ALSO BY MAYA BANKS

Seducing Simon
Brazen
For Her Pleasure
Stay With Me
Reckless
Love Me, Still
Into the Mist
Into the Lair
Golden Eyes
Amber Eyes
Be With Me
Songbird
The Billionaire’s Contract Engagement
Pillow Talk (Fourplay Duology)
Soul Possession (Men out of Uniform Anthology)
Long Road Home
Exiled (Cherished Duology)
COLTERS’ LEGACY SERIES
Colters’ Woman
Colters’ Wife (free short story epilogue to Colters’ Woman)
Callie’s Meadow
Colters’ Lady
Colters’ Daughter
Colters’ Promise
Colters’ Gift

ANETAKIS TRILOGY
The Mistress
The Bride
The Affair

THE BREATHLESS TRILOGY

RUSH
 FEVER
BURN

PASSION AND PREGNANCY SERIES

Enticed
Wanted
Tempted
Undone

SWEET SERIES
Sweet Surrender
Sweet Persuasion
Sweet Seduction
Sweet Temptation
Sweet Possession
Sweet Addiction

KGI Series
The Darkest Hour
No Place to Run
Hidden Away
Whispers in the Dark
Echoes at Dawn
Softly at Sunrise (novella available digitally or in print in the back of
Shades of Gray)
Shades of Gray
Forged in Steele
After the Storm
When Day Breaks
Darkest Before Dawn
Brighter than the Sun

SCOTTISH HISTORICALS
In Bed with a Highlander (McCabe trilogy)
Seduction of a Highland Lass (McCabe trilogy)
Never Love a Highlander (McCabe trilogy)
 Never Seduce a Scot (Montgomerys & Armstrongs)
Highlander Most Wanted (Montgomerys & Armstrongs)
Highland Ever After (Montgomerys & Armstrongs) Coming Soon

THE TANGLED HEARTS TRILOGY

Theirs to Keep
Always Mine (TBA)
Forever Ours (TBA)

THE SURRENDER TRILOGY

Letting Go
Giving In
Taking it All

THE UNBROKEN TRILOGY

Understood
Overheard
Undenied

THE SLOW BURN SERIES

Keep Me Safe
In His Keeping
Safe at Last
With Every Breath
Just One Touch

THE ENFORCERS
Mastered
Dominated
Kept

THE VAULT COLLECTION

Her Majesty, My Love
Beyond the Night
Duchess of My Heart
Until Midnight
For more information on Maya and her books, go to her website, connect
with her on Facebook or follow her on twitter!

http://www.mayabanks.com
http://www.facebook.com/authormayabanks
http://twitter.com/maya_banks
HER MAJESTY, MY LOVE

Maya Banks
 This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and
incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used
fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to
persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely
coincidental.

Her Majesty, My Love

Copyright © 2007 Maya Banks
ISBN: 978-1-946461-27-8
Cover by Designs By Dana

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner
whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
articles and reviews.
Published by Maya Banks
 A princess on the run must complete a mystical quest in order to take
her rightful place on her country’s throne.

Princess Isabella Chastaine holds the fate of her tiny island nation in her
hands. Literally. Escaping the men who murdered her parents, she flees to
England with a sacred map outlining the location of ancient relics—items
necessary for a new ruler to ascend the throne, items buried deep within
the granite caves of her homeland.

Simon Rothmore, Earl of Merrick, has faithfully served the English

crown since his recruitment into an elite secret agency. His newest task,
deciphering the puzzling assassinations of the royal family of Leaudor,
leads him to the only remaining member...Princess Isabella.

Betrayed by those closest to her and deeply suspicious of possible

English involvement, Isabella vows to return to her country and seek
justice for her family. She will allow no one, especially not an arrogant
English earl, to interfere in her quest.

But love has a way of uniting even the most unlikely souls. Together,
they travel across two countries, encounter painful betrayals, complete a
mystical quest, and forge a new destiny neither had dreamed possible.
 DEDICATION

To Sassy. We miss you. Hope you’re giving them hell and smoking a
cigarette.
To Amy and Karin for hanging in with me this long. It’s been awhile
with this story, and you guys never let me lose faith in it.
To T.J. for reading the story and being honest in your feedback. For
always having faith in me and my writing. It feels good to finally get here.
To Jess, just because I lurve you.
 CONTENTS

PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
 Prologue

Harwich, England
January 1815
It was a damned miserable day to die.
Simon Rothmore, Earl of Merrick, tugged his heavy overcoat closer
around him to ward off the pervasive chill wrought by the drizzling rains.
He cast a glance down at the soggy corpse that lay encased in mud and ice.
Prince Davide Chastaine, youngest son of the King of Leaudor, had
barely stepped off his ship before he’d met with his demise. The bastards
had been waiting for him.
Simon bent down to gain a closer look. From all appearances, the prince
had been dead for several hours. His death had been quick and merciful, if
you could call it such. A gaping gash in his neck bespoke of a large knife,
and dried blood matted the top of his head, no doubt from a felling blow.
He rose and backed away, turning to his partner, Adam Kirkland. “We
were too late.” It was a needless statement, but it expressed all the
frustration he felt at his failure. He and Kirk had overseen the effort to
track down and protect the two remaining members of the Leaudorian
royal family after the others had been assassinated. Now there was only
one.
Kirk nodded, his breath escaping in a visible puff. “Why was the prince
coming here? It makes no sense, unless…” His voice trailed off, and he
stared intently at Simon.
“Unless the princess is here,” Simon finished.
“All intelligence pointed to her being in America.”
Simon sucked in the icy air and turned away from the macabre sight of
the prince. It began to rain harder, and he gestured for the two men who
stood to the side to attend the body. He would ensure it would be returned
to Leaudor for a proper burial.
As he and Kirk hurried through the downpour, he mulled over this latest
development. The two settled into the warm confines of Simon’s closed
carriage to begin the trip back to London. He turned to study Kirk’s
pensive expression, sure that his own was a mirror image. “What if she is
here? What if she only intended for it to appear she fled to America? Why
else would the prince come out of hiding and take a ship to England?”
“I don’t know, but it certainly presents us a dilemma. The agents
dispatched to America could well be looking in the wrong place.”
Simon leaned back, the beginnings of a headache plaguing him. “If I am
right, we must find her before the others do. The Regent is most concerned
that we discover the motive behind the slayings. And if there are
implications for England.”
He rubbed his temples, attempting to ease the tightness. “Damn, but
seeing all the killing never becomes easier. I had hoped with Napoleon
safely imprisoned at Elba that we might enjoy quieter times.”
“Perhaps you should give thought to retiring and taking up the duties of
earl,” Kirk said quietly. “We’ve been at this life for so long it seems. No
one could blame you for seeing to the continuation of your line.”
Simon grimaced. See to a life he was never intended to lead. It was no
more appealing now than it had been on the heels of his brother’s death.
He continued on as if Kirk had not mentioned his responsibility as the
Earl of Merrick. “Our treaty with France is too important to allow any
disruption to threaten it. We would be foolish to ignore the events in
Leaudor given their strong ties to the French.”
“But with only one remaining member of the royal family, how likely
are we to find her before whoever wants her dead?” Kirk asked, running an
agitated hand through his hair.
Simon glanced at the man who was as much a brother as a partner.
Certainly more of a brother than his own flesh and blood had been. Kirk
looked as tired as Simon felt. The two had spent many long hours—days—
searching for the Prince and Princess of Leaudor.
“We have no guarantee, but we must be diligent in our efforts. The
princess may well hold the fate of more than just Leaudor in her hands.”
Kirk nodded his agreement then put a hand down on the seat to brace
himself as they passed over a particularly rough spot on the road.
Simon leaned back and gave voice to the issue most troubling to him. “I
do not like that the prince was killed on English soil. England could easily
be blamed by Leaudor, and France could capitalize on the opportunity to
try and sway Leaudor to their side. While small, Leaudor has a powerful
and well-maintained army. Alone, they pose no threat to England. But
paired with a country like France, they would become a powerful enemy.”
“So you think France could well be behind the whole thing,” Kirk said
grimly. “It’s a brilliant strategy with the talk of an agreement between
France and England at the Congress of Vienna. No one would suspect them
of sabotaging their own alliance.”
“I’m not sure what to think,” Simon mused. “I do know that King
Fernando was determined for Leaudor to remain neutral in any conflict
between France and England. Though much of their heritage is French,
they trade much with England. With Fernando removed from power and
his family annihilated, the next ruler might be more accepting of an
alliance with France.”
“More reason to find the princess with all haste,” Kirk muttered.
“Indeed. It would be in our best interest to find her and see the throne
restored to the Chastaines. At all costs.”
 Chapter One

London, England
February 1815
It was a good day to die.
But perhaps she was already dead, her body merely refusing to
acknowledge what her heart knew.
Princess Isabella Genevieve Elizabeth Chastaine walked across the
Westminster Bridge, agony infusing each of her steps. She was to have met
Davide here when he arrived in England. It was the only landmark they
could think of in the short time before they parted ways in Leaudor.
Cold wind blew over her, raising goose pimples down her spine. She
wished she had gloves and a coat, anything to keep her warm. Her flight to
England had not allowed for anything beyond the clothes on her back, and
they were much too fine for her to blend into obscurity. She had traded
them for food, a dress and a set of boys clothing. But her meager food
supplies had run out. And now, so had her time.
The clatter of carriages crossing back and forth over the bridge beat a
steady rhythm. She stared at them with unseeing eyes. In the distance,
smoke billowed from the countless factories. How she hated this place.
The crowded city, the offensive smells, the heavy cape of gloom that
seemed to drape the rooftops. Though today marked a surprising reprieve
from such conditions.
She gazed upwards. For once the London sky wasn’t dark with the
shadow of clouds. The brilliant blue hinted at more spring-like conditions,
and she squinted against the bright sunlight. She marveled at how the day
could be so outwardly beautiful and peaceful when her world had come to
an end. Surely the normal gray canvas was more appropriate.
How she longed for the raw beauty of her homeland. The rolling green
hills sloped gently to the base of the rugged mountain ridge that spanned
the entire northern front of Leaudor. To the west, the Marble Cliffs stood a
proud monument to the strength of her country. If only she were as strong.
 She shuffled forward until she reached the center of the bridge. The
discomfort of the cold hardly matched the raw pain that clawed at her
throat, enticing her to scream. But she stared stoically out over the Thames
and drew on her rapidly depleting reserves to squelch the cry that swelled
in her throat. How easy it would be to slip over the side and drop
painlessly into the water below. Would she even feel the hand of death
wrapping around her?
She shook her head, berating herself for entertaining the thought. This
was no time to get mired down in self-pity. Her people needed her. She had
a duty to uphold, a legacy to protect, and most importantly, she had
revenge to seek.
A hot tear slipped down her cold cheek. Davide. Good, kind Davide was
dead. The only person she had left in the world and he was gone. When she
had read the news in a London newspaper, she hadn’t wanted to believe it.
Her fingers curled tightly around the icy stone of the ledge, the
roughness abrasive to her bare hand. Her thin dress offered little in the
way of protection from the biting cold, but she felt little beyond the grief
clouding her mind and her soul.
She’d lost everything that mattered, and she’d never felt more alone
than at this moment. A fresh wave of despair hit her so hard, her knees
buckled, and she leaned against the bridge for support. Her tears splashed
onto the stone below, and she watched as they slipped from view perhaps
to mingle with the dark waters of the Thames.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two men approaching. Slowly, she
leaned forward then turned her head ever so slightly to take in the source
of her attention. They stared at her, their rough appearance striking fear
within her. She blinked rapidly to dispel the tears. Her vision clearer now,
she chanced another look. She didn’t believe in coincidences, and this was
not the first time she had seen these two.
They moved purposefully toward her, making no attempt at subtlety. A
few short months ago, such action would have caused her no alarm, but
attempted assassination had a way of making her wary. Of everyone and
everything. Anger quickly overrode her choking grief even as fear pricked
her consciousness.
They weren’t overly large, and she was confident she could manage
escape, but she never liked it when she was outnumbered. And lately the
odds had been anything but even.
 She quickly weighed her options. She could stay and confront the two
men. She could run, though she wouldn’t likely get far in her current mode
of dress. Or she could jump over the side of the bridge and take her
chances in the Thames.
Her nose wrinkled in distaste. The way she saw it, none of the options
afforded much comfort. Her hands grasped the ledge of the bridge once
more. She would just have to pray Father Ling’s tutelage in the fighting
arts didn’t let her down now.
A warm hand closed over hers. “I wouldn’t advise doing that if I were
you. The waters are quite frigid this time of year.”
She spun around ready to do battle. How had this man gotten so close
without her notice? “What are you about, sir?” she asked, attempting to
inflect enough righteous indignation in her voice to dissuade him. But she
feared it came out more as a terrified croak.
“My apologies for startling you, madam. I merely sought to prevent a
most unpleasant incident.”
Her eyes narrowed as she quickly took stock of this new, startling
situation. “And what incident would that be?” She glanced sideways to see
where the two ruffians were and was satisfied to see their progress halted
for the moment.
Turning her attention back to the man in front of her, she caught her
bottom lip between her teeth as she decided if he meant her harm.
“You will pardon my presumption, but it appeared as though you may
have been contemplating leaping over the side.” His deep voice rumbled
over her and held a slight tone of concern.
She relaxed ever so slightly and stared balefully at him. “Your gallantry
is appreciated, sir, but I had no such intention.” A tiny twinge of guilt bit
her as she remembered briefly contemplating just that.
“What is your name?” he asked, a little too much interest flashing in his
dark eyes.
She tensed once more when she caught him glancing over at the men
who stood a distance away. Suspicion heightened her senses, and she
studied this stranger intently. He was far too well dressed to be with these
men. His overcoat parted to reveal the expensive cut of his waistcoat.
Smooth breeches encased muscular thighs and polished Hessians gleamed
in the bright sunlight. His crisp British accent held more aristocratic tones,
surely a step up from the thugs who watched her in the distance. But her
instincts screamed that he was every bit as dangerous, even as he smiled
warmly at her.
“My name is B-Beth,” she said, hating herself for stammering over the
lie.
His eyes narrowed, and he pushed a lock of dark brown hair over his left
ear. It was an impatient gesture as if he in no way believed her.
He stared hard at her. “Well, Beth, it is simply something my conscience
will not allow, to leave a woman in distress. If you will pardon my
forwardness, it appears as though you could do with a good meal and a
warm fire. My home is not far from here. I will see to it that you have
both.”
Fear quickly overshadowed any curiosity she had felt toward the man
who had appeared from nowhere. She swallowed hard against the panic
that constricted her throat. “That isn’t necessary.”
“I insist,” he said mildly, though the set of his jaw told her it was more a
command than a courtesy.
She could not make a scene. Could not draw unwanted attention. She
drew in a shaky breath.
“Or would you prefer to wait and see what the two men coming this way
have in mind for you?”
Anger, hot and jagged, ripped through her. No, this was no ordinary
passerby. But how much did he know? And did he intend her harm? “How
do I know you aren’t with them?” she bit out in an attempt to stall him
until her muddled brain could form a plan of action.
She compared the stranger in front of her to the two men who stood at a
distance, watching her intently. He was taller and more muscular than both
the men in question, but he was only one. And one was always better than
two. Even if she managed to make him leave without her, she would still
have the other thugs to contend with.
The man in front of her ignored her question and, to her surprise, took
her arm and guided her away from the ominous looking characters.
She stiffened, fully intending to rip her arm from his grasp but thought
better of it when the two men to her right started forward. Firming her
resolve, she forced herself to relax and allowed the man to escort her away.
If he suspected her to be a pathetically weak female in dire need of
assistance, he was wrong. Dead wrong. But she would act the part if it
suited her purpose. Then she would strike when he least expected it.
 She had escaped far more serious situations than this, and she hadn’t
come this far and survived the impossible only to fail now.

Simon’s heart beat thunderously as he led the princess toward the street.
He held up a hand to hail an oncoming hack and waited as it pulled off.
Luck had been with him this day. A tip from a street informant had led
him to a run-down tenement deep in the rookery. As he had arrived, the
princess had been leaving the building on foot.
He had shadowed her the entire day, curious to see if she was meeting
anyone and waited for the right opportunity to approach her. Apparently,
he wasn’t the only one to have an interest in her judging by the other two
men following her, and he had moved quickly to ensure her safety.
He glanced down at her, noting the tightness of her face. Her wrist felt
thin in his grasp, and he took care not to apply too much pressure. She had
to be freezing, but something about the set of her chin made him refrain
from offering his coat to her. Perhaps it was the defiant pride even in the
shadow of thinning clothes and undeniable discomfort. If her appearance
was any clue, she hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks.
He assisted her into the carriage, and she perched gingerly on the edge
of her seat. As they bounced and swayed down the busy streets of London,
he watched her intently.
She alternated between staring out the window and down at her hands.
Everywhere but into his eyes. He could feel the tension emanating from
her in waves, and he felt the insane urge to comfort her in some way. He
frowned and continued his assessment of her.
She was beautiful. Hauntingly so. Her soulful eyes reflected the weight
of an entire lifetime. Soldiers returning from the war on the continent
didn’t have such torment in their faces.
Her dark hair provided a dramatic backdrop for eyes that looked like the
blue-green waters of a tropical bay. Long, black eyelashes fluttered and
rested against her cheeks as she briefly closed her eyes. He had the distinct
impression she was fighting tears, yet when she opened them again stared
straight at him, all signs of distress were gone.
He quickly looked away, irritated that she had managed to discomfit
him. The feelings she elicited within him were not a luxury he could
afford. He had a duty to perform, and no one, not even a fragile, sad-eyed
beauty would interfere.
 The driver circled Simon’s house as instructed, and Simon kept a close
eye out the window to make sure they weren’t followed. After the third
pass, the carriage ground to a halt outside his modest brick townhouse. He
climbed out then helped her down the steps. She shrank from his grasp as
soon as her feet hit the cobblestone street. She glanced furtively around,
her lips compressed into a grim line.
“This way,” he said, directing her up the path to the door. She appeared
as though she would take flight at any time, and he had little desire to
chase anyone down in this wretched cold.
Once inside, Simon ushered her into the sitting room where a fire
burned brightly in the hearth. “I apologize that I have no suitable maid to
offer you assistance,” he said. “I don’t employ a full staff. I am sure my
housekeeper will assist you in any way, however.”
The princess ignored his statement as she warmed herself by the hearth.
Her slender hands stretched out toward the fire, and her eyes didn’t waver
from the dancing flames.
“Would you prefer to take a meal here in front of the fire, or would you
like to adjourn to the dining room?”
She turned, pausing a moment before she spoke. “It isn’t necessary that
you provide me with a meal. You’ve been far too kind already. I really
must take my leave.”
It was the most she had said at any one time, and he absorbed the lilt in
her voice. Though she appeared to be attempting an English accent, the
sing-song Leaudorian accent, almost Irish-sounding, was very evident in
her speech. Maybe it was why she said very little.
“I won’t hear of you going before you’ve had a proper meal.”
Something indiscernible flashed in her eyes. Was it anger? She quickly
tempered her reaction and adopted the bland expression he was already
growing accustomed to. She showed remarkable discipline over her
emotions.
“Very well, I’d like to take it in here.”
He nodded then rang for the only other servant he employed, Timmons,
his butler for the last nine years. “Bring the small table from my office to
the fire so that we may dine in front of it,” he directed the portly man.
Then in a lower voice so the princess would not overhear, he instructed
Timmons to have the guestroom prepared.
“Right away, my lord.”
 At Timmons’ address, the princess jerked around and stared at him in
surprise. “Who are you?” she demanded.
“Simon Rothmore, Earl of Merrick, at your service,” he said with a
sweeping bow. “My apologies for not introducing myself sooner.”
She didn’t look pleased by his announcement at all. She drew her lips
together and turned promptly back to the fire.
A few moments later, Timmons set up the table and pulled two chairs
over so they could sit. He then summoned Mrs. Turnbull, who came
bearing trays of steaming soup, warm bread and a plate of beef.
Simon pulled out a chair and gestured for the princess to sit then walked
around to take the seat across from her. He hoped this position would
afford him the opportunity to study her more thoroughly. This game they
played sorely tried his patience. She clearly intended to ignore the fact he
knew she had been in danger and play the whole thing off as him being
charitable toward a woman in need of a hot meal. Not that she couldn’t
benefit from one.
She sat down with grace that contradicted her shabby appearance. Her
hands shook as she took up the spoon to sample the soup. He frowned
when he imagined the last time she’d had a good meal. It could very well
have been before her parents were assassinated.
He watched her eat in silence. She was quiet. Too quiet. It didn’t seem
that she said anything that wasn’t carefully measured. He needed her to
talk if he was going to gain her trust.
“Tell me…Beth. From where do you hail? Your accent is quite
intriguing.”
Her spoon clattered to the table, and she looked up in consternation.
“Does it matter?”
“No, no. Of course not. I was just curious.” His attempt to bait her had
merely agitated her further. She wasn’t going to freely offer any
information.
She put her palm down on the table and rose from her seat. “I really
should take my leave now. I’ve imposed on your generosity quite enough.”
“Nonsense.” He got up and smoothly curled his hand around her elbow,
moving her toward the door before she could protest further. “You look as
though you could do with some rest. I insist you retire at once to a
bedchamber I’ve had prepared for you. There is a fire already lit, so you
should be comfortable. We will talk more when you have rested.”
 Once again she stiffened, and he could see the wheels turning in her
mind, much like the spokes on a runaway carriage. Her expression became
glacial, and she merely nodded her acquiescence. Truly, he had never come
across another person who spoke as little as she.
He showed her into the bedchamber at the opposite end of the hallway
from his. He gave brief explanation to where she could find things she
needed and backed from the room. Withdrawing a key from his pocket, he
quietly locked it from the outside, hoping she didn’t hear the soft click.
She would be furious if she tried the door, but he could not lose her now.
He strode back down the stairs, intent on sending word to Kirk.
“Timmons, I need you to send out a message at once,” he called out as
he hurried to his office.
He sat down and hastily jotted a message then affixed his personal seal
and thrust it at the waiting butler. Leaning back in his chair, he placed his
hands behind his head.
Finding the princess filled him with a huge sense of relief. But she
wasn’t yet safe. He shuddered to think what may have happened to her
today if he hadn’t intervened on the bridge. The two men following her
didn’t appear to be the sort to handle her gently.
Pictures of her younger brother filled his mind as Simon imagined her
lying in the snow, blood matting her hair and her beautiful eyes locked in
death.
Not if he could help it. Too much rested on her survival. The fate of his
own country could well rest with the reestablishment of the Leaudorian
monarchy.
He rose from his chair and walked over to stand in front of the window.
He stared out at the street remembering his conversation with Kirk on the
day the prince’s body was found. Was Kirk right? Should he give thought
to retiring from His Majesty’s Secret Service?
He had devoted his entire adult life to protecting England’s interest. To
quit now, to embrace his position as earl left a bad taste in his mouth. It’s
what his father would have wanted.
A scowl creased his face at the thought of his father. Not now. Not ever
would he allow his father to dictate his course in life. He was well beyond
the age of trying to please his sire. Not that it had ever done any good.
But just as his duty to England was at the very forefront of his every
thought, his duty to his title loomed like a harbinger of doom. A duty he
never wanted or expected. “Damn you, Edward,” he muttered. “How could
you have done it?”
A flash of movement from the street caught his attention, and he saw
Kirk descend a carriage and stride up the walk to Simon’s door.
A few minutes later, Kirk strolled into Simon’s study, his expression
expectant. “Where is she?”
Simon put a finger to his lips. “She’s in the guest room. I don’t want to
disturb her.”
“How did you find her? We’ve looked everywhere it seems.”
“I received a tip from one of my informants this morning. She’s been
staying in a rented room in a decidedly dangerous section of the city. I’m
amazed she’s survived this long.”
Kirk nodded. “What now? Will you bring her to the palace to see the
Regent? He will likely offer his protection and safe passage back to
Leaudor with a contingent of English soldiers. He’ll be quite eager to
restore stability to the Leaudorian throne.”
“I think you are correct in your thinking. I’d like you to go to the palace
and arrange the meeting with the Regent. It will buy me some time to try
and learn as much as possible from the princess. But the main thing is, she
will be safe at the palace.”
“And off your hands,” Kirk said with a grin. “Then perhaps you can take
a much needed break. Hole up at that estate of yours for a while and do
some hunting.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to deny owning an estate. Old habits die
hard. He was unused to owning much in the way of anything. His life as an
operative wasn’t conducive to having more than the basic necessities.
But he knew Kirk referred to Simon’s father’s estate. The one Simon
had grown up on. And left as soon as it was possible to do so. A move he
had never had cause to regret until his brother’s suicide.
He couldn’t put it off forever, though. Perhaps Kirk was right. Maybe he
would take a break and return to the place he had once called home. But
first he had to deliver the princess to the palace.
“Go on to the palace,” he directed Kirk. “Tell His Majesty that I will
deliver the princess at his convenience.”
Kirk disappeared through the door and Simon slowly made his way to
the stairs. It was time to come clean with the princess.
 He paused a moment outside her door, deciding on the best course of
action. He was a direct person, and there wasn’t a reason to deviate from
that now. It would be better just to come out and let her know he was
aware of her identity then go from there.
That is if she wasn’t ready to cosh him over the head for locking her in
the room.
He unlocked the door and swung it open. A rush of cold air hit him
directly in the face. “What the hell?” he muttered as he stepped further
into the room. His gaze skirted around the now-empty room to the open
window by the bed.
Had the fool woman jumped from a second story window? He rushed
over and looked down, half expecting to see her lying on the ground below.
But all he saw were small footprints leading away from the window out
toward the gate that lead out of the garden.
She was gone.
 Chapter Two

Isabella dropped from the window to the soft ground below, wincing when
she felt a twinge in her ankle. Quickly recovering, she hurried across the
small garden and let herself out the gate leading to the alleyway.
She stepped to the curb and waved frantically at an oncoming hack. The
last of her money would have to be spent on the fare. The meal she had
just eaten would sustain her until she could think of a way to replenish her
funds. She hurled herself inside and urged the driver forward.
She stared blindly out the window, the passing traffic a blur. Her fists
tightened beside her, her nails digging painfully into her palms. Relief
lessened some of the tension entrenched in her chest, but she knew she
still had far to go.
How close had she come to disaster? And who was this man who had
thrust himself so arrogantly into her path? She sucked her bottom lip
between her teeth and chewed in consternation. This Englishman could
have close ties to the British crown, and if he did… Her thought trailed
off, anger clenching her teeth tighter on her lip. The sharp, metallic taste
of blood spread on her tongue, and she relaxed her jaw.
Why else would he, an earl, offer assistance to a lowly common
woman? Could he know who she was? The idea sent a fresh surge of fright
scurrying over her.
There was much about the earl that simply did not add up. Why did he
not live in a more fashionable area? Isabella’s knowledge of London was
limited, but even she knew the majority of peers lived in Mayfair or St.
James. And why did he not employ a full staff? Such a fact suggested to
her that he spent little time in residence.
She shook her head, angry that the earl had intruded so rudely on her top
priority.
She must go back home. Now that Davide would not be meeting her in
England, the responsibility for her country rested squarely on her
shoulders. She was the sole heir to the throne, and if she was unable to
return to take the crown, Jacques’ path to rule would be unimpeded.
Her only hope was he would be unsuccessful in the quest, but then she
couldn’t count on him upholding the traditions of her country, which had
been in place for centuries. He had already proven he would do whatever
necessary to attain his goal. What was circumventing the sacred journey
into the marble cliffs when he had done far worse?
Her stomach rolled as fear briefly paralyzed her. What if she was unable
to complete the quest? She closed her eyes. Failure was not an option. To
contemplate such would be admitting defeat.
A fingernail snapped, and she released her fingers from her steely grip.
Under no circumstances would she allow a murdering traitor to upend
everything her father had worked for.
When the carriage finally halted, she scrambled out and dashed into the
building where she had rented a room. She quickly took stock of her sparse
belongings and gathered only the things she could easily carry.
Not giving a care to the fabric, she ripped the clothing from her body
then reached under the bed and brought out the pair of breeches she had
secured there. She thrust her legs into pants that resembled those Davide
had been wearing the last day she’d seen him. Fresh tears sprang to her
eyes, and she angrily dashed them away. Her grief staggered her, but she
could not give in to the overwhelming pain building within her. Her life
depended on the actions she took right now, this moment.
When she was attired in the breeches, she took the discarded dress and
tore long strips from the skirts. Wrapping the strips around her breasts, she
secured the ends in front and tucked them underneath the binding. She
threw the shirt over her head and shoved it into her breeches.
Bending over the small cot, she fumbled in the linens for the small
piece of rolled up parchment she had loosened from the hem of her dress.
She pulled at the collar of her shirt, reaching down to tuck the map
underneath the tight binding over her breasts. She picked up her royal
insignia ring, her hand closing reverently over the object of her heritage.
Dropping it into a small pouch, she drew tight the strings and stuffed it
just inside the waist of her pants.
They were all she had left in the form of valuables. Most of her money
had been spent for information about Davide. And then, in one of life’s
sick little ironies, she had read of his death in a newspaper of all things.
Tucked away in black and white, seemingly unimportant, a mere tidbit of
interest to the English.
She spared a quick glance over the room, making sure she left nothing
to indicate her identity. After looking down at her ragged fingernails, she
raised her fingers to her mouth and chewed the longer nails to a more
acceptable length. As a last measure, she stuffed her hair into a floppy hat
and strode from the room.
Careful to temper her walk, she mimicked a young boy’s stride as she
headed down the street. She needed a place to think. Somewhere she could
formulate a plan to get back home.
Instinctively, she walked in the direction of the docks. It would take her
hours to get there on foot, but if she could hide on a boat, as she had done
when she left Leaudor, she could gain valuable time to plot her course.
For now she must get as far away from Lord Merrick as possible.
With each block she passed, she kept careful watch to make sure no one
was following her or that she drew undue notice. But then she looked no
different from the other desperately poor citizens who hurried by in an
effort to keep warm.
She blew on her nearly frozen hands then rubbed them on her breeches.
Her feet were numb in the too small boots she’d stuffed her bare feet into,
making walking agony.
An hour into her journey, she suddenly stopped. Her panic had nearly
caused her to make a foolish mistake. Quickly turning around, she hurried
in the opposite direction. Think Isabella, think! The docks would be the
first place they would look for her. There were likely any number of
people keeping a watch out for her, just waiting for her to board a ship.
As determined as she was to return home, she couldn’t afford to act with
haste. And she’d allowed the earl to completely fluster her.
She chose smaller streets away from the main stretches. The cold was
creeping into every pore of her body. She had to find a place where she
would be safe for the time being. Some place warm.
God, why wouldn’t her mind function? Common sense and practicality
had long been her strong points, but now they faded into obscurity as she
struggled to figure out a plan to go home.
Unable to take another step on her frozen feet, she sank to the ground in
a nearby alley, praying no one would take notice of the fact she was a
woman. Even the guise of a young boy wouldn’t help her in this section of
town, as she had quickly learned during her sojourn here. There were just
as many ruffians who’d take pleasure in a boy as they would a woman.
Hugging her knees up to her chest, she rocked back and forth, trying to
infuse warmth into her body. She laid her head down on her knees.
Exhaustion had a firm grip on her. It called to her, lulled her deeper into its
lair.
Think, she ordered, shaking off the fingers of despair. She couldn’t take
a ship. It was too obvious. She couldn’t very well march to the palace and
demand an audience with the prince. Someone in the royal ranks had
already betrayed her once, maybe even the regent himself. She wouldn’t
give him a second chance.
She’d have to go it alone. Dover wasn’t a possibility. She’d come into
England through Dover and the ports there would be watched. And she’d
be expected to go north in an attempt to cut down the voyage time to
Leaudor.
South. That was it. She’d head south to Brighton. She could pawn her
ring and use the proceeds to hire a ship to Leaudor. It would be risky, but if
she offered enough money, she was certain she could find a willing
captain.
Feeling a bit better about her plan of action, she closed her eyes for a
moment. She just needed to rest a few minutes. Then she’d figure out a
way to get to Brighton. Her eyes fluttered against her cheeks as she
became numb to the cold. Yes, just a few minutes of rest.
The wind howled around her, lifting the hat from her head and blasting a
shot of cold air down her neck. From the back recesses of her mind, alarm
rose at the idea of her hair being exposed, but the allure of sleep drew her
further into its embrace.
***
It began to rain and the wind increased, driving the biting cold through
his coat as if he wore nothing at all. Simon retreated from the docks, his
concern increasing as he remembered the lack of protection the princess’s
meager wardrobe offered her.
He had gone immediately to the room she had been staying in only to
find it empty. The only thing that had remained was the torn remnants of
her dress. Frantically, he had searched the immediate area then went to the
docks thinking she would attempt to secure passage home. But the missing
princess had other ideas, apparently.
As he climbed into his carriage, he directed the driver to start a slow
circle of the area. He would start with each street in a large radius around
the tenement she had stayed in. She couldn’t have gone too far in the time
since she had escaped his house.
He had to hurry. Darkness would be falling soon, and he had little
chance of finding her in the shadowy alleys of the rookery. By dawn she
could feasibly be miles away and with it his chance of finding her again.
That is if she survived the night in London’s criminal-infested district.
As the carriage slowly rolled up one street and down another, he kept a
trained eye on every movement, every person. He saw things most others
would overlook, but then he’d had years of practice. In his line of work, a
careful eye could mean the difference between life and death.
As the shadows grew longer, his impatience increased. She should be
safely ensconced at the royal palace by now under the protection of the
regent. Instead she had run and could even now be in serious danger.
The idea of her coming to harm tightened his gut and made his resolve
to find her even stronger. She didn’t know it yet, but he was her best hope
of remaining alive.
“Stop!” he shouted. He was out of the carriage before it came to a
complete stop. He sprinted into the alley, praying what he thought he saw
was reality.
Curled into a tight ball lay the princess, her ebony hair streaming about
her. She was clad in trousers and a man’s shirt, but her hair was the dead
giveaway. To the side lay a tattered hat, likely the completion of her
disguise.
He knelt beside her, his concern growing as he took in her pallor and
felt the coldness of her skin. He shook her gently, but she didn’t stir. Fear
settled in the pit of his stomach. Scooping her up in his arms, he hurried
back to the carriage and shouted the direction of his town home.
During the ride, he wrapped his coat around her and rubbed her arms,
trying desperately to warm her. Her breathing was shallow, her chest
barely rising with the effort. She looked vulnerable and defenseless in his
arms.
The bones in her face were daintily structured, her lips full and the
loveliest shade of rose. Her dark lashes rested on the faint smudges that
signaled her fatigue. She was a woman who made a man instinctively want
to protect her, a feeling that did not sit well with him at all. In his position,
he couldn’t afford such a weakness. The sooner she was out of his care and
safely delivered to the regent, the better.
 Moments later they pulled to a stop in front of his home, and he
hastened inside, bearing her slight form with him. He barked a series of
orders to Timmons and Mrs. Turnbull, and they scurried away to do his
bidding.
Bypassing the room he’d locked her in earlier, he shouldered his way
into his room and laid her on the bed. A fire blazed in the hearth, and the
warmth seeped into his bones. He only hoped it would warm her quickly
enough.
“We should summon the physician,” Mrs. Turnbull said as she bustled
into the room with a tray of hot soup and tea.
“No, we can’t,” Simon murmured.
She looked at him aghast.
“I needn’t remind you that in my line of work discretion is of the utmost
importance.”
“But the poor little mite is near frozen to death!”
“You’ve plenty of medicinal skill. I trust in your abilities. I’m sure you
will have Beth in the pink of health before the morning.”
The older woman’s cheeks reddened slightly, and a pleased smile spread
across her face. “Yes, well, of course I can. I’ll require some privacy. It
wouldn’t do for you to remain.”
She stared pointedly at him, and with a sigh, he rose. “I’ll be below
stairs in my office. Summon me if you have need of anything. If she
regains consciousness, notify me at once. And do not, under any
circumstances, leave her alone,” he warned.
In his study, he poured a brandy and stood warming himself by the fire.
The princess had proven a much more difficult task than he had thought.
In fact, he had imagined her falling into his arms in relief and begging for
his protection. Instead, she had run from him.
A frown tugged the corners of his mouth. Gaining her trust could prove
impossible. And her trust was essential if he was to carry out his mission.
England’s security was the uppermost priority. And until he could discover
the reason behind her family’s assassination, he could ill afford to be
remiss in his duty.
“My lord, Mr. Kirkland is here to see you,” Timmons called from the
door.
“Show him in.”
 Simon rubbed the back of his neck and straightened his stance as he
waited for Kirk. Seconds later, Kirk strode through the door, a frown
marring his face.
“Where have you been?” Kirk demanded.
“It’s a long story,” Simon muttered. “What news do you bring from the
palace?”
“His Majesty wants you to present the princess to him in the morning.”
Simon grimaced. It meant she would be spending the night under his
roof, and he’d get little sleep making sure she didn’t escape again.
“Inform His Majesty that I will personally present Her Highness in the
morning.”
Kirk nodded. “I’ll convey your message to him directly.”
He turned and strode purposefully out of the room, leaving Simon
standing by the fire.
Simon turned away and set his drink on the desk. Whether Mrs.
Turnbull allowed it or not, he was going up to see how the princess was
faring. It was time they had a very frank discussion.
He walked up the stairs to his bedchamber and knocked softly on the
door. Not waiting for an answer, he opened the door and eased in.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” Mrs. Turnbull scolded from her perch on the
bed beside the princess.
“How is she?” Simon asked, ignoring the woman’s remonstrations.
“Ask her yourself.”
Slowly the princess’s head turned, and she looked at him with her ocean
eyes. He could read nothing in their depths, no clue as to what she was
thinking. He crossed the room to stand at the bedside. “Excuse us for a few
moments, Mrs. Turnbull.”
Mrs. Turnbull started to protest, but he silenced her with a stern look.
Grumbling beneath her breath, she took her leave, but left the door open.
He turned his attention back to the princess. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” she said tightly.
“Then, Your Highness, I think we have much to discuss.”
 Chapter Three

Isabella blinked in surprise but quickly attempted to mask any reaction she
had to his statement. Her heart beat thunderously in a rapid staccato, but
she forced a note of puzzlement into her voice. “My lord, I fear you have
been more affected by the cold than I. Why do you address me so?”
“Let’s not prevaricate, Your Highness. Too much is at stake. I know who
you are. I’ve known since before I intercepted you on the bridge.”
He stared at her, his earlier air of harmlessness gone. Intense brown
eyes, nearly as dark as his hair, assessed her broodingly. She shivered
involuntarily. The man who she was so confident she could escape from
earlier was gone. In his place stood a formidable adversary, one capable of
stripping past the layers of deception she had constructed.
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but I feel you must have mistaken me for
someone else.”
He sat down on the bed beside her, and it took every ounce of self-
discipline not to shrink away from him. “It is imperative that we indulge
in honest dialogue. Not only is your life at stake, but the security of my
country could very well be in jeopardy.”
“Are you threatening me?” Forgotten for a moment was her choking
fear, and in its place a simmering anger took control. She would not be
bullied or intimidated. She had lost far too much to cower like a hapless
maiden. If this Englishman thought she was a weak, helpless woman, then
he was in for quite a shock.
His face hardened. “Indeed not, Your Highness. I seek to protect you
from those who would do you harm. I should have been more forthcoming,
but I didn’t want to frighten you until I was absolutely certain of your
identity.”
“Forgive me if I don’t fall at your feet in gratitude,” she said sharply. “I
trust no one.”
“In your position, neither would I.”
“Enough of your coaxing. If you feel I am the princess you speak of,
there is nothing I can do to persuade you differently. It matters not to me
who you think I am. And while I appreciate your aid, I must take my leave
at once.”
 “I never said I thought you were a princess,” he said mildly.
Damn her slip, and damn his quick pick-up on her mistake. She looked
hastily around the room, assessing her possibilities.
“I wouldn’t advise going out this window,” he said with a slight smile.
“The rose bushes below would not afford a nice landing.”
“You intend to keep me prisoner then?”
“If necessary.”
She raised an eyebrow. “By whose authority are you holding me against
my will?” Her mind raced as she sought to distract him with her
questioning. How could she escape? This man could very well be sent by
the regent to do away with her. But why would he have delayed? He could
have easily killed her before, but instead, he had seemed more concerned
with her welfare.
Unless he wanted to extract information from her before killing her. She
set her lips in a firm line. He clearly had no idea who he was dealing with.
He would get nothing from her, but neither would he be successful in his
attempt to end the rule of the Chastaines. She was queen now, and with her
dying breath, she would serve her people and continue the legacy of her
father’s reign.
“Clearly we’ve gotten off to a very bad start. I intend you no harm.
Quite the contrary. I have been desperate to find you so that I could keep
you safe. I only regret that I did not find your brother in time.”
Raw agony ripped through her chest. Her swift intake of breath made
her lightheaded, and she bit the inside of her cheek to control the rush of
tears to her eyes. For several long seconds, she struggled to regain control
of her emotions.
“What do you know about my brother?” She meant it to be a demand,
but it came out as a plea, and she winced at the pain she heard in her voice.
To his credit, he didn’t taunt her sudden reversal of denying her identity.
His eyes were soft with pity. He reached a hand out to cover hers, and she
yanked back as a warm sensation raced up her arm.
She looked guardedly at him, waiting for his answer, dreading what he
had to say.
“I only know he was killed as he got off a ship in Harwich.”
His tone reflected sympathy, but then it could very well be an act to gain
her trust.
 “We had thought you both had fled to America, but when we found the
prince’s body, we realized you were probably here.”
“Who exactly is we?” she asked, her suspicion of him growing by the
minute.
“The people I work with.”
“And who would they be?”
He stared at her for a long moment as if trying to decide whether to trust
her. She nearly laughed. He had nothing to fear, while she had everything
to lose.
“I work with a small branch of His Majesty’s Secret Service. We take
directives from the regent and have only the best interests of England as
our goal. Our branch was developed by King George just after Bonaparte
was named consul for life in 1802. Two years later, I was recruited and
began my career with the agency.
“Our main purpose was to monitor Bonaparte’s activities and call to the
attention of the crown any plots that could potentially undermine the
English throne. Perhaps, you can now see why what happened in Leaudor
has captured our attention.”
“Indeed,” she said bitterly. “Far be it for England to be concerned over
the assassinations of the royal family if it doesn’t threaten them in some
way.”
He remained silent, not defending or agreeing. She had said far too
much as it was. She stole a glance at the window. Rose bushes or not,
escape was paramount.
“His Highness, the prince regent, is concerned for your safety and
wishes an audience with you in the morning. It is my responsibility to
convey you to the palace and to see to your safety.”
She snorted. “I do hope you do not take your duty too seriously.”
He raised an eyebrow, evidently surprised by her outburst. “I’m not sure
I understand your meaning.”
“Let me be clear then. I have no intention of going anywhere with you.
Especially not to the palace.” She struggled to sit upright in the bed,
pushing at the heavy covers. She let out a hiss of annoyance as a surge of
weakness hit her, leaving her shaky and breathing heavily.
Firm hands pushed her back down on the pillow. “You must rest and
save your strength. You’ve been through quite an ordeal. I know you have
no reason to trust me, but at the moment, I am all you have.”
 She clenched her fists beneath the covers and gritted her teeth in
frustration. But then her temporary weakness could serve her purposes
well. When his guard was completely down, she could escape again. Only
this time she would make the best of her flight.
Settling back onto the bed, she closed her eyes and sighed in what she
hoped sounded like defeat. “You’re right, of course.”
“We need to talk, Princess. But in order to do that, I need you to be
honest with me.”
She opened her eyes and glanced warily at him. “What exactly do you
wish to discuss?” Clearly this was a man used to getting his way. There
was no arrogance in his manner, just quiet confidence that radiated from
his every movement.
“I need to ask you some questions. Painful questions. But if I am going
to help you, I need your answers.”
“What makes you think I need your help?” she asked, narrowing her
eyes.
He looked surprised by her response. “Perhaps we can help each other
then.”
“Ask your questions,” she said in a weary tone. “I offer no guarantees
that I will answer them.”

