The Barefoot Princess

  Her mouth twisted wryly.

  Unexpectedly Jermyn’s gaze caught hers. The gold flames lit his brown eyes in a determined blaze. The mouth she’d so recently kissed was a firm line, the chin she’d admired was squared and stern. He was no longer her companion of the long evenings, her restrained lover of last night. He was the marquess of Northcliff. Not a man, but a master.

  Clearly he considered himself her master.

  Well, why wouldn’t he? She had foolishly claimed him—but he wasn’t available to be claimed. He was the marquess of Northcliff. And while a princess of Beaumontagne could kick dirt in his face, and a woman who had him in chains could feel confident she called the shots, she was now merely Miss Amy Rosabel. Miss Amy Rosabel who had abducted him, imprisoned him, chained him, and seduced him. Now he was free. He was the master. She was not even English. She was a foreigner, without family, a criminal. If he wished, he could order her death. If she took her life into her own hands and appealed to the Beaumontagnian Embassy, he could refuse to send the message.

  For why should he believe she was a princess? Her grandmother would tell her that a real princess would never be deceived by so obvious a ruse as Jermyn’s.

  Amy could tolerate wet and cold, pain and hunger. She couldn’t bear to wait for trouble. She might as well hurry things along.

  Picking up the pitcher, she dashed the water in the man’s face, and on Jermyn, too…right into his lap.

  Jermyn sucked in his breath. His irate gaze flew to hers and he half-rose, menace brought to life.

  The man on the floor shouted, “ ’Ere, what’d ye do that fer?”

  With a last look at Amy that promised retribution, Jermyn knelt beside him again. He grabbed his shirt and lifted Weasel-face so he was nose to nose with the wet, furious marquess. “Who sent you?” Jermyn demanded.

  “What?” The guy pretended to be barely conscious.

  Jermyn slammed him against the floor, then lifted him again and shook him like a terrier with a rat. “Don’t pretend with me. Who sent you?”

  The villain’s head wobbled on his neck. “I don’t know.”

  “You should have taken the opportunity to answer me.” Jermyn’s lips peeled back from his white teeth and his fingers squeezed the guy’s throat until his feet flailed and his eyes bulged.

  The violence of the scene shook Amy.

  No, Jermyn’s violence shook Amy. She’d never seen him as anything but an annoyed-with-her, too-attractive-to-resist nobleman. Somehow, somewhere, he had become more: a lord born to command and capable of enforcing his will with whatever means necessary. Somehow, he’d hidden his true self from her.

  She watched him throttle Weasel-face until she couldn’t stand it anymore. Rushing forward, she grasped his wrist and protested, “Jermyn!”

  He relaxed his grip. Gathering the ends of the guy’s muffler in each hand, he waited until Weasel-face caught his breath. “I want to kill you. The lady says no. Your life is hanging in the balance. Now—who sent you?”

  “I don’t know,” the guy rasped. “I swear—”

  Jermyn twisted the scarf.

  The guy struggled frantically, kicking, gagging and choking.

  Jermyn held him down with his knee in his gut.

  In her travels through England, she’d witnessed beatings and hangings. Never had ruthlessness shocked her—until now. She’d thought Jermyn a dilettante, a worthless nobleman, not this cool-eyed purveyor of justice.

  He must have seen her flinch, for he looked across at her. “When I heard the shot, I thought you were dead.”

  He seemed to think that explained everything.

  Perhaps it did. When she heard that shot, she had thought Jermyn was dead, too—and the memory of that moment still had the power to twist her stomach into knots of terror.

  She didn’t want to feel so much for Jermyn.

  “So should I feel mercy for the beggar?” Jermyn asked her.

  “I think you’d better find out why he’s here and how he found you before you kill him,” she answered steadily.

  Jermyn dropped the ends of the scarf.

  Weasel-face fell backward, gasping for breath like a beached fish.

  Jermyn began, “This time, if you don’t answer my questions, I’ll make you sorry.”

  It took Weasel-face several attempts before he could speak, and his voice rasped wretchedly, but he managed a sneer as he said, “Ye’ll take me t’ the constable?”

