrice?” Henry burst out. “You don’t think the two were together when—”
“I should hope not,” Byrne said, his eyes black fire. “Come. We’ll send someone for your bags, Louise. We need to tell the queen as well as Beatrice. And find out what’s happened at this bloody house to bring the poor girl to this state.”
Before Byrne had finished speaking, Henry was racing for the only steps he saw, leading up from the beach. Louise and Byrne followed close behind. By the time he reached the top, he was winded from the long climb, bent over at the waist with a painful stitch in his side. He peered up at the gray-stone house with its many wings and outbuildings. He’d forgotten how immense the place was. No quaint beach house this.
They rushed along the path and up to the gates where Louise ushered them swiftly past guards, through a garden and into the central vestibule. A butler met them. He seemed rattled by their unannounced appearance.
“Your Highness,” he said, bowing, “we weren’t informed of your arrival. I apologize that you weren’t met properly.”
“The storm,” Louise said, “there was no way to reach you. Don’t fret, Sampson. Listen, I need to see my sister immediately. And Mr. Byrne has some rather disturbing news for the queen as well.”
The butler frowned. “The queen is resting in her room. I wouldn’t wish to disturb her. The storm kept everyone awake last night.”
Henry turned to Stephen Byrne. “Maybe that can wait. But Beatrice—”
“Yes. Bea is our priority.” Louise turned back to the butler. “My sister is in her room as well?”
“No, ma’am. She has gone out on horseback with the others to search for Lady Marie. The girl has gone missing.”
“I’m for the stables!” Stephen Byrne barked, disappearing out the door.
Henry lunged at the servant. “Where?” he shouted. “
Where
exactly is the princess now?”
The man fell back a step, looking bewildered. “I’m sorry, sir. She’s searching for Marie is all I know. I can’t say which way she went.”
“But she wasn’t alone, was she?” Louise asked.
“Certainly not, ma’am. She took one of the grooms with her.”
Henry’s heartbeat tripped. Dare he ask? How much worse could this get? His gaze met Louise’s eyes—hers wide and flaring pale blue fire.
“Which one?” she cried. “For God sakes, which groom went with Beatrice?”
“The young Scot, ma’am—the man the queen brought with her from London.” The butler looked from her to Henry, obviously flustered by her alarm. “Mr. MacAlister. They left together, a little over an hour ago.”
Henry cursed. “We need horses. Now!”
“Come with me.” Louise gathered up her skirts and bolted for the door. “If any are left, Stephen will be throwing saddles on them by now.”
Beatrice bent low against her mount’s straining neck as she raced down the narrow riding path, twisting through the woods. She ducked beneath branches bent low or snapped off in the storm, praying the animal wouldn’t stumble on the uneven ground and go down. Ahead she could see one of the massive felled oaks they’d walked their horses around on their way into the woods. She heard the Scot’s horse behind her, its lungs heaving like huge bellows, its hooves striking the ground faster and faster, louder and louder as it gained on her.
Gregory had stopped shouting promises not to hurt her. She hadn’t believed him anyway. He must know by now she’d never trust him—not as a friend, never as a lover.
She steeled herself for the jump, locking her leg around the jumping pommel on the sidesaddle. Woman and horse sailed over the trunk. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw Gregory’s mount easily clear the log too.
By the time she reached the edge of the forest and burst out into the open field, Beatrice could feel her horse’s fatigue through the twinges of his muscles and its labored breathing. Still, she urged her mount onward, knowing she would be safe only when she came within sight and hailing distance of her mother’s guards at Osborne’s gates. Only if they saw her before Gregory caught up with her.
Even though her horse strained to obey the urgent signals of her crop—
Run! Run! Run!
—her peripheral vision revealed the Scot’s mount edging up alongside her. She switched her whip to her left hand. Gauging the approximate position of the man’s face, she let loose with a vicious swipe.
A loud crack was followed by a cry of pain and cursing. She felt the crop torn out of her hand. But before Gregory could make use of it against her, his horse balked and broke stride, slowing down as if confused by the scuffle.
She’d bought a little time, yes, but only seconds. Beatrice knew her own horse might drop from exhaustion any moment. Osborne was in sight now, thank God. But she was still too far away for the guards to see or hear her. Or, at least, to realize anything was wrong.
And then it happened. The miracle she’d been praying for.