Simon bit his tongue for the hundredth time in frustration. Infuriating
and not at all forthcoming in her conversation, she had yet to divulge
anything.
And with his mounting irritation, strong curiosity about this most
unusual woman was beginning to take over his mind. She was unlike
anyone he had ever met, man or woman. Even in her weakened state, she
challenged him and gave him no quarter.
“Perhaps we should wait until you’ve rested more,” he offered. Clearly
she had no plan to cooperate with him.
“I do not plan to be in your company for that long, my lord. I suggest
you ask what it is you want to know now.”
“Where will you go? It seems to me you have little choice but to trust
me.”
“Your confidence is admirable, but overstated. I’ve managed on my own
these past months and have no need of your protection.”
 Her chin lifted in defiance, and her eyes burned brightly with
determination. She obviously believed every word she said. He didn’t
much like the idea of taking her to the palace against her will, but he
would do it if it became necessary.
“Do you know who is responsible for the assassinations of your parents
and your brothers?”
“If I did, do you think I would be hiding in England like a common
coward?”
Disgust dripped from her voice like heavy jam from a scone.
“I see. Do you have any idea why they were assassinated?”
Her lip curled. “Perhaps you should ask your own government.”
He gazed balefully at her. “Surely you aren’t suggesting that England
had anything to do with such a heinous attack.”
She pressed her lips together and stared mutinously ahead, refusing to
say anything further.
He stood and began pacing. The little chit was good. Very good. She had
managed to bait him in one area she had to know he would bite. He almost
smiled. Feisty creature she was.
He stopped and looked at her once more. It was time to level with her
and forego the sidestepping. “I am offering my help, Your Highness. My
protection and that of my country. I was appalled by the travesty that
occurred both in Leaudor and on our own shores.”
He moved closer to the bed. “Of course, I am concerned with the
ramifications of what happened and what it could mean for England, but I
would never condone such a senseless act of violence no matter who it was
meted out on. And you have my word as an Englishman that I mean you no
harm and will do everything in my power to find out who is responsible
for killing your family.”
“And not your word as a nobleman?” she asked pointedly.
“My word as an Englishman is worth far more than my word as the Earl
of Merrick,” he said darkly.
A flicker of uncertainty flashed across her face, the first glimmer of
anything that denoted vulnerability.
“Your sentiment is appreciated, my lord, but if you were in my place
would you so easily trust the first man to pledge his protection?”
“I suppose not,” he said grudgingly.
 “I’ve reason to distrust England,” she said in a low voice. “And I cannot
afford to make the mistake of entrusting my country’s future to her again.”
“What do you speak of?” he asked sharply. The vague hints were
beginning to annoy him. If there was reason for her to distrust his
government, he damn well wanted to hear about it.
Genuine regret flashed across her face before she once again masked her
response. “As much as the idea of being able to confide in someone
appeals to me, there is simply too much at risk for me to do so. I
appreciate your generosity, but I must take my leave of you. If you are
truly ignorant of what I am speaking of, then I would be placing you in
danger by remaining here.”
Simon gritted his teeth, ready to explode. It was all he could do not to
shake her. What was she doing to him? After so many years of being the
cool, unflappable agent, a mere slip of a woman had him ready to abandon
professionalism and howl in frustration.
“Perhaps after you’ve rested, you will see things differently,” he said in
a clipped tone. He turned and stalked to the door. Her boots, removed by
Mrs. Turnbull, no doubt, rested beside the door. He bent and picked them
up. Let her try escaping barefooted. Before he exited the room, he chanced
a glance back at the princess. She wasn’t even looking at him.
With a muttered curse, he closed the door behind him, locking it and
slipping the key into his pocket. This time he felt no remorse for barring
the door.
Downstairs, he called for Timmons. “Post a footman outside my
bedroom window and one outside my door as well. Under no
circumstances is anyone to go in or out of that room.” He shoved Isabella’s
boots at Timmons. “Dry these by the fire. They’re quite damp.”
Timmons nodded. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”
“Summon my carriage.”
***
“I cannot put off the prince any longer,” Kirk said. “He wishes to see the
princess in the morning in his private meeting room.”
Simon slammed his fist on the desk. “There’s something not right about
this whole situation, and I can’t get a word out of the princess. I’ve seen
clams with looser mouths.”
“Perhaps she will relate what troubles her to the prince.”
 “I doubt it,” Simon said grimly. “She fears going to the crown. She
won’t tell me why though.”
“Let the regent deal with the matter,” Kirk advised. “You’ve done all
that you can.”
“I know, but there is something she isn’t telling me. Something
important I suspect.”
“As much as I know how you hate the idea of forcing her hand, it would
seem you have no other choice. You must deliver up the princess in the
morning.”
That gave Simon no time to try and gain her trust. And his taking her
against her will to the palace would only cement the idea that he was
acting against her best interests. Devil take it. His job rarely presented him
the conundrum he was tormented with at present.
“Don’t plague yourself, Merrick. His Majesty asked me to convey his
gratitude for the speed in which you located the princess. He was quite
concerned over the consequences of a new ruler taking over Leaudor
should there be no remaining members of the Chastaine ruling family.”
So why did he feel as though he were offering up betrayal of the worst
kind? He should feel proud. He’d done his duty and, as usual, succeeded
where others had failed. But this time all he felt was a hollow ache.
Haunting turquoise eyes filled his mind. A frail face masking
underlying steel, and a softness that was deceptive. She’d been hurt
enough already, and here he was prepared to hand her over to the prince
like a piece of prime meat at the market.
Kirk slapped him on the back. “Go home and get some sleep. You look
like hell, and you have an early appointment with the regent.”
Simon nodded at Kirk and took his leave from the building that had
housed their offices the last five years. In a nondescript location, it was a
far cry from the usual comforts of an earl. But then his own townhouse
was located in an area that catered more to merchants, doctors and
solicitors than members of the aristocracy.
As he climbed into his carriage, he spared a thought for what his life
might be like had he embraced the path of his forebears. A house in
Mayfair when Parliament was in session. His country estate in
Hertfordshire just north of London during the off season. Countless
society affairs. Vain, spoiled women all vying for his money and prestige,
not to mention the title of Countess of Merrick.
 All things his brother would gladly have embraced. Or so he thought.
Sadness and anger swirled within him and made his chest tighten. Why
Edward? Why did you do it?
His father, who had never had much to do with him before his brother’s
death, had turned to him in the months following Edward’s passing.
Implored him to come home and take up the life expected of a future earl.
The earl had made great strides to overcome the insurmountable breach
between him and Simon—as if a few well-placed words could overcome a
lifetime of ignoring his youngest son. It was too little too late.
By then Simon had been too ensconced in his position with the agency
to give it up so readily. And too resentful that a father who had never
deemed him worthy now expected him to drop everything and return to the
fold.
Simon had grown up alone, despite having Edward and his father close
by. Perhaps it was why he could sympathize with the princess’s plight. He
knew all too well the discomfort of solitude even if he had grown to prefer
it.
His father had never forgiven him the fact that his mother had died
giving birth to him. From his earliest memories, he felt his father’s
resentment, his determination to lavish all his attention and love on
Edward. Always Edward. Would things have been different had his mother
not died? Would they have enjoyed the closeness of family life had she
survived?
In the end, a title his father never thought him worthy to hold became
his when, less than a year after Edward’s death, his father died in his sleep.
They had never reconciled. Simon had never gotten the chance to ask him
why.
As the carriage rolled to a stop in front of his home, he sighed, a heavy
melancholy settling over him like a black cloud on a spring day. No matter
how much he resigned himself to his future, he had yet to come to terms
with it. He shook his head, trying to make the heavy cape of gloom
dissipate around him. Maybe Kirk was right. Maybe he needed some time
away from the agency. Time to sort out the mess he had inherited.
Wearily, he mounted the steps to his house and let himself in the door.
The idea of hauling the princess to the palace against her will left a bad
taste in his mouth.
 He briefly flirted with the idea of letting the matter rest until morning,
but by then she’d likely have found a way to escape again. Resolving to
confront the recalcitrant princess, he strode up to his bedchamber and
retrieved the key from his coat pocket.
As he opened the door, he felt a flash of guilt for disturbing her when
she so obviously needed rest. But when he looked around the room, he
found her standing at the window, her back to the door. She was still attired
in the breeches he had found her in, and her bottom was clearly outlined
by the tight material. Extremely tight material.
The soft contours of her body were there in all their glory for him to
behold. He almost made a sound of disgust. Self-disgust. Because try as he
might, he could not drag his gaze from her pleasing shape. He felt an odd
stirring, not all together unpleasing, deep within the inner workings of his
body.
The idea that anyone could possibly mistake her for a lad was laughable.
She was fortunate that he had been the one to find her and not someone
without her best interests at heart.
Her bare feet peeked out from the legs of the trousers, and he felt a
moment’s guilt for having removed her boots. He made a mental note to
make sure Mrs. Turnbull at least provided her with stockings.
When the door closed with a soft click, she whirled around, her long
ebony hair swinging around her. Even in her state of dishabille she was
magnificent. She fixed her gaze on him. “My jailor returns.”
“I see your disposition hasn’t improved in my absence.”
The shuttered look he had grown to hate closed over her face. He could
well imagine the anger boiling beneath the calm façade though.
He sat down on the bed and met her stare head on. “I’ve tried what I can
to make you trust me, and I realize that it’s not something I can earn in the
short amount of time we’ve been acquainted. So I have no choice but to do
as the crown directs me. In the morning, I will convey you to the palace
for a private audience with the prince regent.”
“No.”
Her one word response took him by surprise, but then he had yet to be
impressed with her verbosity.
“No? Perhaps you misunderstood me. I am not offering you a choice in
the matter.”
 A dull red flush worked slowly across her face. Her fingers curled into
fists at her sides. “So you’ll sacrifice me for the sake of your duty?”
His brow furrowed and he studied her in confusion. “What is it you
aren’t telling me, Princess? Because if you want something from me, now
is the time to speak up. I can’t help you if you aren’t going to be
completely honest with me.”
She bit her lip then opened and closed her mouth, clearly undecided as
to whether or not she should confide in him. Finally she leveled a hard
stare at him and said, “I suppose it matters not if you are to deliver me to
the palace anyway. The fact is, your prince has already betrayed me once,
and if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to not give him another chance to
murder me.”

Isabella watched as Lord Merrick’s mouth fell open even as his eyes
hardened. “That is a very serious charge.”
She nearly growled in frustration. “Of course it is. I consider murder a
serious charge, indeed.”
“I assume you have sound proof else you wouldn’t be accusing the
regent of such conduct.”
She studied him for a long moment. Truly, she hadn’t wanted to confide
in anyone in this Godforsaken country, but now it appeared she had little
choice. Davide was gone, and with him, anyone in England she could trust.
Biting her lip, she struggled with just how much she should relate to this
man. She had little hope he would believe her. He was rooted solidly in his
loyalty to the crown. An admirable quality. Too bad more of her own
subjects hadn’t the same loyalty.
She turned away from him and stared out the window once more.
Footsteps sounded on the floor when he rose from the bed and moved
closer to her. His hand grasped her arm and spun her around to face him.
“What do you mean when you say the regent betrayed you?”
It wasn’t a request, it was a command, and she was unused to taking
commands. Her mouth opened at his daring, but he didn’t back down. “If
you want me to help you, Princess, I suggest you start talking.”
“Take your hand from me at once,” she said icily.
His lips compressed, and he released her arm, but he didn’t move an
inch back. “Your time is running out. You can either tell me or tell the
regent.”
 She rubbed her arm absently, though he hadn’t harmed her in any way.
But his touch lingered, and she didn’t like it. It would not matter if she
confided in him. Regardless of his reaction, she would not allow him to
take her to the palace. And maybe, just maybe, he would help her.
“When I arrived in England, I sent word to the palace seeking the
regent’s aid and protection. I didn’t know who I could trust. Father had
always thought highly of England, which is why I decided to take a chance
and come here.”
A sob knotted in her throat and she swallowed it down, determined not
to allow her grief to overcome her. “I received a missive bearing the
regent’s seal. In it were instructions for where to meet his personal envoy.
When I arrived at the meeting place, I was nearly killed. I managed to
escape, but clearly, the regent, or someone very close to him, didn’t wish
for me to live.”
Indecision mixed with utter disbelief clouded the earl’s face. “I have
several problems with that account. I cannot believe the regent would plot
to kill you. He is far too interested in finding out why your family was
killed. England has much at stake.
“And,” he said drawing out the last word, “if the regent knew of your
presence in England, I would have been one of the first to know. I have
personally overseen the effort to locate you.”
“Your statements reek of naiveté,” she said with a scoff. “Do you
honestly think your regent shares every piece of information with you?”
“I have no doubt there is much the prince doesn’t deem fit to share with
me, however, he is most concerned with the situation in Leaudor, and I
cannot countenance him being part of the plot to murder your family.”
Angrily she yanked her shirt from her breeches. She bunched the
material in her fist and raised the shirt to bare her stomach. “Does this
look like something I imagined?”
He didn’t look overly impressed by her dramatic display. “What
happened?”
Her fingers automatically traced the still tender gash on her abdomen,
then remembering she had bared her flesh in front of a strange man, she
yanked the shirt back down. “The regent’s henchmen wielded knives.”
He looked at her skeptically. “And how did you manage to escape?”
“I told you I am quite capable of taking care of myself,” she said
through gritted teeth.
 He stepped back, widening the space between them. But his gaze still
bore into her. “Tell me everything that happened.”
“I believe I’ve already told you what happened.” Her patience was
wearing thin, and her desire to get away from this man was becoming
stronger by the moment.
She turned away from him and stared out the window like one longing
for freedom from behind the bars of prison. She hadn’t much time. The
people who had killed her family would seek to install a new ruler unless
she could return in time to stop them. They would steal her people’s
legacy.
Her fingers itched to fold around the parchment secured between her
breasts. She curled them at her side to staunch the urge. Without the map,
no one could find the ancient caves. She held tight to that thought and
prayed she could return in time.
His breath blew hot on her neck and she tensed. Once again, she felt
herself twisted around to face him. “Tell me word for word what happened
when you went to meet this envoy.”
She searched his blazing eyes for sinister intent, but all she saw was
determination. She glanced pointedly down at his hands, and he slowly
uncurled his fingers from her forearms.
“I went to an inn off the north posting road. I collected a message from
the innkeeper that directed me to a room upstairs. I did not feel very
comfortable walking into a room unaware.”
Lord Merrick nodded approvingly.
“So, I knocked then slipped down the hall a ways to see who answered.
But someone grabbed me from behind and propelled me into the room.
There were three men, and one held a knife to my neck. I knew they were
going to kill me so I fought them. I was stabbed before I jumped from the
window.”
He gaped incredulously at her. “You expect me to believe you fought off
three men and jumped from a window? Well, the window part I believe,”
he muttered.
Anger surged through her veins. She grasped his upper arm and in one
smooth movement rocked her hip into his groin and threw him over her
shoulder.
He landed with a thud, his face a mask of shock.
 She folded her arms over her chest and stared down at him triumphantly.
“Believe it now, my lord?”
 Chapter Four

Simon stared up at the ceiling, stunned by what had just transpired. One
minute he had been standing in front of the princess, and the next he was
lying on the floor.
The princess’s face came into view as she peered down at him, her arms
crossed over her chest. She was grinning. It was the first time she had
smiled in his presence and it completely transformed her face. Twin
dimples dotted her cheeks and her eyes twinkled with merriment. She
wasn’t just beautiful, she was stunning. He didn’t know if he was more
breathless from the fall or the way she was looking at him. But both made
him deuced uncomfortable.
She extended a hand to him, and he grasped her palm, enjoying the feel
of her smooth skin. Slowly he got up and looked guardedly at her. She
returned his scrutiny, chewing on her bottom lip in what looked like an
attempt to stifle a chuckle. He wondered if her laughter would sound as
beautiful as she looked.
“Where did you learn to do that?” He wanted to rub his back but
wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
“I learned at a very young age how to defend myself. Father Ling, the
senior monk at the Sacre Foi monastery, mentored me from the time I was
old enough to start learning the ancient ways.”
The idea of a royal princess learning to defend herself was ludicrous.
And she’d learned from a monk? If he didn’t think she would throw him
again, he’d laugh out loud.
“Don’t you have personal guards charged with your protection?”
She gazed at him as if he was a complete imbecile. “And these guards
kept my family from harm?”
The question was apt and cut directly to the point. The men charged
with the royal family’s safety had failed miserably in their duty. In the face
of such disaster, the princess’s training may well have saved her life.
Perhaps “ludicrous” wasn’t the appropriate term for it.
A thought struck him as he weighed the oddity of her talents. Had her
father suspected treachery in the royal ranks? Had this been the reason for
Isabella’s devotion to self-protection? Or had it merely been a lark an
indulgent father granted his only daughter? He would only know if the
princess related the events of that terrible day.
“How did it happen?” he asked quietly. He had a hundred questions, but
tempered his eagerness to get to the heart of the matter.
“I don’t have any wish to recount the experience,” she said with a slight
shiver.
The statement was firm and accentuated by the upward tilt of her chin.
A gesture he was already fast associating with her stubbornness. But pain
flashed in her eyes, and he knew, indeed, the memories were burning a
trail of agony through her mind.
He understood her reluctance to give life to those horrible scenes, but if
he was going to help her, he had to know everything she knew and more.
“How did you and your brother manage to escape death?”
Bright tears glittered unshed in her eyes. “We were lucky.”
He waited expectantly for more, but she set her lips and averted her
gaze. Shaking his head, he quashed the frustration he felt mounting once
more. He ached to comfort her but would not allow himself to show such
weakness in front of her. “You should get some rest, Princess. In the
morning we have a meeting with the regent.”
“That’s what you think,” she muttered.
He swung back around. “Pardon?”
She cleared her throat. “Leave me so I may rest.”
He raised an eyebrow at her imperious tone, but turned and exited the
room. The battle would come in the morning. No need to end the night
with confrontation.
***
Isabella tossed restlessly in her bed. She had dressed once more after
Mrs. Turnbull had attended her. She couldn’t afford to be lax, not when she
needed to find a way to escape. But now she was without boots. The earl
obviously underestimated her desire to be free of him and England if he
thought being without shoes would deter her from her objective.
She wasn’t even sure why she had chosen to lie down. Escape was of the
utmost importance. But the warmth offered by the heavy covers had lured
her away from the cold window.
She had allowed the fire to die down, preferring the silence over the
popping and snapping of the flames. The quiet settled over the room, and
her ears were attuned to any changes in the atmosphere.
It felt strange to lie in his bed. He seemed to surround her. His scent was
entrenched in the pillows. Earlier, as soon as he had left the room, she had
searched the chambers for any information on the enigmatic earl, but there
was little to find.
The room was sparsely furnished and devoid of frivolous trinkets and
decorations. No valuables or correspondence occupied his small desk.
Nothing to tell her anything about the man who held her life in his hands.
She needed to escape and escape soon. But Lord Merrick wasn’t stupid.
He would have someone posted outside her door and outside the window
as well, rose bushes or not. Her mind raced to come up with a plan. She
opened her eyes and glanced around the room, her eyes adjusting rapidly
to the smothering darkness. As she blinked, the room lightened before her,
dim light straining through the window from the street lamps.
With a sigh, she gave up on the idea of gaining any rest. She swung her
feet over the side of the bed and stood up. The foot of the bed faced the
window and she walked around the end. Though the floor was cold, she
settled in a cross-legged position and drew in several deep breaths.
She closed her eyes and conjured images of her homeland, the face of
Father Ling, hoping he could offer her comfort and encouragement from
afar.
You must be strong, Your Highness. Much depends on your return to
Leaudor.
She latched onto the older man’s spirit, wanting desperately to maintain
the tenuous bond she had managed to achieve in her meditation. But she
was fatigued. Weak. The intense concentration necessary to maintain the
link quickly sapped what remaining strength she had.
Her brow eased as, instead, she conjured the rolling landscape of her
homeland. Her mouth curved into a smile as she felt the wind in her hair
as she thundered across the landscape astride her favorite horse. Her smile
disappeared when she realized the images were from the last time she had
ridden with her father.
Shaking her head slightly, she refocused on the majestic mountain chain
that formed the northern border. Where they met the granite cliffs that
housed the Sacre Foi monastery. Traced the well-traveled path from the
monastery to the village that sat at the base of Soleil Mountain, her home.
Her sanctuary.
 Hot tears trailed down her cheeks and she opened her eyes, dispelling
the troubling images. Far from drawing comfort from the beloved
memories, she was merely reminded of the horrible events of the last year.
She breathed deeply, trying to regain her composure. Eventually all fell
silent once more, and she sat still, unwilling to disturb the tranquility.
The hall clock startled the eerie quiet that had fallen over the house.
Three chimes. Her time was running out.
As the melodic notes died, she froze. A shuffling in the hall. As quietly
as possible, she uncurled her crossed legs and stood. Her heart pounded
with such ferocity that she feared her chest would burst. Bile rose in her
throat and panic seized her stomach.
A muffled thump followed close behind the disturbance she felt in the
air. Then soft footsteps, almost indiscernible, sounded closer to her door.
They had found her.
The bastard had betrayed her. She felt ten kinds a fool for allowing her
defenses down around the earl. She should have killed him when she had
the chance. Now she would be lucky if she didn’t pay for that mistake with
her life.
Suddenly the room felt too warm. Sweat beaded her forehead and her
mouth went dry. She swallowed convulsively and fought to regain control
over the tide of fear that swamped her.
She tiptoed over to the window, using the light to investigate the street
below. They wouldn’t take her without a fight. She had been wise not to
trust the English. How else had they known where she was if the prince or
the earl hadn’t betrayed her?
Her gaze darted over the ground then to the street beyond. She stood to
the side of the panes, careful not to be seen by anyone lurking below. The
slight movement of a shadowy form confirmed her fears that someone was
watching the front. The only way out would be through the intruders.
Firming up her resolve, she muttered a prayer and slipped over to her
door. At least surprise would be on her side.
She held her breath and listened. The soft footsteps paused outside her
door then the doorknob rattled ever so softly. She watched it turn, her
dread growing by the minute.
She reached behind her for the vase she had seen resting on the dressing
table. Her fingers curled around the neck, and she brought it silently to her
side.
 The door eased open, no sound betraying the intrusion into her domain.
A stealthy form stole inside. She tensed from behind the door and inched
over so she would have a clear path to the assassin.
With no hesitation, she swung the vase at the man’s head as soon as he
came into view. The shattered glass was the only sound that rent the air.
The intruder reeled but quickly regained his composure. Isabella was
ready for him. Before he could charge at her she executed a powerful kick
to his midsection.
She yelped in surprise when he caught her ankle and yanked her from
her stance. She landed with a thud on the floor, pain snaking through her
back. Not willing for him to gain any momentum over her, she countered
with a kick from her free leg, connecting with his head.
He fell back and she was on her feet in a split second. Strong arms
wrapped around her chest and yanked her back against a second attacker.
Her heart sank as the first assailant charged at her.
Feigning surrender, she slumped against her captor. As the first man
drew close enough, she lashed out with a vicious kick to his jaw. Pain
cracked through her bare foot as it connected with bone. As she flailed
back against the man holding her, she twisted her body and brought her
knee up into his groin.
She gave him no time before she launched herself into the hall, nearly
tripping over the prostrate form of Merrick’s servant. A lot of good it had
done to post a guard. She fled toward the stairs knowing she likely had
more than one attacker to contend with at the bottom.
As she rounded the corner, another set of arms reached out and plucked
her from the air. She reacted like a wildcat, kicking and flailing.
“It’s me.” Lord Merrick hissed in her ear.
But his words failed to reassure her. Bastard. She rammed her elbow
back, catching him in the ribs. To her satisfaction, he grunted in pain and
his hold loosened. Just enough so she could free herself. She threw herself
back down the hall. There was a window at the end.
Her first two attackers rushed into the hall from her bedroom, barring
her path to the window and freedom beyond. She stopped and backed up,
looking frantically between Merrick and the two men advancing
menacingly on her.
“Trust me, Princess.” His quiet voice reached her ears. “It’s either them
or me. Who will it be?”
 A flash of uncertainty gripped her. The two men would be prepared for
her now. They would not be so easy to get away from a second time. But
Merrick barred the stairs.
“If you aren’t with them, move out of the way so I can escape,” she
ground out as she backed closer to him. “They mean to kill me.”
“Yes, I can see that,” he said calmly. “I don’t intend for them to
succeed.”
The quiet confidence in his voice gave her the first flicker of hope.
Could she trust him? Clearly she had no choice. She knew the two men
advancing on her would kill her. Even if Merrick intended to do her harm,
she could buy enough time to escape him if it became necessary.
Making a quick decision, she whispered softly back to him. “Can you
take the man on the right?”
“Move, Princess. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
If the situation wasn’t so dire, she would have laughed. “Stop the
heroics, Merrick. I’ll take the man on the left. Rush them, they won’t be
expecting it. They think they have the upper hand.”
Silver glinted in the soft light pouring from Merrick’s room. At least
one of the men held a knife. She hoped the earl was as competent as he
came across.
“I’ll only say this one more time,” he growled. “Move!”
Understanding dawned and she pitched sideways just as the men lurched
forward. A shot cracked the night air. Then a second shot. She rolled over
to see the two men slumped on the floor. Glancing back up, she saw two
smoking pistols in the earl’s hands.
“Well, that’s one way to do it,” she muttered.
“Quickly,” he barked. “There are others.”
She scrambled up as he tossed the guns aside. “Let’s go out the
window.”
“You and those damned windows,” he grumbled. “Don’t you ever use
the door?”
“After you then,” she said, sweeping an arm toward the stairs.
She hurried close behind him as they rushed toward the foyer. He
stopped suddenly and she bumped into his back. His arm came around to
steady her. “Shhh.”
She held her breath, her face buried in his shirt. His scent surrounded
her, and for some inexplicable reason, she felt safe. Shaking her head to
dispel the absurd notion, she forced her concentration to her surroundings.
“There are at least two waiting outside the door,” he murmured.
“Probably more.”
“How do you know?” she whispered, peering around him.
He gave her a silencing look. “Can we hold the questions for later?”
She nodded, clamping her lips shut.
He glanced back toward his study. “Come on.” He took her hand and
dragged her toward the rear of the house.
She kept close on his heels as they entered the study. Curiously he didn’t
shut or bar the door. She opened her mouth to suggest doing just that when
he put a hand over her lips.
“Trust me.” He gestured toward the fireplace across the room. “Get your
boots and be quick about it. You’ll have need of them.”
While she rushed to retrieve her boots, he hurried over to the large
bookcase that encompassed the entire back wall.
“This is hardly the time to read,” she bit out as she hopped on one foot
to him while pulling her other boot on.
Ignoring her, he took out a heavy volume and reached beyond. To her
surprise the bookcase opened in the middle exposing a passageway. He
quickly replaced the volume and gestured for her to follow him within.
As they stepped down a flight of steps into the darkened corridor, he
shoved a lever and the bookcase closed. She heard him fumble around for
a moment then soft light bathed the interior as he held up a lit candle.
“Follow me.”
Mutely, she hurried after him. Who was this man? They had been set
upon by murderous thugs and yet he remained perfectly calm. He could
certainly handle himself in a fight, and he had secret passageways in his
house.
Her anxiety dimmed just a bit. Perhaps she could trust him. He had the
opportunity to kill her, and yet he had saved her from certain death.
In truth it made her nauseous to trust anyone, but it was becoming
increasingly clearer that she would not get out of England alone.
They followed the passage for what seemed an interminable distance.
Musty, damp odors assaulted her nose. Her nostrils quivered, her eyes
watering with the need to sneeze. A cold draft skittered over her just
before they stopped.
“Let’s hope this will open,” he said grimly, looking up at a trap door.
 “If this is your attempt at humor, you are failing miserably,” she
growled. “Where are we?”
“Assuming I didn’t take a wrong turn, we should be two blocks from my
home.”
“Wrong turn? What kind of labyrinth exists under your house?”
He shoved at the wooden plank, and a cloud of dust consumed them. She
coughed and waved her hand in front of her face then gave into the urge to
sneeze. She ran her arm over her face, wiping the dust off.
“I’ve always believed in having the most possible ways out of my house
and the least possible ways in.”
Despite the direness of their situation, she grinned. “Good policy.”
“Want to help me?” he asked, looking pointedly at her.
She took up position beside him and awaited his signal. They both thrust
their shoulder upward. The wood gave way and a wave of cold air burst
through shocking her with its ferocity. Unable to control the shiver that
racked her body, she braced herself for the raw night air.
He pulled himself up through the opening and moments later extended
his hand down to her. “It’s safe.”
She grasped his hand and he easily pulled her up to stand beside him. As
her thinly clad feet made contact with the icy ground, she winced. She
opened her mouth to speak, but he cut in.
“We don’t have much time. We can talk later. For now we must get to
safety.”
She wouldn’t argue with that logic.
With a furtive glance in all directions, he took her hand and pulled her
behind him as they started down the darkened alleyway. “Stay close to me
at all times,” he warned. “This isn’t the time or the place to launch any
objections.”
She nodded her assent.
Within minutes, her feet, in her too small boots, began to grow numb as
the cold invaded her limbs.
He paused a moment and looked back at her, his voice soft with
concern. “Can you make it?”
Gritting her teeth in determination she said, “Don’t worry about me. I
can make it. Let’s just go.”
After an hour, the earl slowed his pace. “We’ve only a short time before
daybreak. They’ll be looking for us.”
 “Who exactly is they?” she asked, wincing as her feet screamed at her
for relief.
He whirled around to face her. “Do you think I know?”
She could barely make out his features in the dark, but she knew his
eyes were blazing. Anger emanated from him in distinct waves. For a long
moment, she stared at him. “No,” she said softly.
“Well, that’s something. Now come on, we’ve but a few short blocks
left.”
“Where are we going?”
He ignored her and continued his grueling pace. Just when she was
convinced she could go no farther, he stopped in front of a run-down
building. Pulling her inside, he shut the door and locked it. Then he walked
into what appeared to be the kitchen and opened the pantry. He gestured
for her to follow.
Once again she found herself inside a passageway as they traveled down
a set of stairs. After fumbling in the dark for several long seconds, they
entered a larger room where he lit an oil lamp.
Grateful to be off her abused feet, she sank into a tattered sofa. She
gathered a nearby blanket and wrapped it around her shivering body.
“Where are we?”
“Somewhere safe.”
She watched as he started a fire in the old stove sitting in the corner.
Then he stood up and walked over to where she sat. “Let me see your
feet.”
“They are fine,” she said, pulling them further underneath her.
“Look, Princess, you are not much use if you can’t walk. We need to
warm them.”
“Please. Call me Isabella,” she said softly.
“All right, Isabella.” He said her name cautiously, but she loved the way
it rolled off his tongue. His British accent gave her name a sensual tone
she was drawn to.
He gently pulled the boots from her feet, and after a disgusted look at
the worn soles, tossed them to the side. He took her feet in his warm
hands, and she closed her eyes as he began massaging them. Exquisite
pleasure mixed with fatigue washed over her in an overwhelming wave. It
had been longer than she could remember since she had slept. Really slept.
 As he continued rubbing her feet, icy pin pricks assaulted her soles. She
let out an involuntary groan as the feeling came back with a vengeance.
“It will only last a moment,” he said reassuringly.
To her amazement, he brought up her feet and planted them against his
chest, wrapping his arms around them. His warmth crept into her legs and
up her body, encompassing her completely. A peculiar tingle raced up her
spine, raising the hair on her neck.
She struggled to loosen his hold on her legs. “I’m all right now,” she
said hastily, drawing her legs back underneath her. She’d experienced no
personal contact since her family’s death, and the earl’s attention struck a
powerful need within her. Something she had no desire to examine in her
current situation.
He dropped his hands to his sides and rocked back on his heels. “I don’t
like to admit it, but I think you may have been right,” he said in a low
voice.
Her eyes widened and she stared curiously at him.
“No one could have known where you were so quickly.”
She shivered and not from the cold. Anger burned brightly in his eyes,
making him appear menacing. And very, very dangerous.
“The question is why,” she murmured. “What could England possibly
have to gain?”
She resisted the urge to slip her hand into her shirt to feel for the map. It
was still there. She could feel it against her cold skin. The fewer people
who knew of its existence the better, and she had yet to discern the earl’s
role in the whole affair.
“I don’t know, but I intend to find out,” he said in a determined voice.
“For now we wait.”
“For what?”
“Not what, whom. Kirk will be here in a few hours.”
“Who is Kirk, how does he know where to find us, and more
importantly why are you trusting him?”
“We are the only two who know of this hiding place. When he arrives at
my house in the morning and finds the bodies, he’ll know where to look
for me.”
She paused for a moment, not at all sure she wanted to know the answer
to her next question. “If…if the English crown is involved, what do we do
then?”
“That’s a good question, Isabella. One I don’t have the answer to…yet.”
 Chapter Five

It was an hour past dawn, and still no sign of Kirk. Simon paced softly,
stopping periodically to check his timepiece. He glanced over at the
sleeping princess. She was huddled underneath the thin blanket, her head
resting on the arm of the sofa. It had taken every ounce of his persuasion
to convince her to rest while he kept watch, and finally, her eyes had
fluttered closed.
Even after he saved her from her attackers, she didn’t fully trust him.
While it irked him, he could understand her reticence. In her position, he
wouldn’t likely trust anyone either. But he admired her tenacity. She was
unlike any woman he had ever met.
And indeed, it appeared that she had considerable skills in fending off
unwanted attackers. How else could she have escaped the two men in the
bedroom? Her confidence in the hallway as she calmly gave him
directions on which man to take down was no show. She clearly knew the
odds were in her favor.
Not for the first time since her attack, he cursed himself for not taking
greater care. Her assertion that the English crown was behind the plot to
murder her had fallen on deaf ears. Until now. If she had been killed, he
would have only had himself to blame for being so lax in his care of her.
But it wouldn’t happen again.
He moved closer to her still form and slowly dropped his hand down to
rest on her head. She had been very near collapse when they arrived at
their hiding place. It had likely been several nights since she had last slept.
His fingers slipped into the satin mass of her hair. He traced a strand
over her shoulder, enjoying the smoothness over his rough skin.
His gaze slid to the collar of her shirt, unbuttoned from her throat as if
she’d sought relief from the strict confines of the material. He watched the
soft rise and fall of her chest, the swell of her breasts pushing upward,
providing a tantalizing glimpse. God Almighty, she had evidently bound
her breasts as part of her ludicrous disguise. He would have noticed such a
stunning display of femininity before. There was no doubt in his mind.
Milky white skin, unmarred by a single flaw peeked out behind the
material of the shirt. He itched to touch it, to see if it felt as silky as it
looked.
She was trouble of the first order. She made him examine thoughts best
left unconsidered. Made him feel emotions, dangerous emotions, that he
hadn’t experienced before. Emotions that had the power to strip away the
protective layers of his soul.
How could one tiny slip of a woman bring to the surface the barrage of
loneliness he hadn’t allowed himself to feel since he was a young boy
desperate for his father’s approval? He’d long since closed the door on
needing anyone. Self-reliance was an important trait he’d learned early in
life. The hard way. By closing himself off from others, he gave no one the
power to hurt him again. And he aimed to keep it that way.
He turned away from the sleeping princess, his hand trailing reluctantly
from her hair. Discomfiting was the thought that if he allowed himself to
become invested in her welfare, he could well open the door to just such
hurt.
He would do his duty. He took immense pride in his profession. He
would see the princess safely ensconced on the throne, but he would not
allow himself to feel anything more than compassion for her losses.
A sound in the corridor startled him from his thoughts. He cursed his
lack of attention and reached for the knife hidden in his boot. His
untoward thoughts about the princess must be schooled if he was going to
keep them alive. He hurried over to the doorway and waited with bated
breath as the intruder shuffled closer.
Moments later, three short knocks sounded followed by one then three
more. He let out his breath and cautiously opened the door. Kirk hurried in
and shut the door behind him.
“I was worried,” he said glancing around the room.
“We’re safe. For now,” Simon said grimly.
Kirk shoved a small basket at him. “Thought you could use some food.
Where’s the princess?”
Simon gestured over his shoulder then placed a finger to his lips.
“What the hell happened?” Kirk demanded in hushed tones. “I arrived at
your house to find two dead bodies and an ailing butler.”
“Is Timmons all right?”
“He’s fine. Was cleaning up the carnage. Looked like hell though. Now
tell me, who were the men?”
“I don’t know,” Simon replied darkly.
 He rummaged in the basket and selected a small piece of bread. The rest
he would save for Isabella. Laying aside the remainder of the food, he
stared back up at Kirk. “We have a problem.”
Kirk raised an eyebrow. “Well, that much is obvious. But do continue.”
“Isabella has reason to believe that the regent wishes her dead. I didn’t
believe her…until now.”
Kirk’s face became a mask of shock. “Surely you aren’t suggesting—”
“I’m not sure what I’m suggesting,” he broke in. “But this isn’t the first
time Isabella has been set upon since her arrival in England. The first time
was after she received word from the regent to meet his envoy. The second
was last night.” It crossed his mind that he fully accepted her accounting.
His instinct told him she was being truthful though.
He paused to let his words sink in then fixed Kirk with a pointed stare.
“The men arrived just hours after the regent was informed of Isabella’s
whereabouts.”
Kirk ran a hand through his hair then swore. “Why weren’t we told she
was definitely in England if the regent knew? We were the ones who first
suggested she might be here after we found the prince’s body in Harwich.”
“Good question,” Simon murmured.
“This is a disaster, Merrick. What are we going to do?”
“I’ve thought of little else all night. We cannot remain here. That much
is certain. They will be looking for us.”
Kirk nodded then his expression became troubled. “Perhaps we should
consider that England is behind the assassinations.”
Simon shook his head as if his vehemence could bend reality. “No. I
cannot entertain such a thought. I won’t.”
Kirk looked as pained as Simon felt. There must be other forces at work.
He wouldn’t entertain that his own government would be behind
something so reprehensible. He needed to see the Duke of Ardmore
immediately. Besides Kirk, he was the only man Simon trusted completely.
He was the man who had recruited Simon, and the man who always gave
Simon his assignments. He must know more about Leaudor he could share
with Simon.
He glanced over at Isabella and then back at Kirk. “I want you to stay
with Isabella and make sure she goes no where.”
Kirk gave him a startled look. “Where are you going?”
 “I need to make arrangements for our travel.” As he spoke, his gaze
drifted to Isabella. “I need to remove her from London as quickly as
possible until we plot our next course. I need time to question her.”
Kirk nodded. “The old hunting lodge would be best. Once you decide
your next move, leave me a message there. I won’t be far behind.”
Simon smiled slightly. Kirk knew him well. “I’ll return quickly.”
“Be careful. And hurry back. We won’t be safe here long.”
Simon saluted and ducked out of the doorway.
***
Isabella came awake in an instant, cursing herself for falling asleep. She
sat up, glancing quickly around for Merrick. When she saw a man standing
across the room, his back to her, her hackles immediately rose.
As quietly as possible, she eased from her perch on the couch. She froze
when he turned around.
“Ahh, you’re awake.”
She backed warily away, her every muscle prepared to defend herself.
“Who are you and where is Merrick?”
He held out his hands in a placating manner. “My name is Adam
Kirkland, Kirk as I am known to most.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Where is he?” she asked again.
“He’s gone out for awhile. He should be back shortly. He asked me to
stay with you, keep you safe until he returns.”
She studied his face, looking for any sign of deception, but like Merrick,
she found nothing but steely resolve. Though not as impressive in stature
as Merrick, he was clearly a man able to fend for himself.
Light brown hair, closely trimmed, rested just above his collar. His blue
eyes, unlike Merrick’s dark, brooding ones, seemed to sparkle with a
natural charm. As if aware of her scrutiny, he flashed a wide smile, bearing
slightly crooked teeth.
“If you are through with your inspection, Your Highness, perhaps you
would like to eat.”
He reached down and picked up a basket off the small table and held it
out to her.
With trembling fingers, she took it from him and looked inside. “How
do I know you haven’t poisoned it?” she asked suspiciously.
 He laughed. “Poisoning is such a messy ordeal. Not very quick or
pleasant. If I had wanted to kill you, I would have simply slit your throat
while you slept.”
Her hand flew to her neck, and she rubbed and massaged repetitively. He
had a point. Slowly her gaze dropped to the basket, and she moved across
the room, farther away from him, to examine the contents more
thoroughly.
Her stomach growled as she caught sight of the bread, cheese and leg of
chicken. Attempting to act as if she had a measure of decorum, she
squelched the urge to devour the food in one bite and tried to pick
delicately at the offering.
Her fingers trembled and shook as she tore a small piece of bread and
raised it to her mouth. Her earlier dinner, while tasty, was a distant
memory in the shadow of so many missed meals.
As she licked her thumb, she glanced back up at Kirk, who was
regarding her with amusement. She held his stare, refusing to back down
until he finally turned away. She quickly consumed the rest of the portion
she had set aside for herself and neatly wrapped the remainder for
Merrick.
“What time is it?” she asked, folding her arms over her chest.
“Nearly noon,” he replied without turning around.
She moved back to the couch and slipped underneath the blanket she
had slept on. The room had chilled considerably, and her feet felt like solid
blocks of ice.
“My apologies,” Kirk said in a contrite voice. “I should have tended the
fire. My mind has been occupied by other matters.”
“Such as?” she asked, watching as he placed more coal in the stove.
He chuckled. “Pumping me for information, Princess?”
He shut the stove door with a clang and turned back to her, his eyes
twinkling devilishly. “I’ll answer your questions if you answer mine.”
“Did Merrick leave you here to question me?” she demanded.
“You don’t trust anyone, do you?” He shook his head. “Merrick risked
his life for you. If we wanted you dead, you would be lying six feet under
the ground at this very moment.”
“Don’t lecture me,” she hissed. “I have good reason not to trust
anyone.”
 They were interrupted by a series of knocks on the door. Kirk yanked the
door open and Merrick ducked in. Merrick immediately looked around the
room and stopped when his gaze lighted on her.
He dropped a burlap sack over the back of the sofa. “I brought you some
things,” he said. “Put them on. We must be on our way.”
She stood rapidly, a million questions rushing to her lips.
He held up a hand. “I’ll explain as soon as you are dressed.”
Nonplussed, she closed her mouth and reached down for the sack. She
dug out a clean pair of breeches and a shirt as well as a heavy coat and hat.
But her greatest delight was a pair of fur lined boots. After suffering the
shoddy pair Merrick had discarded, she couldn’t wait to thrust her feet into
the new pair.
She collected the garments and looked hastily around for a discreet
place to change. Merrick cleared his throat then gestured toward a dimly
lit corner. He motioned for Kirk to turn around, following suit
immediately after.
Her gaze never left the two men as she eased into the corner. She
positioned herself behind a ragged armchair, the only item to afford her a
modicum of modesty and quickly went about changing her clothes.
The two men talked in hushed tones, their heads bent close. Then they
clasped hands seemingly in a gesture of friendship and support.
“I was unable to see the duke,” Merrick said in a louder voice. “You
must go and see him for me. Find out what is going on and report back to
me when you can.”
Kirk nodded, and seconds later, he slipped out the door and was gone.
She frowned, wondering what else they had discussed.
She reached down for the boots, stopping when she found a hairbrush
shoved into one of them. The earl had thought of everything. Oddly, she
was touched by his thoughtfulness. Setting the brush aside for now, she
pulled on the boots, delighting in the feel of the warm fur.
Tossing aside the sack, she returned to the couch and stared inquiringly
at the earl.
“Where are you proposing we go?” she asked.
As she awaited his response, she pulled her long locks over her shoulder
and began brushing her hair.
“Here, let me,” he said, moving to sit behind her on the couch.
 To her amazement, he took the brush from her and began working it
through the tangles.
“It would take you longer,” he said impatiently. “And we haven’t much
time.”
Though his tone was brusque, his strokes were in direct contradiction.
He took great care as he gently pulled the brush through her hair.
She closed her eyes as waves of pleasure washed over her. Tiny goose
pimples spread over her scalp and down her back, and it was all she could
do not to moan aloud.
“What do we do now?” she asked softly.
He paused, letting the brush hang in her hair. “I think that depends on
whether you agree to stay with me and not go bolting from the nearest
window.”
She pulled away and turned around to face him, ignoring his barb. She
still wasn’t entirely sure he could be completely trusted, but he
represented her best chance of making it out of England alive. Taking in a
deep breath, she rubbed a hand over her mouth. “I need your help,
Merrick.”
 Chapter Six