  “Good God, man, no! Don’t be ridiculous. No, I was going to say—the next time you refuse to speak, I’ll take you to one of our cliffs and throw you off. The rocks will break your every bone, the tide will take your body out, and the sea monsters will feast on your flesh.” Jermyn’s upper-crust accent contrasted with the crude cruelty of his words.

  Weasel’s ruddy face turned pale, and he spoke fast, as if he couldn’t wait to get the words out. “I got a job. I gets ’em all if they’re lookin’ fer the best.”

  “The best what?” Jermyn asked.

  “Assassin. Do ye know what that means?” Weasel-face was quite serious. “I shoots people, see? Fer money.”

  Amy had known what he was going to say—after all, what other explanation could there be? Yet at his words, she withered. How had her plot come to this?

  “Go on.” Jermyn was impassive.

  “This swell cove tells me t’ go t’ Settersway and follow this letter. ’E said no matter what, I was t’ keep track o’ the letter, and that would lead me t’ another swell cove who was in prison. I was t’ kill ’im any way I liked and when I came back wi’ proof, I’d get another twelve guineas.”

  “A most generous reward for the job,” Jermyn said.

  “I’m the best,” Weasel repeated. “I followed the letter—didn’t like the crossing, I can tell ye, never been in a boat before and the bastard who rowed laughed when I puked—and followed it up t’ this house. Looked in the windows, saw the women in the kitchen, saw ye in the cellar with a chain on ye and figured ye was me man. Figured if ye were chained ye weren’t goin’ anywhere, so I went down t’ the pub and ’ad me a meal. Guess that’s when ye left, heh?”

  “Yes.”

  “When I saw the ol’ lady walkin’ down the street, I figured that was me chance. I slipped into the cellar and shot ye—only ye weren’t there.”

  “No.”

  “So ye weren’t really chained?”

  “No.”

  “Damn. That Mr. Edmondson was so sure ye could be offed wi’ no trouble.”

  The name fell with a thud into the conversation. Amy felt the blood drain from her face.

  “Ye know ’im, do ye?” Weasel was watching them both. “ ’E’s a scary one, yer Mr. Edmondson. Gave me the money wi’out a single squawk at the price. Then ’e told me if I failed, ’e would ’unt me down and rip out me guts and flay me alive and ’ang me from the highest gibbet as a lesson fer ’is servants that failed ’im. I thought it might ’ave been bluff, but the butler turned green while Mr. Edmondson was talkin’ and afterward ’e told me I’d better do the job and no’ get caught ’cause Mr. Edmondson kept ’is promises.”

  “It seems I’ve been mistaken about my uncle’s character.” Jermyn looked across at Amy. “Go get Pom. I’m sending this fellow to my valet. Biggers will know what to do with him.”

  “Pom will be out fishing,” she answered.

  “No, he won’t. Pom now works for me.”

  “Of course.” Amy tasted the bitterness of betrayal. Pom knew Jermyn was free, and he’d said nothing. He hadn’t warned her. He’d let her make a fool of herself.

  No, that wasn’t fair. He hadn’t had anything to do with her making a fool of herself. She’d done that all on her own.

  With a nod, she started out the door.

  “Amy, wait.” Jermyn’s voice brought her to a halt, and in his tone she heard a note of warning. “Don’t run away. I would catch you.”

  “Don’t worry.” The sourness of her dilemma bled into her tone. “I wouldn??
?t go without Miss Victorine and she…won’t leave. I was foolish to imagine otherwise.”

  It did nothing for Jermyn’s self-esteem to know that it was her love for an old lady that bound Amy here. But it was a guarantee that let him conclude his business here before he solved the riddle of Amy.

  When he knew she was out of earshot, he picked up the long stout walnut stick and slapped it against his palm. He leaned over the still figure on the floor. “Say, friend, tell me the truth. Were you supposed to kill everyone in the cottage?”

  “Nay, I was supposed t’ get in, do the job, and get out, and let the people who ’eld ye get ’anged fer murder.”

