The Barefoot Princess

  “That’s right. That chain does tug both ways.” His smile faded, and he grew solemn, so solemn she grew alarmed. From his pocket, he pulled a small carved wooden box. “I have something for you.”

  Her heart thumped hard, then settled into a rapid skipping.

  From the box he extracted a ring: gold, simple in design, with an emerald so warm and green, she could have fallen into its depths. It was perfect, the kind of ring that made her think of vows and forever.

  “As soon as you kissed me and the manacle was broken, I wrote a letter to my jeweler in London and told him exactly what I wanted.” Kneeling beside her on the bed, Jermyn took her hand.

  She never cried, but she must be pregnant, for at his words, at his gesture, at his tender expression, tears once again filled her eyes.

  In a voice so deep and earnest he thrilled her and shook her to her core, he asked, “I’ve been waiting for it to arrive so that I could ask you—will you marry me?”

  “Only”—she struggled to speak without sobbing—“only if the marriage is forever.”

  “I swear with all my heart.” He slid the ring on her finger.

  She wiped the tears off her cheeks. She turned her hand from side to side, letting the emerald sparkle in the candlelight. “But I don’t have anything for you.”

  He laughed and hugged her. “You’re giving me the best present in the world. You’re giving me a child.”

  “That’s true.” An idea struck her, and with mischief and with love, she said, “And tomorrow, I will present you with your manacle as a reminder that I know how to bind a man to my side.”

  “It’s broken,” he reminded her.

  “I’ll get you a new one—and this one will not break.” She grinned. “And that’s another promise I will keep.”

  Epilogue

  The harvest moon rose huge and orange in the clear sky over the isle of Summerwind. The moonlight bathed the hills and the village, lit sparks on the ocean and illuminated the feast laid out on rough plank tables on the hill above the village. It shown on the faces of the older villagers as they groaned and patted their bellies and on the younger villagers as they danced to the fiddles and drums before the enormous bonfire. Red sparks snapped skyward, and the scent of wood smoke and roasting oxen drifted on the breeze.

  Jermyn leaped onto the platform where the humble quartet played. The music sputtered to a halt. Vicar Smith shouted for silence. The villagers stopped dancing, stopped talking, and cheered to see their lord and the provider of their feast standing before them.

  Jermyn lifted his mug to Mertle, to Vicar Smith, to Mrs. Kitchen and John, and finally to Amy and Miss Victorine, seated together at the banquet table.

  He shouted, “Six months ago on a blustery spring day a girl with poison-colored eyes served me a brew that knocked me unconscious.”

  The villagers cheered, lifted their own mugs filled with ale, and toasted their lord.

  “And since I awoke with a manacle around my ankle, nothing has been the same.”

  Once again, the villagers cheered, lifted their own mugs filled with ale, and toasted their lord.

  Amy grinned to see Jermyn weaving a little. The ale was pungent and he had been drinking since late afternoon—drinking, dancing with her and every other woman in the village, singing in a tuneful baritone, and playing games. Rough games. He’d been soundly trounced in the rowing races, beaten everyone except Pom in the wrestling matches, and almost dropped the massive pagan stone on his foot during the boulder throw. Now he was stripped down to his shirt and pants. He was almost indistinguishable from the other villagers. Dirt and grass stains streaked his shirt and his face, and from the expressions of adoration sent his way, Amy knew he’d redeemed the neglect of too many years.

  He continued, “Because of that brew, I was soon to wear a much heavier restraining device—a wedding ring.”

  “Ooooh.” The amused villagers craned their necks to look at her.

  “We can walk backward through the wedding arch,” she shouted back.

  The villagers nudged each other.

  “Explain that to our son,” he answered.

  Gently Miss Victorine rubbed the growing mound of Amy’s belly. For the first three months of his existence, the baby had made its presence known with a wrenching fatigue, a daily morning sickness, and a sudden increase in the size of her waist. Now she felt the baby shift under the weight of Miss Victorine’s hand, and she smiled to see Miss Victorine’s surprise.