Simon absorbed the impact of her statement with surprise. He searched her
eyes for some clue to her change of heart, but they gazed earnestly back at
him, imploring him to help her.
“I must return to Leaudor at once,” she continued.
Though her plan was no different from his own intentions, he remained
silent about that fact. Perhaps his willingness to help her would win her
favor. And her trust. “What exactly do you want from me?”
She glanced away, her long black hair streaming over her shoulder. He
wanted to touch it again, to run his hands through it as he had done before.
The most expensive silk had no advantage over the velvety softness of her
tresses.
When she looked back at him, her eyes were alight with emotion, a
startling contrast to her usual shuddered expression.
“I need your help in getting to Brighton.”
He frowned. “But Brighton is to the south. The voyage would be much
farther to Leaudor.”
Even as the words left his mouth, he understood her intent. It was an
intelligent plan, but they didn’t have the time such a journey would take.
“Exactly,” she said. “It’s less likely that someone will be looking for me
there.”
He stood up abruptly. He had no desire to show immediate disagreement
with her, and there were other things more pressing at the moment than
which port they would take out of.
“Before we come to any sort of agreement, Princess, there are a few
matters that must be addressed. Foremost, you must be completely honest
with me.”
He watched in fascination as her eyes clouded, and the barrier was once
again erected before him. She also stood and paced in front of him, her
agitation evident.
“I have questions. Questions that I want answered before we go
forward,” he added.
“Very well,” she said, surprising him with her abrupt capitulation.
“What is it you would like to know?”
 “Not now. Not here,” he replied.
She jerked her gaze to him with a mixture of irritation and confusion
registering in her eyes. “I see. And where would you like the interrogation
to take place?” she asked in a tone to match the frigid air outside.
He swore under his breath, ready to shake her senseless. “We must leave
here. We will not be safe here for long. I would merely prefer to have our
conversation somewhere we won’t be disturbed by people bent on our
destruction.”
A myriad of expressions crossed her face. Anger, confusion, and finally
contrition. “I’m sorry.”
“It is I who should apologize,” he said, feeling regretful of his terse
response. “I know how very trying this whole experience has been for
you.”
To his surprise, she chuckled.
“You English are so well versed in understatement. Trying experience
indeed.”
She continued to laugh, her voice cracking in near hysteria.
Not pondering the discomfort he felt when she was so close to him, he
pulled her into his arms and held her tightly against him. He felt her tears
against his neck, and his chest tightened with some unnamed emotion. A
disturbing habit he was getting into around her.
He stroked her hair with one hand, his other arm wrapping solidly
around her, pulling her closer to his chest. God, he couldn’t afford to
admit how damn good she felt against him. How good it felt to connect
with another person in such an intimate manner. He felt precariously light-
headed, adrift in a veritable storm of sensation.
She fit perfectly. Too perfectly. The shock of such close contact with
another human being nearly had him jerking away at the explosive tide of
feeling that swamped him.
Her muffled sobs grew louder as she let loose a tide of pent up emotion.
Small hands crept around his waist, and she held him as tightly as he held
her. He stood rigidly, praying for control, willing himself to remain
indifferent, not to react to her pain.
After a moment, her sobs quieted, and she hiccupped softly against him.
She rested her head against his shoulder then sniffled and pulled slowly
back. He felt the loss of her closeness as keenly as if a bucket of cold
water had been sloshed over his head.
 She hastily averted her eyes in obvious embarrassment. She wiped her
tears with her shirt sleeve and turned away. “Do you know where we will
go?”
He wanted to reach out to her. Let her know it didn’t make her weak to
expose her overwhelming grief, but he could relate to her discomfort all
too well. Never once had he showed any outward emotion when his
brother, and then his father, died. She wouldn’t likely appreciate his
gesture anyway, and he didn’t feel comfortable extending it.
Wiping his hands on his breeches, he quickly surveyed the room. “We
head north for now. But first I want to throw off our pursuers should they
come here looking for us.”
“But I need to go south,” she protested.
“We’ll discuss it when we are safely away from here,” he said firmly.
“Until then we go where I have planned.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a hastily drawn map. Tearing
it in half, he stuffed the remaining piece back in his pocket. He then held
the corner to the candle and quickly blew out the flame when the paper lit.
The result appeared as though the entire document had been burned to
prevent anyone from discovering it. But on the charred remains was
enough information to lead their pursuers in the wrong direction.
He glanced up at Isabella who was watching him, a mixture of disbelief
and admiration on her face.
“Let’s go then,” he announced.
***
Isabella took his outstretched hand as he helped her up through the trap
door. She wrapped the heavy coat tighter around her and shivered as the
cold drizzle slipped down her neck. The gray overcast skies looked to be
near bursting with rain. Frigid, wet rain.
Tiny pellets of ice intermixed with the rain struck her face and rapidly
melted. She pulled her hat lower over her eyes. Lengthening her stride to
keep pace with Merrick, she glanced anxiously around her, searching for
some sign they were being followed.
The earl, too, was intent on his surroundings as they crossed the street
and he hailed an oncoming hack. Once in the warmer confines of the
carriage, Isabella leaned back in her seat and studied the hard lines of
Merrick’s face.
 Though she was abashed at her dismal outburst of emotion, she had
been glad for his strength and support. She was more grateful, however,
that he had said nothing. Just let her grieve then continue as if nothing had
happened. And if truth be known, she felt a great deal lighter. The
oppressive weight of her grief had bore down on her until she feared
suffocation.
Sensing her perusal, he lifted his gaze from the window and returned her
frank appraisal. For the space of a long moment, the two stared at one
another across the carriage.
She wanted to trust him. Wanted it very badly. More, perhaps, than she
should. But the logical side of her, the one so embittered over the loss of
her family, screamed that she couldn’t trust anyone.
She was tormented by thoughts of it all being an elaborate scheme to get
her to trust him so that he could recover the map from her. Or worse, use
her to gain control of her country.
Her eyes drank in every detail of his face as if begging for some sign
that she could trust her instincts. His dark hair was carelessly combed to
one side of his face, dipping rakishly over one temple. The waves running
from front to back testified to his habit of raking a hand through his hair
just above his ear.
On cue, he reached up and shoved his hand through the hair at his
temple, pushing it behind his ear for the short term. His dark eyes returned
her gaze, warming her entire body. She blinked but continued her
assessment of him.
His lips weren’t overly full, but he had a wide, generous mouth, and
when he chose to smile, it transformed his entire face from grave
seriousness to boyish charm. His nose fit his entire image. It didn’t
dominate his face, but it was slightly crooked. A testament to the life he
led, no doubt. Only the most discerning eye would even notice, but she
found it fascinating.
“Your nose. How did you break it?” she found herself asking.
“I beg pardon?”
His eyes blinked, and his brow furrowed.
She touched her own nose. “How did you break it?”
He smiled ruefully. “I shouldn’t be surprised you took notice.”
He shifted in his seat as if he were suddenly uncomfortable with her
scrutiny. “My face made the unfortunate mistake of meeting with a much
larger fist.”
“Ouch,” she murmured in sympathy.
“And you say the English are prone to understatement,” he said in a
dead-pan voice.
She laughed.
“You should do that more often,” he said, his voice turning serious.
It was her turn to look at him in puzzlement.
“Laugh,” he explained. “You have a beautiful laugh.”
Sadness replaced her moment of merriment. “As of late, I’ve had little
to laugh about.”
The carriage rolled to a stop and broke the intimacy between them.
Isabella sat up straighter and strained to see out the window. “Where are
we?”
“We should be just outside of London,” he said as he moved to open the
door.
“And from here?” She let the remainder of her question trail away as
she followed him down the steps.
Merrick quickly paid the driver then ushered her away from the main
road.
“I hope you are up for a walk,” he said as he steered her farther into the
trees.
She silently groaned but kept pace with him.
“We’ll parallel the road,” he said as he stepped over a fallen log.
“Where are we going?” she asked with growing impatience.
His refusal to answer her prior questioning about their destination made
her voice sharper than she intended.
He stopped and turned around to face her. “We are going to a hunting
lodge I know of. We are both badly in need of rest, and it is no longer safe
for us in London. Once we have slept a few hours, we will then plot our
next move.”
She absorbed his persistent use of “we”. It heartened her in a way she
hadn’t felt in months. Made her feel like she wasn’t completely alone.
Recalling Kirk’s earlier chastisement, she voiced the question
uppermost in her mind. “Why are you risking your life for me?”
“It is my duty,” he replied as though her question was absurd.
“And if it becomes your duty to kill me?” she asked softly.
His eyes flashed. “I will not entertain that the regent wishes you dead.”
 Disappointment knifed cleanly through her. Her breath blew out in a fog
before her. He hadn’t addressed her question.
“You’ve nothing to fear from me, Isabella,” he finally said as if
realizing she needed some small amount of reassurance.
She looked deeply into his eyes once more. No trace of deception
shadowed their depths. Just intensity and determination. Her heart chanted
in a steady rhythm to trust this man. But fear seized her when she
considered the possible consequences.
“I believe you,” she finally said. And God help her she did.
Satisfaction sparked in his eyes, the pupils flaring for a brief moment.
Then he adopted a blander look and stared upward at the sky.
“We need to get moving. I want to be there before dark.”
She fell in behind him, and they continued through the wooded
landscape. It began to rain again as they pressed forward. A few
snowflakes floated gently through the spray of rain melting rapidly as they
struck the ground.
She was more grateful than ever for Merrick’s attention to her needs.
The warm boots were a welcome change to the ill-fitting shoes she had
been forced to wear over the last weeks. She dug her hands deeper into the
pockets of the coat and quickened her pace.
They walked in silence, stopping only when Merrick had to push heavy
branches from their path. He caught her elbow and helped her over a small
stream that obstructed their progress. Her boots splashed in the shallow
water as she jumped from rock to rock.
“It’s not much farther,” Merrick said as he paused for her to catch up.
Isabella gazed up at the sinking sun. More snowflakes than rain fell
now, attesting to the drop in temperature. A light smattering had collected
on the ground, changing the color from brown to white. The idea of a fire
and a warm bed infused badly needed energy into her feet, urging her
forward at an increased speed.
He held a hand back to her as she drew abreast of him, and without
thinking, she slipped her fingers into it. Warmth spread rapidly up her arm
as his hand curled around hers.
“It’s just over the next hill,” he said, gesturing with his free hand. “Can
you make it?”
“For a warm bed, I can fly,” she said with a crooked grin.
 He smiled back at her, and suddenly she didn’t feel the numbing cold
that surrounded them. A wave of heat rushed over her as if she stood
directly in front of a fire. Her feet felt light, not at all like the blocks of
stone she had forced in forward motion for the last several hours.
Gripping his hand tighter, she put her head down, not wanting him to
see the effect he had on her. But she wasn’t willing to break the connection
between them. Not yet.
When they topped the next hill, he relaxed his hold on her hand.
Reluctantly, she let her arm fall back down to her side as she looked down
at the small cottage nestled in the wooded area.
They began the descent toward the lodge. Isabella stumbled as she
stepped into a hole, but quickly regained her footing and hurried forward.
He looked back inquiringly at her, but she shook her head.
He slowed as they approached the small clearing around the house. He
gently pushed her behind a large tree and put a finger to his lips. “Stay
here until I’ve determined whether it’s safe.”
She started to protest but he held the tips of his fingers over her mouth.
“Don’t argue this time. Just stay here so I can take a look around.”
Finally she nodded and he moved quickly away. She watched as he crept
around the house and peered into a window. Then he disappeared around
back. A few moments later, the front door opened, and he motioned for her
to come.
Needing no further encouragement, she raced for the inside, grateful to
be out of the snow. Her boots left wet prints as she stepped onto the dusty
wood floor. It smelled musty and stale, but more importantly, it was dry.
“I’ll start a fire,” he spoke up. “You see if there is anything we can eat.”
“Oh yes, I suppose a chicken will magically fall from the sky into a
pot,” she said dryly.
He gave her a look that suggested he was unimpressed with her wit.
“You could at least see if there are any staples we could prepare something
with. Even bread is better than nothing.”
“I hate to be the one to impart such grievous news, but unless you know
how to prepare bread, or anything else for that matter, we are doomed to
starve.”
He looked at her for a long moment. “I am not a complete failure in the
kitchen, but I suppose that was rather silly of me. I tend to forget your
station, Your Highness.”
 Regret dampened her mood. She much preferred his relaxed manner to
the stiff demeanor he presented now. If only she hadn’t reminded him of
her royalty.
She busied herself taking stock of the small kitchen. But other than dust
and a few utensils, it was completely bare. After a moment’s
contemplation, she reached into her pocket and fingered the napkin she
had wrapped the remainder of the food in from earlier.
Drawing it out, she approached Merrick, who had just stepped away
from the fire he had started. “I saved this for you,” she said holding out
her hand.
He took the bundle with a questioning expression then opened the cloth.
“I can’t take this. You need it far more than I.”
He held it back out to her but she shook her head.
“I already ate my share,” she lied. “While I was in the kitchen.”
She prayed her stomach wouldn’t betray her by doing something as
unladylike as growling.
A look of suspicion clouded his eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, of course. I brought enough for us both.”
“Thank you then,” he said, picking up a piece of bread and stuffing it
into his mouth. “That was excellent thinking on your part.”
She turned away to the fire and stuck out her hands, not wanting to
watch him eat. He had been far too concerned over her for her not to return
the favor. And besides, she was used to going without food.
A heavy scraping sound drew her attention away from the flames.
Merrick pulled one of the rickety armchairs over close to the fire and
gestured for her to sit. “You need to get those wet clothes off and lay them
by the fire to dry.”
Her eyes widened in shock. “But…”
“I’ll look for something you can cover yourself with. But I won’t have
you catching your death of cold.”
He disappeared into what she assumed was the bedchamber, the only
other room in the cottage. She looked down at her soaked clothes knowing
Merrick was right, but not relishing the idea of unclothing in front of him
no matter what he found for her to cover herself with.
She reached up and pulled off the hat, uncoiling her damp hair as she
did. Shrugging off the coat, she laid it aside and moved closer to the fire.
The imprint of her nipples showed clearly through the wet material of her
shirt, and she crossed her arms over her chest in a protective measure. In
her haste to dress in London, she hadn’t bothered to bind her breasts again.
And now out from under the bulk of the coat, her every curve was outlined
in stark detail. Maybe getting out of her wet clothing wasn’t such a bad
idea after all.
Merrick returned moments later and thrust a man’s nightshirt at her.
“It’s all I could find,” he said. “But it will do until your clothes have
dried.”
He turned and strode toward the door. Without looking back, he said, “I
am going out to collect some wood for the fire. You can change while I am
gone.”
She held up the cream-colored shirt and eyed it with chagrin. It offered
only slightly more modesty than what she was wearing now, but at least it
was dry and warm. Perhaps she could find a blanket to burrow under once
she was dressed.
Not wanting him to come back in before she had undressed, she
hurriedly stripped the wet breeches off then yanked the shirt over her head.
She paused just long enough to warm her damp skin then quickly pulled on
the night shirt. It fell to her knees, leaving the rest of her legs bare.
She reached down for her boots and laid them by the fire to dry with her
clothes. Carefully, she tucked the precious map she’d hidden in her
breeches into the toe of her boot along with the pouch holding her ring.
The floor felt cold to her bare feet, and a chill ran up her legs despite the
fact that she stood so close to the fire.
She turned her back to the fireplace so her hair could dry. Placing her
hands behind her, she flexed them as the heat spread up her arms. After a
few moments, the uncomfortable numbness gave way to soothing warmth.
She settled cross-legged on the floor in front of the hearth and closed
her eyes, sending her mind seeking across the miles to her homeland.
Stronger now and better able to maintain the mental link, she sent out
the burden weighing heaviest on her.
Can I trust him, Father Ling? He seems a good man, and I desperately
need his help.
Look within your heart, Your Highness. There you will find the answer
you seek. Trust your instincts above all else. Use what I have taught you.
She took a deep breath, her head pounding with exertion. The link was
faltering, fading, and she struggled to keep her mind free of all other
encumbrances. His soft voice sounded one last time in her mind.
God be with you, Princess. You have trying times ahead, but have faith
and you will prevail.

Simon stomped his boots on the doorstep as he walked in bearing a load

of wood. When he glanced up, his attention was drawn to Isabella, who sat
in front of the fire with her eyes closed, an expression of utter peace on her
face.
Unwilling to disturb her, he busied himself stacking the wood beside the
door. When he was finished, he shrugged out of his coat and carried it over
to the fire to dry. He moved quietly, intrigued by the picture Isabella
presented.
Her palms were pressed together under her chin, and her head was
bowed slightly in a position of prayer. Complete calm radiated from her. It
was almost as if her body was here, but she, herself, was somewhere else
entirely. He shook his head at the absurdity of that notion.
The fire crackled, and her eyes flew open, her inner torment burning as
brightly as the flames in the hearth. Wherever she had been, she had only
gained a temporary respite from reality.
She scrambled up and moved away from the fireplace, settling into the
chair a few feet away. She hugged her legs to her chest, he guessed, in an
effort to maintain a semblance of modesty. Her slight frame lent her an air
of vulnerability even though he knew her to be far from helpless. Her eyes
shone brightly in the shadow of the flames, their ocean green depths
looking more like a storm at sea than the calm, placid waters of a tropical
bay.
She stirred in her chair as if uncomfortable with his perusal. But he was
riveted to her, unable to drag his gaze from her. In the soft light of the fire,
there was something otherworldly about her. It seemed the most natural
thing in the world for him to pull her into his arms and hold her against his
chest. But as powerful as the urge was, he stood still, the warmth from the
fire becoming nearly as uncomfortable as the direction of his thoughts.
Finally, he pulled himself from the enticing picture she presented and
moved away from the hearth. He picked up an old wooden stool from the
kitchen and carried it back to where she sat. Settling down on it at a more
comfortable distance from the fire, he placed his hands on his knees and
turned his attention to the princess once more.
 “I think it’s time for our discussion,” he said, breaking the silence
between them.
“Very well,” she said softly. “Ask what you will.”
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, wondering how to voice the thing that
was plaguing him the most. Unable to remain still, he stood and paced
back and forth in front of the fire.
“There is something that has bothered me for a while, but until now I
was unable to put my finger on it.”
He paused and looked directly at her. She viewed him calmly, awaiting
what he had to say, no trace of anxiety.
“The men who attacked you. Why didn’t they just kill you?”
A puzzled look crossed her face, and she opened her mouth to speak, but
he continued on.
“It seems simple enough. If they truly wanted you dead, why didn’t they
just shoot you? They’ve not been short on opportunities, yet each time
they’ve come armed with only knives.”
“Perhaps they didn’t want to draw undue attention the noise would
create,” she murmured in a perplexed voice, one now laced with the
anxiety she was missing earlier.
Her eyes darted sideways, and for the first time, he easily read
uneasiness in her expression. What could she be hiding?
“I thought of that,” he said, watching her closely now. “But they risked
you screaming by allowing you to remain alive, and after the first time
you escaped, I would think they would be all the more determined to be
successful in their attempts at assassination. Unless…”
He let his voice trail off suggestively.
“Unless what?” she demanded, blatant fear written in every facet of her
face.
“Unless they have no intention of seeing you dead,” he said calmly.
 Chapter Seven

Isabella’s eyes flared, and she blanched as the full impact of his statement
hit her. She sat back in her seat and licked nervously at her lip. An
interesting reaction, indeed. Would not such a revelation be met with
relief? Simon studied her intently, awaiting her response. He was
convinced more than ever that he had been correct in his assessment.
“What…what makes you say that?” she stammered. “I assure you,
nothing they have done has given me the impression they wish me
anything but dead.”
She rubbed her abdomen as she spoke as if remembering the injury she
had sustained in her first encounter.
“I wondered that myself,” he murmured. “But the more I thought about
it, the more I began to think perhaps you have something they want.
Something they want very badly. Badly enough to want to take you alive.”
He looked pointedly at her as he finished his statement.
Her voice shook discernibly now as she spoke. “What could I possibly
have that they would want?”
“That is a good question indeed. One I would very much like the answer
to.”
He leaned close to her, pinning her with the full force of his gaze. “You
are not telling me everything, Princess. And I can’t keep you safe unless
you start talking. I think you know exactly what they want.”
Though his accusation was a shot in the dark, he knew immediately he
had hit upon the truth. She paled and looked away, her agitation increasing.
She leapt from her seat and turned her back to him, her hands fisted at her
side.
Then she slowly turned back to him, her breath coming in shallow
spurts. Sweat beaded her forehead, and he could read the indecision that
ripped through her. She let out her breath in a long sigh, her cheeks puffing
slightly with the effort.
“T-they want something I took from the palace before I fled,” she said
in a tremulous voice.
Anticipation nearly made him hasty, but he quickly schooled his
response. “What did you take?”
 “A map.”
“A map?” He couldn’t hide the incredulity in his outburst. “You’ve been
pursued all the way to England, your brother killed, all because of a map?
Is this why your parents were murdered?”
“I don’t know if it is why my parents were murdered,” she whispered.
“But I know they seek the map. Without it, they cannot secure the throne.”
“And where is this map?”
She reached over to her boots drying by the fire and retrieved a rolled
up parchment from inside one of them. Holding it out to him, she said,
“Many have died over the years protecting this map. I have no doubt there
are those who would kill to have it.”
His mind raced to comprehend what she was saying. Unrolling the
dampened parchment, he looked in disbelief at the indecipherable
scribblings, the crude drawings. It was obviously a map of sorts, but of
what?
He glanced back up at her, and she reached for the map. He made no
move to offer it back to her. “What is so important about this map?”
“I don’t expect you to understand,” she said in a low voice.
“Try me.”
She gazed at him for a long moment then sank back down in her chair.
“Sit down please. You make me nervous standing over me that way.”
He sat down on the stool and looked expectantly at her.
“The map is the only way to access the Royal Leaudorian relics.”
“I see, so greed is their motive?”
She went on, ignoring his interruption. “This isn’t just any treasure.
Leaudorian law prohibits a ruler from ascending the throne unless they
have in their possession at the time of coronation, the Jeweled Scepter and
the Royal Emerald. Both are integral parts of our history.
“For centuries, before a new king or queen is crowned, the heir to the
throne has journeyed deep into the ancient caves that are carved into the
Marble Cliffs. The map is necessary to navigate the maze of passageways.
They must retrieve the scepter and the emerald and make their way back
out in time for the ceremony.”
He shook his head, trying to make sense of her explanation. It sounded
like something contrived from a gothic novel.
Isabella fixed him with a stare, pausing in her tale. “I knew this would
be beyond your understanding. Our customs are far removed from the
English ways of conducting their affairs. We are deeply rooted in our
traditions, our history, and our ways transcend the normal realm of human
understanding.”
He held up his hands. “Please, go on. I’m listening.”
She raised her chin and turned sideways in her chair, gazing toward the
dancing flames in the hearth.
“The journey is viewed as a rite of passage. The man or woman is
blessed by the monks in the abbey that guard the entrance to the caves.
The prayers of an entire nation are with the traveler as they seek out their
birthright and forge the future of their reign.
“At the coronation, the newly crowned king or queen present the
treasures as proof of their merit. The monks judge the validity of their
claim then either offer or refuse a blessing on the new ruler.”
Simon absorbed all of the information, understanding dawning on him.
“So a new ruler cannot be installed unless they can present the relics?”
She nodded.
He stood once more, his lips drawn in a thin line. “So why assassinate
your family? So they can make a claim to the throne? Wouldn’t the
monarchy follow a line of succession? And if that is so, you would be the
next in line for the throne. How can they—who are they anyway?—
possibly expect to take over? Moreover, if they are bent on overthrowing
the monarchy, why would they give a care for traditions? It would be just
as easy to establish a new regime complete with new laws.”
The questions, all of his confusion and frustration spilled out in a rush.
None of it made sense. And he was no closer to learning the truth than he
had been from the beginning.
A look of pure hatred clouded her face. “They is my father’s chief
advisor of military affairs.”
A sheen of tears shone as brightly as the animosity in her eyes. “If I
never do anything else, I will make him pay for betraying my family.”
A chill snaked down his spine as she spoke. He didn’t doubt her for a
second. “How can he hope to gain control of Leaudor? Even if he was able
to produce the relics, surely this wouldn’t give him the throne.”
“In Leaudor, if no living immediate relative of the ruling family can be
produced, the next in succession is the minister of foreign affairs. Then the
chief advisor of the military,” she said pointedly. “The line stops there.
Uncles, cousins, brothers or sisters of the king or queen do not qualify.”
 “That seems rather odd,” he said. Not only odd but unheard of.
She continued as if he hadn’t interrupted her. “Long ago, when much of
our country was in constant turmoil with wars and frequent changes in the
monarchy, a new policy was adopted when Queen Genevieve came to
power.
“It was revolutionary, but once implemented, it changed the entire
course of our history,” she said with a note of pride. “I am named for her.”
As well versed in foreign policy as he liked to think he was, he was
frightfully ignorant of Leaudorian legalities. But then he’d never been
forced to travel beyond Leaudorian borders in order to protect England’s
interests. Until now.
“What was this new policy?” he finally asked.
“The long line of succession was eliminated,” she explained. “Aside
from the immediate family of the ruling monarch, the minister of foreign
affairs and chief of military affairs are the only two that can ascend the
throne. In the event that none of the aforementioned is able to rule, a new
ruler is appointed by the monks of Sacre Foi. They are charged with
finding a suitable and righteous ruler amongst Leaudor’s citizens.
“By adopting such a policy, the threat of an outside source seeking to
overthrow the monarchy was virtually eliminated. Until now.”
Her explanation ended raggedly, pain accentuating each breath.
“It’s brilliant,” he acknowledged. “No one outside the country would
gain anything by overthrowing the government because once gone, the
replacement was completely random. But what of military might?” he
pointed out. “Surely another nation could completely take over and replace
the ruling class. It’s been done multiple times over the course of history.”
“Not without slaughtering every one of Leaudor’s citizens and
annihilating our army,” she said firmly. “Leaudorians are legendary in
their support, their loyalty. They would take up arms against all forms of
invasion. Queen Genevieve’s policy was ingenious. It gives much power to
the common people.”
A soft smile curved her lips, and a faraway look entered her eyes. “Did
you know,” she began softly, “my father was a common man. He came to
power after a terrible accident befell the former king. The young king was
sailing with his foreign minister and military chief to Belgium. Their ship
was lost at sea. And for the first time, the monks were charged with
finding a new ruler.”
 Simon leaned forward, captivated by her tale.
“At the time, my father was a young man of two and twenty. He had just
married my mother, and the two of them were farming a small parcel of
land by the sea.”
Even as she smiled, tears slipped unchecked down her cheeks. The now
familiar tightening sensation clutched his chest. Her eyes were alight with
love and precious memories of her parents.
“Then what happened?” he prompted.
“The monks came to him and asked him to present himself to the palace
for an inquiry. My mother didn’t want him to go,” she said in a near sob. “I
wish now he had listened.”
“For a week, he and others were questioned, tested, measured and asked
to perform tasks. In the end, they chose him to journey into the caves and
seek the relics. The entire country rejoiced when he succeeded. He was
loved by many,” she said, her voice finally breaking under the strain of
emotion.
For several long seconds, she wept openly, trails of raw pain sliding
down her face, disappearing from view.
“He was a good man. Leaudor flourished under his direction.”
Simon remained silent, waiting for her to continue, not wanting to
intrude on her reflection.
“And now, they have taken everything from me,” she hissed, anger
replacing the agony in her voice. “And for what?”
He reached across and took her hands in his. “That is what I need to
speak to you about, Isabella. Can you bear it?”
“Will you help me return to Leaudor?” she asked, gripping his hands
tightly.
He shifted uncomfortably and looked away briefly. She was asking him
to help her. Not Leaudor. Not England. Her.
He had every intention of seeing her to Leaudor. His duty to England
demanded it. But somehow she made the act more personal than it should
be.
But just as he could not fathom shirking his responsibility to England,
neither could he look into the princess’s eyes and hold that he was
unmoved by her plea. Or pretend he was only acting in his country’s best
interest.
 “Yes, Isabella. I will help you,” he said with only a twinge of guilt. Once
she was on the throne, it would matter little to her why he had aided her.
“Then I can bear it,” she whispered.
The two stared at one another for a long moment, their hands still
joined. Finally, Simon pulled away, rising from his perch on the stool.
“I need you to tell me everything, Isabella. Don’t leave any detail out,
no matter how painful it may be. I will help you, but I must know all.”
She nodded her head in agreement.
“Then tell me what happened on the day your parents were
assassinated.”
She stood as if unable to bear the confines of the chair any longer. She
took in a deep breath and twisted her hands nervously in front of her.
“Jacques Montagne, Father’s military advisor, summoned my father
from breakfast. We always took breakfast together,” she said with a slight
smile.
“I could tell it was urgent. Jacques was not one to interrupt our family
meals unless it was of the utmost importance. Davide and I decided to take
a walk in the gardens immediately following breakfast, so we left Mother
and Stephane in the dining hall. After collecting Davide’s easel, we went
outside to enjoy the autumn weather. Davide was going to draw a portrait
of me.
“Maybe an hour later, we went up to my mother’s chamber. Davide was
eager to show her his work, and we knew she would be getting dressed for
her mid-morning session with the ladies in her court.
“When we found her chamber empty, we thought to find her in the
music room where she routinely held court. On our way there, we were
stopped by Jacques, who asked us to come with him. There was a note of
urgency in his voice that unsettled me. Davide felt it too. I remember him
taking my hand as we rushed after Jacques.”
Her agitation increased, and she began to wring her hands in earnest.
Simon crossed the space separating them and once again took her hands in
his.
“I am here, Isabella. You don’t have to bear this alone. Hold on to me if
you must.”
She gripped his hand almost painfully and continued in a shaky voice.
Her pupils were dilated, and her face chalky white.
 “When we reached the throne room, I knew something was amiss.
Father’s personal guards were nowhere to be seen. The room was
frightfully empty. And then I saw Mother and Father.”
Her voice broke off and she briefly closed her eyes as if to regain her
composure. When she opened them again, all the light was gone, a dull,
lifeless barrier covering them.
“Mother was standing by Father, her back stiff with pride. She would
never allow Jacques to see her fear. Two men on either side of them held a
sword to their throats. I remember well the last words they ever spoke to
me,” she whispered.
“As they stood there, Father looked at me and Davide with such love
and pride in his eyes. He said, ‘I love you, my children. Never forget how
proud you have made your mother and me.’ And then the soldiers killed
them.”
A high keening wail escaped her, and she jerked her fingers away from
him, covering her face with her hands. “Oh God,” she sobbed. “They killed
them right in front of me.”
She pressed herself into his chest, her hands gripping his forearms. Her
sudden movement took him by surprise, and he stood stiffly, unsure of
how to react to her embrace.
She trembled against him, the force of her emotion unsettling to him.
He lifted a hand and awkwardly ran it over her hair in an effort to comfort
her.
“I’m sorry,” he said gruffly.
She spoke again, her words muffled by his chest. He tried to pull her
away, but she clung to him. He reached down and smoothed the hair from
her face, stroking it gently behind her ear.
An unidentifiable sensation snaked through his chest. A feeling, that if
he examined closely, he’d realize he liked. He allowed the strands of her
hair to slip from his fingers then made a fist so he wouldn’t be tempted to
continue touching her.
She moved her mouth away from his shirt so he could once again hear.
“Jacques laughed. The bastard laughed as my parents died. He then held up
a bloody hand—” She broke off again and clenched his shirt in her fists.
“My brother’s hand.”
“Stephane?” Simon murmured.
 She nodded against his chest. “Jacques had presented the hand to my
father in an effort to sway him to his cause. When my father refused, he
summoned Davide and I, then killed them in front of us. His plan was then
to use me to bend Davide to his will.”
“What did he want?” Simon asked.
“My guess is the map,” she said softly. “Without the map, even with my
entire family gone, he could not assume leadership.”
“But what of the minister of foreign affairs?”
She shivered against him. “I do not know, though I suspect Jacques got
rid of him before my parents.”
“What happened after…after he killed your parents?” he prompted
gently, wondering how much harder he should push her.
She went still in his arms again, and he felt her draw in a deep breath.
“I remember screaming and screaming. Davide was in shock. The next
thing I remember is Jacques slapping me and telling me to be silent. He
looked at me and smiled. I’ll never forget that smile. He said he had plans
for me.
“Then, he ordered one of the men who had killed my parents to take
Davide and me and lock us in the small holding cell in the east wing of the
castle.
“His mistake was only sending one,” she said in disgust. “His arrogance
was such that he never imagined needing more than one armed escort.”
“So that is how you escaped,” Simon mused.
She nodded. “I waited until we were well away from Jacques. I caught
Davide’s eye and prayed he would catch on to what I was trying to convey
to him. Then I pretended to fall.
“When the guard reached down to yank me back up, Davide and I
attacked him. Davide was injured in the fray, and so when we overcame
the guard, I sent him to safety. I knew I had to retrieve the map.”
“You are an incredible woman. I cannot credit how you managed to
survive.”
“I had to live,” she said firmly. “Jacques and everyone who supported
him must pay for their treachery.”
“So you retrieved the map. Then what?”
“I met Davide outside the castle grounds. As children we had spent
hours navigating the many passageways, so it was easy to get out. From
there we fled to the harbor. There were two ships leaving. One for England.
One for America. I begged Davide to take the map and go to England.
Seek the regent’s aid. But he wouldn’t hear of it. He opted to stay behind
and make it appear as though we had taken the ship to America. I stowed
away on the ship leaving for Dover. Davide would remain in Leaudor long
enough to be able to board a ship to England undetected. I would wait for
him, and together we would go to the regent. But as you know that never
happened.”
She pulled away, her eyes sad and…tired.
“The entire plan was stupid,” she said dully. “But then we hadn’t the
time to think it through properly. We should have both boarded the ship
and left for England, taking our chances on British soil. His remaining
behind served no purpose but to facilitate his death.”
“You mustn’t blame yourself,” he said, placing his hands on her
shoulders. He quickly pulled them away and let them fall to his side. “It is
amazing that you managed to escape at all.”
Folding her arms over her chest, she moved closer to the fire and gazed
aimlessly into the dying embers. When she turned back to him, her eyes
burned as brightly as the coals.
“There is something else you should know.”
He waited expectantly.
“A month before my parents were killed, my father was visited by a
small contingent of Bonaparte’s supporters. I do not know the purpose of
their visit, but Father was very agitated and Mother seemed upset. I barely
saw either of them until the men left the palace.”
Simon’s mind reeled as he absorbed the new information. Could the
visit have had anything to do with the upheaval that followed? A sense of
foreboding tightened his chest. He didn’t like the coincidence at all. And if
his nagging feeling was correct, the regent had been justified in his
concern over the implications the assassinations had on England.
Now more than ever, he needed to get to the bottom of this whole
matter. But he couldn’t be in two places at once. Kirk would have to
investigate from England while he took Isabella back to Leaudor. If they
were to thwart whatever scheme had been concocted to install a new
Leaudorian ruler, Isabella would have to ascend the throne.
And in order to do that, he had to keep her alive.
If they were truly after the map she held in her possession, then they
were obviously trying to capture her alive. Once they had the map, they
would likely dispose of her.
He and Isabella held the advantage, and somehow he had to make that
advantage work in his favor. He had Isabella and the map, the two key
components in the future of Leaudor and perhaps England itself.
“What are you thinking?” Isabella asked, breaking into his thoughts.
He shook his head and frowned. “I was just trying to plot the best
possible course for us to get safely to Leaudor.”
“Then you do plan to help me,” she said, her eyes brightening.
“I said I would. I don’t break my word.”
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“I think it best if you try to get some rest now,” he said. “We will leave
at first light.”
 Chapter Eight

Isabella slept fitfully. Now that she had recounted the horror of her
parents’ deaths, the images came alive in her dreams. But she was
powerless to wake and stop the barrage of memories that flashed before
her.
Her mouth opened to scream, but nothing would come out. She tried to
put out her hands to ward off the attackers, but they were paralyzed at her
side. She ran through the corridors of the palace, but her feet were heavy,
and she moved in slow motion.
Then strong arms surrounded her and enclosed her in their safe
embrace. A deep voice murmured in her ear, urging her to wake up, that
everything was all right. Warmth curled around her, and a comforting
scent filled her nostrils.
Even in her semi-conscious state, she recognized Merrick’s touch. Her
cheek rested on his muscled chest, and for a brief moment, she gave
herself completely over to the safe haven he offered. Gave her feelings
free reign. Allowed herself to contemplate what would happen if she let
herself succumb to the desire that had been building within her.
Tentatively, she snaked her arms around his waist, seeking more of his
warmth. His hand gently stroked her hair as he continued to murmur
soothingly in her ear.
All he had to do was be near and she felt safe. For someone who vowed
not to rely on anyone, she felt precariously dependent on Merrick for more
than just her personal safety. She had, in essence, placed the entire future
of her country in his hands.
Her eyes fluttered open, the last thought eating at the back of her mind.
What was she thinking? How could she place her own comfort and desires
ahead of her people?
She looked up to find Merrick staring down at her, the flames from the
fireplace illuminating his expression of concern.
“Are you all right now?”
She nodded, but made no move to separate herself from him. Slowly,
she rested her head back on his chest, her cheek tickled by the smattering
of hair at its center. And then she realized. He had no shirt on.
 Pulling away, she glanced down, her eyes drawn to the well-defined
muscles across his abdomen, the hardness of his chest and the broadness
of his shoulders. She was entwined with a half-naked man, only slightly
more dressed herself.
Quickly she shifted, attempting to put some distance between her and
Merrick. He reached out and cupped her chin, his thumb rubbing softly
over her cheek.
“You were having terrible dreams,” he murmured.
“I know,” she said quietly. “I am sorry to have disturbed you.”
“You didn’t.”
He held her gaze for a long moment then dropped his hand away from
her face, leaving her oddly disappointed. She twisted around on the
makeshift pallet she had fashioned to stare into the fire. Drawing up her
knees, she hugged her arms around them, pulling them tightly to her chest.
Behind her she could hear him pulling on his shirt, then he joined her by
the fire. He sat a few feet from her and gazed into the flames. She glanced
sideways at him. “Can’t sleep?”
He shook his head and continued to gaze into the glowing embers that
lay scattered in the hearth.
“Tell me about yourself,” she said. “We’ve talked so much about me,
and yet, I know nothing about you.”
He grimaced. “There’s little to tell really. I’ve already explained my role
in the English government.”
“But what about you?” she asked softly. “Do you have family? Anyone
that worries when you’re off saving princesses in distress?”
He cracked a half smile. “No family. No one to worry over me.”
She frowned, hearing the slight echo of pain in his voice. Or was it
disappointment? He was uncomfortable talking about himself, but she was
curious about this enigmatic man.
“What about your mother?” she asked. “I assume your father is dead
since you are the earl.”
His features hardened and his body grew rigid. “She died giving birth to
me.”
Isabella waited for him to speak further, but he remained silent. How
awful that he had never known his mother. Perhaps in some ways it had
been easier than losing her later in life. No. No matter how much she
missed her own mother, how terrible the images of her death, she wouldn’t
trade her childhood memories for anything.
“Did you love your family very much?” he asked, breaking the silence
that had settled over them.
She gazed at him in surprise. What kind of question was that? Of course
she loved her family, else she wouldn’t be here with him now, plotting her
way back to Leaudor in order to exact vengeance in their name. Merrick
spoke as a man who…
Realization hit her. A man who hadn’t shared the same kind of love with
his family that she had with hers.
“Yes,” she finally said. “I loved them dearly.”
“Tell me about them,” he said, a slight edge to his voice.
She stared at him for a long moment. He seemed eager to hear about her
family, yet his voice displayed only a polite interest.
“Well, let’s see. Stephane was the oldest. He was impatient even as a
child. Very serious about his duty as the future king. He had a temper my
father despaired of, but he was dedicated to learning everything he could
about his impending role.”
She shifted on the pallet, rested her elbow on her knee then cupped her
cheek in her palm. “In a lot of ways, Davide and I were lucky. Our
childhood was relaxed, though our parents never encouraged Stephane to
be so focused. It was his choice.
“Davide, I don’t think, was cut out to be king, though he would have
been a good one. He was more interested in the ways of the monks. I think
he would have given serious thought to joining the monastery.”
A smile eased the strain on her face. “We were a close family. Even as
serious as Stephane was, he always had a smile for me and a quick tussle
of my hair. But pleasing Father was everything to him, and something he
worked constantly at.”
Merrick’s face twisted into one of disgust. “What a waste.”
She lifted a brow, confused by his reaction. “It was Stephane’s choice,”
she defended. “Father was very proud of all of us. He never missed an
opportunity to demonstrate his pride in us. Stephane merely took it further.
He wanted to be the kind of king our father would approve of.”
Merrick shook his head but said nothing. After a long moment, he
glanced up at her, a curious longing in his eyes. “And your mother? What
was she like?”
 Isabella caught her breath at the surge of pain that hit her. She offered a
shaky smile, determined not to break down again. “She was wonderful.
She smelled of sunshine and unconditional love. Her touch, her voice, was
the most soothing I have ever experienced. She kept Father, our family,
grounded. She was…the fundamental component in all our lives,” she
said, struggling for just the right words to convey how very much her
mother had meant to all of them. “I don’t know how I shall ever live
without her,” she finished in a whisper.
“I’m sorry,” Merrick said in a low voice. “I didn’t intend to bring back
painful memories. It’s just that I never knew my mother. I can’t fathom
what it must have been like. My childhood consisted of a nurse and later a
bag-faced governess who was overly fond of her ruler.”
Her heart ached for the little boy buried deep within the embittered
man. She knew how fortunate she was to have had the family she’d had.
Even for as short a time as it turned out to be.
“There must be someone you feel close to,” she murmured.
He smiled sardonically. “Kirk has been like a brother to me. The kind of
brother I had always imagined having. Edward, my real brother, wasn’t…
bad. I doubt he really gave me much thought. He didn’t hate me. One must
be at least acquainted with someone to hate them.”
“And do you hate him?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I always admired him. Envied him. Longed to be
everything he was.”
“What happened to him?”
“It’s nearly dawn,” he said, checking his timepiece. He rose, making no
effort to continue their conversation.
She glanced toward the window, seeking confirmation from the dark
sky. “I suppose we should be making ready then.”
He nodded. “I’ve thought of a plan if you would like to hear it.”
She nodded.
“We’ll go into the village and acquire the horses Kirk arranged for us.
There should be supplies for our trip as well.”
Isabella looked at him in confusion. “How does Kirk know to get us
anything at all?”
A slight smile crooked the corner of his mouth. “Kirk and I have worked
with each other long enough that we know the other’s move before we
make it. I told him of my plan to come here from London. I know without
a doubt that he provided for us in the neighboring village.”
Apprehension unsettled her stomach. In her experience, it didn’t pay to
trust anyone. And certainly not someone who knew so much about you.
“If you can trust me, you can trust Kirk,” he said as if daring her to say
otherwise.
“Where do we go from the village?” she asked, not wanting to discuss
Kirk or her misgivings.
He took a deep breath. “Dover.”
She shot up from her perch on the floor in an instant. “Dover? We
cannot go to Dover. It’s out of the question. We’ll be set upon before we
ever board a ship there. Didn’t you hear me when I told you that Dover
was where I entered England?”
He put a hand up to stop her tirade. “Hear me out.”
Fear and anger warred within her, but she closed her lips tightly
together.
“Your plan to travel to Brighton made perfect sense. Very logical. Until
I began to think that is precisely what your pursuers would likely expect
you to do. They must know by now that you will not be easily
apprehended. You’ve proven to be a very worthy adversary.”
Uneasiness hedged some of her anger. What if he was right? She could
have been walking right into a trap by moving south. What he said made
sense.
“In reality, the most foolish thing on earth we could do is to hire a ship
out of Dover. Which is why I think that is precisely what we should do.”
She chewed her bottom lip, not at all trying to hide her agitation. It was
logical, but they were taking a huge chance. What if the men who were
after her hadn’t the intelligence of a donkey? Then they would likely all be
lined up in Dover waiting her arrival. But if what he was saying was true,
they were probably trying to anticipate her next move, and as he said, the
most illogical thing for her to do would be to go to Dover.
“If we are successful in boarding a ship in Dover, we can be to Leaudor
in a matter of a few days,” he pointed out. “If we travel to Brighton, the
trip there alone will take several days. Then we cannot be sure of hiring a
ship to Leaudor from there, and it will likely take a week providing the
weather is agreeable.”
 She could be home in days. The thought gave her the most comfort she
had experienced in a very long time. And it was worth the risk of being
apprehended.
“Very well,” she said after a pause. “Dover it is.”
He stood up and gestured toward their clothes lying on the hearth. “Then
let’s dress, and we’ll head to the village as soon as it is light.”
***
If anything the temperature had dropped even lower overnight. When
they stepped out into the dim light of sunrise, the air seemed frozen
around them. The ground crunched beneath their feet, trapped beneath a
layer of frost.
Isabella drew her coat tighter around her, thankful, at least, that it had
stopped the cold mixture of rain and snow from yesterday.
Merrick took her hand and helped her through the thick underbrush
surrounding the small cabin. Once they broke into the forest, the walking
was easier and they increased their pace.
In other circumstances, she would have marveled at the beauty of the
landscape, but she spared it only a passing glance as they approached the
outskirts of the village. A thin plume of smoke, and then another, no doubt
from nearby chimneys, alerted her to the fact they were drawing near.
When they spotted a group of small cottages, she breathed a sigh of
relief. It wouldn’t be much further.
They traveled a wide circle around the houses, careful not to enter the
village from the main road. Finally, they arrived at a posting inn, and
Merrick cautioned her to remain out of sight.
“I am going in to inquire about our horses. I won’t be but a moment. If I
am not back within ten minutes, get out of here as fast as you can.”
“But how will I…”
He pressed his timepiece into her hand. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
She watched as he disappeared around the corner then she quickly took
stock of her surroundings. Deciding against remaining where she was in
plain view to passing people, she ducked into the stable that adjoined the
inn.
The musty smell of horses, sweat and manure mixed with the fresh
aroma of hay assaulted her as soon as she entered. The horses neighed and
snorted nervously as they sensed her presence.
 She moved down the stalls, her hand coming out to stroke the soft noses
as she passed. The warmth emanating from the horses was a welcome
change to the bracing wind.
Stopping at the end, she stroked the neck of a horse that leaned his head
over to push at her chest. “I don’t have anything for you to eat,” she said
regretfully as he continued to nuzzle her.
She reached down into the feeder and brought a handful of oats to his
mouth. Memories swamped her. She’d spent so many hours in the royal
stables. Her father had gifted her with a beautiful stallion on her twenty-
fifth birthday. Just three short months before his death.
Though his time was limited and his duties many, he’d always made
time to go riding with her. They often raced back to the stables after a
leisurely ride over the palace grounds. The last time they had ridden
together was the first time she had ever won.
Her heart heavy, she turned and walked back to the front to wait for
Merrick. After a quick check of his timepiece, she determined he had been
gone seven minutes. Only three remained. She tamped down the tide of
panic that threatened to bubble up her throat. He would be here.
At exactly nine minutes and several heartbeats later, he walked into the
stable carrying two bags. He handed one to her then shoved a smaller
parcel toward her.
“Something to eat,” he explained to her utter delight.
Not waiting a moment longer, she dug into it and found a still-warm
meat pie. It was heaven in a crust. She could scarcely contain her moan of
complete pleasure as she bit into the meat-filled confection.
She quickly consumed the rest, not stopping to enjoy it as she would
like. Brushing the crumbs from her shirt, she took up the larger bag over
her shoulder. “Which horses are ours?” she asked.
“The two in the front stalls.”
He quickly saddled both horses then secured their bags. As he led them
out of the stable, he glanced over at her. “I forgot to ask, and I suppose I
should not have assumed, but can you ride astride?”
She chuckled. “The better question would have been can I ride a
sidesaddle. Indeed, I have always ridden astride.”
He held out a hand to help her mount then handed her the reigns as soon
as she was settled. Afterwards, he swung onto his horse and took out ahead
of her.
 She urged her horse forward and followed him out of the village onto
the north road. When she drew abreast of him, he looked over at her.
“It will be an arduous journey. We will only stop for a few hours sleep at
best and to rest the horses as needed. I hope to be in Dover within two
days.”
She nodded approvingly.
Soon they left the main road and began paralleling it as the countryside
gave way to a less densely forested area. They were still afforded relative
obscurity in the trees but were able to traverse the terrain with no
difficulty.
After several hours, they came upon a small stream and stopped to let
the horses drink and graze. Merrick dug into his bag and produced two
sandwiches for them and a small bottle of wine.
She delighted in the sandwich and savored every bite. Having gone too
long with little or no food, she had gained a new appreciation for even the
simplest fare. He handed over the wine to her, and she drank from the
bottle. It was coarse and not at all like the wine she was accustomed to, but
she had never tasted anything better.
Handing the bottle back to him, she leaned against a tree and sighed in
contentment. Having two meals in the same day was a luxury she was
unused to and it felt wonderful to be full and sated.
“You will not go hungry again,” Merrick said darkly. “I won’t allow it.”
She opened her eyes in surprise and stared at him, again caught off
guard by his perception. Embarrassed that he had been able to read her
thoughts, she looked away.
“These months must have been hard for you.”
“Hopefully they will end when I have returned home,” she said lightly.
Though she knew in her heart her hard times would only just be beginning.
After untying the horses, Merrick assisted her up and they resumed
travel. They moved in silence, the midday sun warming her slightly as
they continued their steady pace. The overcast sky had given way to a
beautiful blue canvas. The leafless trees marked a stark contrast against
such a beautiful background.
The frost had melted, leaving the ground soggy and covered with damp
leaves. Were someone following them, they would be easy to track as the
horses left fresh hoof prints in the mud.
 Isabella shook her head, determined not to give thought to the perils of
their journey. If they were fortunate, they would arrive in Dover
unmolested and secure passage to Leaudor in less than two days. And she
could forever say goodbye to England. If she never had to return, it would
be too soon.
As the day drew on and the sun began setting, the air became colder. The
horses’ nostrils flared and blew out their breath in a fog. Her legs were
numb, and she drew them in closer to her horse, seeking his heat.
“We’ll move back on the road as soon as it is completely dark,” Merrick
called out beside her. “We can’t chance becoming lost in the woods.”
He made no mention of stopping for the night, and even though she
knew the importance of pushing on, her heart sank. What she wouldn’t
give for a warm place to sleep for awhile. It seemed it had been years
since she had succumbed to a deep, healing sleep.
Thirty minutes later, when the sun had completely sunk behind the trees
and they could no longer make out the path they were on, Merrick turned
his horse toward the road.
Just over the horizon, the moon shone faintly, not long from its new
phase. She silently gave thanks that it wasn’t full. Full moons attracted
highwaymen and other ne’er-do-wells.
Though she was a competent rider, the long hours in the saddle were
wearing on spots that weren’t mentionable in polite company. She shifted
slightly, trying to adjust to a more comfortable position.
“Do we need to stop?” he asked.
Did he miss anything? His perception was beginning to annoy her. “No,
I am quite all right. No need to stop on my account.”
“Shhh,” he said, suddenly pulling his horse to an abrupt stop.
He turned and stared behind them for a long moment then turned back
to her. “Into the woods,” he said urgently, spurring his horse forward.
She kicked her heels and lowered her head as the horse bolted after
Merrick into the woods. Once in the cover of the trees, he pulled up short
and motioned for her to be still.
A few minutes later, she heard a rumbling noise and shortly after, a
carriage rolled down the road followed by two men on horseback.
They watched until it was completely out of sight then Merrick listened
intently for signs of any other traffic. Evidently satisfied that there was no
more, he gestured back toward the road.
 In the excitement of the moment, she had completely forgotten how
cold she was. As they resumed travel and her heartbeat went back to
normal, the chill started to creep back in. As did the fatigue. The slow
rocking motion of the horse lulled her until it was difficult to keep her
eyes open. But still they plodded on.
Just when she was convinced she could go no farther, he once again
motioned for her to follow him off the road.
“We’ll stop here for the night,” he said as he dismounted.
As she slid from her horse, her knees nearly buckled beneath her. She
stood up hastily, not wanting him to see her weakness. Though it was
doubtful he failed to notice anything at all, she thought sourly.
She glanced around at their surroundings, trying to make out the details
in the dark. There was a small clearing in the trees but otherwise, the area
was unremarkable.
Merrick walked the horses down to the small stream and secured them
to a nearby tree. After rubbing them down with clumps of grass, he left
them drinking and munching contentedly on the grass and returned to
where she stood.
“We’ll make camp near the horses. They will alert us if anyone
approaches.”
She followed him back to the stream, her walk stiff and excruciatingly
painful. Her legs trembled as she watched him unpack one of the bags he
had tied to the saddle. He spread out a blanket on the ground then placed
another on top.
“We’ll have to sleep close,” he said a little hesitantly. “It is the only way
we will stay warm. By using our body heat.”
She absorbed what he said, and her cheeks grew hot as she imagined
sleeping tightly against him. “Yes, yes of course,” she managed to get out.
“Perfectly logical.”
“Do you want to eat before we bed down?”
“To be honest, all I want is to lie down,” she admitted.
He held out a hand to her. “We’ll get some sleep then and eat in the
morning.”
She slipped her hand into his, and he helped her over to the blanket.
Warmth was already spreading up her arm in a delicious swirl. Reluctantly,
she released his hand as he urged her to lie down.
 Gingerly, she settled down, praying the moisture from the ground hadn’t
already permeated the material. He took out more blankets then crawled
up beside her. Before she could ask how he wanted her positioned, he
reached around her and pulled her up close to him.
He wrapped the blankets tightly around them, trapping her against his
chest. She breathed deeply, his warm scent surrounding her. His arms held
her close, and she sighed in contentment.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly in her ear.
“Mmmm.”
His husky voice slid sensuously over her. “Sleep now. We’ve another
long journey tomorrow.”
She nestled against him, melting against his strength. His arms
tightened around her, and she wondered if she would ever again experience
anything remotely as pleasurable.
Her eyes fluttered and she pressed her cheek against his chest, taking
comfort in the steady rhythm of his heart.