  Chapter 18

  Wax candles lit Miss Victorine’s kitchen with a steady light. A full bucket of coal burned in her stove, chasing the evening’s chill from the thick walls, warming Jermyn all the way through for the first time in ten days. Pom had hastily repaired the table and now Miss Victorine, Amy, Pom, and Mertle sat among the remains of an excellent meal culled from the contents of Jermyn’s pantry at Summerwind Abbey via Biggers’s intercession.

  Miss Victorine was frankly pleased to have Jermyn out of her cellar. “Dear boy, what are you going to do?” she asked.

  Jermyn paced from one end of the room to the other, dominating the room. He used his height, his title, his largesse to remind everyone that he held their fates in his hand, and he did it deliberately, directing intimidation at Amy without subtlety. “I’m going to go home. I’m going to take up my life as if nothing interrupted it.”

  Amy was intelligent; he knew she understood. But she didn’t understand why; she couldn’t imagine what he intended. If she could, he wagered she would run as far and as fast as she could.

  “I’m giving a party to celebrate my thirtieth birthday.” He slid a glance at Amy. “And to celebrate other events. I’ll invite my friends and my uncle.”

  Amy wasn’t sulking, but she’d eaten very little and she had never once looked him in the eyes. She wore her ugliest clothing like a suit of armor, and faint circles ringed her eyes.

  Well, of course they did. She’d been awake most of the night…with him.

  Pom considered his lord, then touched his wife’s hand.

  As if Mertle knew what he wanted to say, she asked, “What will that accomplish, m’lord?”

  “My uncle wants to kill me,” Jermyn said. “I’ve decided that the next time he tries, there should be witnesses.”

  Amy considered, then nodded. “You’ll trick him. That works.”

  He found himself pleased that she was of the same mind.

  “But dear boy, how will you explain your escape from the kidnappers?” Obviously it never occurred to Miss Victorine to fear his vengeance.

  She was right, the dear old thing. He wouldn’t harm a hair on her head. “I’ll tell him I got away.” Jermyn didn’t think his uncle would have the nerve to publicly doubt him.

  Amy frowned.

  “You don’t agree, Lady Disdain?” Jermyn asked.

  “Yes, you can tell him you got away.” For the first time this evening, Amy lifted her gaze to his. Her eyes were sharp and engrossed. “But first, write him a frantic letter asking that he send the ransom because you’re afraid for your life.”

  “For what purpose?” Mertle asked. “We’ve proved he isn’t going t’ send the ransom.”

  “Because that makes it so much better when Lord Northcliff announces he’s escaped, then immediately asks to borrow money.” Amy wore a contented half smile.

  “What? Why would I do that? It’s all my money.” Pointedly Jermyn added, “A great deal of money.”

  For someone who was destitute, Amy showed a breathtaking indifference. “All your own money? Your uncle has no money of his own?”

  “He received a small inheritance when my father died, but yes, the money is all mine.”

  “Is there any reason you can imagine why he’s trying to kill you right now?” she asked.

  “None that I know of.” He stared directly at her, using information to make her pay attention to him. “But Uncle Harrison is my manager. He has had complete control over my fortune.”

  “Perhaps he’s lost your fortune,” she said cheerfully.

  “If he has, I’ll regain it.” While at Oxford, Jermyn’s friend Mr. Fred Engledew had come to grief with a moneylender, and one of their many rescue plans had included buying and selling stock for a profit. Jermyn had shown a remarkable instinct for the activity, one he’d dabbled in since on a regular basis. “I think it more likely he’s done something so despicable it will reach the newspapers soon.”

  “Or he ran into trouble and sold one of your entailed estates and next time you go to visit, someone else will be living in your house.” Amy was positively luminous with amusement.

  “Amy, what a dreadful idea!” Miss Victorine shook her head admonishingly.

  “Oh, come, it has great potential as a farce,” Amy said.

  Jermyn supposed he would allow her the small pleasure of teasing him. After all, tonight he would take his own pleasures. “I consider it most likely to be something to do with my thirtieth birthday.”

  “Ohhh. Yes, very clever, my lord.” Amy stood and started clearing the dishes from the table. “That does seem likely.”

  Mertle shook her head admonishingly, pressed Amy back into her seat, and did the work of cleaning up.