  Miss Victorine smiled back. The elderly lady’s increasing frailty had been countered by better meals, Mertle’s daily care and a respected position at Jermyn and Amy’s wedding—their second wedding—in the chapel at Summerwind Abbey five months ago. Now the dear lady pushed the drooping crown of yellow chrysanthemums further up on her forehead, and Amy’s throat closed with sentimental tears to see how she glowed.

  “You—everyone here—knew that Miss Victorine and my Princess Disdain had imprisoned me in their cellar. None of you did anything to help me.” Jermyn managed to look stern—for about half a minute. Then he grinned. “Thank you so much. Without your severity, I would surely be dead of my uncle’s evil machinations.”

  “Here, here!” Vicar Smith called. Everyone turned and stared at him, and he said impatiently, “That’s the right spirit, to recognize that we saved his life.”

  “Exactly so.” Jermyn again grew sober. “My imprisonment taught me a great many things about myself that I didn’t enjoy learning. In the past I’ve been irresponsible, lazy, and foolish, imagining that because of the tragedy in my past, I deserved to be all those things and worse. But while I was held in the cellar, I learned a different way to think. In the way Miss Victorine always placed my comfort ahead of her own, I learned graciousness. With Princess Amy’s constant and kind praise—”

  Even Amy laughed at that.

  “—I learned I had stolen from the very people who helped raise me. And from the hours spent alone, I learned that accomplishing something, even a small task, can fill a dark hour. Most of all”—he took a deep breath—“I learned to doubt what I’d always believed, that my mother had betrayed her family. I had no concrete reason to doubt my conviction, yet as I grew to know people of principle, I recalled my mother’s kindness, her generosity, and her love. My mother’s body now lies next to my father in the Northcliff plot on this island, and I thank you, all of you”—his gaze sliced toward Amy—“for helping me discover the truth.”

  The women wiped tears off their cheeks to see their lord so earnest and grave.

  Lady Northcliff’s funeral had been a solemn occasion, attended by the greatest aristocrats and the most humble of fishermen. All of them told Jermyn that they had never believed ill of his mother, that they always suspected foul play.

  Jermyn pretended to believe them. It did no good to do otherwise.

  Amy had remained at Jermyn’s side every moment, holding his hand, sharing his grief in a way no one else could.

  Because for her, the funeral for Jermyn’s mother had been the chance to formally mourn her father. The black crepe, the mournful songs, the lowering coffin—they were symbols of love and of death, and she cried for Lady Northcliff and for King Raimund in equal parts, washing away bitterness with her tears.

  Harrison Edmondson’s funeral had been much smaller and attended by only his friends—that was, no one.

  Now Jermyn’s voice swelled. “Most of all, I thank Princess Amy, my Princess Disdain, for teaching me how to have faith in an old dream. She taught me what it means to love forever. Thank you, Amy. Thank you, my love.”

  Amy smiled a wobbly smile—and realized with horror she was crying. Not little ladylike sobs, either, but big gulping uncontrollable gasps of sentiment. It happened all the time now because apparently carrying a baby made a woman act like a baby. But to see Jermyn without the cynical mask he’d first worn, to hear him declare in front of everyone that he loved her and that she was responsible for his happiness, and to know that he had
given her what she needed, too, a home, a passion, and a soul mate…well, maybe that was worth sobbing about.

  The villagers chuckled and nudged each other. Miss Victorine hugged Amy and offered her handkerchief.

  Jermyn watched with an odd, crooked smile when at last Amy fought back the last of her tears and raised her head.

  “Finally,” he said, “I want to show the proof that I learned my lessons and will never forget them.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small piece of handwork and lifted it so that the moonlight stuck a thin, flat, ragged, rounded circle of pale twine lace and tiny blue beads. He dangled it before them, his expression expectant.

  The women broke into a round of applause.

  The men looked puzzled.

  “It’s a collar,” Jermyn told them helpfully.

  Amy stifled a grin. The lace collar was too small for her or him, oddly shaped and out-of-round. But Jermyn looked so proud of himself, and he brought it to her. Kneeling before her, he offered it, and even in the moonlight she could see his eyes shining. “It’s for the baby. For her christening.”