Simon nearly groaned aloud as she melded her lush form even closer to
him. He was already in agony, and she was torturing him further by
wiggling against him.
He willed his body to calm down, but so far his effort was having no
affect. His breeches were tight, painfully tight, and he prayed she wouldn’t
notice.
He cursed his lack of control. It would only get him killed if he couldn’t
school his attention. Never before had he allowed attraction to a woman to
interfere with his tight reign on his emotions.
But damn if this woman, a royal princess yet, didn’t make him react like
a schoolboy who had just reached his majority. Not only was she well out
of his reach, but he was charged with her safety. Entertaining lascivious
thoughts about her was a practice in futility.
He glanced down to see her dark lashes resting against her cheeks. Her
soft breath blew on his chest and warmed him to his core. Gently, he
stroked back the strands of hair covering her cheek. She was indeed
beautiful, and she captivated him unlike any woman ever had.
Which was precisely why he needed to put as much distance between
them as possible. Figuratively speaking of course, since there wasn’t even
an inch separating them at present.
 Seeking to remedy that, he laid back and gazed up at the sky. How had
his life suddenly become so complicated? The perils of his work were
nothing new to him, but never before had he developed such a personal
stake. He did his job and moved on to the next issue.
He glanced over at her sleeping form and felt an odd tightening in his
chest. Damn it all but she had some kind of hold on him that he couldn’t
even explain.
He had shared things with her he had never told another human being.
Not even Kirk. Her talk of her family inspired a longing within him that he
thought he had left behind when he departed from the house of his birth.
For the first time in his adult life, he considered what his life might be
like if he did have a family of his own. A real family.
He swallowed against the bad taste in his mouth and silently berated
himself for even going down this road. It did him no good to yearn for
things he couldn’t have. Could never have in his chosen path. England was
his responsibility. His family. It would have to suffice.
 Chapter Nine

Isabella slowly opened her eyes, reluctant to come out of her delicious
dream. She felt warm and safe. As her eyes focused, she found herself
staring at Merrick’s chest.
As if they had a mind of their own, her hands came up and lightly
skimmed over the surface of his shirt and up to his shoulders. He felt just
like she had always imagined a man to feel. Hard, rugged, strong. He
smelled of leather and horses, but on him it was appealing.
When he opened his eyes, she quickly withdrew her hands.
“Good morning,” he murmured in a slightly hoarse voice. “I trust you
slept well.”
She nodded.
He pulled hastily away from her, and a cold draft billowed over her as
the blanket fell open. She felt the loss of his warmth in every inch of her
body and squashed the urge to ask him to come back.
She followed him up, her legs screaming in protest as she stretched.
Rubbing the kinks from her neck with one hand, she reached up with the
other for her coat that she’d hung on the branches of a small tree. The
morning fog hung precariously close to the ground, lending the area an
eerie quality. Steam rose from the horses’ backs as they stamped and
neighed.
Merrick knelt by the stream and scooped some of the water into his
mouth. He motioned her over then held his cupped hands to her.
Tentatively, she lowered her mouth and drank. Somehow the act of
drinking from his hands became sensual. She nearly jumped as her lips
made contact with his thumb. His skin tasted slightly salty and felt rough
to her soft mouth. Her tongue briefly darted out as she scooped the
remaining moisture within, and she wondered if the rest of him would
taste as good.
“More?” he asked, lowering his hands to the stream again.
She shook her head. “No, that is enough. Thank you.” She licked her lips
where the feel of his touch still lingered.
He returned to the horses and dug out two bread rolls from his bag and
handed one to her. “We should be going. We can eat on the way.”
 She took the proffered roll and made her way to her horse. Merrick’s
hands came round her waist, and he hoisted her up to the saddle. As she sat
down, his hands lingered then trailed down her leg as he collected the reins
for her.
He looked as if he would say something but turned abruptly and
mounted his own horse. They took out in silence, once again foregoing the
main road and threading their way through the woods.
After a few miles, Isabella grew weary of the silence and looked over at
Merrick. “When do you suppose we will arrive in Dover?”
“I hope by tonight,” he returned. “We will make inquiries into a ship
that can take us to Leaudor, and hopefully be on our way shortly after.” He
paused a moment and looked ahead then back to her once more. “But it
could be several days.”
“What will we do if we are unable to find a ship to take us?” she asked,
voicing the one fear that prevailed over all others.
“We will not fail,” he said firmly.
His confidence cheered her somewhat, and she forced herself to be more
optimistic of their chances of securing passage to Leaudor. Her mind
quickly focused on what would happen after she returned home.
Tendrils of dread clenched at her heart. First and foremost, she would
have to travel into the cliffs to retrieve the relics before Jacques got to
them. He had probably already been scouring the caves in hopes of
happening across the treasure.
And then, whether she was successful in recovering them or not, she
would have to face the man who murdered her family. She had no desire to
be drawn into a lengthy trial presided over by the monks of Sacre Foi.
Jacques would be either be condemned to death or be exiled from the
island. Either way she would feel cheated. She wanted to confront the
bastard herself.
Her fists clenched tighter around the reins until her knuckles shone
white. She would have her revenge even if she died trying. Nothing else
mattered to her. It was as important as assuming the rule of her nation.
Her mother’s loving face appeared before her as if she indeed stood
right in front of her in the flesh. Isabella blinked back the tears and
imagined her mother wiping them gently away with her hand.
“I won’t let your death go unpunished, Mother,” she whispered.
“Did you say something?” Merrick asked, yanking her from her reverie.
 She glanced over at him, swallowing back the tears and offering a bright
smile. “No.”
“Look, Charlie, we ‘ave company,” an unfamiliar voice called out,
startling both Isabella and Merrick.
As they approached a clearing, they saw two ragged looking men sitting
around a small fire. Merrick flashed a warning to her with his eyes, and
she nodded in understanding. They would not stop here.
Merrick nodded at the two men and guided his horse to the side, Isabella
following suit.
“Ho now, that’s not very friendly of ye,” the second man spoke up,
flashing a toothless smile. “Why don’t you stop and sit a spell?”
“Yes, why don’t you?” a third voice said very close to them.
Isabella turned to see a man step out of the shadow of the trees, a pistol
in his hand. Pointed directly at Merrick.
The man was only slightly better dressed than the two by the fire, but
his gaze was more menacing. He waved the pistol, gesturing for them to
dismount.
Merrick slid from his horse but kept a tight hold on the reins. She
slowly dismounted beside him and glanced warily at the threat before
them.
“What do you want?” Merrick growled. “We’d like to be on our way.”
Isabella marveled at the change in his voice. Gone were the aristocratic
tones. He had adopted a flatter accent that was easily identifiable as more
common.
She glanced hurriedly around, trying to determine whether or not there
were any more surprises lurking about. The two men had risen from their
squat positions by the fire and now ambled over to join their compatriot
who brandished the gun.
They weren’t overly large men. Surely she and Merrick could ward
them off with minimal difficulty. The gun posed an unwanted
complication, however.
“Throw your bag over here,” the man with the gun snarled at Merrick.
Merrick reached up and slowly untied the sack from the saddle. Then he
tossed it toward the man where it landed in a heap at his feet. The man
gestured to one of his accomplices to retrieve it.
The man sidled over to Isabella and slid the pistol up her arm and over
her shoulder to her back as he walked around her.
 “Wot’s a nice looking woman like yourself doing dressed like a boy?”
he asked with a snicker.
Isabella remained silent, refusing to look at him.
“She ain’t got no valuables on her,” one of the other men called out.
“That’s plain to see.”
The men laughed uproariously.
The man with the pistol turned his attention to Merrick. “And you? Wot
ye ‘ave on ye?”
“Nothing that would interest you,” Merrick ground out.
“Now I’ll be the judge of that.” He leveled a stare at Merrick then
gestured with the gun. “Take off your boots.”
“What?” Merrick demanded.
“Ye heard me. Take off your boots before I blow them off.”
With a grimace, Merrick bent down and hopped on one foot while he
pulled one boot off then the other. He tossed them angrily at the man and
stood in his stockings, the material soaking up moisture from the damp
ground.
The man then reached into Merrick’s pocket and took out the timepiece
and money pouch.
“Well, well, well, what ‘ave we ‘ere?” He turned to the two other men.
“Our man ‘ere is rather plump in the pockets.”
He tossed the money pouch to the men, who greedily opened it up and
poured the coins and wadded bills out onto the ground.
He then sauntered back over to Isabella and glanced down at her boots.
She held her breath, hoping against hope that he would leave her boots. At
first she had given thanks that she had hidden the ring and the map in the
toe of her slightly overlarge boots, but now it appeared as though she
would lose them anyway.
A quick glance over at the other men told her they were absorbed in
counting Merrick’s money. She watched the man with the gun out of the
corner of her eye and waited for an opportunity. And then she had it. The
man turned away from her, his hand still holding the gun in her direction
as he looked back toward Merrick.
In an instant, she lashed out with her arm, connecting with his wrist and
knocking the pistol to the ground. She swung her leg around on the heels
of her blow and connected with his knee.
He howled in pain as his legs buckled, and he crumpled to the ground.
 The two other men scrambled up from the ground. One collected the
money and immediately ran for the trees, but the other barreled over to
engage Merrick. As Merrick met the man’s charge, Isabella took
advantage of her opponent’s distraction and leaped for his gun.
As her hand connected with the cold metal of the barrel, a hand curled
around her wrist, nearly snapping it with the force of his grip.
“Bloody bitch!” he snarled as he backhanded her and sent her reeling
backwards.
Her cheek buzzed like an angry bee, but she was on her feet in seconds.
Anger flashed hotly over her, and she now had the advantage as he was
still on the ground. She snapped her foot out and kicked him in the nose.
Blood immediately burst from his face, smattering the ground below him.
Not giving him any time to react, she connected again, this time square
in the jaw. She felt a crack and knew she had broken his teeth. His hands
went up to cradle his nose and jaw, and he screamed in pain.
She sent the gun skittering across the ground and out of reach with her
foot as she advanced on the man once more.
He lurched to his feet, backing frantically away from her. “Demon
bitch!”
He nearly tripped over Merrick’s boots that lay on the ground. Grabbing
them up, he turned and fled in the same direction the first man had run in.
Merrick had just crumpled the remaining man with a fist to his jaw
when Isabella ran over to assist him.
“Are you all right?” he demanded, taking her shoulders in his hands.
“Yes, are you?”
“They got away with all my money and my damn boots plus the knife I
had hidden in them,” he growled, pounding his fist into his hand in
frustration.
He looked back up at her, and his hand went swiftly to her cheek. “You
are not all right.”
He gently touched the place where the man had struck her and she
winced.
“I am fine,” she protested. “It is nothing.”
“I’d like to kill the bastard for touching you,” he said in a dangerously
low voice.
“Truly, I am fine.”
 He looked down at his bare feet in disgust. “We must find another way
of securing passage to Leaudor. I had hoped to hire a ship with the money
the brigands stole, but now our only choice may be to stow away.”
“We will find a way,” she said in a low voice.
“Yes,” he said reassuringly.
“Now perhaps we need to concentrate on procuring you some boots,”
she said looking down at his feet. “Is there a town nearby?”
“We can be to Tynedale in a few hours,” he said. “At least they didn’t
get the horses.”
He glanced down at the unconscious man at his feet in disgust. “I’m
sure his fellow thieves will be back for him.”
“Help me move him closer to the fire so he doesn’t freeze,” she said
reaching down to grab the man’s arms.
He arched an eyebrow but didn’t argue. Once they had moved the man
close enough to the fire, she bent over to tug the boots from the man’s feet.
Simon smiled as he realized her intent.
She dropped the boots on the ground by his feet. “Think they’ll do?” she
asked.
He glanced doubtfully at them but bent down to thrust one foot inside.
After a few moments of trying to force his heel into the worn leather, he
sighed in aggravation and tossed the shoe back toward where the man lay.
Isabella shrugged. “It was worth a try.” She turned back to the
unconscious man for a moment then back at Merrick. “Help me get him
out of his shirt. We can tear the material into strips and wrap your feet.”
Merrick fumbled with the buttons, and between them, they managed to
free the material from the man. She pulled at the shirt, trying to tear it, but
it was sturdy. Merrick took it from her and ripped it in two. Then he bent
down and wrapped the linen around each foot.
She retrieved the pistol from the ground several feet away. Turning, she
handed it to Merrick. “We may have need of this later.”
He nodded and tucked it into his pants.
As they mounted their horses, Merrick turned to her. “Once again you
surprise me, Princess.”
She looked inquisitively at him.
“Is there no situation in which you are at a disadvantage?”
“Necessity breeds success,” she replied. “I cannot fail, therefore I
won’t.”
 She knew she sounded little better than a braggart, but she spoke the
truth. She would not fail. Could not allow anyone to come between her and
what she had to do. To entertain anything less would be opening herself up
to disaster. She would succeed, or she would die. It was that simple.
“I think you are perhaps the most extraordinary woman I have ever
met,” he said, grudging admiration in his tone.
“If I was truly extraordinary, I could have prevented my parents’
deaths,” she said softly.
“You cannot blame yourself for the madness of others, Isabella. It is
something I learned in my profession a long time ago.”
“No, I suppose not,” she said with a sigh. “But if only I hadn’t stood
there like a marble statue, watching as they cut down my parents.”
“There was nothing you could do,” he said firmly. “But we will see to it
that they are avenged.”
Warmth spread up her body and into her chest. He spoke as if he had
taken up her cause with her. The thought that she was not going about this
alone bolstered her like nothing ever had. She felt the ridiculous urge to
smile like a child who had just been given a pony.
They rode along for several minutes and Isabella glanced down at his
feet. The thin material probably didn’t offer much protection from the
cold, but at least it was something until they could replace his boots.
She cleared her throat and glanced back up at him. He plodded forward,
his shoulders moving in rhythm with his horse. Their conversation of two
nights ago weighed heavily on her mind. He had dodged her question
about his brother, but she had seen the pain on his face. Heard it in his
voice.
She was unsure of how to broach the subject, though, and she had a keen
desire to know as much about him as she could.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, interrupting her flow of thoughts.
He had unwittingly opened the door for her question uppermost in her
mind.
“I was thinking about our conversation—about your family,” she said,
gauging his reaction to her statement.
His expression became shuttered, and he looked away.
“What happened to your brother?” she asked softly.
He stiffened, his carriage becoming rigid. “He committed suicide,” he
said after a long pause.
 Isabella’s eyes widened. “But why?”
His mouth twisted derisively. “I wish I knew. He was everything the
future Earl of Merrick should be. Everyone liked him, he had no enemies.
Had a keen voice for politics. Traveled well in society circles. He was…”
Merrick broke off, seemingly at a loss as to what to say.
“He was everything I’m not,” he finally said.
Anger radiated from him in volumes. His hands curled tightly around
the reins as he stared unseeingly in front of him.
“I’m sorry,” she said around the catch in her throat.
In many ways she and Merrick were alike. They had both lost the only
family they had.
He shook his head as if to ward off the painful memories. “Such a
waste. He had everything.”
Everything I didn’t.
She heard it as surely as if he had spoken the words aloud. How must it
have felt to have been a non-entity in his own family?
She stared ahead as they continued forward. She had no idea what to say,
so she remained silent. After a few moments of awkward silence, she
turned once more to him.
“How are your feet?” she asked, abruptly changing the subject.
“They are growing numb,” he admitted. “I am keeping them against the
horse for warmth, but I am beginning to lose feeling in them.”
“We must be coming upon a village soon,” she said.
“Yes, a few more miles at most. Tynedale isn’t far.”
“We’ll stop there so I may get supplies and boots.”
“What will you use for money?” he asked.
“I have my signet ring.”
Regret filled his face, but she cut him off before he could protest.
“These things will mean nothing if I do not make it back to Leaudor.
And it may be our only means of making it.”
He nodded and they continued on.
An hour later, they saw plumes of smoke rising over the treetops. “The
town is just over that next hill,” Merrick said, pointing slightly to the
north.
“Wait for me on the outskirts,” she directed. “We don’t want to attract
any attention by you riding in barefooted. I’ll go in and secure our supplies
and meet you back here.”
 “I don’t like you going alone,” he said resolutely.
“Give me the pistol. I will be fine.”
He dug the pistol out of his breeches and handed it to her. “Be careful,”
he warned. “If you aren’t back in an hour, I am coming after you.”
 Chapter Ten

Isabella’s horse picked its way carefully through the edge of the wood and
down the hill into the village. As she dismounted and tied her horse in
front of a local tavern, she kept careful watch.
Down the dirt street, she saw a few shops, and she made her way to the
first. It didn’t appear to have anything in the way of boots, so she
continued to the next one.
When she entered the small store, a smiling woman greeted her.
“What can I do for you, madam?”
If she was surprised at Isabella’s attire, she didn’t so much as blink an
eye.
“I need to purchase boots for my husband.”
“Do you have his measurements?”
“Uh, no, but if you have some that are pre-made, perhaps I might take a
look at them?”
“This way,” she said, gesturing for Isabella to follow.
She showed Isabella several pairs of well-made boots and Isabella chose
the ones she thought would be the closest fit for Merrick.
“Madam,” she said, halting the woman as she had begun to make her
way back to the front of the store.
The woman turned and looked questioningly at Isabella.
“I wonder if you would be willing to collect some supplies for me. I’ve
only one thing to pay with but I assure you it will be worth your time.”
The woman eyed her suspiciously. “How much you got?”
Isabella pulled the signet ring from her pocket and handed it to the
woman. “This is worth far more than what I will ask you for. You may sell
it and keep yourself in comfort for years to come.”
The woman’s eyes rounded to the size of saucers and then narrowed. She
took the ring and put it to her mouth, biting the large ruby with crooked
teeth. Drawing it away, she narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “I’ll be back in
a moment.”
Isabella watched the woman amble to the back of the store, open a door
then disappear inside. A few minutes later, she returned with an excited
gleam in her eyes.
 “Come, tell me what you require. My husband and I will have them in
no time.”
Isabella quickly outlined the things she wanted, and the woman hurried
out to do her bidding.
After assuring herself that the woman was going to help her, Isabella
returned to her horse and tied the boots to the saddle. Pulling her hat lower
over her eyes, she leaned against the horse’s warmth and waited for the
woman to return with the things she’d asked for. Her position allowed her
to observe the dusty street for anything of alarm.
About a half hour later, the woman scurried down the street, a grizzled
older man with her. He carried a large burlap sack, and the woman had two
wrapped parcels secured with thin rope.
“Here you go, miss. Everything you asked for. Henry here will help you
get it all tied to your horse.”
While the man Isabella assumed was the woman’s husband busied
himself with the supplies, the woman thrust a warm sandwich into her
hands. “I thought you could use this,” she said.
“Thank you,” Isabella said with a smile.
She took the sandwich as the man stepped away from the horse. Looking
back at the woman, she said, “I trust that you will keep everything in
confidence? If anyone asks after me, I would appreciate it if you would
say you have never seen me.”
“Indeed not!” the woman exclaimed. “Me and Henry are leaving just as
soon as we can pack our things. What with the ring you gave us, we can
start a new life away from this place.” Her eyes shone with excitement,
and she clasped her hands in front of her in glee.
Isabella turned to mount her horse, but the woman put out a hand. “Here
is the money you asked for.” She dug into her skirts and pulled out a small
coin purse. “I didn’t have quite as much as you asked for, but I scraped
together all I had.”
Isabella accepted the purse gratefully. “Thank you, madam. I appreciate
your help.”
She swung up into the saddle and quickly turned her horse out of the
village. Merrick would worry if she didn’t return soon, and the last thing
she wanted was him charging into town after her.
As she reached the spot she had left Merrick, he limped up to her horse
and helped her dismount. “What took you so long?” he demanded. His
voice held a hint of irritation in it, but she could see the relief on his face
that she had returned safely.
She untied the boots from behind the sack and handed them to him. “We
should build a fire so you may warm your feet.”
He shook his head and bent down to pull on the boots. “We don’t want
to draw any notice, and now that you’ve been seen in the village, we need
to put as much distance between us and the town as possible.”
“I purchased food, two knives, ammunition for the pistol and a change
of clothing for both of us,” she said, gesturing toward the bag. She drew
out the coin purse and tossed it to him. “Hopefully it is enough to hire a
ship.”
He nodded approvingly and pulled the bag down to survey the contents.
He pocketed one of the daggers and handed one to her. “Keep this on you,”
he advised. “We might have need of it.”
He took the pistol and tucked it in his breeches then tied the
ammunition pouch to his belt.
Isabella held out half the sandwich the woman had given her in town.
“Here, eat this.”
He accepted the sandwich and quickly wolfed it down. “You ready?” he
asked as he secured their supplies back on the horse.
She nodded and he quickly lifted her up into the saddle.
Seconds later, they urged their horses to a trot and melted into the trees
leading further west.
“If we press on, we can reach Dover by tonight,” he said after several
minutes. “We will stop and rest the horses twice more and hope they can
last the remainder of the trip. We can trade them in Dover for food or more
supplies.”
Isabella wiggled her toe in her boot, feeling the map at the end. Though
she regretted the loss of her signet ring, she knew it had aided her return to
Leaudor.
As the afternoon stretched on, she grew wearier in the saddle. Her
muscles ached from the day before, and the insides of her legs were chafed
and raw.
When they stopped to allow the horses to drink and rest, her relief was
great. But all too soon, Merrick urged her back on her horse, and she
settled gingerly into the saddle.
 By the second time they rested the horses, Isabella feared she would be
unable to remount at all. Her legs felt numb from her waist to her toes and
they shook discernibly. As she stood staring at the saddle, she felt sick to
her stomach. Her fatigue had seeped into every crevice of her body, and
she could not go on. Not another mile.
Warm hands curled around her shoulders, and she moaned aloud as they
began massaging the stiff muscles in her neck. Tears pricked her eyelids,
her weariness making speaking impossible.
“We must go on,” Merrick murmured behind her. His tone carried a
great deal of sympathy.
“I can’t,” she whispered, her voice cracking with the effort.
Suddenly she was lifted up in his strong arms. He placed her gently into
the saddle but still every muscle in her body screamed in protest. She bit
her lip, unwilling to make more of a ninny out of herself than she already
had.
As Merrick took out ahead of her, she nudged her horse forward, tears
slipping down her cheeks as the rocking motion tortured parts of her body
she daren’t speak of.
Dover couldn’t come too soon.
It was past midnight when they reached the outskirts of the harbor town.
They were a sorry couple, their horses plodding along, the two of them
slumped in the saddles.
Merrick looked back at her and motioned for her to draw abreast of him.
She complied and looked over expectantly at him.
“We’ll stop off at the inn. You can go to a room while I poke around and
see what I can find out about possible passage to Leaudor.”
In her current state, she didn’t so much as utter a single protest. If he
wanted to forego sleep, she wasn’t going to argue. Neither would she insist
on accompanying him. A lot of help she would be to him anyway in her
near state of unconsciousness.
She nodded her head, unable to even voice her agreement.
“One other thing,” he said somewhat reluctantly. “I think it best if we
pose as husband and wife. We don’t want to draw any unwanted attention
or raise any eyebrows. We can only hope your attire is overlooked.”
Again she nodded.
“It will mean we share a room,” he said after a pause. “And a cabin on
the ship.”
 That awakened her.
How could she possibly share a room with a man who made her have
crazy thoughts? Shameless longings, and even worse, vivid images of
precisely what she would like to do to him. In exacting detail.
She closed her eyes briefly, trying to rein in her untoward thoughts. If he
could approach the situation with such calm fortitude, then certainly she
could as well. She didn’t see him reacting ridiculously to the arrangement.
“Good thinking,” she finally choked out.
Never before had she been so grateful for the cover of darkness. Her
cheeks were aflame, and she likely resembled the boiled lobster that was
her favorite meal.
When they approached the inn, she saw an adjacent tavern, still very
well lit for the hour. Through the large window, she saw a dozen or so
patrons hunkered around small tables, mugs of ale gripped in their hands.
Raucous laughter filtered out onto the street, and a series of catcalls
echoed as the barmaid sauntered through the carelessly laid out tables.
A scruffily dressed boy hurried up to take their horses around to the
stable. Isabella was careful to take her meager supplies from the horse
before allowing it to be led away. Merrick ushered her into the inn where
they were greeted by a sleepy-looking older man.
“We’d like a room,” Merrick said, again adopting a plainer accent.
The man nodded and shuffled behind the counter. He handed over a key
and eyed them balefully. Realizing he was expecting payment, Isabella dug
for the coin purse the woman had given her and shoved it at Merrick.
He counted out the amount and tucked a few coins back into the purse.
Then he turned and gestured for Isabella to follow him.
When they were safely ensconced in the room, he set the sack
containing their food on the bed and turned to her. “I am going over to the
tavern to see what I can find out. You rest.”
Indecision rocked her. She looked longingly at the bed, but pondered the
wisdom of allowing Merrick to go to the tavern alone.
“Isabella,” he said firmly. “The tavern is no place for a woman. You
would only be a distraction. I can find the information we need much
quicker if you remain behind.”
She nodded, knowing he was right. And the bed did look rather inviting.
And warm.
“I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”
 He let himself out of the door leaving her alone in the room. Isabella
moved over to the small fire that had obviously been lit minutes before.
She undressed quickly, careful to keep the map next to her.
After warming herself by the fire, she crawled beneath the covers and
sank gratefully into the softness. As her eyelids grew heavier, she briefly
wondered where Merrick would sleep.

“Oh, Mother, it’s wonderful.”

“Do you really like it, dearest?”
Isabella gazed at the painting with rapt attention. “Oh, yes, it’s ever so
wonderful. I wish I could paint like you. Davide is so talented, but there is
nothing I can do.”
Queen Marie-Claire hugged her ten-year-old daughter to her.
“Heavens, Isabella. Wherever did you get an idea like that? Why, you can
ride, and shoot, and fence. I imagine there are any number of other things
your father has made sure you learned that I don’t approve of.” Her eyes
twinkled merrily as she smoothed Isabella’s hair from her face.
“But I want to be like you,” she said softly. “You are so beautiful.” She
glanced down at her muddied skirts and fidgeted uncomfortably.
Gentle hands pushed her chin back up so that she looked directly at her
mother. “My precious daughter. There is no one more beautiful than you.
You embrace life with such tenacity. It is a joy just to watch you grow. One
day, my dear, you are going to do truly splendid things. I just know it.”
She smiled at Isabella then pressed a kiss to the top of her unruly hair.
“Now run along, I want to finish our family portrait so I can present it to
your father for his birthday.”
Isabella threw herself in her mother’s arms and hugged her tightly.
Surely there was nothing better than a mother’s embrace. She sighed and
breathed deeply of her mother’s comforting scent.
As she drew away, she glanced over at the easel again and smiled. Her
mother had painted Isabella in her father’s arms, her two brothers
standing proudly on either side. A space remained between her father and
Davide. All that was left was for her mother to add herself into the
portrait.
“Think your father will like it?” her mother asked, tussling Isabella’s
hair.
 “He will love it! Mother, will you paint one exactly like it for my
birthday?”
“If you wish it, my darling. If you wish it.”

Isabella awoke, her cheeks damp with tears. The dream had been so real,
so vivid. She could still feel her mother’s arms around her, smell the faint
scent of lilacs.
She sat up, burying her face in her hands. Sobs racked her body as she
wept openly. Raw pain twisted in her chest like a hot knife had been
plunged within. How she missed her mother.
She rocked back and forth, grasping her knees and pulling them tightly
to her chest. Laying her head on her knees, she closed her eyes as more
tears slipped unheeded down her cheeks.
She hadn’t even been able to attend her parents’ funerals, or Stephane’s.
Didn’t even know if they received one fitting of their station, or if they
had been discarded like yesterday’s rubbish. The thought agonized her.
Their bodies should have lain in state for weeks while the country
mourned and paid homage to the beloved king and queen.
It didn’t seem fair that only she had survived. She was ill-fitted to serve
her country as queen. She hadn’t the patience or gentle spirit of her mother
or the wisdom and intelligence of her father. She was far too headstrong
and willful to ever step into her father’s shoes.
Stephane had been groomed to ascend the throne. Even Davide had been
charged with learning the rigid responsibilities and protocols. But Isabella
had been left largely to her own devices, spoiled shamelessly by her father
and indulged by her brothers. Loved beyond measure by her mother.
Her head came up, and she stared into the dying fire. She would not fail
them. With her dying breath, she would not shame them. And they would
all be avenged.

Simon walked down the hallway and paused outside the door of his and
Isabella’s room. Quietly, so as not to disturb her, he turned the knob and let
himself in.
To his surprise she was sitting up in bed, softly illuminated by the last
vestiges of the fire. She turned to look at him as he closed the door behind
him and the anguish in her eyes robbed him of breath.
 He stood awkwardly in the doorway, not wanting to intrude on what was
obviously a private moment, but at the same time, he felt an
overwhelming urge to reach out and comfort her.
She turned away, wiping at her tears with the back of her hand. He found
himself closing the distance between them, and he sat down on the bed
beside her. A long silence ensued, and finally, he looked up at her. “Want to
talk about it?”
She kept her head turned away, her throat working up and down as she
swallowed back sobs. “I dreamt of my mother,” she said shakily.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, knowing there was little he could do to
comfort her. Even though he never knew his own mother, there were times
when he keenly felt her absence.
She turned her gaze to him, her eyes bright with tears. Her pain tore
raggedly at his heart, making him feel incredibly helpless. Her lips parted
ever so slightly, and he reached out a hand without even realizing it,
smoothing it over her tear-riddled cheek.
No force on the earth could stop him from kissing her. Her lips invited
him, her eyes implored him. And if he didn’t, he might well explode.
He lowered his lips slowly to hers. Her swift intake of breath denoted
her surprise, but she made no effort to break away. Gently, he brushed his
mouth across hers, the brief contact with her lips sending jolts of exquisite
satisfaction all the way down his legs.
Not content with the feather-like kiss, he returned to her lips, this time
letting his mouth linger on hers. His tongue moved slowly forward,
outlining her full bottom lip. She tasted of heaven and he wanted more.
She opened herself more fully to him, inviting him further inward. He
sucked her lip between his teeth, savoring the feel and taste of her.
To his surprise, her tongue darted forth to meet his and they tentatively
dueled as if each were experiencing their first kiss. And in a lot of ways, it
was his first. For never had he kissed any woman in this manner. Tenderly,
patiently, slowly.
He captured her sigh and swallowed it completely. Working his hand
around her neck and up into her hair, he deepened his kiss, moving his lips
over hers with more urgency. Her hands slipped around his shoulders and
gripped him tightly until he felt the imprint of her fingers in his flesh.
Forgotten were her tears, her sadness, as he lowered her back to the bed,
laying her gently upon the covers. His mouth never left hers, their ragged
breaths coming in spurts as their lips moved hotly together.
From the back of his pleasure-induced euphoria came a distinct
warning. At first he ignored it, lost in the feel of her, but it became louder
and more insistent. He was taking advantage of a woman in her most
vulnerable state. A member of royalty, no less.
With more restraint than he ever thought he possessed, he tore his
mouth away from hers and quickly raised himself off of her. He ran a hand
through his hair, ashamed to even meet her eyes. When he did, they were
alight in confusion…and desire.
“You mustn’t look at me that way,” he said hoarsely. “I cannot think
straight when you look at me thus.”
She quickly glanced away, but not before he saw hurt reflected in the
glimmering pools.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I don’t know what came over me. My
actions were unforgivable. You must think me the lowest of baseborn
women.”
He grasped her by the shoulders and turned her to meet his eyes. “It is I
who should be apologizing, Isabella. What I did was disgraceful. I took
advantage of you in a most unpardonable manner. I only hope you can find
it in your heart to forgive me. I admit, I do not always think clearly when I
am in your presence.”
A peculiar light glinted in her eyes, and her lips twisted in the
semblance of a smile. “Your apology is accepted, my lord. As long as you
don’t apologize for kissing me.”
“It won’t happen again,” he said firmly. It mustn’t happen. Not if he was
to keep his wits about him.
She mumbled something as she rose from the bed, and he had to strain
to hear. But surely he hadn’t heard correctly. For it sounded very much like
she said, “I sincerely hope you are mistaken.”
He shook his head. He had gone too long without adequate sleep. His
mind was playing tricks on him.
When she turned to face him again, the Isabella of a few moments ago
had disappeared. In her place stood the calm, confident Isabella. The one
who could take on the world, not the vulnerable, fragile woman he had
held in his arms not three minutes before.
“What did you learn at the tavern?”
 He turned so that his feet rested on the floor, but he didn’t rise from the
bed. “I have the direction of a captain who might be able to help us,” he
replied. “He has a ship and has sailed countless times into the North Sea,
at least according to the men I spoke to in the tavern. We’ll look him up in
the morning.”
She nodded, an excited gleam to her eyes.
“Now, I propose we rest,” he suggested.
She cleared her throat nervously. “There is but one bed.”
“I will sleep on the floor in front of the fire,” he offered.
Her cheeks colored prettily, and she glanced away for a moment. Then
taking a deep breath, she said, “We slept with one another last night with
no mishaps. Surely this is no different?”
“Well, it isn’t, I suppose, but…” His voice trailed off as he was unsure
of what further to say.
She drew herself up and squared her shoulders. “I am confident that we
can share the bed without dissolving into a puddle of impropriety. I
daresay we are so far beyond the bounds that no one should even blink an
eye at this stage. Besides, who is to see us?”
She had a solid point. Propriety was a foregone notion at this point, but
it wasn’t what he worried about anyway. He was more concerned with how
he could possibly spend another night in such close proximity to her and
not pull the clothing from her delectable body and make love to her as he
had never made love to a woman.
With an inward groan, he merely nodded and prepared himself for the
longest night of his two and thirty years.
 Chapter Eleven

Long after Merrick’s soft breathing filled the room, Isabella lay awake,
scooted as far to the edge of the bed as she could be without tumbling to
the floor.
She was tired, exhausted, but every time she closed her eyes, she relived
his kiss with alarming detail. Even now she shivered when imagining his
lips on hers. The tingling shock that raced down her spine. How she forgot
everything else in the shadow of his touch.
Her reaction to him was dangerous and foolish. If she continued
behaving like an errant schoolgirl, she would compromise her entire
objective.
But deep within was a woman who was tired of being alone against the
world. A woman who wanted very badly to be held and told everything
would be all right. And never before had she met a man who made her
want to lay everything at his feet. Until now.
An impossible match at impossible odds. Deep sadness, different than
the oppressive grief that had plagued her for so long, weighed down upon
her. Sadness that her life was no longer hers and her wishes no longer
mattered. Any choice she had was snatched away in the terrible instant her
parents had been killed. Now her future belonged to Leaudor and to its
people. There was no room in her life for moments of passing fancy.
She tossed restlessly for the hundredth time since she and Merrick had
retired to bed. In the midst of her turning, his arms came out to steady her.
They wrapped solidly around her and pulled her up close to him.
“Sleep,” he murmured.
She melted into his warmth as her back nestled into the curve of his
body. A deep sigh of contentment rocked her. For a few stolen moments,
she wouldn’t think of the future. For now, she would take the comfort he
offered. She would not dwell on when they would part.
His hand rested precariously close to her breast, and the skin under his
fingers burned with awareness. His heat radiated through her body
rendering the fire a non-necessity.
Not pondering the rightness or the wisdom of her actions, she turned
once more to face him and snuggled tightly against him, melding her body
in a perfect fit to his.
Was it her imagination or did his heart start beating faster? She snaked
her arm over his side and pulled him even closer. Yawning broadly, she
nestled her cheek against his firm chest and closed her eyes.
***
Simon’s eyes flew open and darted hastily around the room. In his arms,
Isabella slept soundly, but something nagged at him. A feeling of
foreboding settled over him. Something had awakened him, but damned if
he knew what. And then he heard it. The creaking of the floor, barely
discernible, but there it was.
He sat up, torn as to whether he should wake Isabella. As much as he
hated to disturb her, his instincts were rarely wrong.
“Isabella,” he whispered urgently, shaking her.
She came awake at once, her eyes immediately alert. She sat up
abruptly. “What is it?”
“Get dressed,” he directed. “Someone is outside our door. We may have
to resort to your window exit.”
Her feet hit the floor almost silently as she flew to collect her clothing.
Not concerned at all for modesty, she thrust her legs into her breeches,
giving him a tantalizing glimpse of her shapely calves.
He pulled on his shirt and quickly yanked on his boots. Holding a finger
to his lips, he gestured her toward the window. “Take a look and see if
anyone is watching,” he whispered. “I’m going to glance down the hall.”
She caught his arm as he moved past her. “Be careful.” She brushed
against him for a brief moment then hurried to the window.
As his hand curled around the knob, Isabella whispered urgently from
the window. “There are at least two men standing outside.”
He turned to look at her, his hand still on the door handle. “We should
give thought to the window exit you’re so fond of.”
She glanced nervously between the door and the window.
“We could crawl out and ease down the roof. If there is anyone waiting
below, we’ll go with the element of surprise and jump down on them.”
She nodded her agreement.
He looked at her. “Are you up to it?”
Her eyes flashed at his challenge. “Let’s go. We’re wasting time.”
 Dropping his hand from the doorknob, he hurried across the room. He
pried open the window and gestured impatiently for Isabella to come.
“Just remember to roll when you hit the ground,” she murmured as she
crawled over the sill.
“Despite the fact you seem so fond of barging out of windows, I assure
you, this won’t be the first time I’ve had to use this means of escape,” he
said dryly.
Silently, they crept across the roof until they reached the edge. Simon
looked down then held a finger to his lips as he glanced over at Isabella.
He held up two fingers and pointed. She nodded and eased forward until
she could see below.
He cocked his head and motioned that he was ready. Isabella sucked in
her breath and crouched. He laid a hand on her wrist then signaled for
them to jump as the two men walked closer.
In unison they jumped. Simon landed on his target, flattening the man to
the ground. As he landed a brutal blow to the man’s face, Simon’s head
exploded in a burst of pain, and he slumped forward

Isabella looked up from the unconscious man underneath her and swore
viciously as she saw Merrick fall to the ground. She struggled up, praying
that he had at least distracted the men enough that she could escape. If her
suspicions were accurate, they wouldn’t bother over him anyway.
As she fled in the opposite direction, she collided with a mountain of
dead weight. She was thrown to the ground as a man twice her size tackled
her. Her breath left her in a whoosh and she gasped painfully, trying to
drag in air.
Squirming and kicking, she struggled frantically beneath her assailant.
She wrapped her fingers in his hair and snapped his head back. With her
other hand, she jabbed her fingers into his eyes, eliciting a howl of pain.
Taking advantage of his distress, she shoved as hard as she could and
rolled him to the side. She shot up then smashed the heel of her boot down
across his throat. Satisfied that he would not pursue her, she broke into a
run.
Her fright and determination lent her more speed than she imagined
possible. As she neared the edge of the woods, she thought with a moment
of jubilation that she had succeeded in escaping.
 Then, without warning, her legs were swept from underneath her, and
she landed on her back with enough force to completely rob her of breath.
As she lay for a brief moment gasping painfully, three men appeared over
her, and her heart sank. How would she possibly be able to escape them?
Feigning weakness, she continued to lie still, gauging what her
assailants would do next. When one reached down for her, she kicked her
legs up and wrapped her feet around his neck. Wrenching her legs
sideways, she flipped him over her body. Arching her back, she bucked to
her feet. As soon as she was standing, she swung her leg out in a powerful
kick and crumpled the man to her immediate right.
She assumed a fighting stance as they scrambled up. The two men
growled in fury and launched themselves at her. She landed a blow to one
of their heads but they weren’t swayed. She fell to the ground beneath
them, unable to escape their steely grasp.
Her hand inched toward the dagger she had tucked into her breeches, but
she was unable to grasp it when her arms were jerked over her head. She
screamed in rage as they pressed her farther into the ground. Her reward
was a slap in the face, momentarily stunning her into silence. With speed
she hadn’t expected, they bound her arms and then her legs.
“Let’s see you maneuver out of this one, Princess,” one of them taunted.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “Who sent you?” Their accents were
English, not Leaudorian. “Whatever they are paying you, I can double it. If
you just let me go.”
“Stuff the rag in her mouth so she’ll shut up,” the other one muttered.
“And get Tom up off the ground,” he added in disgust.
Her protests were squelched as a foul-smelling rag was forced into her
mouth. She gagged at the taste. As they yanked her to her feet, she
stumbled, unable to keep her balance with bound feet and arms. She
attempted to thrust the gag out with her tongue, but a hand was quickly
clamped over her lips.
“Be easy with her,” the apparent ringleader cautioned. “We’ve been paid
a lot of money to ensure she’s alive, and I don’t want to be giving it back if
she turns up dead.”
A chill trickled down her spine. She had to escape. Once they
discovered she no longer was in possession of the map, they would likely
lose any desire they had to keep her alive.
 ***
Simon opened his eyes and promptly closed them again when pain
knifed sharply through his head. He felt wet and cold and whatever he was
laying on was wretchedly uncomfortable. Where was he?
He pried his eyes open again and saw something that looked remarkably
like leaves. He was on the ground. His memory came roaring back, and he
leapt immediately to his feet, nearly vomiting as pain overcame him.
“Isabella! Isabella!” he yelled hoarsely, whirling frantically around in
an attempt to locate her.
When the world finally stopped spinning, he saw nothing but darkness.
Stifling silence loomed eerily around the area and he cocked his ear,
straining to hear something…anything to help him locate Isabella.
Had she escaped? Or had she been captured after he was hit on the head?
Self-recrimination ate sharply at him.
He stumbled in the direction of the inn. He had to find her. After
struggling up the stairs to their room, he let himself in and hastily
splashed water on his face from the washbasin.
He collected their meager belongings, hurriedly stuffing them into a
sack. He once again tucked the dagger into his boot then checked his
waistband to make sure the pistol was still secured there. His hand brushed
against an odd shape just to the right of the pistol, and he dug into his
pants to retrieve it.
To his utter shock, he pulled out the small pouch that contained the map.
How had he…? And then he remembered her brushing against him just
before they had leapt from the window. She must have feared she would be
captured and was unwilling to relinquish the map.
Bile rose in his throat and fear gripped him, nearly paralyzing him.
Once they discovered she didn’t have the map, they would not be overly
concerned with what happened to her. She had trusted the entire future of
Leaudor to him, and he mustn’t fail her. He had already done so once.
Twice would be disastrous.
A quick glance out the window told him dawn was not far off. Despite
the earliness of the hour, he knew there would still be patrons in the
tavern. Perhaps a few coins would loosen their tongues. He fingered the
coin purse Isabella had procured from the village woman, hoping there
was enough within to gain the information he needed.
 Chapter Twelve

“Where is the map?” the man snarled.

When Isabella remained silent, staring ahead in defiance, he lashed out
and slapped her across the face with his palm.
Her head snapped back, the pain numbing her cheek, but she quickly
faced forward again. Then she fixed him with what she hoped was her
coldest stare. “Go to hell,” she said firmly.
The man turned on his heel with a roar of rage. The other two men, one
of whom she had ascertained was named Tom, sat in the background,
smirks embedded in their faces.
“Let me have a go at her,” Tom said, rubbing his jaw. “I owe the bitch.”
The man sitting beside him elbowed him. “You idiot. Why rough her
up? I can make her talk.” He laughed uproariously as he adjusted his
crotch.
“Shut up, the both of you,” the leader ordered.
“Aww, Rufus,” Tom whined. “We’re just having a spot of fun.”
“This is no time for your stupidity,” Rufus snapped. “You and Frank
shut up until I tell you it’s time to talk.”
He turned back to Isabella, a wicked looking knife appearing in his
hand. A sinister glint surfaced in his eye as he leaned in close to her. He
pressed the blade against her throat until she felt a thin trickle of blood
slither down her neck. “Tell me where it is, Princess, or I’ll take great
delight in slicing you up.”
“If you kill me, you’ll never know where the map is,” she said in
triumph.
“No, but that won’t stop me from creating a new face for you. You’ll
still be very much alive. Just less beautiful than you are now.”
Her stomach clenched, and she knew she had been unsuccessful in
keeping the fear from her eyes because he looked at her in satisfaction.
“Now, tell me what I want to know or it’s going to be a very long day for
you.”
***
 Simon crept up to the cottage, praying that he had been led in the right
direction by the elderly man in the tavern. The old man had been way into
his pint of ale. Probably one of many he had downed in the night. His
speech had been slurred, but he swore he had heard a group of men
plotting to kidnap a woman and take her out to the old Jenkins place.
On silent feet, he walked the remaining distance to the door and put his
ear to the rotting wood. His heart nearly stopped when he heard Isabella’s
cry of pain.
Stifling the urge to immediately burst in, he listened intently, trying to
ascertain the men’s positions in the room. From the shuffle of feet and
murmuring voices, he determined there were at least three. Not good odds.
But the element of surprise would be with him as would his pistol and
dagger. He would utilize all to the utmost.
Mentally counting to three, he withdrew the knife and gun and rammed
his shoulder into the door. It immediately splintered, wood flying in all
directions. He wasted no time and fired the pistol at the first man he saw.
As a second launched himself at him, Simon threw the dagger into his
chest.
Out of weapons, he turned to the man closest to Isabella, prepared to
beat him to a bloody pulp. His stomach clenched when he saw the knife at
her throat.
“I’ll kill her,” the man blustered, fear etched into his sweaty face.
“If you so much as touch her, I will make sure you die a long, slow,
painful death,” Simon growled.
The two men stared at one another. Simon could read the fear and
uncertainty…and the desperation. It was the latter that worried him.
Desperate men did desperate things.
He chanced a glance at Isabella and instantly regretted it. A thin trickle
of blood ran in a rivulet down her neck. The beginnings of a bruise marred
her cheek, and her eyes burned bright with fear. Anger, red and hot, seized
him.
“Drop your knife and face me like a man,” he ordered. “Or are you
content to hide behind a woman?” He attempted a sneering tone, hoping he
could bait the man into a confrontation.
But the man stood steadfast, his knife never moving from her skin. “Get
out or I’ll slice her throat.”
 If only he had saved his bullet for this man, but he’d seen him too late.
Now he had no weapon, and he couldn’t chance Isabella being harmed if
he made a grab for her captor.
He held up his arms in a placating manner. “Don’t be hasty. I believe I
have something you want.”
“Merrick, no!” Isabella hissed.
Simon ignored her and drew out the parchment from his breeches. He
held it out to the man and watched as the man’s eyes brightened.
“Drop it on the floor,” the man said in an excited voice. “Then back
away.”
Simon complied but only moved a scant distance away. The man was
clearly torn as to what to do. He obviously wanted the map very badly. He
had likely been offered an exorbitant amount of money if he could retrieve
it.
In the man’s excitement, he made a huge mistake. Simon could scarcely
contain his satisfaction as the man slashed the ropes at Isabella’s feet.
“Get the map,” her captor ordered, shoving her roughly to her feet. “And
don’t try anything stupid or I’ll stick this knife in your back.”
Isabella twisted her body and slowly bent, reaching for the parchment as
best she could with her bound hands. Just before her fingers grasped it, she
glanced up at Simon. The question was obvious in her eyes, and he nodded
ever so slightly, hoping she would catch on.
As she rose from the floor, the man reached over to snatch the map from
her. In a swift motion, she arched her leg and kicked him squarely in the
stomach.
It was all Simon needed. Shoving Isabella to the side and out of danger,
he lunged for the man. The knife went flying along with the map as Simon
bore him to the floor.
They rolled as Simon wrapped his hands around his opponent’s beefy
neck. Using every ounce of his anger and strength to his advantage, Simon
wedged his knee into the man’s abdomen so he was unable to draw a
breath. He kept a tight grip on his neck, squeezing until the man’s face
turned red and his struggles decreased.
With a ruthless twist, Simon snapped the man’s neck. His head rolled
back as his lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling.
Simon immediately scrambled over to where Isabella lay sprawled on
the floor. She was desperately trying to free her hands. He hauled her
upright and began working on the ropes. In moments she was free, and he
pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly against him.
Her heart pumped frantically against his chest, and he gripped her even
tighter. Finally, she pulled slightly away and turned her face up to him,
relief stark in her eyes.
Not caring how she reacted, he slammed his lips over hers, relief and
pent up fear pouring out of him. She returned his kiss just as hotly as her
hands raced frantically over his back and up over his shoulders. His
fingers tangled in her hair as he sought to pull her closer to him. He kissed
her eyes, her cheeks, her lips then scooted his mouth down the side of her
neck.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he rasped.
“You saved me.”
He wrapped his arms tightly around her and crushed her head to his
chest. The enormity of his emotion threatened to choke him, and he sought
to gain control.
Finally he drew her away. His hands ran over her body, trying to
convince himself she was all right. When he got to her neck, he clenched
his jaw as rage burst over him again.
With gentleness that belied his inner turmoil, he wiped the blood from
her skin. He ran a thumb over the bruise on her cheek then bent and
brushed his lips softly over the mark.
“I’m sorry. I failed to protect you as I promised to do.”
She pulled away and grasped his face in both hands, forcing him to look
her directly in the eye. “If it weren’t for you, I would have been dead a
long time ago.”
To his astonishment, she pressed her body against his and captured his
lips hungrily. It only took him a moment to recover. He responded eagerly
to her advances, pausing only enough to draw a breath.
He felt her in every inch of his body as she poured over him. If a dozen
thugs burst in and beat him senseless he wouldn’t care. He could die
happy.
She fit perfectly. Her softness against the hard planes of his body. His
hand came up and cupped her breast through her shirt, kneading the soft
mound. A moan tore from her throat, and he swallowed it up as their
kisses became more demanding.
 His groin ached to near bursting as his manhood strained against her
waist. Pleasure and agony ripped through him in perfect harmony. Never
before had a woman been so important to him, and yet, in the few days he
had known Isabella, he ached at the thought of losing her. And he nearly
had.