  To Jermyn, it was clear that Amy wanted to be busy. She knew that somehow, Jermyn intended to have his revenge, and she would have no say in her fate. The waiting was killing her—and Jermyn was pleased to see her suffer.

  “Does your uncle pay your expenses?” she asked.

  “He takes care of the accounts for my estates. I receive a large amount every year for my own use. I certainly have never needed more.”

  “Excellent. Ask for more.” Amy deliberated on her plan. “We’ll start a rumor about your gaming—that’s easily done—and once he hears that you’ve been gambling to excess and that you’ve asked for an advance, he’ll think you’re the one who arranged your own abduction to extort money from him.”

  She surprised a chuckle from Pom, a giggle from Mertle, and a gasp from Miss Victorine. “My dear girl, you have the most extraordinary mind.”

  Jermyn agreed. Any woman who could think up a plan for his kidnapping and recognize how to counter his uncle’s villainy had an extraordinary mind. Someday he intended to discover how she came to have it. But—“The fortune is not his,” Jermyn insisted.

  “It sounds as if he would like it to be,” Amy retorted.

  Pom pressed his wife’s hand again. “Is he yer heir, m’lord?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Jermyn was brief and irritated. Not irritated that they’d asked, but irritated that he’d been oblivious to what seemed so obvious now. His uncle wanted to kill him. And knowing Uncle Harrison, he cared not a fig for the title, the land, or the respect. He focused on only money. He could quote the price of every piece of fruit, of every piece of clothing, of every horse bought and every carriage sold. One of the reasons Jermyn had paid so little heed to his uncle in recent years was his incredible vulgarity.

  “He always was a dreadful boy,” Miss Victorine said. “I remember how he used to egg you on to do the most daring things.”

  “Like what?” Amy asked.

  “To sail into a storm, to climb the cliffs, to hunt alone in Scotland, and to break the wildest horse. I used to get so upset when I heard about it!” Miss Victorine was upset now, wringing her hands and looking anxious.

  Amy took her hands and stroked them.

  “Yes, he did.” As a young man, Jermyn had done all those things, taking chances while thinking his uncle was a decent chap for encouraging him to do things most guardians refused. “What a fool I was.”

  Amy’s gaze flashed toward him.

  “You don’t need to agree,” he said.

  “Not at all.” She sounded brusque and cool. “I was thinking that we had that in common.”

  “I did not
set out to make a fool of you,” he said crisply.

  “No, you set out to have your way. Making a fool of me was an added windfall.” Her chest rose and fell with agitation, and two spots of color burned in her cheeks.

  He placed his hands on the table, leaned across until he was close, so close she was forced to look him in the eyes. “You’re not going to forgive me, are you?”

  “Never.”

  “A week ago, I felt the same way about you, but you convinced me otherwise.” He got closer until they were nose to nose. “I’ll have to see if I can do the same with you.”

  She held his gaze as the rosy blush in her cheeks expanded to cover her whole face. She understood the threat. She comprehended the promise. Still she whispered, “Never.”

  He smiled. “We’ll see.” Standing, his hands on his hips, he stared at Amy.

  Everyone else was staring at them.

  Amy glanced around, and misery wrenched the words from her. “I wish I could run out to the road and start another journey, one that would take me miles and days from here.”

  He offered no pity at all. “If you were crafty, you could.”

  “I can’t leave Miss Victorine.”

  And that gave him more satisfaction than anything else she could have said. She wasn’t like his mother. Despite her troubles, Amy remained here out of loyalty to a woman to whom she wasn’t even related. Once she was bound to him by loyalty and affection—and he never doubted he could generate those emotions within her—she would be his forever.

  It was time to put his plan into motion. “Pom and Mertle will stay here with you, Miss Victorine, until I’m satisfied that you’re safe from any other assassins my uncle might have sent.”

  Pom and Mertle nodded.

  “Where will Amy stay?” Miss Victorine asked.

  “With me.” Jermyn’s two words fell softly into the silence of the kitchen.

  “No.” Miss Victorine shook her head decisively, and for a soft, sweet female she looked remarkably stern. “I’m very fond of you, dear, but you’re not keeping an unmarried young lady who lives under my protection as your mistress.”