  Ragged, oddly shaped, out-of-round…made with his own hands in odd moments, in private hours, at times she’d imagined he was out riding. The collar would rest around the baby’s neck at the most important moment of her first year, solid proof that her father loved her…and loved her mother. As Amy accepted the collar, her chin trembled. “Thank you. It’s beautiful. It’s just…” She stared into Jermyn’s eyes, so overcome with tenderness for this tall, broad, magnificent man she could scarcely speak. “Thank you.”

  Taking her hand, he kissed her fingers. “You’re so beautiful.”

  “That’s right.” She sniffed, fighting back the constant surges of emotion that sent her hurtling to a vale of tears. Happy tears, but still tears. “I am, and you’re lucky to have me. Now go on.” She shoved at his shoulders. “Get me some of Miss Victorine’s plum cake before it’s all gone.”

  He grinned and stared into her eyes. He knew that later, she would show him how she felt about him.

  She watched him walk away, and without looking at Miss Victorine, she asked, “Did you hear me go downstairs that night?”

  “Dear?” Miss Victorine did an admirable imitation of a confused old woman. “Downstairs where? When? Whatever do you mean?”

  “Um-hm.” Amy shot her a lethal glance and caught her smiling without an ounce of confusion on her face. “And did you deliberately encourage me to kidnap him knowing full well he was irresistible?”

  “Now, dear, you know when you get the bit between your teeth there’s no stopping you. No one, certainly not me, could have imagined that Harrison would refuse to pay the ransom and leave Jermyn in our care for days. And don’t you think that irresistible is a very strong term?”

  “No, and you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Oh, dear.” Miss Victorine gazed toward the table loaded with cakes and pies, and shook her head. “That’s too bad. It appears my plum cake is already gone.”

  Jermyn was making his way back, empty-handed, and Amy experienced a profound irritation because not only did she like Miss Victorine’s plum cake, right now she needed a piece of Miss Victorine’s plum cake. When Jermyn stopped to talk to Mrs. Kitchen, Amy pushed herself away from the table and stood up. “I feel as if someone has been manipulating me for months.”

  “I feel as if manipulate is an exaggeration, dear,” Miss Victorine said.

  “Oh, really.” Amy pulled a disbelieving face. “Just last month Jermyn heard of a spa reputed to bring health and an easy birth to pregnant women. I thought that sounded stupid and superstitious, so he managed to get me to there without me suspecting a thing. Without ever mentioning the name of the place!”

  Mertle stood up with her and helped Miss Victorine to her feet. “Yer Ladyship, we’ll see if we can find ye a piece of plum cake hiding in the crowd.” She looked down at herself, hugely swollen with child. “Two pieces.”

  “Three,” Miss Victorine said.

  Amy strolled along the tables, her gaze darting from place to place, looking for the elusive plum cake. “I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever do anything of my own free will again.”

  “I understand how ye must feel.” Mertle watched the men with narrowed eyes as if she was sure one of them hid the treasured cake. “Especially when ye realize how neatly his lordship maneuvered ye into marrying him and thinking ye could leave in a year.”

  Amy’s feet suddenly tangled beneath her. She stumbled to a halt. “What do you mean?”

  “Did m’lord neglect t’ tell ye?” Mertle smiled saucily. “The marriages performed under the wedding arch always last.”

  “Why?” Amy suspected she wasn’t going to like this.

  Vicar Smith stood close, and he must have agreed for he frowned at Mertle. “Woman, you talk too much.”

  Mertle ignored him. “Because the wives are always with child by the end the year. ’Tis said that years ago, long before that rock was a wedding arch, the pagans worshipped it because it gave fertility.” She smoothed her hand over her bulging belly. “Pom and I got this babe by walking beneath the arch.”

  “That rat.” Amy watched Jermyn as he made his way through the crowd toward her, shaking hands as he came. He’d carried her through the wedding arch, but he’d acted as if it was possible to dissolve their union if they weren’t compatible. And all the time he’d known…

  He walked up and tried to sneak his arm around her.

  “You manipulative, conniving, deceitful rat.” She smacked him.

  Jermyn looked around for an explanation.