Isabella clung to Merrick like he was her lifeline. And in many ways he
was. He was all that separated her from complete aloneness. She kissed
him hungrily, not wanting the embrace to end. She poured all of her relief
and fear into his hands as she melted against him.
She felt her back rock against the wall of the cottage as Merrick walked
her backward. Her hands delved into his hair and she luxuriated in the feel
of the short strands. She was determined to experience every inch of him,
touch him, feel him.
Her shirt fell open under his persistent hands. A cool draft blew over her
breasts, the tips hardening. His thumb brushed over a taut nipple, sending
sparks of pleasure shooting through her body.
He tore his mouth away from hers, taking in a ragged breath. Then he
lowered his head and flicked his tongue over a nipple. She gasped then
cried out as he sucked it between his teeth.
She gripped the back of his head, holding him tightly against her breast.
Afraid he would let go, afraid that she wouldn’t stop him.
She needed him. Wanted him.
Slowly, he drew away, gently pulling her shirt back down to cover her.
His expression was unreadable. She was unable to discern whether he
regretted his actions or if he regretted ending the kiss.
He rubbed his thumb over her swollen lips and backed away, putting
distance between them.
“Don’t say it,” she said fiercely. If he so much as offered an apology,
she would kick his teeth out.
“Say what?” he asked, a perplexed look marring his face.
“You’re sorry.”
“It would be a lie.”
Satisfaction settled comfortingly over her like her mother’s warm hugs.
Though she fought to contain her reaction to his admission, her lips battled
upward into a smile.
 “We should go,” he said, bringing reality crashing down on the both of
them. “We’ve obviously been found out.”
“Where to now?” she asked.
“It matters little that they know we are in Dover now that we are already
here. We should go see the captain I told you about. If we can get on a ship
with no mishap, our chances are as good as if we boarded in another port.”
She nodded her agreement.
He bent and retrieved the map from the floor and carefully folded it.
Then he handed it to her.
She curled her fingers around it, glad to have it back once again. It
represented her entire future. She had taken a great chance in hiding it on
Merrick, but she had been right to do so.
“Are you sure you are all right?” he asked, cupping her elbow and
leading her around the fallen bodies on the floor.
She flinched when Merrick bent down to retrieve his knife from the
chest of one of the dead men. As if it were nothing, he wiped the blade
clean on the trousers of the man then tucked it back into his boot.
The deaths of the men in themselves did not bother her. Though she
wasn’t bloodthirsty by nature, her parents’ murders had profoundly
affected her. It was a given that more death would follow as she exacted
her revenge.
But what nagged at her was the different man Merrick had become right
in front of her eyes. Gone was the care and consideration he had shown
her, and it its place was a cold-blooded killer. A man used to exacting
punishment in a methodical way. He hadn’t paused at all as he dispatched
the first two in a frightfully efficient manner.
Which side was the real Merrick? Was she wrong to put so much faith in
this man?
“I only brought one horse,” he explained as they stepped into the cold.
“We’ll have to ride double.”
He helped her up then swung up behind her. Reaching around her, he
took hold of the reins and started the horse into motion. She settled against
his chest, needing the warmth and comfort her offered.
His right arm tightened around her as he transferred the reins to his left
hand. “Rest,” he murmured against her hair.
Needing no further encouragement, she laid her head back and closed
her eyes. The events of the past few hours had left her badly shaken and in
great need of his strength. She put aside her misgivings for now and
offered a silent prayer that they were able to hire the captain Merrick
spoke of and depart quickly for Leaudor.
Her bravado left her in one fell swoop. She sagged precariously against
him, trembling in earnest. She felt him press a kiss to her head and lost all
control of the emotion that strained to break free. Tears rolled down her
cheeks, and she hiccupped as she attempted to call back a sob.
He said nothing, just held her tighter as they rode on. She was grateful.
It irked her to continuously become a watering pot on him, and it seemed
since they had met, that is precisely all she had done.
As more tears fell, so did his kisses on her hair. The frigid air blew cold
on her damp cheeks but she was grateful for the discomfort. She was alive.
She could feel. And she could feel the warmth emanating from Merrick.
Feel his heart beat against her back. Feel his strong arms around her. And
for the moment, she could forget that he had just killed three men.
As her tears subsided and she stopped shaking, weariness settled over
her. Her cheek throbbed from the repeated slaps and the cut at her neck
stung with each movement.
“You need rest,” Merrick spoke up. “But we must get to the captain’s
home. Can you make it?”
His voice was filled with such regret and concern, that she immediately
straightened against him and firmed her spine.
“I am quite well, Merrick. By all means, let’s hasten to hire our ship.
There will be time to rest once we are on board.”
“I won’t fail you again,” he said firmly.
Her heart contracted. His words sent shivers over her entire body. “You
didn’t fail me, Merrick,” she said softly. “You are the only person who
gives a damn whether I live or die.”
He didn’t respond, but his hold on her never loosened. They traveled for
another hour, picking their way down a badly kept road. Eventually it
dissolved away into the landscape, the road disappearing altogether.
After a short time, they reached a small clearing. Nestled against a
backdrop of a dense forest was a well-kept cottage. Merrick dismounted a
distance from the door and reached up to help Isabella down.
She slid into his arms and he set her gently on the ground. They hadn’t
taken three steps when a voice called out to them from the cottage. “Don’t
come any further or I’ll shoot you.”
 They stopped immediately and Merrick held his hands up in front of
him. “We mean you no harm,” he called loudly toward the cottage. “We
are here to see Captain Martin.”
“I know why you are here and the answer is no. I’m not interested in
taking anyone to Leaudor.”
Unwilling to accept defeat, Isabella stepped forward.
“Isabella, no,” Merrick said putting out a hand to stop her.
But she ignored his outstretched hand. “Captain Martin, please at least
listen to me.” She strode toward the cottage, determined to air her case.
“Don’t come any further,” the captain shouted. “I’ll shoot.”
She paused for a moment then called out, “Then shoot me, but I’m not
leaving until you at least hear us out.”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she put her feet forward again, praying that the
man was only bluffing. The captain represented her only hope of returning
home, and she would not simply leave. Too much was at stake.
To her surprise, the front door opened, and a large older man stepped
out. His hair was graying, and he wore a patchy beard. His clothing was
worn, but neat, and his boots were polished.
He leveled a pistol at her. “You’ve got two minutes before I start
shooting so you better talk fast.”
Isabella gulped nervously but didn’t want to waste any of the two
minutes. “How did you know we wanted passage to Leaudor?”
Had they already been found out? Was someone waiting for them in
town? Had she been right to fear discovery by traveling through Dover?
The man grunted. “There isn’t a soul in this area that hasn’t heard of the
criminals seeking passage to Leaudor. There is a reward for your capture.”
“We are not criminals,” she said hotly. “And we need passage to
Leaudor. It is of utmost importance that we get there posthaste.”
“I’ve already said no,” the man growled.
“We can pay you very well.”
“I don’t want your money,” he said cutting her off before she could go
on. “No amount of money would make me go back to that Godforsaken
land.”
Confusion and surprise registered at the same time. “Why do you call it
Godforsaken?”
He looked at her in disgust. “The entire country’s in turmoil.”
 Forgetting all about the gun he held in his hand, she rushed forward.
“You must tell me what you mean,” she demanded, urgency threaded into
her every word.
The captain’s eyes flickered, and he stared at her with a mixture of
puzzlement and recognition. Then he blanched. With shaky hands, he
removed his hat and dropped the pistol to the ground. “Princess Isabella, is
that really you?”
Not waiting an answer, he knelt on the hard ground and bowed his head
before her. “We thought you dead.”
She closed the remaining distance and grasped him by the arm, urging
him to stand. Behind her, Merrick hurried forward, obviously satisfied that
the man meant them no harm.
“Please, you must tell me everything. Have you been to Leaudor
recently?”
The captain stood up, a sheen of tears in his eyes. “It’s not the same,
Your Highness. What happened was terrible.” He looked over at Merrick
with a suspicious glint in his eyes. “Who are you?”
“Simon Rothmore, Earl of Merrick,” he said crisply.
Again the captain bowed. “My apologies, my lord. I only wanted to
ensure Her Highness was safe with you.”
“Are you a citizen of Leaudor?” she asked. His accent held slight tinges
of her country, but not enough to convince her he was a native.
“I was born here in England, Your Highness, but I spent many years in
Leaudor. I consider it my second home.” He gestured for them to follow
him into the cottage.
Once inside, he busied himself building up the fire in the hearth. He
fidgeted uncomfortably and motioned for them to sit on the threadbare
sofa.
“I would be glad to be of service, Your Highness. I have a sturdy ship.
She’s made the voyage to Leaudor a hundred times.”
Excitement swelled in her chest. “Thank you, Captain Martin. I am sure
you know how important it is for me to return home.”
“You won’t have to look far for help once you arrive,” the captain said.
“Jacques Montagne’s men are everywhere it seems.”
She frowned. “So he has been able to gain support?”
The captain looked strangely at her. “Why wouldn’t he be able to? He is,
after all, the next ruler. That is, until you return. You were assumed dead
once news of Prince Davide’s death arrived.”
Realization dawned. Of course no one would suspect Jacques’
involvement. Only she knew of his betrayal. “Tell me, Captain, what does
everyone believe happened?”
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and glanced uneasily in Merrick’s
direction. “Well, nothing official has been announced, but the general
consensus is that England was behind the assassinations and that there is a
plot for England to gain control of Leaudor.”
Merrick shot to his feet. “The devil, you say!” He began to pace in
agitation. “I don’t like this, Isabella. Someone is going to great pains to
make it appear as though England is behind this. Montagne is probably the
one spreading the rumors.”
The captain glared at Merrick. “Montagne has done an admirable job of
keeping Leaudor together in the wake of such a horrific tragedy. He has
vowed revenge on whoever is responsible.”
Bile rolled in her stomach, and she fought against the urge to retch. “He
is no saint,” she spat.
The captain looked at her in surprise.
“He is the one who murdered my parents. I witnessed their killings with
my own eyes.”
Captain Martin paled and opened his mouth then closed it again as no
words came forth.
“You see why we must get back to Leaudor with all haste,” Merrick said
in a low voice.
“Dear God,” the older man said in a shaky voice. He dragged a hand
over his head, replacing his cap then taking it off again. “The entire
country is united behind him. All ready to take up arms against England at
a moment’s notice.”
She and Merrick exchanged uneasy glances.
“There is much talk of an alliance with France,” the captain replied.
“Again, nothing official, but it’s on the lips of every Leaudorian. Since
their roots are French, many think it is time to reunite with them.”
Merrick swore. “This would be disastrous for England. We don’t need
another war with France. And certainly not one spearheaded by a country
bent on revenge.”
Isabella stood straight up, her fist to her mouth. “Oh my God,” she
whispered.
 “What? What is it?” Merrick demanded.
“Something the men who captured me said. I didn’t pay it any attention,
but now…”
“What?” he asked again, frustration edging his voice.
“They were talking amongst themselves, saying how important it was
they get the map into the right hands before ‘he’ made his escape. That
once he was ‘back’, France would return to its former glory.”
She turned and stared at Merrick in horror. “Do you suppose ‘he’ could
be Bonaparte?”
 Chapter Thirteen

Simon stared at her, unable to voice the flood of questions that ripped
through him. No. It was too fantastical to even contemplate. Napoleon had
been banished to Elba, and he remained there under British guard.
A secret alliance was to be forged between France and England at the
Congress of Vienna, so it just didn’t make sense that France would be
behind the incident in Leaudor. Unless they had no intention of honoring
the treaty.
If there was a plot for Napoleon’s escape, then the whole dynamic
changed. If a group of loyalists was behind the upheaval in Leaudor, it
would explain a lot. Including the desire for England to be implicated in
the assassinations.
But it still didn’t make sense. What could control of Leaudor possibly
gain them? Unless it was to unravel any tenuous trust forged between
England and France and pave the way for Napoleon’s return. A dark sense
of foreboding seized him, and a chill trickled down his spine.
Could Isabella have stumbled upon something? Dare he send word to
the crown of their suspicions? He would likely be dismissed as a
bedlamite, but his duty was to report any suspicions, any threat to the
crown, no matter how minute.
He would at least get word to Kirk, then he would continue on to
Leaudor with Isabella where he hoped to learn exactly what the motivation
was for any French involvement. And by returning her to the throne, he
would bring much needed stability to the country.
“I don’t know,” he said, finally responding to Isabella’s horrified
question. “There are a lot of unanswered questions. It is more imperative
than ever that we return you to Leaudor immediately so we can undermine
whatever plot is afoot.”
“I can have my ship ready in a day,” the captain interjected. “You and
Her Highness could stay here and board in the dead of night. I could start a
few rumors of my own in town that you came to me and I refused you
transport because I planned to sail down the southern coast. Sent you to
another port town further north.”
 “That is a very sound idea,” Simon said, looking gratefully at the older
man.
“You will be very well compensated,” Isabella said to the captain.
“I wouldn’t dream of accepting money from you, Your Highness,” he
said solemnly. “Returning Leaudor to its former glory would be payment
enough for me. The trade ports have pretty much been shut down since
Montagne took over. I assumed it was to protect Leaudor from possible
invasion, but I suppose it was to capture you if you tried to return.” He
looked regretfully at Isabella as he finished his statement.
“I won’t forget your kindness,” she said softly. “Or your service to
Leaudor.”
“If I am going to rig my ship for sail, I’ll have to venture into town and
round up a small crew of men I trust. And I’ll have to do it as discreetly as
possible if we don’t want it to get out that I’m sailing to Leaudor. I’ll
return when all is ready. In the meantime, put your horse in the stable
behind the house and lay low.”
Simon shook the captain’s hand. “Thank you. England will not forget
your service either.”
Captain Martin chuckled and shoved his hat back onto his head. “Who
knew an old captain such as me would end up doing something so
important?”
He shuffled out of the cottage and closed the door firmly behind him.
Simon turned to Isabella. “Come here and let me look at your injuries.”
She colored slightly as if uncomfortable with his attention. “They are
not severe.”
“Still, they need attention.”
He sat her down in front of the fire, selected a cloth from the small
kitchen and dampened it with water from the nearby pitcher. Returning to
where she sat, he gently rubbed the dried blood from her neck.
The bruise on her cheek, just under her right eye, had darkened to
purple. He brushed a feathery kiss across the spot, delighting in the feel of
her skin beneath his lips.
“This is more complicated than I dreamed,” she mumbled. She bit her
bottom lip in consternation, and her face was rife with conflict.
“We’ll set it to rights,” he vowed, wishing to wipe the anguish from her
voice.
 “Thank you,” she said raggedly, smiling up at him. She placed her slim
hand on his face, and he resisted the urge to nuzzle farther into her palm.
“You’ve nothing to thank me for.”
“Indeed I do. You’ve chosen to help me at great risk of peril to yourself.
My country owes you a great debt.”
“Leaudor owes me nothing,” he said firmly. “It is in England’s best
interest to have you installed on the throne.”
A peculiar expression lit her eyes. “And is that why you are helping me?
Because England demands it?”
He looked at her in puzzlement. “My first loyalty is to the crown. Surely
you understand that as ruler of your own country. My obligation is to see
you safely back to Leaudor and find out precisely how this affects
England’s future.”
Her eyes became shuttered. “Leaudor has no need of England’s help. I
am sure your assistance would be better put to use here on your own soil.
Once I am on the ship, there is no need for you to accompany me further.”
“If you think I will leave you to return to certain death in Leaudor, you
underestimate me. I will not leave you until I am certain you are
completely safe.”
“Ahh yes, your duty demands it,” she said mockingly.
He frowned, wondering why sharpness edged her words. He stood and
laid aside the rag he had cleaned her wound with. “You need to rest. We’ve
a long, arduous trip ahead, and you’ve been through a hellish night. I’ll
stand guard while you sleep.”
She stood stiffly and followed him over to the couch. He wanted to
reach out to her, ask her why the change in demeanor, but he said nothing.
She was likely exhausted.
When she settled onto the couch, he pulled a blanket over her. “I’ll wake
you if the captain returns.”
She nodded and closed her eyes. He took up position by the window so
he could survey the outside perimeter.
A few minutes barely passed before she was soundly asleep. He watched
from across the room, clenching his fists as his gaze roved over the marks
on her face.
Turning his attention back to the window, he continued his close
perusal, searching for any disturbance. He desperately needed to get a
message to Kirk.
 In the meantime, his most important task was making sure Isabella
returned to Leaudor. Alive.
***
When Isabella awoke, the interior of the room was dark. A lone candle
flickered in the corner, casting very little light. Her eyes adjusted as she
sat up, and she could see Merrick’s large frame standing by the window.
She studied him for a long moment as he stared intently out the window.
As much as he irritated her with his annoying sense of perception and his
overprotective tendencies, she felt keen disappointment that he saw her as
nothing more than a duty to perform.
At some point the intimacy they shared had come to mean something to
her. Obviously more than it meant to him. And perhaps she should follow
his suit. After all, she was in even less a position to get sidelined from her
duty.
Duty. Such a nasty word. Would that neither of them had such differing
obligations. But it did her little good to dream the impossible. For no
matter how much she may wish the past away, it had irrevocably changed
the future. A future she was powerless to change.
She had no doubt that Merrick truly felt protective of her and was
wholeheartedly devoted to returning her safely to Leaudor and seeing her
ascend the throne. His sense of duty would countenance no other
possibility.
But she wanted to be more than his latest assignment. More than a name
on a report to his superiors.
“Has the captain returned?” she asked, her soft voice drifting across the
distance.
He turned around and walked over to the couch. He settled down beside
her and cupped her cheek in his hand. “How do you feel?”
“Much better,” she admitted. “I was far more tired than I thought.” She
shrugged out of his hand and looked away, feeling discomfited by his
piercing eyes. As proficient as he was in reading her thoughts, she had no
desire for him to be privy to all she had been mulling over.
“To answer your question, no, the captain hasn’t returned. I’m growing
concerned. I thought he would be back by now.”
“I am sure he will return soon,” she said, forcing lightness into her
voice. Anything to get over the awful discomfort she felt in his presence
now. “What time is it anyway?”
“It’s nearly midnight.”
She gasped in surprise. “I had no idea I had slept that long.”
“You needed it,” he reminded her.
He rose and extended a hand to help her up. “Let’s look in the captain’s
kitchen and see if there is anything for us to eat.”
Ignoring his outstretched hand, she rose and straightened her clothing.
He collected the candle and carried it into the kitchen ahead of her. They
sat down at a small table near a window and munched on a loaf of bread
they had found in the pantry.
She cursed the disappearance of their easy camaraderie. It was her
doing. Her inability to separate her growing dependence on him and her
enormous responsibilities. Just hours earlier, they would have shared more
than bread. They would have shared companionship and friendship.
In the back of her mind, she imagined her mother and father sitting in
their cottage after a hard day of farming and eating a loaf of bread just as
she and Merrick were doing. She’d trade all the royal jewels and the
throne itself to be in that cottage with her parents, living a simple life. At
least she would still have them.
“Piece of bread for your thoughts,” he said, extending the crust heel.
She attempted a smile. “I was imagining Mother and Father in a cottage
such as this.”
His eyes softened, and he took hold of her hand across the table. “When
you return to Leaudor, perhaps you can visit their cottage once everything
has been returned to rights.”
“I should like to live there,” she said ruefully. “I am not sure I will be a
suitable queen. I certainly never expected to become Leaudor’s ruler.”
“Just as I never expected to become earl, but we do what we must. You
will adapt.”
“Are you always so pragmatic?” she asked with an arched eyebrow. She
wanted to ask him if he were always so disgustingly levelheaded. Did he
never do anything remotely rash? Irresponsible? She clenched her teeth to
staunch the tide of accusations. Perhaps she was overwrought. She had no
reason to lambaste him, and moreover, she ought to be grateful for his
extreme calm and intelligence. It had certainly kept her alive thus far.
They were interrupted by the opening of the front door. Merrick whirled
around as the captain entered the cottage.
 “I’ve readied my ship,” he announced in a tired voice. “We’ll board in a
few hours and set sail with the first wind.”
“Did you have any difficulty?” Merrick asked.
The captain removed his hat and scratched his head. “No, but the town
is buzzing. The reward has been raised for information on the woman
criminal and her companion.”
“And the men you hired. Can they be trusted?” Isabella asked.
“Aye. That they can. They’ve sailed with me many a time. I’d trust them
with my life.”
Merrick nodded. “Then all that is left is to make it back into town
without notice and board the ship.”
“I’ve made arrangements that may not be to your liking, but it was the
only way to get you on the ship without someone seeing you,” the captain
said, looking cautiously at the two of them.
She looked enquiringly at him and he continued.
“You’ll get into a crate which my men will then transport to the ship.
You’ll be mixed in with all the cargo.”
“You’ve thought of everything,” Merrick said approvingly.
“If all goes well, we can be in Leaudor in as little as two days.”
Her breath left her in a rush. Two days. She wanted to weep and laugh
all at the same time. For as much as the thought of going home frightened
her immeasurably, she could hardly wait to step onto Leaudorian soil.
Merrick reached out to squeeze her hand. She said nothing, but returned
his squeeze with one of her own.
Her brief moment of joy was brought to a crashing halt when a knock
sounded at the door. Merrick immediately shoved her behind him, and the
captain glanced frantically around.
“To the bedroom, both of you,” he said, gesturing frantically toward the
back of the house. “There is a large trunk Her Highness can hide in.”

Simon took Isabella by the arm and all but dragged her with him to the
bedroom. He threw open the trunk at the foot of the bed and ushered her
inside. After making sure she was tucked into it, he closed the lid. Now
where in the name of God was he going to hide?
After a quick perusal of the room, he resigned himself to the fact that if
anyone came this far, he’d just have to fight his way out because there was
not a place he could fit his large frame. Withdrawing the dagger from his
boot, he eased to the door and placed his ear to it.
“I heard you were putting out tonight,” he heard an unfamiliar voice say.
“Aye, that is so,” the captain replied.
“I’d like to hire on. I’m badly in need of the work.”
“Well, lad, I’d like to help you, but I’ve got a full crew already. We’re
just heading down the coast for a short haul to Brighton.”
Simon strained to hear the rest. The man hesitated a moment then said,
“I heard you might be going to Leaudor.”
“Leaudor? Is that where you’re going, my boy?” The captain chuckled.
“Everyone knows the ports are closed to foreign ships. If you want passage
to Leaudor, I’m afraid you are out of luck.”
The voices grew dimmer and Simon could no longer make out what they
were saying. A few minutes later, the door pushed into his cheek, and he
stepped rapidly back. The captain stood in the doorway.
“You can come out now.”
Simon hurried to the trunk and opened the lid. Isabella scrambled out,
her breath coming in spurts.
“Thank goodness,” she said heavily. “I was about to smother.”
“Who was it?” he asked the captain as they returned to the sitting room.
The captain busied himself adjusting the curtains, then he extinguished
the candle, plunging the room into darkness.
He moved back toward Simon and Isabella and lit a smaller taper then
motioned them into the kitchen. “Stranger. Not a local. Said he wanted to
hire on my ship.” A look of blatant disbelief twisted his face. “Rubbish. I
don’t believe for a minute he was a sailor.”
“How are we going to get into town unnoticed?” she asked, her voice
trembling.
Simon curled an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. If only he
could take away her fear and anxiety. “Don’t worry, Isabella. We will come
up with a plan.”
“The house will be watched for sure,” the captain said grimly. “Getting
the two of you out of here will be tricky at best.”
Simon paced back and forth, his mind whirling with possible options.
None seemed viable enough. They were too dangerous, or too obvious.
There had to be a way he and Isabella could escape to the harbor.
He turned to the captain. “Do you have a cart?”
 Captain Martin nodded.
Simon pressed his lips together. “I may have a way. It’s risky, but then
the alternative is certain capture.”
Isabella looked dubiously at him. “What do you have in mind?”
“The captain could take out pulling the cart. We could stow some
barrels in the back and cover them with blankets. If anyone is watching,
they would naturally assume we are hiding in the cart.”
Isabella’s eyes lit up, glowing brightly in the candlelight. “Of course!
And then we could sneak away while they are occupied with the cart and
rendezvous with the captain in town.”
Simon nodded. “Exactly.”
The captain rubbed his chin in his hand. “It just might work. It doesn’t
appear that we have a choice in the matter. I’ll set to work at once
preparing the cart, and I’ll depart within the hour. Meet me behind the
tavern, but don’t go in.”
He exited the back of the house, leaving Simon and Isabella alone. The
two sat in front of the fire, waiting tensely for the captain to return. Half
an hour later, he strode back in and looked over at them. “It’s time.”
 Chapter Fourteen

Isabella twisted her fingers nervously as Merrick kept watch from the
window. The captain had been gone ten minutes, and the plan was for her
and Merrick to leave in five more.
Fear and anticipation warred within her, sending her stomach into
turmoil. They were so close to achieving their goal, and yet it seemed an
impossible feat. She whispered the familiar prayer her mother had taught
her as a child in a fervent attempt to bolster her courage.
“Are you ready?” Merrick murmured beside her.
She swallowed and nodded.
He took her hand, and his dark eyes reached out to her, comforting her
and infusing her with confidence. “We’ll make it, Isabella. Trust me.”
Struck by the irony of his words, she attempted a smile. Just days ago, it
would have made her physically ill to consider trusting anyone, and now,
she trusted this man implicitly. For if nothing else, he would see her safely
home, or die trying.
With a deep breath, she grasped his hand, and they walked to the back
door. After a quick perusal of the surroundings from the window, he
opened the door and motioned her to follow him. Shrouded in darkness,
they ran for the stable.
Merrick wasted no time saddling the horse. Instead he swung up on its
bare back and reached down to pull Isabella up. He pulled his pistol from
his breeches and handed it to her. “I assume you can shoot.”
Not bothering to answer, she grasped the handle and held it tightly
against her.
He urged the horse forward and they rode out of the stable and directly
into the thick forest behind the house. There was little in the way of
moonlight to guide them as they forged blindly ahead.
With each passing minute, she was convinced someone would leap out
of the trees, but the woods remained eerily silent. The cold seeped into her
bones, and she clamped her mouth shut to prevent her teeth from
chattering.
The few miles into town stretched into an eternity. Hours passed it
seemed, and yet they hadn’t yet breached the outskirts. Her nerves were a
jumbled mass of jam, and her anxiety increased as more time elapsed.
When a rabbit ran across their path and disappeared into the brush, she
nearly fell from the horse. Merrick’s arm tightened around her, and he
whispered in her ear, “Careful. I wouldn’t want the gun to go off and do
me permanent injury.”
His teasing lessened her tension, and she relaxed against him, careful to
maintain a tight grip on the pistol. When the forest opened up suddenly
and the shadow of a cottage loomed ahead, she leaned forward eagerly.
They had made it.
Merrick pulled the horse to a stop a short distance from the cottage and
slid off. He held his arms up to her, and she went without hesitation,
though a thousand questions burned in her mind.
Before she could voice any of them, he tied the horse to a nearby tree
and took her hand. As they walked away from the house, he said in a low
voice, “I think it best if we walk the rest of the way. A horse will gain us
larger notice, and we need to melt into the shadows.”
Of course he would have a solid reason for leaving their horse, and they
wouldn’t be able to take it on the ship anyway. She tried to temper her
eagerness and slow her pace. She was in danger of dragging him behind
her in her haste to get to the tavern and one step closer to the ship.
They hurried between houses, careful to keep in the shadows and out of
plain sight. When they neared the tavern, their pace became more
cautious. They gave the tavern and the well lit interior a wide birth and
circled back from the north.
Merrick paused a distance from the back and watched for a long period
of time. Evidently satisfied that no one was about, he urged Isabella out of
the trees and toward the back alley. He hunkered down between the
building and the large wooden box used for refuse and motioned for
Isabella to do the same.
As she crouched down beside him, he wrapped his arm around her in an
effort to keep her warm. His constant attention to her needs was far more
warming than his actual embrace.
It could be hours yet before the captain summoned them, but she prayed
he would do so before dawn. The cover of darkness gave her a sense of
security that would be absent in the light of day.
“I’m going to take a look in the tavern and see who is about,” Merrick
said after awhile.
 He was likely as antsy as she was and determined not to be caught
unaware. After a quick look in all directions, he stood and peered into the
broken window. He tensed and her heart plummeted.
He slid back down the wall to sit beside her. “I have to go in there.”
“What do you mean you need to go in?” she demanded in a harsh
whisper. “You can’t be seen.”
“Kirk is there, and I need to apprise him of our suspicions. He’s likely
searching for us and may have news for us as well.”
A pulse beat at her temple. “How will you go in unnoticed?”
He blew out his breath. “I’ll go in search of the stable boy that took our
horses when we first arrived and have him deliver a message for Kirk to
meet us out here.”
“I don’t like it,” she said resolutely. “Shouldn’t we just wait for the
captain?” She tried to swallow back the panic that threatened to choke her.
For them to have come this far and risk exposure now was insanity.
“I have to do this, Isabella.” He stared directly into her eyes. “It is my
duty to keep England safe against outside threats. If I keep what
information we have to myself, I go against every thing I stand for.”
Her face grew hot then she felt shame. Her irritation was senseless. Of
course he had other obligations besides her. Just as she was loyal to
Leaudor, he was just as fiercely loyal to England, and she should not
expect her needs to be placed above the safety of an entire nation.
“Be careful,” she whispered as her way of acknowledging his statement.
“You have the pistol. Don’t hesitate to use it,” he said. Then he slipped
away down the alley.
She hunched down and prayed that no one would find her. Prayed that
Merrick would make it back alive. Prayed that the captain would show up.
Prayed she would be in Leaudor soon.
The wait for Merrick lasted forever, but finally he returned and settled
back down beside her.
“Well?” she asked anxiously.
“The boy is delivering the message. Now we wait for Kirk to arrive.”
They didn’t have to wait long. A few minutes later, a soft whistle
sounded to their right. Merrick pursed his lips and returned the call. Then
he stood up.
Kirk hurried forward out of the darkness. “Merrick?”
“Here,” Merrick said.
 “God, it’s good to see you. I worried when I hadn’t heard from you.”
Isabella watched the two men, the easy rapport between them, likely
born of the many years they had spent in service together. Genuine concern
radiated from Kirk, and for the first time, she relaxed her guard around
him.
“Princess,” he said with a nod in her direction. “I trust you are well.”
“Very well thanks to Merrick.”
“We’ve much to discuss, Kirk. And not much time.”
Kirk immediately sobered and focused all his attention on Merrick.
“Did you speak with the Duke of Ardmore? Have you heard any rumors
of a Leaudorian alliance with France?”
Kirk reacted in surprise and ignored the first question. “None at all. Is
this what you think is occurring?”
Merrick quickly outlined all the captain had related to them about the
mindset in Leaudor. Then he paused a moment before recounting her
capture the day before. When he came to the possible reference to
Bonaparte’s escape, blatant disbelief shone on Kirk’s face.
“It sounds too unbelievable,” he said with a shake of his head. “And yet,
if it is true, everything that has happened in Leaudor makes sense.”
“That is my thought as well,” Merrick replied.
“So if Montagne is a Bonaparte sympathizer and knows of a possible
escape, his efforts to overthrow the monarchy of Leaudor could be an
attempt to place Leaudor in Bonaparte’s hands.”
“I told Merrick that a few months before my parents’ deaths, a
contingent of Bonapartists came to Leaudor to speak with my father. If
they were unable to sway him, they may well have found a sympathetic ear
in Jacques,” she spoke up.
“I think you may have hit upon something,” Kirk murmured. “The
coincidences are just too staggering to mean nothing. God, if it’s true and
Bonaparte is planning an escape, the guards on Elba must be notified at
once.”
“I had hoped to get word to you so you could handle things on this end
while I transport Isabella to Leaudor,” Merrick said.
Kirk arched an eyebrow. “You’re going to Leaudor with the princess?”
“Yes,” he said in a voice that brooked no argument. “I’ve promised to
see her safely home and find out all I can about how this mess affects both
our countries. There are those in Leaudor trying to implicate England in
the assassinations. Too much rides on our alliance with France. We cannot
allow anyone to upend it.”
“Yes, of course, you should,” Kirk said after a moment. “Perhaps you
can find out if there is any validity to the claim that Leaudor is allying
with France.”
“I trust you will inform the duke of my plans.”
“Do you think that wise?” she and Kirk spoke up at the same time.
Merrick turned to her. “I would not do anything I thought would bring
you harm, Isabella.”
“I know you wouldn’t,” she said, outstretching her hand to his. “But our
pursuers have had the uncanny knack of finding us wherever we go. Surely
you cannot discount the coincidences as they pile up.”
It pained her to question him, but his unwillingness to consider that his
government could be in league with Jacques concerned her a great deal.
Ignoring her protests, he turned back to Kirk. “Ride straight to his grace
and tell him of my suspicions. Castlereigh will need to be informed and
word sent to Wellington in Vienna. Extra guards should be posted on Elba
to ensure Bonaparte is secure.”
Kirk nodded. “I must go. I don’t want to draw attention to you or the
princess.” He turned to walk away but paused. “Be careful, Merrick. I
don’t like all I am hearing. If you and the princess are right, the
ramifications for our countries could be great.”
The two men clasped hands and Kirk nodded at her. “I wish you the best,
Your Highness.”
“Thank you,” she said.
She blinked as Kirk disappeared, swallowed up into the night as if he
had never been there. A frown plagued her and she chewed her lip
absently. Silently, she hunched back down in the shadows.
“Is something wrong?”
She glanced over at Merrick and shook her head. This certainly wasn’t
the time or place to air her disagreement.
“Something’s bothering you, what is it?” he persisted as he scrunched
down beside her once more.
Gritting her teeth, she swallowed back the urge to growl at his
perception. When he continued to stare at her, she sighed. “Do you really
think it’s wise to place so much trust in the people you work for?”
He stiffened beside her. “Are you questioning me?”
 She glanced sideways at him. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
He returned her stare, his eyes blazing in the night. “The people I work
with are the only people I can trust. Kirk is my family. More so than
Edward or my father ever were. My duty, my first obligation is to inform
the regent of any suspicion I may have, substantiated or not. I cannot
remain quiet about all that I have learned. I cannot.”
Isabella felt a pang at the pain in his voice, but there was underlying
anger. Anger at her for questioning the motives of the people he trusted.
There was so much more to his motives than just duty and honor. Every
word he spoke resonated with determination. A determination to succeed.
Not to fail. Not for the first time, she wondered how his relationship with
his family played into his accepting a position with the government.
She blew on her hands to keep them warm and looked warily around
before continuing. “Why didn’t you quit the agency after your father died?
I can’t imagine your superiors not understanding in light of you inheriting
the title.”
He shifted beside her then rubbed his hand over his face, pinching the
bridge of his nose. His discomfort was apparent and she felt a moment of
guilt for bringing up what was clearly a painful issue.
“It was what my father would have wanted—expected,” he finally
replied as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.
It was becoming clearer to her. “You were determined to follow your
own course in life, one plotted by you and not a man who had no use for
you until your brother, the heir, died.”
He looked impressed by her perception. Then the corner of his mouth
crooked up in a rueful half smile. “I suppose that is a perfectly dreadful
reason, but the truth is, he never needed me. But England did. My work
was—is—important. Thousands of lives have been saved thanks to our
hard work. Somehow that seemed more important than retiring to the
country to breed an heir to a title I never wanted.”
“Did you ever resent Edward?” she asked softly.
He looked away, guilt flashing in his eyes. “No! Yes…God…” His voice
trailed off. “I am ashamed to say that at one time I did resent him. I used
to think if he weren’t there that Father would love me. And then he died
and all I could think about were the times I wished him away.”
“I wished my brothers away on more than one occasion,” she said wryly.
“I think it’s the nature of having siblings.”
 “I just wanted to have a relationship. Any sort of relationship with
Father and Edward. Wanted us to be a family. When I joined the agency, it
became my family.”
“But—”
“I trust no one,” he interrupted her before she could continue. “But I
trust the men who have continually risked their lives alongside me to
ensure England is safe from outside threats.”
She pressed her lips together and fell silent. His harsh whispers had
risen above the still night air. His tone suggested no further discussion of
the matter, and she had no desire to anger him further. Her own agitation
had grown until her jaw ached from clamping it shut.
His hand reached for her arm, lifting it up then sliding his palm down
until he entwined their fingers. “You can trust me, Isabella. I swear it.”
“It isn’t you I don’t trust,” she said simply.
Before he could respond, a noise sounded down the alley. She tensed and
strained her eyes to see the source. Seconds later, the captain appeared out
of the mist and she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Your Highness?” he called softly.
“We’re here,” she said standing up.
Merrick stood beside her as the captain stopped in front of them.
“The ship’s ready if you are.”
“Yes,” she said in a husky voice. “I’m ready. Ready to go home.”
 Chapter Fifteen

Isabella gazed out at the ship with a mixture of hope and joy. Around her,
preparations were under way as cargo was loaded and men hustled back
and forth down the gangplank.
“Your Highness, you must hurry,” the captain hissed. “You mustn’t be
seen.”
She was startled into action and quickly climbed into the large crate. As
she settled down, the lid closed above her and she felt a moment’s panic.
For several seconds, she breathed heavily, convinced she had no air. Then
she felt a cool draft and relaxed.
The crate surged upward as it was hoisted, and she swayed and rocked
as the men loaded it onto the ship. The captain had explained that the
crates she and Merrick had hidden in would be loaded first so that other
cargo would be placed on top. Only after the ship was well at sea would
the crew dig them out.
Once again she offered a silent prayer that they sailed from Dover
unmolested. She closed her eyes tightly and called up the faces of her
beloved family and the vivid images of her homeland. Soon, if all went
well, she would be back on Leaudorian soil. And then she would seek
justice for the crimes against her loved ones.
The entire crate shook as it hit the ground, jarring her uncomfortably.
Excitement curled in her stomach. She was aboard the ship. Using every
ounce of self control, she willed herself to relax in the darkness and wait.
An eternity later, she felt the floor beneath her surge. The increased
rocking motion signaled their departure. They were underway.
She closed her eyes and a single tear escaped down her cheek. She was
on her way home. The creaking and groaning in the boards around her
comforted her and lulled her closer to sleep.
How long she dozed she wasn’t certain. Her eyes fluttered open,
awareness creeping over her. She blinked rapidly and strained her ears for
the source of her alarm.
Then she heard scraping and banging, loud thumps getting closer and
closer. Surely it wasn’t time for the captain to release her and Merrick yet.
 She held her breath, trying to hear the distant voices. They became
louder until finally she was able to make out what they were saying.
“I’m sure the captain will have no objection to our searching his cargo,”
an unfamiliar voice said.
“I certainly do,” the captain huffed. “What’s the meaning of this? You
said you merely wanted to inspect the cargo hold.”
“I do, my good captain, but in order to ascertain whether smuggled
goods are aboard, it is necessary to inspect the crates as well.”
“I must protest. Under whose authority do you commit such a search?”
“His Highness, the Prince Regent,” the man replied.
She jumped when she heard a crack above her. More splintering of wood
and the sound of the crates sliding over the tops of one another. She
pressed a knuckled fist to her mouth, trying desperately to remain calm.
“What’s the meaning of this, Captain?” the man demanded. “The crates
are empty.”
“Aye, they are,” the captain said with a chuckle. “That’s what usually
occurs when we are sailing to collect goods.”
“And what exactly do you plan to collect?” the man asked in a
suspicious sounding voice.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” the captain bit back.
Suddenly shouts erupted and scuffling ensued. Wood crashed around
her. Grunts, thumps, cries of pain pierced the wooden crate she was hidden
in. What was going on? Would she be found out?
As the noise grew louder, she pounded her palm upward, trying to open
the lid, but apparently another crate still lay on top because it wouldn’t
budge.
She settled back in frustration as the din increased. The crate shook then
she was thrown to one side as it slid several feet over.
After several minutes of complete mayhem, silence suddenly fell. Then
she heard footsteps. Louder and closer until they stopped right beside her
crate. The top shook as the crate trapping her in was shoved to the side.
Her mouth went completely dry. She blinked rapidly, praying the sudden
light would not blind her. She had to be prepared to fight.
She heard the lock click and then rattle as it was thrown to the side.
Every muscle in her body tensed in preparation for the lid to open. Sweat
beaded her forehead and trickled down her neck as her dread increased.
 She braced her hands on either side as the lid slowly started to open. Her
legs arched and she prepared to lash out.
Then Merrick’s head appeared over the side, and all the tension left her
body in one fell swoop. She sagged against the bottom like a limp washing
rag.
“It’s safe now,” he said, extending a hand to help pull her out.
As her head cleared the top of the crate, she looked out to see chaos
around her. The entire cargo hold looked like a war had been waged. In the
far corner, three surly looking men sat bound together. The captain and
several members of his crew stood to the side holding pistols on the
captured men.
“What happened?” she demanded as she stepped over the side of the
crate. Merrick held his arms out and lowered her to the floor beside him.
“These men came aboard posing as inspectors. Never mind that we
haven’t such in England,” he said dryly. “Their accents are as deplorable
as their manners.”
“They are Leaudorian?” she asked, her eyes growing wide. Not waiting
for an answer, she rushed forward. She stood above the tied up men and
stared down at them with all the royal bearing she could muster. “Who are
you?”
They grunted at her in response.
“Well, you obviously know who I am,” she said in a steely voice. She
turned and walked a few steps away then turned back to them in a casual
stance. “And you also must know that when I return to Leaudor, I become
queen.”
A flicker of fear shone in the eyes of the man in front before he looked
down.
“And you must also know what we do with traitors in Leaudor.” Her
voice was icy now and conveyed all the hatred she felt for the people who
had murdered her family.
“You won’t ever be queen,” one of the other men spat.
She fixed him with a glacial stare. “Yes, I will. And when I am queen,
you three will rot in Laugerfeld.”
Two of them paled at the mention of the much feared prison. Most
preferred death to a sentence there, and it was reserved only for the most
heinous of criminals in Leaudor. Indeed in the past one hundred years, it
had housed only twenty-five persons.
 “Can you lock them away, Captain?” she asked, walking calmly over to
where he stood. “Perhaps if they later decide to speak to their queen, she
might consider a lesser sentence.”
With a haughty flip of her head, she nodded to Merrick to assist her
from the cargo hold. He obeyed without question, an astonished look on
his face.
A few minutes later, they were topside, and she uncurled her fingers
from the tight fists she had formed. She rubbed her hands over her arms to
warm herself then blew on her hands. Anger still simmered beneath her
surface, and she fought to relax her clenched jaw. No one. Absolutely no
one would keep her from her goal. She would lie cold in her grave before
she allowed Montagne a clear path to the throne.
Coward. Couldn’t even face her himself. Had inept henchmen to do his
dirty work for him.
She let out a deep calming breath and moved to the side rail of the ship.
In the distance, she could make out the faint outline of Dover as they put
more distance between them and England. And brought her one step closer
to going home and fulfilling her destiny.
She could feel Merrick’s gaze on her, probing and assessing. His
scrutiny made her uncomfortable so she turned to face him. “Is something
amiss?”
The perplexed look on his face faded rapidly away, and he closed the
distance between them. “No, not at all.” He paused a moment and cocked
his head sideways at her.
She arched a disbelieving eyebrow at him.
“Well, I suppose I was a bit taken aback back there. That is, I don’t
suppose until now that I truly saw you as the future Queen of Leaudor…
Your Highness.”
Discomfort plagued her at his words. He sounded so stiff, so formal
now. Not at all like the man who had endured so much with her in the past
several days.
“Can you not look beyond who I will become and concentrate on who I
am?” she asked in a near pleading voice.
“In a few days, my familiarity will not only be unseemly, but
disrespectful,” he said stiffly. “I just cannot credit that you will be queen.
Not the woman…”
 His voice trailed off into nothing, and he compressed his lips together as
if regretting what he was about to say.
“Not the woman what?” she prompted softly.
He glanced back up at her, his eyes barely discernible in the soft glow of
the lanterns bobbing back and forth as the crew passed above and below
deck.
“Not the woman I’ve held and comforted…and kissed,” he finally said.
Her cheeks warmed, and inexplicably, she felt the prick of tears. She
blinked rapidly to ward them off and moved even closer to him. “The
woman you held is who I am. No title will ever change that.” She placed
her hands on his chest, splaying her fingers out. “Did inheriting the title of
earl change the man in here?” Her fingers pressed into his chest over his
heart. “Did you stop being the man who served his country all because
your name changed?”
He closed his hands over hers, holding them tightly against his chest.
“No.”
“I cannot bear it if you start viewing me differently, Merrick. Not after
all we have endured together. This stiffness I feel in you, the awkwardness,
this isn’t the man I held.”
She felt him relax beneath her hands, and her relief was so great she
nearly sagged against him. She leaned forward and rested her forehead just
above where her hands lay on his chest.
He lifted one of his hands and cupped the back of her head, leaving his
other hand over hers. Gentle fingers smoothed her hair, and for a brief
moment, she wished she wasn’t the heir to the throne. Wished she and
Merrick were just two normal people with only themselves to consider. No
responsibility to a nation of people. No justice to seek for the family she
lost.
She shivered against him as the brisk air blew over them. His hands
gripped her shoulders and pulled her away from him. “We should go to our
cabins where it’s warmer.”
Nodding, she followed behind him.
He stopped outside a door, opened it and gestured her inside. “Since the
captain is fully aware of our circumstances, we no longer need to share a
cabin for appearances. I’ll be next door should you have need of me.”
A tiny pang of disappointment tightened her chest, but she offered a
quick smile and ducked into the cabin. She leaned against the door when it
shut behind her, closing her eyes. Her hands brushed over the rough wood,
and she felt the prick of splinters in her back.
She opened her eyes and glanced over the sparsely furnished room. A
small bed, an upright barrel beside it with a half-burned candle. To the side
of the candle lay a small bundle of dried flowers bound with a leather tie,
seemingly out of place in the rustic cabin.
With a sigh, she pushed away from the door and crossed the cabin to the
bed. She sat down on the side and pulled her boots from her feet. After
rummaging through the drawers below the bed, she found a nightshirt. She
peeled her clothing from her body and put on the clean-smelling shirt.
Then she climbed beneath the covers and snuggled into the pillow.
In the morning, she was going to find soap and a washing cloth if she
had to search every cabin. She had begun to fantasize about wonderfully
scented baths and being able to submerge her entire head in a tub of water
to give her hair a good washing.
As she lay staring up at the ceiling, she tried to envision Merrick in the
next cabin. Wondered what he was doing and missed his presence next to
her.
She flopped over and stared at her door instead. It was at least more
interesting than the ceiling. And she could imagine it opening and him
walking in.
Or she could just go to sleep and quit acting like a girl fresh out of the
schoolroom who had just received her first invitation to dance. Acting like
she had the right to dream.
The chasm that separated them was vast. More than her being queen,
more than him being an English lord. Duty, honor, revenge, nationality. All
those things floated around like tormented souls doomed to haunt a
particular spot.
Would that she was a simple English miss or that he was a modest
Leaudorian farmer. But they were neither of those things and too many
people counted on them to be who they were. Furthermore it was time for
her to get past her fears of ruling a nation and accept her responsibilities.
She turned over again, this time facing the wall. She closed her eyes and
willed herself to sleep. To forget everything but the fact she was finally
returning home.
 Chapter Sixteen