A pair of riders appeared in the distance, off to her right and across the field. She shouted and waved her arm above her head. When they didn’t seem to see her, she turned her horse away from the house, toward them, and rode as she’d never ridden before.
Byrne saw the rider first. “There!” he shouted. “Who is it? The fool—what is he trying to do, break his horse’s neck and his own as well?”
Henry’s heart leapt as the familiar shape of the bold rider became evident. “It’s her! Bea.” How could Byrne not recognize her? But of course,
he
hadn’t seen her ride like this before—glorious, breathtakingly wild and free, racing across the poppy fields at Darmstadt.
Henry’s pulse triple timed. He stood in his stirrups, unable to take his eyes off of her. The princess’s hair had flown loose from pins and braiding, and spread out behind her in lush, wind-torn waves. Her face, even at this distance, appeared flushed pink with exertion. She leaned forward in the saddle, strong and confident.
The woman was nothing short of magnificent. His heart soared.
But there was something different about this ride. A desperation he hadn’t seen before.
“Another rider. Fifty feet behind,” the American called out. “Is it MacAlister?”
“Can only be,” Henry ground out between clenched teeth. He kicked his horse into a gallop, aiming for a point of interception with Beatrice.
The groom must have been so intent upon catching up with the princess, he seemed at first unaware of the other riders’ approach. When he finally looked their way, Henry saw a flare of vicious anger in the man’s eyes, then the fear came. He’d been closing fast on Beatrice’s laboring horse. But now, seeing he had witnesses, he tugged at his reins and veered away from her.
“He’s making a run for it!” Henry shouted.
“You see to Beatrice. I’ll manage the joker.” Byrne tugged his Stetson down over his forehead and, leather duster flapping, took off after the man.
As soon as Beatrice saw that MacAlister had given up chasing her, she slowed her horse and brought it, wheezing and snuffling, to a stop in the middle of the field. By the time Henry reached her, she was slumped forward over her mount’s neck. Milky froth dribbled from the animal’s mouth. Its eyes rolled in lingering panic and confusion.
He spoke gently to the animal so as not to spook it as he dismounted, but all of his attention was on Bea. “Darling, are you all right?” He reached up and lifted her from her saddle, only then remembering she always rode sidesaddle. How she’d stayed on through that insane ride seemed nothing short of a miracle.
“Bea?”
She turned in his arms at the sound of her name.
“Henry!” Tears came to her eyes. “Oh, I’m so very embarrassed that you should see me in this state.”
He couldn’t help laughing at that. “My darling, are you hurt?” He set her feet on the ground and pulled her tenderly into his arms. “Did he—”
“No, I’m fine. Truly.” She smiled up at him. “I’m so glad you’re here. Even if you no longer want me as your wife, I’ll be forever grateful that you’ve—”
“Hush,” he said. “Stop talking nonsense. I shall never stop wanting you—as wife, as companion, as my everything.”
Her eyes widened, and he thought he saw tears shimmer behind her lashes. He would have said, and done, much more, but then Stephen Byrne appeared, leading two horses behind him by the reins, and walking Gregory MacAlister ahead of him, through the tall grass.
Henry didn’t even think about what he was doing. He released Beatrice, stepped forward and bashed the man in the face with his fist, bringing an immediate spurt of blood from the Scot’s nose.
“You fiend! I will kill you here and now.”
After another minute or two, Beatrice had recovered her breath and cleared her head enough to think
, I really should stop him
. Truly, violence had never excited her. And yet…she took wicked pleasure in seeing Gregory pummeled by Henry Battenberg and brought, literally, to his knees.
She looked at Stephen Byrne but he’d turned his back on the pair to study the sky, as if considering the improving weather. He allowed Henry ample time to punish the Scot and, when Henry had got Gregory down on the ground, pleading for mercy between kicks and punches, the American casually let the horses’ reins fall and inserted himself between the two men.
Byrne braced a hand against Henry’s heaving chest. “Enough. The rogue will be well punished by the queen’s magistrates.”
“I didn’t. Do. Anything!” Gregory gasped, jabbing an accusing finger toward Beatrice. “She…she asked me…begged me. Came on to me, a cat in heat!”
“Shut up,” Byrne said. “I’m not talking about your attacking the Princess. You have other crimes to answer to, sir.”
Beatrice stared at Stephen Bryne. What was he talking about?
Henry rubbed his raw knuckles then slipped an arm around her waist. “Dear heart, I’ll explain everything back at the house.”