  “Mertle told her about the wedding arch,” Vicar Smith explained.

  “Oh.” Jermyn viewed Amy’s stubbornly outthrust chin and smiled with all his charm. “But darling, that’s superstition. You said you don’t believe in superstition.” He tried to sneak his arm around her again.

  She smacked him again. “The wedding arch is superstition, yet you declared we were married after we passed under it, so it would appear you believe in the superstition.”

  “Hm.” He stroked his chin. “You have me there.”

  Miss Victorine patted her hand. “My dear girl, is it not more flattering to think that he cared enough to coax you, yet was never willing to take the chance of losing you?”

  “Miss Victorine, whose side are you on?” Amy asked.

  “Yours, dear. I want you to be happy.” As happy as Miss Victorine looked now.

  Jermyn glanced over Amy’s head toward the harbor. His eyes widened, and his vibrant aura of anticipation blossomed into something different. Something solid and satisfied. “Ah. Here comes your wedding gift now.”

  Miss Victorine turned to look. So did Mertle. As if they saw the signal, the band stopped in the middle of a lively dance tune, and changed to a slower, more sentimental melody. The villagers drifted toward them, drawn by the promise of a spectacle.

  Amy tried to look, too, but Jermyn caught her and covered her eyes. “Not yet,” he said.

  “What is it?” Everyone was behaving with such keen expectation. What could it be?

  He didn’t answer. He turned her around to face the harbor, keeping her eyes covered, and slowly walked her forward.

  “Why can’t you tell me?” She shuffled along.

  “Because then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

  “I don’t like surprises.” She suspected she sounded surly.

  In direct contrast, Jermyn sounded sprightly. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter if I carry you through the wedding arch again, you’re already pregnant. Almost there. Almost there.” He stopped her, held her still. “All right. Now look.”

  He removed his hands, and she looked.

  They stood at the crest of the hill overlooking the harbor. Pom towered above and behind the two people who walked up the road toward her. The man was a stranger—no, not a stranger, but almost a stranger: tall, broad, dark, with a hooked nose.

  But the woman: petite, blond, car
rying a baby…she walked steadily, her gaze fixed on Amy, her smile irrepressible.

  Amy blinked. She stared. It was impossible, yet…recognition and belief arrived in a rush. “Clarice!” She ran. She screamed. “Clarice!”

  Clarice handed the baby to the stranger and raced toward Amy.

  The sisters met. Clarice’s arms enclosed Amy. Amy’s arms enclosed Clarice. Amy laughed and cried. Clarice laughed and cried. They drew back, looked at each other in the light of the big moon.

  Amy saw the beloved, familiar, beautiful features. “Oh, Clarice. I’ve missed you,” she choked. “So much.”

  “I’ve wondered every day where you were, what you were doing. I prayed you were safe.” With trembling fingers, Clarice stroked Amy’s hair.

  “I shouldn’t have left you. That was wrong of me. I’m sorry.” The apology came easily, more easily than Amy could ever have imagined. “But you taught me well. I was never in trouble. I’m fine.”

  Clarice smiled through her tears. “You are! I know.” She laid her palm on Amy’s belly. “And now this!”

  “I did get in a little trouble,” Amy admitted.

  The others gathered close. Everyone chuckled.

  Turning to Jermyn, Amy fiercely hugged him. “You’ve made me so happy.”

  “It’s fair that I should return your kindness,” he said in her ear, and for one precious moment of connection, he held her tightly. Then, arm in arm, they faced the others.

  A flurry of introductions ensued. Clarice exclaimed over Jermyn, charming him without effort. Amy remembered the man at her sister’s side—Robert MacKenzie, earl of Hepburn. Her sister’s husband, the father of her baby, and a man who in Scotland had frankly frightened Amy. But holding the sleeping baby made him almost…approachable.

  “The day I got your letter, I was so happy. I would have come at once, but…” Clarice gestured toward the baby.

  “Oh, let me see!” Amy peered into the little face, smoothed her hand over the fuzzy head. “How beautiful. Is it a…boy? A girl?”

  “Her name is Sorcha.” Clarice’s voice was heavy with sadness.