Simon woke after only a few hours of sleep. The rocking and swaying of
the ship had been a welcome lullaby, but now he was alert and refreshed.
He swung his legs over the side of the bunk and rose, wiping his eyes to
clear the hazy film.
He called for water and a basin and spared only a few minutes to dress
and wash before hastening to the captain’s quarters. He knocked and the
call came from within for him to enter.
“You’re just in time for breakfast,” the captain said from the small table
across the room.
Simon ducked in, glancing around the small room. Books adorned
nearly every inch of space on the shelves, and not all were nautical. The
captain was well-read. As he drew closer, Simon noted that the captain had
apparently laid aside a book he was reading to take breakfast.
“Sit,” the captain urged, motioning to the chair across from him.
Simon did as he was bidden and settled back in the chair, still taking in
his surroundings. While it appeared on the surface that the captain kept
less than neat quarters, upon closer examination, all the many items were
very meticulously placed about the cabin. If anything the captain suffered
from too little room.
The bed was impeccably made, the blankets tightly drawn across the
mattress. The only piece of clothing in sight was a perfectly folded shirt
lying at the end of the bed.
He deduced that the captain made his home aboard the ship even when it
was docked. His cabin echoed his personality much more than the bland,
nondescript cottage he owned in Dover.
The cabin was dotted with a range of personal items, ones that were
certainly not a necessity aboard a ship. Newspapers, books, paintings, even
a sketchpad that Simon wagered the captain likely dabbled on.
“Would you care for something to eat?” the captain asked, breaking
through his thoughts.
He nodded and gratefully took the wedge of buttered bread the captain
offered him. “How long before we arrive in Leaudor?” he asked around a
mouthful of bread.
 The captain rose and wiped his mouth then threw down his napkin.
Shoving back his chair, he motioned for Simon to follow him.
The older man ambled over to a pedestal that held a variety of maps and
charts. He fished through the stack then drew out one that showed Leaudor
as well as the coastline of Belgium.
Smoothing it out, he cleared his throat then pointed to the western
shoreline of Leaudor. “This is where we will enter Leaudor.”
Simon nodded and waited for the captain to continue.
“The southern and eastern ports have all been closed, virtually isolating
the country. While we could sail around to the north, our chances of
docking and the princess disembarking unnoticed are slight.”
Simon frowned. “So docking on the western shore is your suggestion?”
The captain chuckled. “Not exactly, my lord. There are no ports on the
western side. The entire coastline is rocky, sparsely populated and the
currents are treacherous.” He paused and stared hard at Simon. “We aren’t
going to dock. We’ll drop anchor off the shoreline, and my men will row
you ashore. Preferably at night when you won’t gain any notice.”
The captain sounded knowledgeable, which gave Simon confidence that
he would get them to Leaudor in the safest possible manner. “I like the
plan,” he said finally. “It appears that you’ve taken everything into
consideration. I’ll apprise Isabella…Her Highness of your plan.”
“I wish you both Godspeed,” the captain said in a grave voice. “The
princess has a difficult task ahead of her. Montagne has much support, and
the people of Leaudor are just waiting for him to be crowned. If all the
princess says is true, he won’t easily allow her to take the throne.”
The captain’s words rang ominously in Simon’s ears. It wasn’t anything
he didn’t already know, but hearing it voiced aloud sent a cold chill down
his spine. Once he and Isabella reached Leaudor, they were no longer
under the protection of the British crown or law. He could do little to help
her if they were captured.
“If you will excuse me, Captain, I will inform Her Highness of your
intentions.”
The captain nodded. “If the weather holds, I anticipate dropping anchor
off the western coast tomorrow evening.”
Simon left the captain’s cabin and strode toward Isabella’s. He paused a
moment outside her door, wondering if he wasn’t better served to let her
rest. No, she would want to know exactly what was going to occur at the
earliest possible moment.
He knocked softly and waited for her response. Almost immediately the
door swung open and she stood before him. She presented a glorious sight,
a nightshirt clipping the top of her knees, her long, disheveled hair thrown
carelessly over one shoulder.
And she looked glad to see him.
She stepped away from the door and gestured for him to come in. As he
stepped over the threshold, she shut the door firmly behind him.
“If you’ll excuse me but a moment while I dress,” she said, stepping
behind a dressing screen secured to the wall.
He watched as she threw the nightshirt over the top of the screen and
clenched his jaw as he imagined her naked behind it. Why was he torturing
himself? He shifted uncomfortably and sat down on the edge of the bed,
hoping to at least disguise the extent of his discomfort.
Seconds later, she reappeared from behind the screen dressed in a clean
shirt and breeches. She smoothed her hands down the legs of her pants and
crossed the room to where he sat.
“How are you faring this morning?” she asked.
He could detect a hint of nervousness in her voice and wondered if she
was as affected by his presence as he was hers. With a mental shake of his
head, he directed his thoughts to the matter at hand.
“I’ve spoken to the captain. We should be in Leaudor by tomorrow
evening.”
He quickly recounted all the captain had told him then watched as she
absorbed his words.
“It’s a sound plan,” she admitted, chewing the bottom of her lip in
concentration. “And we shouldn’t have far to travel to the monastery
depending on where we come ashore.”
“You intend to visit the monastery first?” he asked in surprise. He had
assumed she hasten to the palace.
“I must see Father Ling first. He can tell me if Jacques has been
successful in recovering the relics. He can also tell us exactly what has
been going on since the deaths of my family,” she said after a deep breath.
“How far is the monastery from the palace?” he asked.
“Not terribly far by horse,” she replied. “The monastery lies on the
western coast. The monks are said to be the keepers of the caves so the
entrance is not far from the monastery. The palace is further inland atop
Soleil Mountain.”
Mountains, caves—it all sounded difficult, not to mention treacherous.
He felt a twinge of doubt nag at him. How could he and Isabella go against
an unknown number of forces, practically take on an entire nation to right
the wrongs against her family?
Montagne had gathered much support according to the captain, and
Isabella’s claims might well fall on deaf ears. And the fact that an
Englishman was aiding her might lend further credence to the conspiracy
theory Montagne was spewing.
He said a fervent prayer that Kirk was successful in thwarting any
escape attempt by Bonaparte. If that was indeed in the works, his failure to
leave Elba could signal difficulties for Bonaparte sympathizers in Leaudor.
“Do you regret agreeing to help me?” she asked softly.
“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “Not at all, it’s my duty,” he
rushed to say. His tongue seemed to rebel against him as he faltered to get
the words out.
Her face fell then she stiffened beside him. Rising, she glanced back at
him with those unreadable eyes he hadn’t seen since their first days
together. “Yes, well, you mustn’t be remiss in your duty.”
She was bothered by something, but damned if he knew what it was.
Perhaps she was growing more worried as they drew closer to her country.
“We will find the people responsible for your parents’ deaths,” he said
in an attempt to reassure her once more. It was what she wanted to hear no
doubt, something to bolster her flagging confidence.
But her expression remained stoic. “Yes, I know,” she said in a slightly
clipped tone.
Her entire body was stiff and she flipped agitatedly at her hair.
Annoyance burned in her eyes, and he realized perhaps she thought he was
hinting that she was incapable of seeking justice. Instead of offering more
platitudes, which he was sure would annoy her, he closed his mouth and
remained silent.
A knock sounded at the door, and he immediately rose, but Isabella beat
him to the door. A young man stood bearing a breakfast tray and handed it
over to Isabella.
She smiled and thanked him then carried the tray over to the bed. “Have
you eaten?” she asked as she uncovered the bread, cheese and a steaming
meat pie.
“Yes, earlier with the captain.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Should you not have summoned me so that I
could be present when the captain presented his plan?”
The imperious tone had returned, and it made him wretchedly
uncomfortable. Not only did it outline in stark detail the vast distance
between them, but it represented a coldness between them that hadn’t
existed until now.
“You may be certain in the future I will not make such a mistake, Your
Highness.”
A flicker of hurt flashed in her eyes but was gone in a second. He felt
instant regret, but her demeanor hurt him, though he was loathe to admit
it. “I should return to my cabin now,” he said in a low voice.
He walked out the door before she could say anything. Perhaps going
above deck would clear his head.
***
Simon stayed as far from Isabella’s cabin as he could for the remainder
of the day. The air was crisp, and the sea breeze stout, but the coldness
kept his mind focused.
He watched the sun sink over the horizon, reflecting gold against the
pink and purple hues that had long since replaced the blue canvas. In the
twilight, he could make out the first stars as they appeared in the
darkening sky. Soon the moon would rise and night would fall. The last
night before an uncertain tomorrow.
Whatever accounted for Isabella’s curtness, he wanted to correct it
before they left the ship. They had encountered far too much together, and
he wanted the same trust and easy rapport between them when they
embarked on the next leg of their quest.
His hands gripped the side railing of the ship as he steadied himself
over a swell. For the first time, the idea of success didn’t fill him with
satisfaction. For once he disposed of the threats against Isabella, she
would become queen and he would return to England. The likelihood of
even seeing her again was slim.
There was only tonight.
Drawing his shoulders up, he turned and walked back to Isabella’s cabin.
He stood for several long seconds outside the door, debating whether to
knock or just go in. His determination fueled his courage, and he opened
the door in one motion, stepping in before he waited for her summons.
His jaw dropped when he saw her standing across the room in front of
the washbasin. She turned when she heard him, just as surprised as he was.
She dropped the cloth she had been washing herself with and returned his
stare.
Her long hair fell in waves to her waist and swayed with her motion.
Slender, bare legs slid seductively from beneath her shirt, and the shirt
was parted giving him the barest peek of the swells of her breast. His gaze
daren’t go lower. He locked onto her face, feeling foolish for barging in
unannounced.
“My apologies,” he finally to say around a tongue that didn’t seem to
want to cooperate.
But before he could turn and go, she reached up and gripped the lapels
of her shirt in her hands and slowly pulled them over her shoulders, baring
her breasts to his avid gaze. Her eyes locked with his, and he read
insecurity, nervousness and desire within their depths. Then she shrugged
from the shirt and let it fall in a pool at her feet.
 Chapter Seventeen

Isabella stood tremulously before Merrick, praying that her courage didn’t
desert her. His eyes flashed as they swept over her body and darkened to
obsidian.
Then she prayed he wouldn’t turn and walk out.
But he moved closer, the blatant desire in his eyes frightening and
arousing her all at the same time. He stopped directly in front of her, mere
inches separating them.
She was a fool to throw herself so shamelessly at this man, but her body
ached for him, her soul ached for him. And in her heart, she knew she
would never feel this way about another man. Even the man she would
eventually marry and produce heirs with.
There was no guarantee of what tomorrow would bring, and she wanted
to experience the closeness, cement the bond between them. Wanted to
pretend for one night that nothing else mattered. Not their duties. Not the
uncertainty that awaited her in Leaudor.
Slowly his head lowered, and he captured her lips in a hot, breathless
kiss. She melted against him, molding the curves of her body to his hard
frame.
He drew away the merest fraction of a distance, his breath still blowing
hot on her face. “Isabella…are you sure?”
In response, she curled her arms around his neck and pulled him back to
her. His touch elicited the most delicious sensations all over her body. He
ran his hands down the curve of her back and over her buttocks then up her
sides and to her breasts.
Cupping them in his hands, he rolled the tips between his thumb and
forefinger. A moan tore from her lips, swallowed up just as quickly by his
mouth.
He raised his hands to frame her cheeks as he rained tiny kisses over her
face. Then he delved his fingers into her hair, smoothing back the tendrils
behind her ears. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered.
She smiled, warmed by his words. Pulling away, she began removing his
shirt from his breeches, but paused as it came free. “I have heard that there
are ways to prevent pregnancy… Are you well-versed in those ways?”
 Mortification tightened her face as she waited his reaction. She knew
she was being unforgivably forward, but in her position, she could not
afford to be naïve, nor could she afford to ascend the throne with an
illegitimate child.
A chuckle sounded deep in his chest. “Indeed. It’s been a while, I’m
afraid, but it’s not something a man forgets.”
A ridiculous smile lessened the tension in her cheeks. The idea that it
had been so long since he’d been with another woman gave her immense
satisfaction.
Tentatively her fingers worked at the laces to his breeches then she
hooked her thumbs in the waist and slid them around to either side. She
stared into his eyes as she began working his breeches down his legs.
Unable to contain her curiosity, her gaze dropped as his manhood sprang
free from his pants. It was hardly similar to all the nude statues that
adorned the palace. It was a lot larger.
Her breath caught in her chest, and she struggled to take in air.
Imagining the mechanics of taking it into her body had her face scorching.
He stepped back to kick his legs free from his pants then returned to
stand close to her. He gathered the material of his shirt in his hands and
quickly pulled it over his head, tossing it aside.
Never before had she seen anything as glorious as Merrick’s nude form.
This was a man artists would fight over to sculpt, paint, view.
His long legs stood slightly apart, his hands at his sides as she drank
him in. Her gaze darted over his hips and tightly drawn abdomen. Not an
ounce of spare flesh gathered around the midsection that led to a muscular,
broad chest.
A fine smattering of hair curled in the hollow of his chest and tapered to
a fine line leading down to his groin. Unable to resist, she ran her hands
over the dips and ridges of his chest and abdomen, loving the feel of his
skin beneath her fingertips. It felt smooth, only slightly rough under her
palms, rugged and completely male.
And finally as her courage mounted, she dipped her hand to curl around
his rigid shaft.
His quick intake of breath as she began a slow up and down motion told
her she wasn’t making a complete muck of things and gave her courage to
continue on.
 He placed his hands on her shoulders and walked her back toward the
bed. “You’re a minx,” he growled in a voice that sent chill bumps over
every inch of body.
Placing one hand behind her neck and the other on her hip, he lowered
her to the bed and followed her down. His hand left her hip and ran over
the smooth skin of her belly then up to her breasts.
As he kissed her, his tongue teased the corners of her mouth until she
retaliated with her own tongue, meeting his and dueling in sensuous
harmony.
She gasped against his mouth when his hand dipped between her legs
and lightly brushed over her curls. Her legs parted in unconscious
invitation. Taking advantage, he pressed a thumb between the folds of her
skin and found her sensitive nub.
She nearly shot off the bed, gripping his shoulders as sensations
resembling lightning bolts shot up her body. Squeezing her legs tightly
against his seeking fingers, she moaned and twisted in agony.
“Relax,” he murmured, removing his hand from behind her head.
He placed his knees on either side of her legs, trapping her underneath
him. He sat up and stared down at her, his eyes smoldering with desire.
Both his hands came out to cover her breasts, molding them to the
contours of his palms. He rolled the tips between his fingers, and she
closed her eyes, arching into his caress.
Then his hands left her breasts and captured her arms, swinging them
over her head. He leaned forward as he pressed her shoulders into the
mattress, and he trailed his fingertips from her wrists, down the tender
skin on the inside of her elbow and beyond.
As she drew her arms down to touch him, he was quick to place them
back above her head. She was completely at his mercy.
Slowly, he lowered his lips to one taut peak and sucked it between his
lips. She gasped and struggled to free her arms from his grasp. He
chuckled and turned his attention to her other breast.
He flicked out his tongue, ever so lightly licking the stiff nipple. Parts
of her that didn’t bear mentioning tightened unbearably until she feared
she might explode.
She writhed beneath him as he continued his assault on her breasts. His
wet tongue ran over the tips until she wanted to scream at him to take it all
in his mouth.
 Then he did. And she experienced the single most intense thrill of her
life. The room swirled around her, and finally she was able to free one of
her hands. She gripped the back of his hair pulling him closer, not
allowing him to stop his devilish attack on her senses.
When she could stand no more, she yanked his head away, nearly
growling in her ferocity. She rose up as much as she could and forced his
mouth to hers.

Simon matched her intensity with everything he had. Never before had
he made love to such a responsive woman. She was bold, daring and met
his advances with equal force. In short, she was magnificent.
Her nails scoured his back, clearly marking him as her own. He crushed
his mouth down over hers, responding to her need for more. No space
remained between their bodies as they undulated in perfect rhythm. And
he hadn’t even entered her yet.
Her fiery gaze scorched him. She nipped his chin, his lips, his tongue
with her teeth. Then she lowered her head and sank her teeth in his neck.
“God, Isabella,” he panted, trying desperately to control his raging need.
She shoved at him, and, in one smooth motion, rolled him over so that
she sat atop him. A mischievous smile curved her swollen lips. Her
gorgeous, perfect breasts swayed before him like forbidden fruit. Fruit he
desperately wanted to taste again.
The pink tips were erect and stiff, just perfect to suckle. He leaned up
and circled the puckered aureole with his tongue then sank his teeth into
the nipple. She nearly bolted right off his chest.
“Come here,” he rasped, curling his hands around her waist and
positioning her so that her breasts swayed just inches from his mouth.
Two ripe, succulent peaches bobbed over him, and he was intent on
devouring both. He lapped at them with his tongue then sucked them
alternately into his mouth, grazing his teeth over the sensitive buds.
She ground her pelvis against him, and he was frantic to sink into her
and never withdraw.
“Isabella,” he gasped out.
“What?” she answered in a tortured voice.
“I can’t go slow…can’t be gentle. I don’t want to hurt you.”
He was sure she was a virgin, and he had never lain with one. Virgin. It
hit him with the force of a rock. His conscience pulled and nagged at him.
He was about to take the virginity of the future Queen of Leaudor.
“I don’t want you to be gentle,” she said through gritted teeth.
He rolled back over her and spread her legs. “Isabella, are you sure? I
can’t hold back any longer. You must be sure this is what you want. Tell
me to stop and I will.”
Sweat beaded his forehead, and he knew if he didn’t thrust into her now
he would spend his seed on her belly before he ever got inside her. But still
he waited, looking deeply into her eyes, searching for any resistance, any
sign that she didn’t want what was about to take place.
In response, she arched her back and wrapped her legs tightly around his
waist. “I may die tomorrow,” she whispered. “Even if I survive to take the
throne, I would have no other man be my first.”
With a feral growl, he found her entrance and sank to her very depths in
one thrust.
She stiffened, and for a moment, he feared he had hurt her. But then he
looked down at the complete ecstasy displayed on her face and knew that
wasn’t the case. She bucked against him, urging him on even before he
rocked against her again.
Gripping her waist in his hands, he withdrew and plunged again, feeling
the most indescribable pleasure he had ever experienced. His chest
tightened as he sought to plant himself into her soul.
She was wild underneath him, rising to meet each thrust, her head
thrown back in wanton abandonment. He had never seen a more beautiful
sight.
A soft wail escaped her lips as her body arched and tightened. Her eyes
shut tightly, and her mouth opened as more sounds of pleasure spilled
forth. She convulsed around him, the velvety softness of her sheath
caressing him, gripping him.
He was nearing his own peak as he watched her plummet over the edge,
spiraling into the soft aftermath of her climax.
It was the hardest thing he had ever had to do, but he ripped himself
from her as he felt his seed rushing to release. Gripping her tightly against
him he pulsed against her abdomen, devouring her lips with his mouth,
swallowing her cries of joy and muffling his own shouts of triumph.
As she quieted beneath him, he loosened his hold on her and smoothed
her damp hair from her face. He kissed her tenderly, a change from their
frantic urgency mere seconds ago. She snuggled tightly against him, and
his chest constricted with the surge of emotion she elicited.
“Is it always like that?” she asked in a blissful tone.
He laughed. “Indeed not, and for that I am grateful. I couldn’t survive
such an experience on a regular basis.” But even as he said it, he knew he
spoke an untruth. He could never tire of being intimate with her, and he
knew with certainty that it would always be just as exquisite between
them.
She yawned against his chest. “It’s too bad really. I could get used to
something so wondrous.”
He smiled as she cuddled against him like a warm kitten, content and
replete after a saucer of milk. No matter what happened here on out, he
would cherish this night and hold the memory of their coupling close to
his heart.
***
Isabella opened her eyes, reluctant to come out of her euphoric haze.
Merrick’s arms were tightly around her in a protective barrier against the
outside world. One that would not intrude upon them for several more
hours if she had any say.
She drew slightly away and gazed up at his face. How calm and
deceptively mild he looked in sleep, his hair at his temple falling over his
handsome face. She lifted her hand to smooth back the lock, tucking it
behind his ear.
Not for a moment did she regret her actions. They had shared something
truly spectacular, and whether she was merely a duty to him or not, she
didn’t believe that he was unaffected by their union.
A wicked grin twisted her lips as she imagined the perfect way to
awaken him. By her accounting, they had several more hours before
arriving off the coast of Leaudor, and she planned to make the most of
every single one.
She slid down his body and cupped his manhood in her hand. With care
she began stroking it, then on instinct, she lowered her mouth and flicked
out her tongue. She felt him awaken instantly, his hands immediately
tangling in her hair.
With a slight twist of her head, she glanced up to see him staring at her,
his eyes filled with desire. “So you are awake,” she teased.
 “As if I could sleep when you are doing that,” he said raggedly.
“Would you like me to continue?” she asked, arching an eyebrow
daringly at him.
“If you don’t, I may die. If you do, I still may die.”
“In that case,” she whispered ducking her head back down. Her eyes
widened when she saw his shaft, rigid and straining toward her.
The fact that she was not at all sure what to do didn’t hinder her in the
least as she wrapped her fingers around the base, smiling when he arched
against her. A bit hesitantly at first, she closed her lips around the tip, but
then she heard him moan and quickly gained confidence.
He writhed beneath her as she continued her gentle suckling. His hand
gripped the back of her head tightly as he arched into her. Finally he
yanked away from her and pulled her tightly against him.
In one swift movement, he rolled her underneath him, her stomach to
the bed. Warm and wet, his tongue traced the line of her backbone from
the small of her back to the base of her head. She shivered as he left a
damp trail. Then, mimicking her earlier action, he sank his teeth into her
neck, sucking and nipping at the sensitive flesh.
She dug her hands into the sheets, curling them in her hands, moaning
with abandon. That she couldn’t see him, had no idea what he would do
next was driving her slowly up an impossible peak.
She felt her legs spread under his firm hands then felt his hot breath
blow over her buttocks. His hands kneaded the plump flesh there, and she
arched up on her knees to give him better access.
The ache between her legs had begun in earnest, and if he didn’t touch
her soon, she might well go mad. She buried her face in the pillow he had
slept on, inhaling his masculine scent even as he tormented her with his
fingers.
He massaged her most sensitive point then plunged two fingers into her,
making her scream into the pillow. To her astonishment, she felt his shaft
probing her entrance, and she was immediately flooded with the images of
him mounting her from behind. Before she could react to such an erotic
idea he was inside her, deep, hard, into the deepest recesses of her being.
She fought for breath as wave upon wave of intense pleasure washed
over her. They fit perfectly together. She rocked back against him then
pushed herself up off the pillow with her hands.
 She threw back her head as he thrust forward again. He leaned over her,
deeply embedded within, stilling his thrusts completely. His hands
smoothed over her back and underneath to cup her breasts. He plucked her
nipples like a finely tuned instrument and she went wild bucking against
him, begging him with her body to continue his motions.
“Please…” she managed to gasp out.
With one last tug of her breasts, he let loose and thrust into her again
and again. As she neared her peak, she shoved back against him as hard as
she could. Then she let out a seemingly endless sigh as she toppled into
complete oblivion.
Her vision blurred, and she feared she might lose consciousness. And
still he didn’t stop. On the heels of her release, she began a second climb,
faster than the first, and she begged him to stop. Begged him not to stop as
she hovered precariously near the edge once more.
And with a final thrust, he made her completely his. She whimpered his
name and surged forward against the bed, unseating him with the power of
her movements.
His warm seed pulsed against her back as he shuddered against her. She
closed her eyes, reveling in the delicious feel of his body atop hers, their
sweat mingling, his warm salty smell wrapped around her like a cocoon.
“If I die tomorrow, I die a happy man,” he murmured in her ear.
She raised her head up and eyed him balefully. “You won’t die
tomorrow because I won’t allow it.”
“Is that a command, Your Highness?”
“Indeed it is,” she said with a nod of her head. “And if you think to
disobey me, know that I will haunt you for the rest of your days should
you do something so despicable as die on me.”
He leaned forward, brushing his lips across hers. The only sound in the
room was their soft breathing and the slight smooching sound their lips
made as they exchanged tender kisses.
“I have no intention of dying on you, Princess.”
She smiled at the endearment and cupped his cheek in her hand. “I
couldn’t bear to lose you.”
She didn’t explain her statement or dwell on the absurdity of the notion.
For indeed when it was all over with, she would lose him. But at least he
would be well and alive. She could live with that even if it meant never
seeing him again. Or being in his arms.
 She sighed contentedly and relaxed in his arms despite her melancholy.
She felt lighter, happy almost. Much of her pent-up hurt and anguish had
been released in one molten explosion, and she felt energized. Ready to
take on whatever awaited her in Leaudor.
 Chapter Eighteen

February 20, 1815

Leaudor
The ship rolled and rocked with the gentle waves as the anchor was
dropped. Moments later, Isabella tensed anxiously as the longboat was
lowered into the water, and she tightened her grip on Merrick’s hand.
In the distance, she could hear the water crashing against the rocky
coastline though she was unable to make out its outline in the night. And
that was what frightened her. Though the men rowing them ashore were
certainly able sailors, they were maneuvering in complete darkness. One
false move, one mistake in direction, and they could be dashed on the
many rock outcroppings and sucked under by the currents.
She tried to concentrate on the fact that within minutes she would step
back onto her home soil for the first time in six months. A glance over at
Merrick was unable to reveal any stress in his demeanor. Since leaving her
cabin together an hour earlier, they had said little, completely focused on
their impending arrival in Leaudor.
But she wasn’t able to so easily forget the hours they had spent in each
other’s arms. It had been the single most satisfying and intimate
experience of her life.
“Hold on!” one of the men shouted as they crested a large swell. They
rowed frantically, trying to stay ahead of the oncoming wave. Water
splashed all around them and drenched the inside of the boat.
Merrick wrapped his arms tightly around her and braced his feet on the
bottom as they swayed precariously. Thick fog hung over them like a
suffocating blanket making it impossible to see anything.
She gasped in shock as another wave blasted over them, the icy cold like
a knife blade through her back.
She watched in horror as one of the men washed overboard when
another wave crashed down on them.
“Take the oar,” the front man barked at Merrick.
 Not hesitating, he scooted over and took up the oar, pulling furiously as
they skated closer to shore. Her hands curled around the sides of the boat,
and she held on as if her life depended on it. And it did.
A few yards away, the man came up sputtering and one of his fellow
sailors extended an oar to him so he could pull himself back into the boat.
“We may not make it to shore,” the first mate muttered.
She glanced behind them and blinked when she saw a monstrous wave
looming off the backside of the boat. Her mouth opened to shout warning
but no words would come out. Then it fell on her like the weight of a
hundred carriages.
She felt herself being tossed from the boat like a weightless rag doll.
Sucked underneath the foaming, furious water, she struggled to break the
surface and take a breath.
Pain racked her as her hip knocked against a boulder. Her head broke
free of the water, and she gulped in air before she was dragged underneath
once more.
Then Merrick appeared in front of her, grabbing her, bearing her to the
surface. They held their heads above the water, and he immediately started
a powerful stroke, holding her against him with one arm.
Several times she slipped from his grasp only to be hauled up against
him once more. She coughed and sputtered as mountains of water spewed
from her lungs. But still they continued toward shore.
Finally she felt the bottom beneath her feet and dug in with her boots.
Breaking from Merrick’s grasp, she forced herself toward the beach. She
was so cold, she was numb, but she was almost home. The thought gave
her the necessary energy to push herself the remaining distance to the
shore.
When the water became only knee-deep, the waves calmed, and she
nearly collapsed in her relief. Merrick pulled her up and half carried her
the remaining way. But when she got a good look at the shoreline, her
heart sank.
The rocky cliff loomed like a great hulking death sentence. How on
earth would they scale it to the top? She glanced down the very small
stretch of beach but saw no alternate course.
“Are you all right?” Merrick asked breathlessly as he struggled to catch
up on his air.
 “Y-yes,” she stammered, the cold causing her teeth to clash together like
two titans bent on destruction. “What happened to the crew?” Fear gripped
her and she prayed they were safe.
“I told them to head back to the ship before I dove in after you,” he said.
“I don’t think the boat could have made it ashore.”
She sighed in relief. “What do we do now? How do we get up this?” she
asked gesturing up at the steep cliff.
“We climb.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that,” she muttered.
“But first we have to get warm.”
“A lovely idea. Now how do you propose we do it?”
He glanced around, the beach barely illuminated by the half moon. Then
he strode toward the base of the cliff and picked up several large pieces of
driftwood. He stacked them in a pile at her feet. “Let’s hope they are dry
enough and that I can find a suitable stone for striking a spark.”
She glanced nervously down the narrow stretch of sand, but quickly
realized they would be nearly impossible to see except from the sea. The
cliff provided perfect privacy to build a fire and dry themselves.
After several attempts, a small plume of smoke curled from the wood,
and he quickly began blowing. Soon a small flame flickered as it began
licking at the wood.
She stretched out her hands over it, desperate for any warmth it
provided. Then she remembered the map.
Frantically, she dug the pouch from her breeches and yanked it open.
She gingerly drew out the dampened parchment, praying the ink hadn’t
run.
She spread it out beside the fire and examined it carefully in the dim
light. To her relief, it looked no worse for the wear. She picked it up and
held it at a safe distance from the fire to dry.
As the fire chased some of the numbness from her, she began to shake
in earnest. Her teeth chattered, shaking her entire jaw in the process. She
rubbed her arms with her hands, trying to infuse warmth into her limbs.
Merrick stepped behind her and wrapped strong arms around her,
drawing her against his chest. He held her tightly, and his heat seeped into
her, creeping over her body and infiltrating every pore.
She leaned her head against his chest and closed her eyes, reveling in
probably the last intimate moment they would have.
 “We should set out,” he said with regret in his voice. “It will be dawn
soon.”
She pulled away, knowing he was right. She helped him douse the fire
and conceal the evidence of it then they turned their attention to the wall
of rock before them.
He hoisted himself up and tested the footholds then motioned for her to
follow him up. “We can make it if we go slowly and are careful where we
place our feet. It isn’t too steep and there are several rocks to grab onto
and step up on.”
With determination, she followed his path, grasping the cold rocks with
her hands and pulling herself up. With each step, she carefully measured
the strength of the footholds and prayed she wouldn’t slip.
Dirt and pebbles rained down on her as Merrick steadily made progress
above her. She blew the sand from her mouth and gritted her teeth, trying
to keep pace with him. As she climbed higher, she focused all her attention
on him, refusing to look down.
Suddenly a spray of rocks hit her full force in the face. As she sputtered
and looked up, she saw Merrick had lost his footing and now dangled
precariously just a few feet from her.
With a loud grunt, he pulled himself back up with his arms and regained
his foothold. As they neared the top, the rock became slicker, smoother
and offered fewer places to get a good grip.
Then he disappeared as he threw his leg over the edge and pulled
himself the remaining distance. And she made the mistake of looking
down.
The ocean crashing below her spun with dizzying speed. How had she
gotten so far from the ground? If she fell now, her death would be certain.
Sweat beaded her forehead and dampened her palms. Her breathing
came in shallow spurts as she fought off the clawing panic at her throat.
One hand slipped, and she quickly grabbed at the rock, desperate to hold
on.
She rested her forehead on the rock and closed her eyes, trying to regain
control of herself.
“Isabella,” Merrick called. “You must continue on.” His tone was firm.
It brooked no argument, and she knew he could sense her terror.
She glanced up at him, and he extended his hand out to her.
“Just a few more feet,” he said. “I’ll pull you up. Just grab my hand.”
 It may as well have been a mile from her. Even as close as she realized
his hand was, getting to it seemed impossible. Her feet felt as though they
were encased in bricks. She was afraid to let go of the rocks she clung to
because her palms were so damp.
“Isabella, you must move,” he said in a firmer voice. “Do you want the
bastards who killed your family to find you here? Make it so easy for them
to kill you? Or perhaps you want to do the job for them.”
A surge of anger shook her, and she pulled her foot up to find another
rock to boost herself up with. His hand loomed closer, and she ground her
teeth together in abject concentration as she reached out for it.
One more step. Just one more step. Her foot slipped and she grabbed
hold of the rocks and hoisted herself up again, reaching with her feet for a
hold of any kind. Then her hand touched his. He made a grab for it and
missed. She flexed her fingers and stretched them out as far as she could.
His strong hand curled around her wrist, and he pulled her effortlessly
up to him. She collapsed on the ground at the top, her heart pounding with
the force of a hundred horses’ hooves.
She gulped in deep breaths of air and sought to steady her nerves.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice just shaky enough for her to
realize how frightened for her he had been. “Did you hurt yourself?”
She shook her head and slowly got up to stand beside him. “Thank you.”
“Where do we go now?” he asked taking her hand in his.
She looked around but could make out nothing in the darkness. “If the
captain was correct in his calculations, we are just a few miles from the
monastery. But I am unsure as to whether we should head north or south.”
Even as she cursed the darkness, she knew it was their salvation.
“Perhaps we should wait until dawn before we set out. Find a safe place to
hide. I would hate to lead us in the wrong direction.”
“All right. Let’s head east,” he said, nodding in that direction. “We’ll
find a place to hide and wait it out until dawn.”
As they plodded forward, a thrill settled into her stomach and bubbled
around like a net full of butterflies. She was home. She felt the silly urge
to kneel on the ground and run her hands through Leaudorian soil. In the
months following her family’s deaths, she had gained a new appreciation
for her homeland. And a deep-seated commitment to setting to rights the
disaster that had befallen it.
 They found a large hollow tree and huddled against the base, waiting for
dawn. After thirty minutes, the eastern sky started to lighten. Isabella
studied their surroundings in the dim light, searching for any familiar
landmarks. She turned north and scanned the horizon for the signature
mountain range that shadowed the monastery.
A twinge of pride swelled her chest as she caught sight of the peaks
jutting upward into the sky. They were truly an awesome sight.
She then turned south and held her breath as the first rays of sun struck
Soleil Mountain. Tears stung her eyes even as she smiled. Though she
couldn’t see it from this distance, she knew the palace sat nestled atop the
mountain overlooking the village of Bourgis, the most populous town of
Leaudor.
Merrick’s hand on her arm broke her reverie and galvanized her to
action. “We head north,” she said firmly. “The monastery isn’t far. We
should be there in less than an hour.”
 Chapter Nineteen

As they topped a grassy hill, the monastery loomed in the distance.

Isabella stopped and pointed. “There it is.”
Simon paused alongside her and took in the impressive structure. No,
not impressive, awe-inspiring.
The huge stone building stood against granite cliffs. Indeed it appeared
as if it had been built right into them. It was unlike any structure he had
ever seen. Certainly nothing like the English abbeys or monasteries. For
that matter, he was fairly certain it didn’t resemble anything French either.
As if sensing his awe, she smiled. “We have many influences here in
Leaudor. And not just French or English. Many of our monks travel from
the east to live and serve here. They practice their religion, our national
religion.”
“You don’t practice Christianity?” he asked in surprise.
A twinkle lit her eye. “Aghast to learn we are a bunch of heathens?”
“I find it fascinating,” he replied. “I’ve long been interested in the east.
When I retire from service, I fully intend to travel to China.”
There was a long pause, and Isabella knew he was thinking of the other
less desirable duties that awaited his retirement.
“You see why we aren’t taken very seriously among England’s allies,”
she said dryly. “We are merely infidels. But it has allowed us to live in
peace and harmony for many centuries, unbothered by the chaos that exists
around us.”
As they topped the next hill, he stopped short and put out a hand to
Isabella. In front of the monastery gates was a line of people at least half
mile long. Carts, people on foot, children, elderly, a vast array of citizens
milled about.
Beside him she uttered an oath.
“What is going on down there?” he asked.
“They are in line for a blessing,” she explained. “Every morning the
monks grant blessing upon the sick and those in need. I had forgotten. The
line grows quite long at times.”
“I don’t suppose you know another way in,” he said grimly.
 She shook her head. “It’s impossible to access the monastery except
through the gates.”
“Then how do we get through the line without gaining notice? I assume
you are a well known face here.”
A thoughtful expression pinched her face for several long seconds.
“How is your Leaudorian accent?” she asked, turning to look at him.
“It’s passable,” he said mimicking her accent perfectly.
“Now all we need is a cloak or sheet,” she said, turning away from the
direction of the monastery.
He fell in behind her as they headed toward several small cottages in the
distance. “What is your plan?”
“Two years ago we had a terrible outbreak of influenza. People are still
deathly afraid of the word here. I’ll wrap myself in a cloak and cough
convincingly, and you can lead me to the front of the line, dropping the
word influenza along the way. I assure you, they’ll part like someone cut
them with shears.”
“I hope you’re right.”
At the second cottage, they found linens hung out to dry. She quickly
pulled down a sheet and wrapped herself in it, completely hiding her face
from view.
“Remember this cottage,” she told him. “I would repay them for what
we have taken.”
“Let’s hurry,” he urged, taking her elbow and leading her to the main
road.
“Your shirt,” she spoke up.
“What about it?” he asked looking down.
“It’s too fine to belong to a villager.” She rushed back to where the
clothing hung on the line and quickly tore off a tunic. She thrust it at him.
“Put it on.”
As he did her bidding, she retrieved her knife from her boot and slashed
a hole in the right leg of his breeches. Then she reached down and grabbed
a handful of dirt and rubbed it into the legs of his pants. Rising back up,
she smeared dust onto his cheeks.
“There,” she said approvingly. “You look more like you just came from
the fields.”
“Let’s go then.”
 They hurried back to the road. As they grew closer to the gates, their
pace slowed, and she assumed the stance of a person who was very ill. She
leaned heavily on him and coughed as they approached the back of the
line.
Several people stared suspiciously at her as they shuffled past them in
line.
“Influenza,” Simon explained in low tones.
The looks of horror were instantaneous, and as Isabella had predicted,
the line parted instantly giving them a clear path toward the front.
They were nearly there when the thunder of hooves sounded behind
them. The ground shook beneath their feet. His grip tightened on her
elbow as he turned to see what the ruckus was about.
“Make way for Jacques Montagne, future King of Leaudor,” a voice
called.
Isabella stiffened beside him, and when she looked up, hatred burned
brightly in her eyes.
“Not now,” he warned in a low voice.
Montagne was accompanied by a large entourage of guards, and if
Isabella chose now to exact her revenge, it would mean certain death for
both of them.
The man trotted up on his horse, looking from side to side at the people
gathered on the road. He was a smallish man, mouse-like in the face with a
thin mustache and beady eyes. He appeared to be enjoying the attention he
was receiving as he rode ahead of his guards.
“Good morning, my good people,” he called out.
The crowd cheered and reached up their hands to touch him as he
passed.
Simon could tell Isabella was growing more agitated by the minute as
Montagne grew closer. He tensed as well when Montagne drew up his
horse in front of them and fixed them with a frown.
“What’s wrong with her?” he demanded, pointing at Isabella whose face
was still covered by the sheet.
“Influenza,” Simon said shortly, afraid his accent would give him away
if he said more.
Montagne paled, and he immediately backed his horse several paces.
“Good God, get her out of here.”
 On cue, Isabella dissolved into a coughing fit, and Montagne turned
away as fast as his horse would allow. He motioned to his men. “We’ll
come back later.”
As they disappeared down the road, Simon all but hauled her the
remaining distance to the gate. The people next in line stepped back until
they were the only two standing close to the two monks at the entrance.
Just as the monk standing to the right was about to begin the blessing
over Isabella, she let loose the sheet around her face and leaned forward.
“It is I, Princess Isabella,” she whispered.
Before she could say anything further, the monk turned and gestured her
inwards. “We have been waiting for you, Your Highness,” he said in a soft,
somber voice.
As Isabella made to follow him, Simon put out a hand. “I don’t like
this,” he said, an uneasy feeling sweeping over him. “How did they know
you were coming?”
“They know all,” she said simply. “Come, they will do us no harm.”
Mystified, he allowed her to lead him inside the gates. Once in, a group
of three monks surrounded them and escorted them through a heavy stone
door.
The chamber echoed the sounds of their footsteps and the stones felt
cool around them. Torches were lit along the sides of the walls but the
ceilings were so high the interior still seemed dimly lit.
Their bodies cast elongated shadows along the walls as they hurried
along the maze of corridors.
And suddenly the hall opened up into a huge chamber. Simon gazed
around in stupefaction at the vastness of the room. The walls exploded
upwards seemingly to the sky. Along the top was a walkway with columns,
and he could barely make out the tiny outlines of the monks hurrying back
and forth. The entire back of the room was fashioned entirely out of the
most beautiful stained glass, making the cathedrals of England pale in
comparison.
Hundreds of candles flickered, bathing the entire room in a golden glow.
If a host of angels suddenly burst from the rafters, he wouldn’t be
surprised. The entire monastery had such an ethereal quality that he was
reluctant to even speak in more than a hushed tone.
A monk, flanked by two others, hurried down the center of the room,
hands outstretched to Isabella. “We’ve been waiting for you, Your
Highness,” he said, echoing the earlier monk’s words.
“It is good to see you again, Father Ling,” she said in a choked voice.
The monk turned back his hood, and Simon was surprised to see a man
of Oriental descent staring back at him. But then Isabella said much of
their influence came from the East.
Completely bald, the man stood a good six inches shorter than Simon’s
own six foot height, but his regal bearing made him seem much taller. He
certainly didn’t fit with the preconceived image Simon had of a man
trained in fighting skills.
Isabella took his hands and kissed him on either cheek. “There is much I
must know,” she said.
“In good time, Your Highness,” he said, returning her gesture.
He turned to Simon, and a smile crinkled the lines around his eyes. He
took Simon’s hand in both of his. “I have seen you many times in my
visions, Lord Merrick. I am grateful to you for helping the princess. We
are all rejoicing over her safe return.”
Simon nodded, too stunned to reply. How had this man known who he
was?
The monk turned away and said to Isabella, “Walk with me.”
She gestured Simon to follow, and he fell in behind them. When they
reached the far end, the monk paused at the wall and turned to Isabella.
“Have you the map?”
“I do,” she said.
He nodded approvingly. “We will ready you for your quest then.”
Father Ling reached up to one of the statues standing in front of the
stained glass and twisted the hand. To Simon’s astonishment a portion of
the glass turned outward revealing a passageway beyond.
“You will be safe here,” the monk said to Simon as if sensing his
hesitancy.
Father Ling ducked in and Isabella followed him. Not willing to allow
her out of his sight, Simon hurried after them. Down a narrow hallway
they rapidly strode. Then they descended a flight of steps and entered an
even smaller passageway. At the end stood a thick wooden door.
The monk reached into his robe and withdrew a key. Inserting it into the
lock he swung it open and motioned them inside.
Isabella gasped when she caught sight of the interior. Simon wasn’t any
less impressed. The entire room looked like a tropical garden. Heavy
perfume from the multitude of flowers hung densely in the air. But what
struck him most was the warmth. It felt like the most glorious of spring
days.
White marble columns stood in the middle of the room and marked the
entrance to what appeared to be a large bathing chamber. Three monks
stood to the side, evidently awaiting instruction.
The sound of running water alerted him to a small waterfall that
cascaded down the left wall into a chute that meandered into the bathing
room. The decadence of the chamber seemed more appropriate for a
palace than a monastery.
Father Ling turned around to face Isabella. “Will Lord Merrick be
accompanying you on your journey?”
She turned and looked questioningly at him. He nodded and relief
lightened her expression. She returned to Father Ling. “Yes.”
“Then you must both be prepared. I will leave you to be cleansed.
Afterwards I will offer my blessing on the both of you.”
“Thank you,” she said grasping his hand in hers.
He bowed before her and quickly vanished out the door.
As soon as he was gone, the three monks that had stood to the side
moved forward. “If you will come this way,” one of them said as he
motioned for them.
He and Isabella followed them through the marble columns into the
chamber that housed the large pool of water. It formed a perfect square
with steps leading down into it on all sides. Another waterfall directly fed
water into the pool from the back.
The monks motioned for them to disrobe and Isabella didn’t hesitate.
She shrugged out of her shirt and began working her pants down her legs.
Following suit, Simon began removing his own clothing, wondering at the
significance of the act.
He leaned over to pull his breeches from his feet and when he stood
back up Isabella stood before him gloriously naked. Sucking in his breath,
he stood rigidly, not wanting to embarrass himself by reacting to her.
She stepped down into the water, her fingers making smooth ripples as
they trailed along the surface. Her hair hung to the small of her back,
bouncing erotically above her rounded buttocks.
The monk motioned for him to follow her, so he stepped into the water,
nearly moaning in pleasure as the hot water lapped at his knees. Anxious
to submerge his entire body, he quickly descended the last of the steps
until he stood waist-deep in the water beside Isabella.
To his surprise, the monks followed them in, their robes swirling in the
water. They carried soap and washing cloths as well as a pitcher for
rinsing.
“They only wish to wash your hair,” she whispered to him, and he
smiled, wondering if she had read his alarm. While a bath with Isabella
was as close to heaven as he would ever be, he had no desire to have his
private parts washed by a bunch of holy men.
When the monks stood in front of them, Isabella bowed her head before
them. Following her example, he too, bowed his head. Soon warm water
cascaded over his head and down his back. The scent of sweet-smelling
soap filled his nostrils as the monk worked his fingers through Simon’s
hair. After a few moments, he again felt the warm rush of water as the soap
was rinsed from his hair.
As quickly as they came, the monks filed out of the water, leaving him
and Isabella behind.
“Your pallets will be prepared, and a meal will be served shortly,” one
said to Isabella. “When you have completed your bath, you may eat and
rest in the next room. Your journey will begin an hour before high tide.”
When they had departed, Simon turned back to Isabella who stood
before him, water running in rivulets down her body. Her oceanic eyes
stared searchingly at him, and her damp hair clung to her body, nearly
covering her breasts. Only the tips peaked out from the tendrils of hair.
She slowly reached out and took his hand, pulling it back to lie over her
chest. Understanding her silent plea, he closed the small distance between
them and pressed his naked form to hers. He bent his head and kissed her
hungrily.
He pulled back her hair over her shoulders and ran his fingers lightly up
her ribcage and underneath the swell of her breasts. “I have never seen a
woman as beautiful as you.”

Isabella shivered, letting his words swirl over her like a fine wine. Not
content to waste their last remaining hours, she pulled his head down to
hers then sank deeper into the water. He came with her until they were
neck deep in the pool.
 He grinned wickedly at her then covered her lips with his. Pulling her
under the water, he kept his mouth tightly sealed over hers. His hands
cupped her breasts, and he ran his thumbs over the nipples.
They rose back to the surface, water rushing down their bodies as they
leapt upward. “I want you,” he growled.
Desire flooded her at his lusty words. God, she wanted him too. “Then
take me,” she whispered.
No sooner had the words left her mouth she found herself lifted upward,
his hands cupping her buttocks, running down her legs and spreading
them.
She wrapped her legs around his waist and locked her feet at the small
of his back. Using his fingers to part her folds, he thrust upward, entering
her in one deep plunge.
Throwing back her head, she gasped at the feeling of fullness. He rocked
against her again and again…
Her hands tangled in his hair, and she smashed her mouth to his. His
hands gripped her backside, molding her tighter against him. They moved
frantically against each other. She ran her hands over his back, over his
chest, trying to memorize every nuance of his body.
As she began the slow exquisite climb to her release, he bent his head
and took her nipple between his teeth. She wrapped her arms around his
head, trapping him against her breasts. She began to undulate wildly
against him, moving faster and faster to keep up with him. “Oh God,” she
panted. And then her world tilted precariously around her. She closed her
eyes and arched her body into his.
She felt him leave her then felt his warm seed mingle with the water
between her legs. She leaned forward and rested her head on his chest then
slowly slid down his length until she stood on shaky legs before him.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded, not yet able to form coherent words.
He waded to the side and picked up a cloth and some soap. Returning to
where she stood, he began gently washing her body. She rested limply
against him as he rubbed the cloth over her skin. When he had finished, he
swung her up in his arms and mounted the steps out of the bath.
She clung to him as he carried her into the next room, loving the feel of
his strength. He set her down on a small bench in front of the hearth where
a fire burned. He left her long enough to collect a towel and returned to
dry her off.
She drew her knees up to her chest when he turned his attention to her
hair, rubbing and massaging the towel through her wet locks.
Soon, the heat from the fire infiltrated every muscle, drifting languidly
through her. Her eyes drooped and she sighed in contentment as he
continued his attention.
She looked up when the three monks returned, all bearing something
different in their arms. One carried trays of food, one carried what
appeared to be clothing, and the third carried a flask of wine.
“If it pleases the princess, we have food and clothing for you and his
lordship.”
They laid the items on the two silk pallets lining the far wall then set the
trays on the short-legged table next to the pallets. Two pillows for them to
sit on were shoved up to the table then the monks retreated from the room.
She rose immediately and went to the bed to retrieve the clothing. To
her relief, the apparel they had brought for her was practical for her
impending journey. A simple pair of cotton trousers and a loose fitting
tunic. For Merrick, they had supplied breeches and a plain shirt. Light
weight boots were supplied for both of them.
Turning, she tossed the clothing to him and began pulling her pants on.
When they were both dressed, she motioned him over to the table where
the food sat.
They sat opposite of each other, cross-legged on the pillows. The aroma
of the food floated through her nostrils, and her stomach rumbled in
response. All her favorites were assembled. Plum pudding, sugared dates,
roast duck, bread, cheese and delicious-smelling soup.
“Now I know what it means to eat like a king,” Merrick said in an
amused voice.
She poured them both a glass of wine and sat back to enjoy the fare. As
they ate, Father Ling entered and crossed the room to stand in front of
them. With easy grace, he knelt down between them. “I trust everything is
to your liking.”
“It is,” she replied.
His expression grew serious, and he stared intently at her. “You haven’t
much time, Your Highness. There are those who would see Jacques
Montagne crowned as soon as possible. The only thing preventing such an
action is his failure to produce the sacred relics.”
“Has he been searching the caves?” she asked.
“His men search the cliffs day and night but so far have been
unsuccessful,” he said with a slight quirk of his lips. “Without the map, he
hasn’t a chance at success. But the Leaudorian people won’t wait forever
for a new ruler. There is much talk of doing away with the old ways.”
“No!” She stood and paced in agitation. “Damn him. Damn him to hell.”
Father Ling remained silent, and she regretted her outburst. “I am sorry,
Father.”
“You needn’t apologize, Your Highness. I am all too aware of all
Jacques Montagne has done to you and your family.”
“How are you aware of these things?” Merrick spoke up, suspicion laced
in his voice.
Father Ling turned regally to him. “I know many things, your lordship.
For instance that you are a deeply troubled man. You have many
unanswered questions about your brother’s death. Questions that have
plagued you for years.”
He rose and placed a hand on Merrick’s shoulder. “Soon, my son. Soon,
you will know all there is to know. Until then be careful of those you trust
most.”
He looked back at Isabella and held out his hands. “Rest now. I will
come for you when it is time.”
Simon stared at the older man as he left the room, his mouth gaped
open. He whirled back around to Isabella. “How did he know those things?
And what did he mean I will know all?”
“I don’t know,” she murmured. “But you would be well served to heed
his words. Father Ling is never wrong.”

Simon rubbed his eyes, fatigue marking the beginnings of a headache.

He felt as if he had stepped into an alternate world. One he had no control
over, and one that mystified him.
The monk’s words had struck a chord in him. A painful reminder of the
questions he indeed had surrounding his brother’s death. Questions he had
buried long ago in an attempt to cope with the overwhelming sadness and
anger.
 Isabella’s entire country made little sense and he felt himself spiraling
further into some sort of sick fairy tale. But she seemed to take it all very
seriously. Was it any wonder she was unlike any other woman he had ever
encountered?
Directing his attention back to his food, he chewed the now tasteless
meat and chased it down with a large swallow of wine.
Across from him, Isabella stared at him over her fork. “Is something
bothering you?” she asked.
“No. This is all rather different,” he said by way of explanation.
Her mouth twisted in a knowing smile. “Yes, I suppose it is. Especially
to an oh-so-practical Englishman.”
He smiled at her teasing and marveled at how he sat across from the
future Queen of Leaudor thinking how much he loved her.
He dropped his fork and it clattered loudly on the plate. His stomach
clenched and he closed his eyes. It wasn’t shocking. In retrospect he
wasn’t sure there was any one moment when he fell in love with her, but
she had gradually inserted herself into his heart and soul. And now that he
had said it in his mind, he was filled with dismay.
He opened his mouth to speak and just as quickly, closed it again. The
words stuck solidly in his throat. How could he say to her what he had
never voiced aloud to another human being? The mere idea of baring his
soul nearly sent him crawling in discomfort. Almost as bad as the idea of
ultimately bidding her farewell.
How could he possibly say goodbye to her when it was all said and
done? Forget how perfectly their bodies fit, how much joy she brought
him, her smile, her spirit and her fire. If he lived a hundred years, he had
no hope of ever meeting her equal.
“Merrick, are you sure you are all right?”
Her concerned voice penetrated the heavy fog swirling around his mind.
He forced a smile to his lips and took his fork back up.
“Yes, everything is fine.”
But everything wasn’t. In a few hours, the beginning of the end would
commence.
 Chapter Twenty

Neither Merrick nor Isabella slept, though they rested on the pallets laid
out for them. She was wound too tightly over the upcoming journey into
the caves to close her eyes. Finally, she assumed a cross-legged position
on her silken pillow and attempted to relax through meditation.
Her mind swam as she fought against tension and anxiety. She focused
on the images of her mother and father and her two brothers. Suddenly she
could hear her mother’s laughter, see her father’s smile, see Davide
concentrating on his sketching. Only Stephane remained distant in her
memory so she reached further, trying to bring him closer to her, but the
only image she could conjure was of the bloody hand Jacques had held.
Dispelling the awful picture from her mind, she concentrated instead on
her father. She needed his wisdom now more than ever as she prepared
herself to take over where he left off.
He stood in front of her, his expression uncharacteristically solemn
when it came to her. Her brow crinkled as she fought to try and remember
the memory associated with her current image.
When it is time to hand down a legacy, it is necessary to remember that
things are not important. The written word is the most valuable
contribution. Long after everything else is gone, the written word lives on.
Even when the paper has faded and worn, the words exist in our hearts and
in our memories to be written down again and again for our children.
Her eyes flashed open, her breathing erratic. She could still hear the
echo of her father’s voice, and she looked frantically around. Her gaze
lighted on Merrick who watched her intently from his pallet. “Are you all
right?” he asked in a concerned voice.
“Yes,” she said, though her voice still wavered. “I was just remembering
something my father said.” But she didn’t remember him ever saying
those words to her. Could she have forgotten?
She pushed the episode to the back of her mind as a monk entered the
room and stood before her. “It is time, Your Highness. Father Ling awaits
you in the sacred chamber.”
She stood and took a deep breath. She glanced over at Merrick and he
smiled reassuringly at her. As she followed the monk from the room,
Merrick fell in beside her. He reached over and squeezed her hand then
whispered, “What do you say we go into that cave, retrieve the relics then
get out and go after Montagne?”
She smiled, her anxiety lessening under his attempt at levity.
They entered a small ceremonial chamber where Father Ling stood
behind an intricate wood carving of Leaudor’s national symbol, the sun.
The other monks were assembled and stood in two rows on either side of
Father Ling.
He motioned her forward, and she knelt on the silk pillow in front of
him. She watched as he retrieved a medallion from the monk beside him
and slipped it around her neck.
“This is the medallion your father wore in his quest as did every other
Leaudorian king or queen before him. I offer my blessing on it. May it
keep you safe on your journey.”
Her hand curled around the heavy bronze circlet making her feel a little
bit closer to her father.
“May you go with God, Princess Isabella, and return as queen.”
He took her hand and pulled her to stand before him. The monks began
to chant softly then louder. Though she didn’t understand the words, she
knew what they said from her father’s translations. They offered their
prayers and invoked God’s protection over her. Requested the four sacred
elements of nature to be one with her and offer her haven.
She closed her eyes as the hum grew softer once more and let the beauty
of the ceremony wash over her. When she opened them again, she felt
invigorated, powerful and ready to fulfill her destiny.
Father Ling laid a hand on her shoulder. “You will need patience,
courage, faith and wisdom to be successful in your quest. I pray that you
find all four.” He then handed her a small pouch. “Keep the map in this. It
will protect it from the water.”
He walked beyond her to offer blessing on Merrick. Merrick bowed his
head respectfully before Father Ling as the monk performed a similar
ritual over him.
When he had finished, he returned to Isabella. “Father Gregori will take
you through the underground tunnel to the beach. You will have but one
hour before the tide reaches its height.”
Quickly transforming back to the practical Isabella who held the fate of
a nation in her hands, she felt for the dagger in her boot, reassured that she
had easy access to it. With a deep breath, she looked at Merrick and said,
“Let’s go.”
***
Simon squinted when they stepped out of the dirt tunnel into the sun.
Shading his eyes, he did a quick perusal of their surroundings. They were
on a small stretch of beach between two large cliffs, one of which they had
just emerged from.
“God be with you,” the monk said and bowed before Isabella. He then
disappeared back into the tunnel opening that was barely visible behind
the rock outcropping.
“Where to now?” he asked. From where he stood they only had one
option and that was to the other cliff.
“We go for a swim,” she said with a grimace, setting out into the water.
He followed her into the ankle-deep water. “Where are we going?”
“According to the map, the entrance to the cave is on the outermost
edge of the cliff. To get there we have to wade through the surf, and we
must get there before high tide.”
“What happens at high tide?” he asked, but she didn’t reply, already
several yards ahead of him.
He hurried to catch up with her, the frigid water edging up to his hips.
She cut a diagonal line toward the opposing cliff. When they had gone far
enough out in the water to see down the edge, she turned abruptly right and
began slicing through the water toward the rock surface.
The water was now chest-deep on her and getting deeper. If the water
got high enough that she was unable to touch bottom, it would spell
disaster for her. The current was strong and would dash her against the
cliff. Add to that the icy temperature was fast numbing his extremities.
They would have to get out of the water soon or freeze.
“There! There it is,” she said excitedly, pointing toward the wall.
He followed the direction of her hand and saw a small opening in the
rock. She struggled to hurry to the entrance. Wanting to hurry as much as
she did, he scooped her up against him and dug into the sand beneath his
feet, propelling them forward.
They reached the entrance, and Isabella put a hand out to him. “We will
have to swim a short distance through the tunnel but it opens up quickly.”
Her eyes flashed anxiously, and her hand shook discernibly. “At least I
think it does.”
“I’m ready when you are,” he said calmly, trying to infuse a measure of
confidence into his voice.
She drew in a deep breath and quickly ducked under the water shooting
forward into the cave. He gave her but a moment’s head start before
plunging below the icy surface and swimming through the passageway.
The passage seemed to close around him as his hands skated along the
walls. He fought the panic that swelled in his chest and concentrated on
making it through.
Just when he felt he couldn’t hold his breath a second longer, the walls
disappeared under his hands, and he pulled himself upward with powerful
strokes. A few seconds later, he bobbed to the surface and saw Isabella
come up for air a few feet away.
He glanced around the large cavern, amazed at its vastness. The
diameter wasn’t overly large, but the height was immense, stretching
nearly as tall as the cliff itself. He could find no apparent way out of the
area and hoped it didn’t mean another long swim into the unknown.
“Where to now?” he asked.
“We wait,” she replied, treading water beside him.
He looked questioningly at her. “Wait for what? We’ll freeze in this
water.”
She pointed halfway up the wall to another opening. “We can’t access
the main tunnel into the cave until high tide. We stay afloat until the water
level is high enough for us to climb onto the ledge.”
He stared at her in amazement. While he was certain he could withstand
the cold, he wasn’t sure she could. She was much smaller than he.
Something would have to be done to keep her warm.
Swimming over to her, he pulled her up in his arms, feeling her icy skin
against his. He rubbed his hands up and down her arms trying to infuse
some warmth into her limbs.
“I’ll be all right, Merrick,” she said. “The medallion will keep me
warm.”
He glanced doubtfully at her. “Symbolism won’t keep you alive. I fail to
see the importance of this so-called journey. What purpose does it serve?
Aren’t the laws regarding succession enough?”
 She frowned. “I suppose it would seem silly to outsiders, but it’s just the
way it is done here. The journey is largely symbolic, I suppose. It is a
method to gauge the merit of the potential ruler. Not everyone has
succeeded in the quest, indeed, many have failed, so I have to think there
is more to it than going in and retrieving a few relics.”
“What happens when someone fails?” he asked.
“They are removed from consideration, and the task is put to the next in
line.”
So it appeared that the journey was, in fact, a large part of appointing a
new ruler. It did sound odd, but the idea of a monarch proving their worth
appealed to him. How many times did an inept person inherit the throne
with no more qualification than his birth order?
The more he learned of Isabella’s country, the more he was convinced it
wasn’t just a fanciful dressing at all, but a nation that took the
responsibilities of their ruler very seriously. “So this is a test of sorts,” he
said.
“Yes, exactly. If passed, the man or woman is deemed fit to rule and is
crowned.”
“It’s logical,” he admitted. “Your customs are very beautiful.” And he
meant it. The ceremony had been solemn but very powerful. He had felt
humbled to be included, and it firmed his resolve to keep her safe until she
was crowned. But more than that, he would see her succeed. At any cost.

After treading water in the frigid waters, Isabella could barely feel her
legs. But warmth infused her chest and her arms just as her father had said
the medallion had done for him. But more than actual warmth, she could
feel her father’s presence. It made no sense, but she felt comforted in a
way she couldn’t explain, and the encounter she had during her vision still
weighed heavily on her.
A glance upward told her they hadn’t much longer to wait before the
tide was at its peak, and they could enter the main cave. Excitement made
her forget the discomfort of the cold as she imagined returning to the
palace triumphantly.
Merrick swam over to the wall, pressing himself against it.
“If I boost you up I think you can make it now,” Merrick said,
interrupting her thoughts. “At least then you can start to dry off.”
 She looked up one more time then nodded her agreement. He wrapped
his hands around her waist and lifted her up. “Stand on my shoulders,” he
directed.
“But I’ll push you under,” she protested.
“I’ve got a toe hold in the wall. Just be quick.”
Reluctantly she placed first one boot then the other on his shoulders and
pushed up so that she stood. It took her a moment to gain her balance and
stop weaving precariously, but she steadied herself and looked down at
him.
“Reach up,” he said with a labored breath.
She looked upwards and stretched as far as she could toward the ledge.
Her fingers slid along the rock, and she was a mere inch from grabbing the
edge. “I’m going to jump.”
He made no reply, and she focused intently on the ledge, knowing he
could slip at any time.
Concentrating on her goal, she bent her knees slightly and jumped as
hard as she could, reaching with both hands to grab the ledge. She caught
the edge, and her body slammed against the wall, nearly causing her to let
go.
Breathing heavily, she extended her arm so that her elbow lay on the
smooth surface of the ledge. Then she pulled herself up so that both arms
were completely on top. Her armpits rested against the jagged edge and
she took a moment to rest.
She swung her legs, trying to hook her foot on the side so she could haul
the rest of her body up. After three attempts, she finally caught it with her
boot and pulled as hard as she could to slide the rest of her body up.
Finally, she managed to roll over the top and onto the flat surface. She
lay there, catching her breath and closed her eyes in relief. Then she rolled
onto her stomach and leaned over the side to look down at Merrick.
The water had risen so that he was a few yards from her now, and in a
few more minutes, he would be able to climb up.
She stood and wrung the water from her clothing as best as she was able
and hopped up and down to regain the feeling in her limbs. Her gaze
darted to the entrance to the main cave but all she saw was a small, very
dark hole.
Glancing upwards at the openings in the top of the cave where sunshine
poured in, she wondered if she could count on any light in the interior.
Butterflies danced in her stomach. So much was unknown, and the idea of
a dark, damp cave didn’t exactly make her cheer.
She heard Merrick grunt and rushed over to help pull him up out of the
water. With a heave, he rolled over the edge and landed at her knees. He
grinned up at her. “We meet again.”
Unable to help herself, she knelt, lowered her lips and kissed him softly
and lingeringly.
“Now that’s one way to warm a fellow up,” he said as she drew away.
She smiled and stood, offering her hand down to help him up. “Well,
that certainly took care of the patience aspect,” she said wryly.
He grasped her hand and pulled himself up to stand beside her. “Is that
it?” he asked pointing to the entrance.
She nodded and gulped nervously.
“Shall we go then?”
 Chapter Twenty-One

It was dark. So dark she couldn’t make out her hand in front of her face.
She could feel Merrick close behind her and was comforted by his
presence as they scraped along the tight corridor on hands and knees.
Isabella felt along the wall with one hand and kept the other straight in
front, waving it back and forth to make sure nothing obstructed the
pathway.
As they rounded a sharp curve, she blinked rapidly. In the distance she
saw faint light. So faint she thought at first she had imagined it. But as she
increased her speed, the light grew brighter.
Eager to reach the source of illumination, she scrambled faster. Soon the
entire passageway was bathed in light, and a few feet ahead, she could see
the opening enlarge.
She reached the end and crawled out of the tunnel into a large cavern. To
her amazement the source of light was a series of torches placed in a circle
in the middle of the room.
Merrick stepped out behind her and glanced around the room. Together
they walked toward the torches. Each was about two feet long and held by
a wire cradle. In the center of the circle was a carving of the sun.
She pulled out her map and carefully unfolded it. She studied the
symbols and pinpointed their current location on the parchment. A frown
creased her forehead as she looked up from the map and located several
passageways leading from the room. According to the map, one of them
would lead her to the next chamber, but it wasn’t specific as to which one.
“What is the matter?” Merrick asked, looking over her shoulder to the
map.
“I’m not sure which passageway to take,” she muttered. She massaged
her temple with her free hand, willing herself to think.
There were three exits around the room. The first had a huge opening,
one they could easily walk into. The second was slightly smaller but was
lit by a series of wall sconces. The third, if you could call it an actual
passageway, was so small she feared Merrick might not fit, and it was
completely dark. A feeling of suffocation assailed her at the thought of
entering such a tunnel.
 “Looks like someone has already lighted one,” he remarked, gesturing
toward the middle pathway.
She frowned again. “Precisely. And that’s what bothers me. What is the
challenge in walking down an already prepared passageway?”
The monk’s words came back to her. Patience, courage, faith…That was
it! Courage was next. “There,” she said pointing at the smallest of the
tunnels. “That’s the one.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
“Which of the passageways would you say required the most courage to
go down?” she asked.
After a quick perusal of the three, he nodded. “I suppose you are right.
At least I hope you are. I shouldn’t like to get stuck.”
She picked up one of the torches and handed it to him then took another
for herself. “Let’s continue on.”
She folded the map and shoved it back into the pouch. They walked over
to the darkened tunnel, and she knelt down to peer inside.
“Would you like me to go first?” he offered.
She thought for a moment and shook her head. “No, I wouldn’t feel
right. This is supposed to be my quest. I must prove myself worthy.”
She inched forward into the hole, using her free hand to brace herself on
the floor. Though she couldn’t move quickly, she was able to make steady
progress. The torch flickered and warmed the cramped area around them,
and she could feel her clothing drying more rapidly.
The tunnel narrowed the farther they crawled. “Can you make it?” she
called back to Merrick.
He grunted in return and she smiled, imagining his large body
compacted into such a small space.
After nearly an hour of torturous travel, she tumbled out of the tunnel
and onto the floor of another cavern. “Careful,” she warned, but she heard
Merrick tumble out behind her, cursing under his breath.
She held up her torch to illuminate her surroundings and could only
make out that they had entered a similar room to the one they had just left.
She walked forward, swinging the torch from left to right in an attempt to
see anything.
“Over here,” Merrick called.
She whirled around and quickly walked to where he stood. He lit a torch
that hung on the wall and walked a few spaces more to light another one.
Soon the room glowed with the light of a dozen torches.
Once again she unfolded the map and studied it intently. On the map, the
room they were currently in was identified with a moon. Made sense. The
last room was the sun. This much darker room was the moon. From the
moon, a line was drawn to the right. She looked toward the left then the
right. Both had passageways leading from those directions.
Carrying her torch, she headed for the right tunnel. Though the
passageway was narrow, they could both easily stand and walk which made
the going much faster. When she stepped out of the tunnel and into a larger
open area, she paused and waited for Merrick to catch up.
As she moved her torch slowly from right to left, she heard a noise that
sounded like hoof beats. Then she realized it was the flapping of wings.
She barely had time to duck before hundreds of bats swarmed over her
head and into the tunnel Merrick had just stepped from.
She placed her hand over her chest, trying to still the thundering of her
heart. Closing her eyes, she took in a deep breath. Surely a year had just
been frightened from her.
Merrick slid an arm around her and squeezed reassuringly. “You are
doing fine.”
She smiled and moved forward into the small room, looking around for
torches to light. To her surprise, as she neared the far end, she discovered
that this was not the small space she had thought. Indeed it was an
enormous cavern. They were just on a small ledge with a large gap
between them and the rest of the cavern.
As she neared the edge, she looked down into the darkness. She kicked a
stone listening for when it hit bottom. But silence was the only thing she
heard. Gulping, she backed away from the edge.
“Looks like you have two options,” Merrick said, gazing out over the
chasm.
She moved in his direction and took in what he was looking at. There
were two bridges leading across the drop off. Both led into a tunnel on the
opposite side. But neither was accessible from the other bridge. A huge
stone outcropping jutted outward over the gap, isolating the two
passageways from one another.
It appeared she had another choice to make. She consulted the map, but
she already knew it wouldn’t be any help. It was more a general guide to
keep her on the right path. Any choices to be made would be hers to make
alone.
“This one isn’t safe,” Merrick spoke up.
She put away the map and walked over to the rickety rope bridge that
led to the other side. Her gaze went to the other option. A natural stone
bridge spanned over half the gap and where it ended, sturdy logs had been
laid to complete the path.
Definitely the safer of the two.
She walked over to inspect the stone bridge but was nagged by a feeling
of doubt. Faith. The monk had said she needed faith.
She quickly spun around and bumped into Merrick. “We take the rope
bridge.”
“Are you mad?” he demanded. “You’ll get yourself killed.”
“Faith, Merrick. Father Ling said I must have faith.”
“Faith isn’t about going blindly to your death,” he retorted. “Faith is
nonsense. It’s for people who have nothing else.”
She gave him a troubled look and reached out to cup his cheek. “You
sound so cynical.”
“Faith is merely setting yourself up for inevitable disappointment,” he
said bitterly. “It’s a useless attribute.”
She started to reply but he cut her off. “I won’t let you do this, Isabella.
It isn’t worth your life.”
“Where is your faith, Merrick? Didn’t you have it once, maybe long
ago? Is it buried beneath that solid wall of responsibility and duty? Do you
always go about expecting the worst?”
“I have none,” he said shortly. “And if I expect the worst, I am never
disappointed.”
“Do you not have faith in me?” She let the words dangle in the air,
pinning him with the force of her gaze.
“I—” He broke off and looked away. He took her hands in his. “I do
believe in you, Isabella. If that means I have faith in you, then I do. You
are the only person I believe in, and if anyone can succeed in this, you
can.”
She could not contain the broad smile at his admission. “If you have
faith in me, then realize I would do nothing to jeopardize my life or the
future of my country.”
 She turned to the rope bridge and the few wooden planks that served as
steps and sighed. “I know it seems crazy, but I know this is the way I am
supposed to go. Have faith in me, Merrick. I won’t let you down.”
“I’m going first,” he said firmly, pushing her out of the way.
He stepped gingerly onto the first plank, gripping the rope with his left
hand and holding the torch in his right hand. With extreme caution, he put
forth his other foot and stepped to the next one. The bridge swayed under
his weight, and he stood still for a moment to steady it.
She watched as he moved forward again, her chest tightening at his
demonstration of concern for her. He believed in her. Had faith in her when
he had no other faith. When everyone else in his life had let him down.
God, this man meant more to her than anything. She stopped short in her
thoughts, mortification surging over her. She had been about to say he
meant more to her than any crown. More than this quest, more than
avenging her parents.
But she couldn’t allow herself to think such thoughts. Couldn’t become
weak. Revenge had gotten her this far, and it would sustain her until
Jacques was dead or in prison, and she was on the throne. She had no room
for any other emotion.
She looked back up to see Merrick step safely to the other side and
relief lessened the horrendous weight she felt pressing down on her. Now it
was her turn.
“Put your torch down,” he called out. “Use both your hands to hold on.
We can use my torch. Just take it slow and easy and don’t rush.”
After laying aside her torch so it still lit her way, she grabbed the rope in
her hands and stepped onto the first plank. Sweat broke out on her
forehead, and she sucked in her bottom lip, afraid to even breathe. Closing
her eyes, she reached out with her foot for the second step.
“Open your eyes,” he ordered. “Focus on me and don’t look down. You
can do this.”
Her eyes fluttered open, and she stared across the distance to where he
stood, torch in hand. Gritting her teeth in determination, she stepped
forward again. She was halfway across when her foot slipped off the small
plank. With a cry, she skidded sideways and tumbled off the bridge.
“Isabella!” she heard him shout as she shot downward.
She reached out with her hands and caught the rope. It burned her hand
as she slid down but finally she stopped when her hand bumped against the
next plank.
She dangled precariously holding on with one hand. Her legs swung
below her, and the muscles in her arm screamed from bearing all of her
weight. With strength born of desperation, she pulled herself up enough to
grasp the rope with both hands.
“I’m all right,” she called, though she was anything but all right. She
was inches from death, and she could feel her hands slipping.
“Isabella, listen to me,” he said in a determined voice. “Use your hands
to grab the rope and come to me. Hand over hand, let go with one and
move forward with it.”
“I can’t,” she said in a ragged voice. If she let go, she was sure to fall.
“You don’t have a choice,” he ground out. “You must do it or you will
die. Or I will have to come out on the bridge to retrieve you, and then we
will both die because it cannot hold both our weights.”
“Oh God.”
“Where’s your faith, Isabella?” he taunted. “You spoke of faith and
asked me if I had faith in you. Well, I do and I know you can do this. Now
I ask you, where’s your faith in me? You can do this.”
Why did he have to pick now of all times to be infuriatingly right? If
she were standing next to him, she would punch him directly in the gut and
tell him what he could do with his newfound faith.
But he was right, and damn it, she did have faith. Faith in herself and
faith in her father. If he could do it, so could she. And he was guiding her.
Praying she didn’t plummet to her death, she let go with her left hand
and quickly swung forward, grasping the rope. There, that wasn’t so bad.
She let go with her right and swung forward another foot.
Shouldn’t she be there by now? But the side of the cliff seemed a mile
away.
“Come on, Isabella, move. You can’t stop now.”
“Nag, nag,” she muttered. He sounded like a fishwife. But his words
spurred her to action and she continued on.
One hand in front of the other. She ignored the fact that there was
nothing below her and focused on Merrick’s hand which she could now see
just yards in front of her.
“One more time,” he said, his voice sounding much closer.
With a loud grunt, she threw herself forward, but her hand slipped as
she grabbed for the rope. His hand closed around her wrist as her other
hand dropped from the rope, and she hung suspended with only his hand
holding her.
“Reach up and grab my other hand,” he said urgently.
She looked up to see his hand reaching down to her, and she swung up
and slapped her palm into his. Inch by inch he pulled her up until finally
her belly slid over the edge.
He pulled her into his arms and held her tightly, his face buried in her
hair. “Thank God,” he murmured. “I thought I lost you.”
She drew away and pressed her mouth to his, drinking deeply of him.
“Thank you,” she murmured against his lips.
He didn’t respond, too intent on returning her volatile kiss. For several
breathless moments, they exchanged heated kisses. Then she pressed her
forehead to his and closed her eyes in sweet relief. Reveled in the fact that
she was alive. Finally they broke away, and he helped her to her feet.
“If Father Ling was correct, you only have one more test to pass,” he
said.
Wisdom.
The word floated into her thoughts and she cringed. Wisdom was
something her father had and certainly not something anyone could ever
attribute to her.
Not wanting Merrick to see her indecision, she pulled the map out and
traced the route with her finger. “According to this, once we’ve crossed the
bridge, we go left, then right, then right again.”
“A veritable maze,” he muttered.
He picked up his discarded torch and took her hand in his. Somehow in
the space of a few minutes, the quest had become theirs instead of hers
alone. And suddenly it didn’t matter so much that she do it alone.
He squeezed her hand. “Are you ready to continue?”
She nodded and they set out to the left entering yet another tunnel.
Instead of entering an open area as before, the tunnel split after a distance
and they took the right wing. The second passageway seemed
interminable, and she wondered how much time had elapsed since she
began her trek. They only had eight hours before the next high tide, and
she didn’t want to miss their way out of the caves.
The tunnel branched again and they bore right. Wisdom. Only one test
remained. Her stomach clenched in one huge knot. Could she pass the final
test? Was she worthy of her father’s legacy?
 Their footsteps echoed eerily down the long pathway. Even the sounds
of their breathing seemed magnified against the limestone walls.
And then she saw it. A soft glow emanating from a distant point. She
stopped, her hand dropping from Merrick’s. He turned, an inquisitive look
outlined by the torch on his face.
Reaching his hand out, he cupped her chin, rubbing his thumb over her
cheek. “You can do this.”
“I must do this,” she whispered.
She started forward again, moving ahead of him. As she got to the end
of the tunnel, she paused at the threshold of the cavern. Giant stalactites
alternated with stalagmites formed beautiful, jewel-like pillars in the
center of the small chamber.
She stepped inside, her head tilted back to view the ceiling as she turned
round and round in awe. The roof twinkled like a starlit night, crystal
formations crowded together like a million diamonds.
Her gaze dropped and then she saw it. In the center of the room,
surrounded by torches, stood a glassed-in case with the Royal Emerald and
the Jeweled Scepter. She had done it!
With a triumphant shake of her fist, she motioned for Merrick to follow
her. She approached the display with reverence and trembling hands.
But when she got close she saw that it wasn’t as simple as taking the
relics. They were completely encased within the glass in a boxlike
structure. She examined the edges, looking for a way to open it but could
not find one.
She had been so focused on the relics that she nearly overlooked an
identical glass case next to the relics with a simple rolled up parchment
bound with a leather tie. She frowned and glanced up at Merrick. “I’ve not
heard of a scroll or letter.”
“Perhaps it’s a distraction,” he offered.
She studied the smooth, flat surface the cases rested on and rested
briefly against the large table-like rock. Clearly the only way to retrieve
the emerald and scepter was to break the glass.
Beside her Merrick wiped the surface of the stone with his hand. “What
does this say?” he asked, pointing to a series of letters.
She helped him wipe the layers of dirt from the engraved letters so they
could get a clearer view. Then she groaned. “It appears to be in Latin, and I
confess, this is one area of my studies I neglected.”
 He smiled and pushed her aside. “Lucky for you, I studied Latin at
Cambridge.”
He stood over the engravings, his brow furrowed as he attempted to
decipher the words.
“I can’t be entirely sure, but I believe it says something along the lines
of ‘choose wisely’.”
“Well, as long as it doesn’t predict a horrid death for disturbing the
relics, I feel comfortable about taking them,” she said with a grin.
She glanced around the floor of the cave, searching for something she
could break the glass with. Her eyes lighted on a large rock laying a few
feet away and she bent to retrieve it.
Walking back to the case, she took a deep breath. “Shield yourself,” she
directed Merrick. She raised her arm and prepared to smash open the
glass. Her hand was on its way down when the vision of her father
exploded into her mind. She halted her arm in midair, nearly paralyzed
with the mistake she had almost made.
“What’s wrong?” Merrick asked.
“I don’t think I’m supposed to choose the relics,” she whispered. She
closed her eyes and relived the moment of her meditation.
“Long after everything else is gone, the written word lives on,” she
quoted aloud.
Merrick stared at her in confusion.
“My father’s words from my vision,” she replied, sure he would think
her crazy.
But he surprised her. “Perhaps you should heed your father’s advice,” he
said slowly.
She stared between the emerald and the rolled up paper in agony over
what she should do. All her life she had heard of the importance of the
emerald and the scepter. How could she not return with them?
Wisdom.
Her father’s words, Father Ling’s reminder. They both had been trying to
tell her something. Wisdom was knowing what to do in a difficult
situation. Knowing how to make the tough decisions.
In one swift motion, she brought the rock down and shattered the glass.
With shaky hands she reached over and took the rolled up paper. As soon
as she lifted it, the rock began to shake, and the pedestal holding the
emerald and the scepter within the glass case sank through an opening in
the rock, leaving the case empty and no evidence that it had ever held
anything.
She looked at Merrick and blew out her breath in a long sigh. “I hope I
was right.”
“Even if you weren’t, I cannot imagine a more worthy person to rule
Leaudor,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.
Tears pricked her eyelids and she smiled. “Thank you for saying that.”
She viewed the scroll in her hand almost afraid to open it, afraid it
would scream her failure. Backing away from the stone base and the
scattered shards of glass, she retreated to the far side of the cavern and
sank down against the wall. Once she was seated, she began untying the
leather strap.
Merrick sat beside her, remaining silent as she unrolled the parchment.
She glanced quickly over it and tears flooded immediately to her eyes. It
was written by her father!
In his neat distinctive script, he wrote:
All of Leaudor should rejoice this day as you have succeeded where so
many before you have failed. Truly you have all the qualities necessary to
rule a nation. Patience, courage, faith and now wisdom. I know not which
of my three children is reading my words, but regardless of which, know
that I am proud, so very proud of you.
Worry not that you have chosen wrong, for the true icons of Leaudorian
royalty lie in the monastery guarded for generations by the monks. With
this letter, you will have proven your worth and merit. Produce this letter
to the senior monk and you will carry with you to your coronation the true
Royal Emerald and the Jeweled Scepter. Proof to all people that you are
the true and righteous ruler of Leaudor.
As you are reading this letter, it is because my time as king has passed.
But I will be with you always, in heart and spirit. Be strong and true to
yourself and above all remember you are Leaudorian.

Your loving father,

Fernando Chastaine

Dropping the letter, she buried her face in her arms and sobbed great,
raw, gulping sobs. Merrick’s arms came around her, holding her tightly as
she wept.
 She shook uncontrollably as tears soaked her tunic. He was gone. Her
father and mother were both gone. Her heart ached until she feared her
chest may burst from the heavy burden. Raw, guttural sounds of agony
ripped from her throat as months of grief, fear and anger broke free.
She would never see them again, never hug them, never feel her
mother’s comforting arms around her, never chase wildly after her father
on horseback over the rolling mountain meadows that surrounded the
castle.
The thrill of success paled in the depth of her misery and anguish. Yes,
she had proven her merit. She would return triumphantly to the monastery,
and her coronation would be planned. But at what price? She didn’t want
to be queen. She wanted her family back.
You are a Chastaine. No matter what else you may become, first and
foremost, you will always be a Chastaine.
Her father’s reminder drifted to her on the wings of a beautiful memory.
Her mother’s laughter echoed through the caves. She had always laughed
when her husband spoke proudly of the family name. Remarked on the
irony of a simple farmer’s surname becoming the most revered in all of
Leaudor.
According to Isabella’s father, that made it all the more special and all
the more reason to be proud. She would carry on that pride. And the dream
of a young farmer to make a difference in his country.
Raising her head, she wiped the tears from her cheeks and stared
resolutely ahead. “We must return,” she said, scrambling from her seat on
the cave floor.
Merrick stood beside her, a look of gentle concern creasing his face.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. And for the first time since her parents’ deaths,
she believed it. Folding the letter slowly in her hands, she held it briefly to
her heart then tucked it into her pants.
She followed him to the tunnel they had come from and they retraced
their steps to the rope bridge. This time she took the bridge with slow
measured steps, not allowing herself the paralyzing fear from before.
Unsure of how much time remained before high tide, she increased her
pace to the moon room. With only a moment’s hesitation, she plunged into
the dark, tight crawl space of the tunnel to the main sun room.
 Nearly exhausted, she stumbled back into the well lit cavern where they
had begun. Merrick crawled out after her and they strode quickly across to
the passage that led out to the water.
Her knees scraped and her palms raw, she crawled down the last
remaining tunnel. Suddenly she stopped short, causing Merrick to bump
into her. He uttered a muffled curse.
“Shhhh!” she hissed.
She held her breath, praying her mind was playing tricks on her. But no,
there it was again. Voices.
 Chapter Twenty-Two

Simon swore again. “Come on,” he said urgently, backing rapidly back
down the tunnel. They scrambled out of the tunnel and into the sun room,
getting quickly to their feet.
His mind working rapidly, he began extinguishing the torches that
ringed the carving of the sun.
“What are you doing?” Isabella asked, hurrying to keep up with him.
He continued on, not pausing while he explained. “If we darken the
room, all they will see are the two lit passages. Hopefully they will
overlook the one we take long enough for us to get a head start.”
She helped him douse the remaining torches then they rushed for the
entrance to the tunnel. An eternity later, they burst into the moon room
and ran straight for the tunnel leading to the bridges.
His mind raced even faster than they moved. Formulating, discarding,
hashing out the possibilities. He didn’t even know if there were any. All
that was certain was that they could not leave the same way they came.
When they stumbled out onto the ledge in front of the bridges, he caught
her arm and halted her. “Is there another way out of the final chamber? Did
your father ever mention anything?”
Her eyes glowed in the torchlight, a mixture of fear and concentration in
their depths. “I don’t know,” she said in a tortured voice.
“Then be thinking of a way we can fight off an unknown number of
assailants,” he muttered, taking her arm and pulling her toward the bridge.
He took out across the bridge, praying they could make it a third time
after Isabella’s brush with disaster. Though he moved with as much speed
as he could, it seemed it took him forever to get across the swaying bridge.
When he stepped off the last plank, he held up the torch and motioned her
across.
She moved rapidly, but he could see the stark terror on her face. “Just a
little farther,” he whispered, though he doubted she could hear him.
When finally she leaped from the bridge to land beside him, she reached
down and retrieved her dagger from her boot. In a swift motion, she sliced
through the ropes sending the end of the bridge crashing to the other side.
She replaced her dagger and stared him in the eye. “Now you better pray
we find another way out.”
Sweat slid down his back, and for the first time in years, fear rolled
through him, nearly paralyzing him in the process. What if they were
unable to discover an alternate way out? Not only would he fail miserably
in his duty, but his and Isabella’s lives would be forfeit. It seemed he was
forever failing those closest to him. Would he let Isabella down as well?
Not wanting to dwell on that possibility, he focused on remembering the
order of the passageways in front of him. Left, right then right again.
Finally they burst into the final chamber, and he immediately began
searching. Each crevice, every nook, hoping against hope there was
another passageway. Isabella worked at the opposite end, running her
hands over the rock, moving stones aside.
He glanced up at the torches that ringed the stone slab the glass cases
had set on. For how long he stared he didn’t know, but suddenly it struck
him. The flames flickered and swayed. They didn’t merely dance with the
motion of an undisturbed fire.
“Isabella, come here,” he said excitedly.
She ran over to where he stood. “Have you found something?”
He pointed at the torches. “A current of air is blowing from somewhere,
and that means there is an opening somewhere in here.”
She followed the direction of his hand, her eyes widening as she saw
what he pointed to. The flames blew in the opposite direction, and they
both turned at the same time to view the area behind them.
“It must be coming from over there,” she said, starting forward.
They raced to the pile of rocks and scoured for any openings. He tested
the sturdiness of the pile then secured a foothold and boosted himself up.
Running his hands over each crack, he felt for air. As he neared the top, he
wondered if they had imagined it all for he could find no source for the
current.
Then at the very top, he felt it. Cool, steady, it blew over his face
ruffling his hair. “I’ve found it!” he whispered loudly.
Isabella stood at the bottom staring up at him, her face bright with
excitement. “Is it large enough for us to go through?”
“I don’t know yet. Give me a moment.”
He dug at the rocks where he felt the air and soon had a hole the size of
his fist. A tiny beacon of light shone in, and he felt a surge of triumph.
 “Isabella, listen to me,” he said urgently. “Go to the tunnel entrance and
listen for any sounds while I make the hole big enough for us to exit.”
“Shouldn’t I help you?” she asked.
“We can’t both be up here or whoever is in the cave could enter without
us ever knowing. Listen and if you hear anything warn me. Hopefully we
will be long gone by the time they make it here.”
She nodded and ran over to the tunnel. He turned back to the rocks and
began digging furiously. Periodically, he inserted his head and shoulders
into the opening to see if it was large enough, but each time he grew more
frustrated. Rocks rained down the slope below him, piling up at the bottom
as he pulled more away from the hole.
He couldn’t fail now. Not when so many depended on him. Not like he
had failed his father. Never again, he had sworn when his father died.
Never would he let anyone down as he had then.
His country depended on him. Leaudor depended on him. But most of
all, Isabella depended on him.
As more rocks pelted down to the floor below, he finally opened a large
enough hole that he and Isabella could fit through. He called out to her and
she ran over, quickly climbing up to where he stood.
And then he heard distant voices echoing down the tunnel Isabella had
just come from. How had they managed to move so rapidly through the
caves? Of course, they would have brought supplies and a large number of
men. They had likely split up and taken all possible routes in order to cut
down the time it took to reach the end. But the question uppermost in his
mind was how they had found the entrance.
An uneasy feeling rolled in his stomach, and he hoped that Father Ling
and the monks were unharmed.
Isabella looked at him, her eyes flooded with worry, fear and anger.
Then she reached out and touched his face before moving toward the
opening.
He put out a hand and pushed her behind him. Without further
hesitation, he plunged into the opening, calling for her to follow him.
Anger fueled his movements, and he crawled rapidly, ignoring the pain in
his knees and palms. They were only minutes ahead of their pursuers, and
he would not give up. Would not fail Isabella.
The light grew brighter ahead, signaling their rapid approach to an
outside source. But where would the tunnel take them? And then he heard
a dull roar. It grew louder as they continued closer to the light, and his
brow crinkled with his frown as he tried to decipher what it could be.
A cold rush of air hit him full force in the face, and he felt the spray of
water. He blinked in surprise then realization dawned. They had come out
behind a waterfall.
He scrambled out then turned to assist Isabella. The tunnel opened up
into a small concealed area behind the spray of water.
They hurried over to where the water cascaded downward, forming a
solid wall over the opening. “Stay here,” he directed and slid along the
wall behind the waterfall.
He inched onto a ledge that barely had room for the two of them to
stand. He stood high above a valley, and about midway up a cliff. He
craned his neck and looked upward for the source of the waterfall.
A long way up the cliff, the water poured over the side and downward
into the rushing river. And their only way out was down. He leaned back
behind the fall and motioned Isabella out.
She gingerly slid along the wall, her back plastered to the slick granite.
Her head swiveled, looking in all directions, and when she looked back at
him, he knew she had reached the same conclusion he had. They would
have to jump. And they might not survive.
“Isabella,” he began in a strained voice. “There is something I must
say.”
He couldn’t—wouldn’t—go to his death without telling her the depth of
his feelings.
He had vowed long ago never to give anyone the power to hurt him ever
again. By closing himself off, by not allowing himself to feel, he’d
managed to skirt through life without the raw pain that accompanied
disappointment. But by uttering these words, such tiny, innocuous words,
he was giving up complete power to another.
Here he stood, poised to lay bare his soul to a woman he had no future
with, and yet, if he didn’t, he knew he would live with the regret for the
rest of his life. And he had lived with such regret for far too long already.
“What is it, Merrick?”
Her soft voice intruded on his tumultuous thoughts, and he refocused his
attention on her beautiful face.
“We may not survive this jump—” He broke off, unable to yet voice
what was uppermost on his mind.
 She closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them again,
determination burned brightly in their depths.
“We’ll survive,” she said firmly. “You wouldn’t allow me to come to
harm.”
His chest expanded, swelling with all the things he wanted to say to this
woman who had has such unshakable faith in him.
She looked away, her gaze lowering to the water below.
“Look at me,” he whispered. “There is something I must tell you.”
She glanced back at him, and he lowered his head to catch her lips in a
lingering kiss. Her mouth parted beneath his, and he tasted her sweetness,
sure that he would never forget it so ingrained it was in his soul.
“I love you,” he murmured, his words nearly lost in her mouth.
She froze. Taking advantage of her evident shock, he took her hand and
leaped off the edge, spiraling them downward into the raging water.

Cold water exploded around Isabella, sucking her under. As she

struggled to make sense of her surroundings and get her head above water,
his words echoed in her head. I love you.
Had he really said it, or had she imagined it? And did he really mean it,
or were they words uttered by a man who thought they might be his last?
Perhaps an effort to say something, anything, to alleviate the awful truth
of the situation.
The current tossed her body around like a rag doll, and in her mind, her
worst fears were realized. She was going to die.
Almost as soon as the realization hit her, anger surged over her body.
She would not die. As her foot dragged the bottom of the river, she pushed
herself upwards, shooting rapidly up.
She broke the surface of the water, gasping and sputtering, fighting
desperately to stay afloat. Ahead of her she saw Merrick bobbing down the
rapids and nearly melted with relief that he was alive. For the time being
at least.
Positioning her body so she wasn’t resisting the current, she sped down
the river after him. She had nearly caught up to him when the current
slowed, and the relentless beating she endured let up.
Merrick swam against the current to meet her and wrapped his arms
tightly around her. “We made it,” he said triumphantly.
 She threw her arms around him and captured his mouth in a long, heated
kiss that outlined every ounce of her relief. “Careful,” he murmured.
“You’ll drown us.”
She laughed a deliriously happy, thankful laugh.
They swam to the bank of the river and pulled themselves tiredly from
the water and onto the ground. She collapsed on her stomach and laid her
cheek against the soft soil, closing her eyes. When she opened them again,
a pair of boots filled her vision. Boots she knew didn’t belong to Merrick.
A sick feeling of doom curled over Isabella’s cold, wet body. Her eyes
traveled over the boots and up the legs until finally she looked into the
eyes of the man standing over her.
She squinted against the setting sun to better see the potential adversary.
“Would you like a hand up, Your Highness?”
She melted in relief. Kirk.
 Chapter Twenty-Three

Kirk? What the devil was going on? Simon scrambled up as Isabella
extended her hand and allowed Kirk to pull her to stand beside him.
“What are you doing here?” she asked as she wrung the water from her
hair.
“Yes, what are you doing here?” Simon prompted.
“I thought you might need rescuing, but I see, as usual, Merrick has
taken care of that.” He smiled engagingly at her and winked. “Would you
be interested in an escort? I even brought horses.”
“What are you doing here, Kirk?” Simon asked again in a quiet voice,
his unease growing by leaps and bounds. Dread, such as he had never
experienced gripped him.
Kirk looked at him in surprise. “I would think it obvious. I’m here to
help you.”
“But what about Bonaparte? Have you warned the regent? Sent word to
Vienna?”
Kirk shook his head. “It wasn’t necessary. I was able to determine that
your theory wasn’t correct. Not only is his escape impossible, he would be
a fool to attempt it.”
“But did you warn the regent?” Simon persisted.
Kirk looked him dead in the eye. “No.”
Simon tightened his lips. Something about this whole scene didn’t sit
well with him. His instincts screamed at him from every direction, but he
was unable to give a reason for his uneasiness. Except that Kirk shouldn’t
be here.
“Were you successful in your quest, Your Highness?” Kirk asked,
turning to Isabella. “Did you recover the relics?”
She cocked her head and glanced sideways at Kirk, a puzzled expression
on her face. And then the ugly truth hit Simon square in the stomach.
Before she could respond, Simon pulled her back, easing in front of her.
“What do you know of the relics?” he asked lightly.
Kirk arched an eyebrow. “Full of questions aren’t we, Merrick? Do I
even get thanks for assisting you?”
 “Answer me,” he ordered. “How did you know about the relics? Neither
the princess nor I have ever mentioned them to you.”
The gregarious light completely died in Kirk’s eyes. “I don’t like your
tone, Merrick,” he said tightly.
“Why are you here?” Simon asked softly.
“I’ve already answered that question.”
“Not to my satisfaction.”
“What do you want from me?” Kirk snapped.
“How deeply are you in this, Kirk?”
Simon watched as anger flashed in Kirk’s eyes. His face tightened, and
Simon knew he was right in his suspicions. Anguish such that he hadn’t
felt even when his brother and father died assailed him, nearly robbing
him of breath.
“I see your mind is made up,” Kirk said coldly. “There is no need to
deny it.”
Simon closed his eyes. “Why, Kirk. Why?”
“What is going on?” Isabella demanded.
Kirk pulled a gun from the pocket of his coat and pointed it at them.
“What is going on, Your Highness, is that you will hand over the relics to
me, or I will not hesitate to shoot you.”
Simon struggled with his inability to comprehend that Kirk was a
traitor. Had he been involved all along? Had he anything to do with
Isabella’s family’s death? Bile rose in his throat. He had trusted this man.
Counted him as a brother. He had been a blind fool.
“I don’t know what you have to gain in all of this,” Isabella hissed. “But
if you think I am going to let some English traitor dictate the course of my
country, you are mistaken.”
“You think you can stop me?” he sneered. He inched closer, waving the
gun threateningly. “Now hand over the relics.”
“She doesn’t have them,” Simon interjected.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I failed,” she said. “I was unable to retrieve the relics.”
Kirk looked at her suspiciously.
“Does it appear that I have something such as an impossibly large
emerald and a jeweled scepter?” she asked in disgust.
He glanced at both her and Simon as if trying to decide if she spoke the
truth. “It matters not. The new king will soon be crowned with or without
the relics.”
He waved the gun at them. “Start walking. I know someone who will be
very glad to see the princess.”
Simon wrapped an arm around Isabella and urged her forward. His mind
reeled from Kirk’s betrayal. It didn’t seem possible, and yet the signs had
been there. He’d refused to see the truth.
She looked up at him with troubled eyes and he squeezed her shoulder.
They would get out of this. He just had to formulate a plan. But not before
he found out the extent of Kirk’s treachery.
“How far does this go up, Kirk? Are you acting on orders from the
crown?” A sick feeling crawled into his belly. “His Grace? Does the duke
have anything to do with this?”
Kirk snorted. “Rest easy, Merrick. Your beloved country had nothing to
do with this. The regent never even knew Isabella was in England. Neither
did His Grace. I made sure of that.”
Thank God. If everything he knew to be true was naught but a lie, his
last shred of hope would be destroyed.
“So you were responsible for all the attempts on Isabella’s life?” he
demanded, anger flooding him all over again.
“I merely provided information as to her whereabouts,” Kirk replied.
“The rest was out of my hands.”
“Why are you doing this, Kirk? What did they offer you?”
“Shut up and keep walking,” he snarled. “I have a meeting to make.”
As they walked, Simon’s mind whirled to make sense of everything he
had been handed. Kirk evidently worked for Montagne. Or did he? A
horrific thought blasted over him. What if Isabella had been right about
Bonaparte escaping?
Kirk didn’t work for Montagne. He worked for the French. But how did
it tie in with Leaudor? Now more than ever it was obvious there was a
connection between Bonaparte and Leaudor, but he still couldn’t put the
pieces together.
And how would he get them out of their current situation? He glanced
over at Isabella who stared ahead, her eyes clouded with fury. Kirk didn’t
know of her exceptional fighting skills and that could work in their favor.
If he could get Isabella to understand what he wanted, they only needed an
opening to disarm Kirk.
“Stop,” Kirk ordered, and they both halted.
 He walked in front of them and motioned downward with the gun. “Sit
against that tree. We wait here.”
Simon cautiously surveyed the area with a slow sweep as he squatted
down beside the tree. Isabella sank down beside him, and their gazes
connected for the briefest of seconds. He dipped his head over to Kirk in a
quick sideward motion then looked back at her, willing her to get his
message.
Her eyes widened briefly and she gave a slight, nearly imperceptible
nod.
Kirk stood in front of them, his eyes continually darting back and forth
as if expecting Montagne to materialize from nowhere. He turned back to
them, the gun in his hand still trained on them.
“I must be the most foolish person who ever lived,” Simon began,
hoping to loosen Kirk’s tongue. “Because I never saw this coming.”
Kirk laughed derisively. “That’s because you were too busy saving king
and country from the rest of the world.”
His voice rang with such bitterness that Simon began to wonder if this
was a personal score Kirk was settling.
“Humor me since you’re handing us over to Montagne and I have no
illusions he will keep us alive—”
“Montagne?” Kirk asked with a lift to his brow. “He is but a pawn.”
“Then who…?” His voice trailed off. It wasn’t important who. The
important thing was for him to buy enough time for him and Isabella to
escape. “What cause do you serve and how did you get mixed up in
Leaudorian politics?”
“It’s so like you to assume everyone has a cause,” Kirk said mockingly.
“I have no cause save for what benefits me directly. Not everyone is born
to wealth and nobility. Some of us have to scrape along the best we can
and take opportunities when they are presented.”
“You mean this is about money?” Simon asked incredulously.
“Spoken just like someone who has never done without it,” he retorted
bitterly. “And if it weren’t for you, I would have succeeded beyond my
wildest dreams years ago.”
His outburst baffled Simon. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“You,” Kirk hissed. “You’ve long been the bane of my existence. I’ve
tried everything to rid myself of you, but you persisted like the plague.”
 “I don’t understand. What have you done?” Thinking back there had
never been anything but easy camaraderie between them. No close calls.
No attempts on his life or unexplained accidents. What could he be talking
about?
Kirk continued on, deep in his diatribe, his face growing red as his anger
mounted. “I thought that if you became earl you would resign from the
agency. But still, you stayed on, acting as if you held the fate of the entire
world in your hands.”
Simon froze, horror sweeping over him. Surely he wasn’t suggesting…
He couldn’t even bear to consider the possibility. Kirk paused, something
remarkably like pain marking his features as he saw Simon’s evident
agony.
“Surely you don’t think your brother really committed suicide,” he said
in disgust. “Really, Merrick. And here I was so envious of your abilities.”
Isabella gasped, her hand reaching out for Simon’s.
“You killed Edward?” he managed to croak out.
“Yes. It was rather easy actually. I assumed with you as the heir you
would give up the agency and return to Hertfordshire.”
Kirk’s voice turned almost pleading. “He deserved to die. Surely you
can see that. He took everything from you. From me. I did it for you,
Merrick. So that you would have what was rightfully yours. So that you
would retire from the agency and become the earl. So that you and I could
remain as we were.”
His face hardened. “But you refused, and I was forced to take more
drastic measures. If only you had done as you should have.”
“Don’t you dare say you did this for me,” Simon spat.
Anger wild and hot surged through him until he feared he would
explode. That Kirk had killed Edward was incomprehensible. All the years
of not knowing why his brother had committed suicide. The anger, grief
and overwhelming sorrow. All because of Kirk.
And his father. Kirk killed him as surely as if he had pulled the trigger
and shot him. His sadness over Edward’s death had pushed him into an
early grave.
Suddenly all the subtle hints about Simon retiring made sense. Time and
time again Kirk had tried to persuade him to leave the agency. Had insisted
on calling him Merrick when he inherited the title even though for years
he had referred to him as Simon. It was a reminder of his new station. His
new duties. And represented Kirk’s hope for him to quit and pave the way
for Kirk’s treachery.
“You bastard.” He seethed, barely controlling the urge to lunge after
Kirk and wrap his hands around his miserable neck. His rage threatened to
spiral out of control when Kirk continued to stare at Simon as if he had
done nothing wrong. Simon clenched his fists in an effort to quell the
eruption of fury that was imminent.
“If you had just retired to your country estate and done what it is earls
do, then we wouldn’t be standing here contemplating the circumstances of
your death,” Kirk said wearily. “I had no wish for you to die. My only goal
was the princess.”
“What has Montagne offered you?” Isabella demanded.
He cast her a baleful look. “Think you this has anything to do with
Montagne? You give him far too much credit. He has only done as he was
ordered.”
“Then why?” Simon spat out. “I deserve to know what it is you think
was worth my brother’s life.”
“Leaudor is but a tiny piece in the puzzle,” Kirk said with a curl of his
lip. “A means to assist the larger goal. Though I could care less what
happens as long as I receive payment.”
“So you’ve been plotting against England all these years?”
“I’ve looked after my best interests all these years,” he corrected.
“And how many people have you murdered for your own selfish aims?”
“I lost count,” he said blithely.
“Who recruited you if it wasn’t Montagne?” Simon demanded.
“Yes, I suppose you’d love to know,” he said with a smirk. “After King
Fernando was assassinated and the princess disappeared, I was approached
by a group of Bonaparte loyalists who promised me a great deal of money
if I handed the princess over to them. When you agreed to bear her back to
Leaudor, you inadvertently made things much easier for me. I merely sat
back and let you do my work for me, and now I step in and hand the
princess over to them and collect my hard-earned wealth.”
He smiled smugly—a pleased, self-assured smile—as if he were
applauding his ingenuity.
Isabella’s slim hand gripped Simon’s arm tighter. Then she rose from
her perch beside him.
“Back down, Princess,” Kirk ordered, waving the gun at her.
 “Surely you aren’t afraid of a hapless female,” she said with a raised
eyebrow. “I have need of a place to relieve myself.”
“I said sit down.”
“I’m afraid the situation is becoming rather desperate,” she said with an
embarrassed flush.
“It is about to become more desperate if you don’t do as I have
ordered,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument.
With lightning speed, she rotated her leg, kicking the pistol from his
hand. Shock registered on his features as the gun landed with a thud on the
ground.
Simon was on his feet in seconds. Kirk raised his arm before Simon
could get to him and viciously backhanded Isabella, sending her reeling.
Simon’s heart lurched when she did not immediately get up.
He rammed his shoulder into Kirk’s midriff, slamming him into the dirt
with force that rocked them both. Unleashing the anger that simmered, he
drove his fist into Kirk’s jaw. Yanking him up by his collar, Simon
punched him again, and blood spurted from Kirk’s battered nose.
Kirk kicked him in the chest, and Simon fell backwards. Kirk jumped on
him, and the two men rolled over and over in the leaves and sticks as
blows were exchanged.
Simon poured every ounce of hatred and his thirst for revenge into his
effort. He rolled on top of Kirk and curled one hand around Kirk’s neck
while he used the other to pummel Kirk’s face.
But Kirk was fighting for his life, and he wasn’t going to be overcome
that easily. He jerked his leg up and kneed Simon in the groin. Pain
exploded through his abdomen, and he flew backward as Kirk shoved him
off.
He scrambled backwards on the ground, trying to catch his breath and
collect his wits to go back on the attack. When he could see through the
haze of pain, fear quickly overrode his anger.
Kirk, bloodied and battered, knelt behind an unconscious Isabella,
holding her dagger to her throat. “If you come any closer, I will slit her
throat,” he gasped out.
Kirk’s voice turned pleading once more. “I don’t need you, Merrick. It’s
the princess and the relics they want. For once in your life, turn your back.
Return to England. Forget what happened here. No one need ever know.
She means nothing to you. Let her go.”
 “That is where you are wrong,” Simon said in a deadly voice.
Simon inched back, and his fingers brushed against the pistol Kirk had
dropped. Knowing it was his only chance, he curled his hand around the
cold metal and pulled it slowly to him until he gripped it comfortably in
his hand.
In one smooth motion, he brought his hand around, took aim at Kirk’s
head and fired with no hesitation. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the
air. Kirk fell away from Isabella, the dagger slipping from his hand.
Simon rushed over, ignoring Kirk’s lifeless body, and knelt beside
Isabella. He gently smoothed the hair from her head and saw the bruise
already forming at her temple.
Knowing he had no time to waste before whoever Kirk was meeting
arrived, he scooped her up in his arms. Not sparing Kirk a glance, he
hurried in the direction of the monastery.
A flood of emotions threatened to overpower him, but he staunched the
tide, determined to get Isabella to safety. But his anger ate at him until he
feared going mad. Tears burned his eyes, and he ground his teeth in an
effort to hold them back.
When he topped the hill in front of the monastery, he hunkered down,
shielding her with his arms. He surveyed the terrain, looking for any threat
to him and Isabella. If luck was with him, Montagne’s men would have
accompanied him to his rendezvous with Kirk.
But luck wasn’t.
A small contingent of guards on horseback patrolled the gates, swords
drawn. Getting inside may well be the biggest challenge he would ever
face. But his entire career had been fraught with difficulties, and he didn’t
expect it to become any easier now.
He glanced down at Isabella’s face, his concern growing at her
prolonged state of unconsciousness. Standing up once more, he walked
just below the ridge of the hill until he stared at the side of the monastery.
He hurried forward, ducking behind brush and trees along the way. When
he reached the great stone wall that served as an impenetrable barrier to
the monastery, he laid Isabella on the ground and positioned her in
comfort.
Rising, he pressed himself to the wall and felt for his knife. He moved
to the corner and peered around. He counted three guards. One on foot, two
on horseback.
 Moving his head back, he rested it against the wall and considered his
options. If he could lure the closest guard on horseback around the side, he
could surprise him and dispatch him quickly.
Sidling back to the corner, he let out the most pitiful wail he could
muster. If the situation wasn’t so dire, he would have laughed at the horrid
impression of a newborn baby. But it worked. The sound of hoof beats
drew nearer, and he readied himself to go on the attack.
As soon as the horse appeared around the corner, he threw the dagger,
hitting the soldier in the shoulder. The soldier’s hand flew to the knife and
he wobbled atop the saddle. Simon grabbed at his shirt and pulled him
down to the ground.
Not giving the soldier any time to react, he leaped on him, smashing a
rock down over his head. The soldier slumped and Simon retrieved his
dagger from the unconscious man. Then he scrambled up to await the next
guard who would likely appear any moment to check on his partner.
It wasn’t long before the second horse appeared around the corner, but
Simon had to no clear shot. When the soldier saw Simon and his fallen
comrade, he vaulted from the saddle and drew his sword. Simon groaned,
glancing down at his paltry knife.
In one swift motion, he dove for the discarded sword of the previous
soldier, rolling and quickly bouncing back to his feet. He circled his
opponent, warily sizing him up. The soldier was larger, but Simon hoped
he was quicker. And more desperate.
“Give up now and I won’t kill you,” Simon said.
“The only one who will die is you, Englishman.”
What confidence he had quickly left when the third soldier appeared
around the corner. As he backed away, his mind frantically searched for a
plan to outwit the both of them.
Like predators closing in on their prey, the soldiers advanced, their
swords gleaming menacingly. In his mind, there was only one way to go
about it. He charged forward, letting out a bloodcurdling yell to rival any
savage.
The sound of metal clashing rang out as his sword engaged first one
then another. He pulled every fighting trick he’d ever learned from his
repertoire and even made up a few new ones.
A blade slashed through his skin, and pain seared his upper arm. He felt
warm blood roll down his sleeve but ignored the wound. His sword found
flesh of its own, cutting a jagged gash in the belly of the soldier closest to
him.
A strangled cry went up from the other soldier, and Simon watched as
he crashed to the ground. Isabella stood over him like an avenging
goddess, her dagger covered in the man’s blood. The soldier gripped his
shoulder and struggled to regain his footing. But Isabella never gave him a
chance.
Simon swiftly turned his attention back to the last remaining soldier,
confident that Isabella had the other well under control.
“Have you any idea the penalty for assaulting a member of the royal
family?” he asked, as he and the soldier circled each other.
In fact he had no idea what punishment was meted out, but apparently it
was stiff, for the man whitened.
“Perhaps you would like to rethink your surrender,” he said, pressing his
advantage.
With a snarl of fury, the soldier launched himself at Simon, giving him
the opportunity he had been waiting for. He smashed his fist into the man’s
stomach then brought the butt of the sword down over his head, sending
him crashing to the ground unconscious.
Not wasting any time on the fallen man, Simon rushed to aid Isabella.
Only she had no need of it. With one well placed kick, she sent the last
soldier sprawling to the dirt. He didn’t attempt to rise again.
“About time you showed your face,” he grumbled. But he caught her up
against him before she could respond to his attempt at humor, holding her
tightly to his chest.
She pulled away and smiled crookedly at him. “You were doing quite
well on your own.”
“Is your head paining you?” he asked, smoothing the bruised skin with
the tips of his fingers.
“I’ve had better days, but I’ll certainly survive. Let’s go into the
monastery before more soldiers arrive.”
He turned to do her bidding, but she caught his arm.
“Merrick?”
He turned back to her, reading the concern in her face.
“What about Kirk?” she asked in a low voice.
Raw agony tore a jagged path through his chest all over again. “He’s
dead,” he said flatly, ignoring Isabella’s troubled look.
 He shepherded her around the corner to the huge wrought iron gate. The
two monks standing on the inside immediately swung it open when they
saw Isabella.
Without a word, they swiftly ushered them in and closed the gate once
more. Then they hurried into the monastery where Father Ling stood to
greet them.
“Your Highness, thank God you have returned safely.”
“I believe you have something for me,” she said in a husky voice as she
held out her father’s scroll.
Tears filled the older man’s eyes, and he reached forward to grasp her
hands in his. “It is with great joy that I will present you with the Sacred
Emerald and the Royal Scepter. Come, let’s hasten to prepare you for your
return to the palace.”
Monks scurried from all directions, some bearing food, some bearing
clothing and still more ushered her into the bathing chamber.
Simon watched the events unfold with awe. Isabella was bathed and
anointed with sacred water then dressed in the finest gown. When at last
she stood before him, her transformation complete, he could not summon
the words to express his amazement.
Gone was the woman he had spent the last weeks with, and in her place,
stood a stunningly beautiful member of royalty. Her long hair fell in waves
to her waist, a jeweled tiara atop her head. Her dress was a combination of
materials, satin, silk and a heavy brocade, all in shades of green. Her trim
waist was clearly outlined by the tight-fitting bodice. From there, the
material fell in soft waves to her feet.
An emerald necklace rested in the hollow of her throat, and diamond
and emerald drop earrings hung from the tiny lobes of her ears. She was
the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.
A knot formed in his throat, and he did the only thing he could think to
do. He bowed before her.
 Chapter Twenty-Four

Isabella’s heart constricted as Merrick’s dark head bowed before her. With
such an innocent action, he widened the gulf between them. I love you. His
words still echoed in her memory, their imprint burned in her brain.
Did she love him in return? In truth, the only emotion she could feel
was burning revenge. It had shoved aside all else. Did she love him? She
didn’t know. It had been too long since she had felt anything but numbing
pain. Did she need him? She did. And she didn’t want to examine the
proximity of the two emotions. Not now.
Moving forward, she took his head in her hands and pulled him up to
meet her eyes. Holding his hands in hers, she led him to a plush seat across
the chamber.
Her eyes drank in the sight of him as they settled across from one
another, their knees nearly touching. The monks had provided a suit of
clothing for him, and he looked every inch the earl in them. Cream-
colored trousers encased his muscular legs, and a matching vest buttoned
over a white silk shirt. A black formal cutaway coat completed the
ensemble, the tails pulled up in the back to accommodate his position on
the bench they sat on.
He looked positively rakish, and she had difficulty forming a coherent
thought in his presence, much less a sentence.
Anxiety turned her stomach to mush as she contemplated bringing up
the moment just before they leaped over the waterfall. She wasn’t even
sure she should dwell on it because everything else seemed to fade away in
its shadow, and she was so close to achieving justice. So close she could
taste it.
He stared wordlessly at her, his eyes probing her. They were troubled
almost, their dark orbs reflecting…sadness? She shifted under his scrutiny
and struggled to pose the question uppermost on her mind.
“Merrick,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “Before, when
we were about to jump over the waterfall…”
She broke off, her courage faltering. Why was he saying nothing?
“What I mean to ask, that is, did you—”
 She nearly screamed in frustration when she was cut off by Father
Ling’s return.
“Your Highness, it is time.” He hurried over to her, his robe billowing
out behind him.
Merrick stood up and offered her his hand. She rested her fingers atop
his wrist and rose gracefully. “I’d like Lord Merrick to accompany me to
the palace.”
She looked to Merrick for confirmation, but he stared straight ahead.
“As you wish. The carriage awaits you inside the gate.” Father Ling’s
voice lowered, and he inclined his head toward her. “Montagne has
returned to the palace. I’ve arranged an escort for you. Normally we would
ring the bells to signal your success, but in this case, I think secrecy is of
the utmost importance.”
“Is there an armed contingent to see to the princess’s protection?”
Merrick interjected.
“The Royal Guard stands ready to escort Her Highness to the palace.”
“But are they loyal to the princess?” he persisted, his arm wrapping
protectively around her shoulders.
Father Ling gazed sharply at him. “The Royal Guard is comprised of the
nation’s most honorable men. They stand ready to die for their future
queen. You may be assured no one will touch the princess.”
“And where were these intensely loyal men when her parents were
murdered?” Merrick asked pointedly.
Father Ling stared serenely at Merrick, his eyes registering approval
and respect. “Your devotion to Her Highness is very admirable, my lord. I
can see you have only her best interests at heart.”
“I merely want to make sure she is safe.”
“And she will be,” the monk said sagely. “I know you find it difficult to
trust beyond your own instincts, but the Royal Guard will not allow the
princess to come to harm. They will defend her to their own deaths.”
Merrick nodded, evidently satisfied by the monk’s assurances. Once
again, he offered his arm to her, and she tucked her hand over the crisp
material of his coat. His other hand closed over hers and squeezed.
“Are you ready?” he murmured close to her ear.
She nodded and they walked after Father Ling into the small courtyard
in front of the monastery. As they stepped out into the deepening twilight,
she smiled as she saw the royal carriage waiting. How many times had she
ridden in this same carriage with her parents?
Two men sat in the driver’s seat, high above the ground, their plumed
hats waving in the breeze. Soldiers on horseback formed a double line in
front of and behind the carriage, and one was posted at each of the four
corners.
Merrick handed her into the carriage then climbed in beside her. Father
Ling leaned in and looked at Isabella. “Be on your guard, Your Highness.
Much is not as it seems.”
As they lurched forward, the awful knot in her stomach grew. His
cryptic words gave her a sense of foreboding. She twisted her hands
nervously in front of her and peered anxiously out the window.
They moved more swiftly than she remembered traveling before, but
then there was a threat of attack. The soldiers rode with swords drawn,
constantly assessing the landscape around them.
She sat back in her seat, forcing herself to relax.
“It’s almost over,” Merrick said.
“Yes,” she replied. She turned to look at him, seizing their last
opportunity to be alone before arriving at the palace. “Merrick, what you
said before we jumped… Did you mean it?”
He looked away as if reluctant to discuss the matter.
“You don’t have to answer,” she said in a rush. In a lot of ways, it would
be easier if he didn’t confirm his earlier declaration.
When he turned his gaze back to her, his eyes were a swirl of conflicting
emotions. Uncertainty, vulnerability. As if his entire soul was laid out
before her.
For the first time, she realized that this was a man, who despite his best
attempts, felt deeply about all things in his life. His devotion to his
country, while a bandage for wounds inflicted by his father, ran strong.
And now, if she was to believe the evidence before her, he felt just as
deeply about her.
A knot grew in her stomach. She wouldn’t purposely hurt this man for
anything in the world, but some hurts were inevitable. As they had both
come to realize.
He continued to stare at her, every ounce of feeling burning in his eyes.
“I meant it,” he said finally.
 Had he waged a private war with himself over whether to make such an
admission?
Unable to bear his scrutiny any longer, she turned away before she lost
every ounce of resolve she possessed.
After Jacques was captured, she promised herself. When her parents
were avenged, she would address this matter between them.
The carriage halted, and she blinked rapidly then looked eagerly out the
window. The door opened, and Merrick stepped out. He held his hand back
to her, and she slowly descended the steps.
She was home.
The palace stood before her, nestled in the bosom of Soleil Mountain.
Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she would not allow them to come. Not yet.
Drawing herself up, she ordered in a clear loud voice, “Bring Montagne
to me!”
The soldiers rushed forward into the palace gates, six remaining behind
to escort her within. She shrugged away Merrick’s hand and strode
forward.
She entered the Great Hall, her skirts swinging around her as her
determined steps sounded on the highly polished floor. Members of court,
high-ranking officials, lords and ladies alike gasped in astonishment when
their eyes lighted on her.
She trailed up the red carpet to stand before the high table, her fists
knotted at her sides. “Where is he?” she demanded, her voice echoing
across the hall.
The Lord of the Order, a man appointed by her own father, stood from
his seat, the gavel slipping from his hands. “Princess Isabella,” he gasped.
“We thought you dead.”
“As you can see I am very much alive,” she replied. “Now tell me where
is Montagne?”
Silence fell over the hall. Lord Helwedge cleared his throat nervously. “I
do not know, Your Highness. He left not a few minutes ago. We were about
to take a vote on whether to change the rule of succession so that a ruler
could be crowned without producing the relics.”
Rage boiled over her. “Well, as you can see, I have returned to assume
the throne and to carry out my father’s legacy. I have been into the caves,
and I have recovered the relics. Tomorrow, according to the supreme laws
of Leaudor, I shall be crowned your queen.”
 A gasp went up from the room, and the excited buzz of chatter sounded
in her ears.
“Yes, of course, Your Highness,” Lord Helwedge said shakily. He rubbed
a hand over his forehead then sat heavily in his chair.
She whirled around to face the occupants of the room. “Listen well and
heed my words. Anyone associating with or supporting Jacques Montagne
will be branded a traitor and dealt with accordingly.”
She turned back to eye Lord Helwedge. “I fully expect you to apprise
the rest of the court and the army as well that their leader is no longer
Jacques Montagne.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” he said, rising once more and bowing.

Simon watched from the back of the room. She was clearly in her
element and born to rule. She allowed no one to interfere in her sworn
objective. Not even him.
His heart lay heavy in his chest. Kirk’s betrayal weighed mightily on
him. His love for Isabella consumed him. Thoughts of his brother tortured
him.
Simon had killed Edward. He was responsible for his brother’s death. If
he hadn’t been so consumed with proving his worth to his father, he would
never have joined the agency. His unwillingness to be the invisible spare
had led to the deaths of both Edward and his father.
His longing for a family had driven him, and he’d found solace in the
camaraderie of the service. Kirk had been a brother to him, the sort of
brother and relationship he had longed for within his own family.
He closed his eyes, recrimination beating a steady rhythm in his head.
That same selfishness had nearly cost Isabella her life as well. He had
been a fool to admit his love for her. The look in her eyes when he had said
he meant it told him his admission was just one more burden she would
have to bear in a time when she needed as few as possible.
Once he saw her safely on the throne on the morrow, he would slip
quietly back to England and continue his work in solitude.
“Lord Merrick?” A soldier stood before him.
“Yes, what is it?” he asked looking around him.
“Her Highness wished me to escort you to your chambers so that you
might rest. She would enjoy your company for breakfast in the morning.”
 He slowly followed the soldier down the hall. Though ludicrous, his
hope was to have spent one more night with her. But of course it wasn’t
possible. They were in the palace, and she was hours from being crowned
queen. Hours from saying goodbye.
***
“Your Highness, Montagne has been detained.”
Isabella spun around in her chamber to face the captain of the Royal
Guard. “Where is he now?”
“He is being held under guard in his chambers. We await your
direction.”
Her lip curled in disgust. “Remove him from his chamber at once. He
doesn’t deserve such luxury. Place him in the prison cell as you would any
other criminal. I will face him tomorrow when I am queen and fully able
to mete out punishment according to the law.”
“As you wish, Your Highness,” he said with a bow. He turned and left
the throne room, his steps echoing across the empty room.
She watched as he disappeared then turned back around, wrapping her
arms tightly about herself. Her gaze wandered over the dimly lit room her
father had spent so much time in, and where he and her mother died.
She closed her eyes as hot tears slipped down her cheeks. The memory
of that day played over and over in her mind. In slow motion she saw her
mother’s body slip lifelessly to the floor beside her father.
Her head snapped up as she heard herself scream, heard Davide cry out.
The room spun crazily around her. She could see Jacques’ smile of
satisfaction, see Stephane’s bloody hand as he held it out in triumph. Hear
the guards as they closed in around her and Davide. Feel their evil touch.
She opened her eyes and looked over to where she had last seen her
parents, afraid that she would see their blood still on the floor. But the
marble gleamed under the shine of a fresh polish. It was as if they had
never been there.
“I will avenge you,” she whispered, her words reverberating softly over
the quiet room. “He will pay for what he has done. I will not let you down,
Father.”
Her only answer was deafening silence. She walked slowly to the
entrance where two guards attended her safety. She closed the door softly
behind her. “Have someone seal this room,” she said to one of the soldiers.
“It will no longer be used.”
She walked down the hall to her chambers, her spine stiffening, her
shoulders squared. She had laid to rest her parents’ memory, and now that
Jacques had been captured, she felt the horrible weight begin to dissipate.
When she was queen, she would have a memorial service for her parents
and brothers. One fitting to their station.
She paused outside the chamber she had reserved for Merrick, wanting
desperately to go within. She placed a hand on the door then slowly let it
slide down the wood surface. Her heart heavy, she turned away and hurried
down to her own quarters.
 Chapter Twenty-Five

After a sleepless night, Isabella’s anticipation had completely

encompassed her. Today she would be crowned queen and fulfill her
promise to her father.
She had spent the better part of the night analyzing her feelings for the
Englishman. He consumed her thoughts, her dreams. But dreams were
reserved for the lucky. Those not bound by destiny.
Not even briefly would she consider the possibility of them having any
sort of future together. To do so would only bring about the worst kind of
heartache. They both had a duty to their countries before all else.
And the man she married must, according to Leaudorian law, be a
Leaudorian citizen. Any man not born of her country would have to
renounce his loyalty to the country of his birth and swear allegiance to
Leaudor.
Such an easy obstacle in theory. But she knew well Merrick’s devotion
to the English crown. His sense of duty ran deep. Add to that he had an
English title and an obligation to his dead father to continue the line. The
chances of him being willing to relinquish all of that, even for her, seemed
nonexistent. Nor would she accept it.
She rose from her bed, shoving all thoughts of Merrick aside. Too much
was at stake this day to allow her personal desires to interfere.
She was immediately besieged by a bevy of maids as she exited her
bedchamber and walked into her sitting room. A flurry of activity erupted
as they washed her, dressed her and did up her hair. As she sat before the
vanity while they pinned the last of her curls, she ran her hands over the
smooth silk of her dress.
“What time is the coronation?” she asked the lady who had temporarily
been posted as her secretary.
“In three hours, Your Highness.”
Three hours. Plenty of time for her to breakfast with Merrick before the
ceremony.
She turned to her secretary. “Arrange for my breakfast to be taken here
in my private sitting room. Send word to Lord Merrick that I should like
his presence.”
 “Of course, Your Highness.”
Isabella dismissed her maids and waited impatiently for Merrick to
arrive. Several minutes later, three members of the kitchen staff arrived
with trays of food. She watched as they finished arranging the food then
sat down, waiting for Merrick’s appearance.
Her head snapped up when the door opened, but her hopes were dashed
when she saw her secretary reappear.
“I was unable to locate Lord Merrick, Your Highness. He was not in his
chamber.”
She laughed nervously. “Perhaps he is breakfasting in the dining hall. Or
maybe taking a walk about the gardens. Send one of the guards to search
for him.”
She waited until the secretary left then slumped into an armchair. Where
was he? She tried to calm her jittery nerves. There was no reason to
assume the worst. But it stuck in her mind, refusing to be silent. Had he
departed for England? Did he regret his words? Did he truly mean them?
Her fingers massaged her temples as the aching in her head increased.
How could she rejoice in her success if Merrick wasn’t here to share it
with her?
She leapt out of the chair when a knock sounded at the door. When she
opened it, she saw the two guards posted outside cross their swords over
the entry in a protective manner. A messenger stood before her, and he
extended a missive to her.
“This just came for you, Your Highness.”
Attempting to mask her disappointment, she smiled and took the
message from him. She retreated into her room and closed the door behind
her.
She broke the wax seal and unrolled the letter, her eyes narrowing at the
manner of address.

Interloper

You dare to intrude where you do not belong.

If you value the Englishman’s life you will
forego the coronation and come at once to
the Marble Cliffs. Come alone or the Englishman
will die.
 It was unsigned. She stared in shock at the words, not fully
comprehending them. Someone—who?—had Merrick.
“To me!” she cried out to her guards.
The door flew open and the two guards rushed in, their swords drawn.
“Find out if Montagne still resides in his cell,” she ordered. “I want the
entire grounds searched for Lord Merrick. Report back to me at once with
your findings.”
When the guards left, she summoned the maid who had helped her
undress the previous evening. She directed her to find her a pair of
breeches and a suitable shirt.
Not wasting precious time waiting on the maid to return, she quickly
tore the dress and trappings from her body and waited in just her chemise
for the clothing she had requested.
Fear ate at her very soul. If she lost Merrick, she could not go on living.
She had lost too much, and he was all she had left. The only person who
cared whether she lived or died.
She closed her eyes against the horrible images of his death. Death
came too readily to mind, she could see it so clearly after witnessing the
horror of her parents’ murders.
Who had done this? Was it a trick to remove her from the palace? If so,
where was Merrick?
Another knock sounded at her door.
“Come!” she snapped.
“Your Highness, Montagne is secure in the cell, but there is no sign of
Lord Merrick. Shall I dispatch a contingent to find him?”
“No,” she said sharply, waving her hand dismissively. “You may go
now.”
On the heels of the guard, her maid returned with the clothing. Her eyes
widened when she took in Isabella’s scantily clad body, but she wisely kept
silent.
“Leave me,” she said brusquely.
The maid bowed and backed out of the room.
She pulled the breeches and shirt on in seconds then thrust her feet into
a pair of boots. Rushing to the vanity, she yanked the jeweled pins from
her hair. She twisted the strands into a thick braid and quickly tied the end.
 Knowing she had little time, she flung open her door and strode down
the hall toward Jacques’ cell on the level below. Her guards followed
wordlessly behind her. Chances were, he would tell her nothing, but she
had to try for Merrick’s sake.
When she approached the cell, she was surprised by Jacques’
appearance. He sat slumped over on the small bench against the wall, his
hair unruly and his clothing in disarray. When he heard her, he looked up,
his eyes dull and lifeless.
“Where is he?” she hissed.
He blinked, his eyes not reacting to her command.
“Tell me or I will have you killed right now.”
He rose unsteadily and walked over to grasp the bars where she stood.
“Where is who?”
“Lord Merrick,” she ground out, her patience at its end.
The look of puzzlement in his eyes was not feigned. Surely he knew of
Merrick. Hadn’t Merrick been taken in an effort to free Jacques?
He shook his head. “I have no idea who you are talking about.”
“Bastard!” she spat. “Was it not enough that you killed my parents?”
Pain and something that looked remarkably like regret flashed across
his face. “My sins are great, and my time has come to an end. I’ll not
survive to stand trial. He won’t allow it.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned in closer to him. “Who are you
talking about?” Kirk’s confusion when Montagne’s name had been
mentioned flashed in her mind. Was it possible he had not been acting
under Montagne’s orders? Was there more than one faction vying for
control of her country?
He shook his head again and shuffled back to the bench, leaning over to
bury his face in his hands.
“Damn you, talk to me!”
He ignored her, and she swung around in rage, stalking back to her
chambers. She had no time to deal with an uncooperative murderer.
Merrick’s life was in danger, and she must save him.
How to get out without being seen? The guards would never let her go
out alone. She shut the door to her chambers and crossed the room to her
window, peering out at the ground below. While too far to simply jump,
she could make her way down the ledge then drop to the roof of the
solarium. From there it was a short distance to the ground.
 Shoving the window open, she threw her leg over the sill and ducked
out. Minutes later, she dropped to the ground and crept stealthily to the
stables. Would her prize mare still be there? Or would Jacques have ridded
the stables of the horses belonging to her family?
She bent over and sidled down the stalls, praying the stable master
wouldn’t hear her. To her relief, she found Zora in her stall, and the horse
neighed and stamped in greeting when Isabella held out her hand.
She threw herself on the horse’s back and urged her out of the stable.
They bolted past a surprised groom, the horse’s hooves beating against the
ground.
They thundered down the mountain and toward the western cliffs. The
wind blew cold over her, but she only felt the heavy regret in her heart.
Regret that she had never allowed herself to simply love him in return.
Regret that she had looked away as he laid his heart in her hands. I love
you.
“I do,” she whispered, the words spilling from her mouth and
disappearing into the wind.
God what a fool she had been. She couldn’t countenance a future
without him.
Future. The word inferred hope, and for the first time, she had little. She
had castigated Merrick for his lack of faith, but now in the face of living
life without him, she felt hers flagging. God, let him be alive.
A short distance from the cliff, she halted the horse and slid from her
back. She raced forward, her gaze darting over the terrain, looking for any
sign of Merrick or his abductors.
As she topped the slope of the cliff, she saw him. Bound in a kneeling
position on the very edge of the cliff, his arms were pulled behind him and
a gag stretched across his mouth. Her relief nearly made her hasty. She
pulled up and carefully scanned the area, looking for signs of danger.
The only sound was the ocean crashing below the cliff. Unable to keep
from Merrick any longer, she bolted forward. When he saw her, he
immediately began twisting, his eyes warning her to stay back, but she
couldn’t leave him.
She dropped to the ground in front of him, her heart nearly bursting with
relief. Yanking her dagger from her boot, she reached behind him to hack
at the ropes binding him.
 His muffled protests flooded her ears, and she sat back. “Of course, how
stupid of me,” she berated herself. She reached up to free his mouth from
the cloth.
“Isabella, get out of here,” he rasped. “Leave this place at once.”
“I won’t leave you,” she said fiercely.
She reached around to cut the ropes at his arms but froze when she
heard a sound behind her.
The slow methodical clapping of hands echoed across the cliff top, and
she whirled around.
As she took in the man walking from behind a pile of rocks, she swayed,
her legs threatening to collapse beneath her.
“Well, well, well, baby sister. How nice it is to see you again.”
 Chapter Twenty-Six

Shock then euphoria shot through Isabella. Her brother was alive!
“Stephane, how did you…” She broke off, her gaze flitting over his hands,
both of which were perfectly intact. “I don’t understand,” she said numbly.
He reacted with no joy to see her alive. On the contrary, his eyes
glittered malevolently as he slowly sauntered closer to her. He looked
haggard as though he hadn’t slept in days.
“I underestimated you, sister dear. I never expected you to become such
a problem.”
She stared dumbly at him. “What are you talking about?” The world
moved slowly around her, her befuddled mind straining to make sense of
the scene before her. She should be shouting to the mountains, yet,
everything about this stunning revelation troubled her.
“Poor Isabella. You really have no idea, do you?” He smiled snidely,
stopping a few feet in front of her.
Warning bells clanged loudly in her head. Something was terribly
wrong, but seeing her brother alive, realizing that she wasn’t alone
clouded the awful truth. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t believe what stared
her in the face. Jacques’ strange behavior, Kirk’s adamancy that Jacques
had nothing to do with his betrayal of Merrick.
“Why don’t you tell me,” she whispered in a ragged voice.
He laughed abrasively. “Surely it is obvious to you.”
“Why?” she asked, the dread so thick in her voice she nearly choked.
“It really doesn’t matter why. All that matters is that I take the throne.
Montagne put into motion all I needed to set aside the old ways, but you
ruined it by appearing with the relics. Relics that should have been mine,”
he ground out.
“Don’t be so certain of that,” she said softly.
He looked oddly at her. “It matters not. Now that you have so graciously
retrieved them for me, I can ascend the throne as its rightful heir.”
She gazed at him in agony, searching her memories for some small clue
to his betrayal. “I loved you, Stephane. Mother and Father loved you.
Father was so proud of everything you did. You were the heir. Why murder
them?”
 Disgust flared his nostrils, and he snorted derisively. “Father had no
confidence that I could complete the quest. He said my heart was not pure,
my intentions not righteous. He said I only saw with my eyes and that a
good ruler also saw with his heart.”
Stephane snorted in derision. “Sentimental old fool. He was too rooted
in the old ways. I could not allow you or Davide to ascend the throne in
my stead. The only way I could prevent that was to get rid of you all. But I
couldn’t do it alone, so I enlisted the aid of others.”
Her chest swelled with sorrow to hear the hatred for their father in his
voice. But her sorrow quickly faded as rage mounted in its stead.
That her own brother had been responsible for their parents’ deaths was
too much for her to comprehend. Her hand gripped the handle of the
dagger tighter, and she pulled it up to her waist.
“So you would kill me?” he asked mockingly. With a motion of his
hand, two soldiers rushed up the incline. They stopped on either side of
Merrick, their swords pointed at his chest.
“I wouldn’t advise doing that,” Stephane chided. “It would be a shame
for the Englishman to die.”
“Kill him, Isabella.”
She blinked in surprise at Merrick’s voice. She had forgotten him
entirely in the shock of seeing Stephane alive. She glanced between the
two men, uncertainty flickering in the back of her mind.
Then she raised her eyes slowly to her brother once more, hatred
emanating from every pore. “I could kill you right now,” she hissed,
pointing the dagger at him.
“But you won’t.” He nodded at the two men behind her, and she whirled
around, expecting an attack. To her horror, one of the soldiers planted a
foot in Merrick’s chest and sent him toppling over the side of the cliff.
“You may have need of that knife to free your lover,” Stephane sneered.
“Kill me or save him. It’s your choice.”
The world slowed around her, her brother’s voice a distant echo.
Everything came down to this. She could avenge her parents’ deaths as she
had sworn to do and put a knife through her brother’s heart, or she could
let him slip through her fingers while she saved Merrick.
Revenge or love. Revenge had ruled her for too long. Love was her only
chance to live. And she loved Merrick. Loved him as she had never loved
anyone else.
 Slipping the blade of the dagger between her teeth, she bolted past the
soldiers and dove cleanly over the side of the cliff.
She plunged into the icy waters, the shock of it nearly causing her to
inhale. With powerful strokes, she pulled herself downward, her eyes
searching for Merrick, praying it wasn’t too late.
Then she saw him, bouncing along the bottom, the current pushing him
farther out to sea. He struggled against his bonds, his movements jerky,
like a puppet on strings.
She put a hand out to halt his movement, and their eyes locked. Putting
her feet down, she dug them into the rocks to prevent herself from being
sucked away. She sealed her lips over his and breathed into his mouth.
Then she reached around him to free his hands.
Working rapidly, she slashed the bonds at his feet and hands. Once the
ropes fell away, he kicked off the bottom, propelling himself to the
surface. She pushed upward with her arms, intent on following him, but
her body was pulled tight.
In panic she looked down to see what held her. Her foot was caught in
the rocks. She dropped the dagger and bent over pulling frantically at her
ankle. In her haste to free Merrick, she hadn’t even felt the constriction on
her foot.
She kicked and pulled, her lungs screaming for air. The ocean floor
swirled before her, spots dotting her vision. Despair flooded her. After
everything she had endured, it appeared she would die after all.

Simon burst to the surface sucking great mouthfuls of precious air.

Relief as he had never felt before drained him of strength. Weakly, he
looked around waiting for Isabella to break surface beside him. He wanted
nothing more than to take her in his arms and tell her how much he loved
her.
He struck at the water with his arms as he twisted round and round in
search of her. Fear constricted his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs.
She should have surfaced by now.
His heart thumping painfully in his chest, he took in a great gulp of air
and dove beneath the surface. He swam quickly down, looking for sign of
her.
She was where he had left her, her braid floating eerily about her head.
She struggled weakly, pulling in vain at her foot. He slammed into her, and
as she had done for him, he breathed into her mouth offering a much
needed burst of air. But she didn’t respond. Her body went limp against
him.
Not caring if he ripped her foot completely from her body, he reached
down and yanked with all his might. All that mattered was that he get her
to surface immediately.
Her ankle came free, and he rushed them to the surface, his arm tightly
wrapped around her waist. When they bobbed above the water, he grasped
her face in his hand and shouted at her.
“Isabella! Isabella!”
Her face was ashen, and worse, she didn’t breathe.
With strength and speed he didn’t know he possessed, he churned down
the shoreline where the great wall of the cliff gave way to a small stretch
of beach. Seconds later, he pulled her limp body from the water and laid
her on the sand.
Tears rolled down his face, mixing with the water that cascaded from his
hair. She had to live. He couldn’t go on without her.
Taking her by the shoulders, he shook her, trying to do anything to
awaken her. He turned her over and pounded on her back. His despair
mounted when she remained motionless.
Gathering her in his arms, he smashed his mouth to hers and forced
breath into her lungs. But still she didn’t move.
He could feel the life ripping from his chest, the pain so agonizing he
could scarcely breathe. Nothing in his life compared to this. Not losing his
brother, not losing his father, not even the awful revelation of Kirk’s
betrayal.
Breathing once more into her mouth, he lifted his head, despair creeping
into his heart. “No!” he screamed, raising his head to the sky.
Tears continued down his face, the wind blowing cold on his cheeks.
Lowering his head, he gave in to the great sobs that built within him. He
stared in shock at her beautiful face then slowly slid his face down to her
chest. He buried his head against her, allowing the sobs to tear painfully
from his throat.
Then he felt it. The faint, but steady rhythm of her heart. Thinking he
imagined it, he pressed his ear to her chest and willed the world to still
around him so he could detect a beat. But no, there it was again. She
wasn’t dead!
 But she wasn’t breathing.
Knowing she needed life-giving air, he bent and began breathing into
her mouth in intervals. After several seconds, she lurched up, water
erupting from her mouth.
He held her tightly as she heaved, her body racked by the violent
expulsion of the sea water from her lungs and stomach. When she had
ridded herself of the water, she coughed weakly, slumped against his chest.
He felt her open her mouth to speak, but he hushed her. “Don’t speak.
Just rest.”
He lovingly smoothed a few tendrils of hair from her temple then
pressed tender kisses to her forehead. His tears of anguish now turned to
tears of relief and overwhelming joy as she recovered in his embrace.
Faster they came until he wept in earnest. She looked up at him, tears
pooling in her own eyes. “I thought I had lost you,” she said hoarsely, her
voice cracking.
“It is I who almost lost everything,” he whispered. “I couldn’t bear it if
you sacrificed yourself for me.”
She struggled to sit up, and he loosened his hold on her. “There is
something I would say, Merrick. Something I should have said yesterday,
but I stubbornly refused to focus on anything but my revenge and
ascending the throne.”
She broke off into another coughing fit, and he rubbed his hand up and
down her back to soothe her. She shook violently from the cold.
“Shhh,” he soothed. “Don’t try to speak.”
“No, there is something I must tell you,” she choked out.
“We can talk later,” he said firmly, wanting only for her to rest and
recover. He held her tightly against him, desperately trying to infuse his
warmth into her body.
He needed to hold her, to convince himself she was alive. She clung just
as fiercely to him, her body trembling with the cold. Knowing she needed
immediate attention, he rose and scooped her up in his arms.
He stumbled forward, his feet slogging through the wet sand. He must
get to the monastery as quickly as possible. Father Ling could help them.
Her hands crept tighter around his neck, and she closed her eyes so that
he could no longer see the sorrow reflected there. But it hung over her like
a thickly cut veil. He tightened his grip on her, his heart aching for the hurt
she felt, for the horrible betrayal they both had suffered.
 Her eyes still closed, she murmured in a choking voice, “My brother…
Stephane…he murdered my parents. Davide. God… How could he? What
could have made him do such a thing? The awful things he said about
Father. None of it makes sense. Why murder Mother? Why worry over
Davide or me?”
“I propose we find out,” he said grimly.
“Yes,” she said slowly. “We should get to the palace as quickly as
possible and put an end to this madness.”
He halted his progress and stared intently down at her. “You aren’t
alone, Isabella. I won’t leave you. We will do this together.”
She stared back at him, her eyes boring into his until he could feel her in
every part of his soul. “And why do you help me, Merrick? Do you do so
for England or do you help me?”
He allowed her to slide from his grip until she stood before him on
shaky legs. Then he crushed her to him, his mouth slanting over hers. The
little fool. Had she no idea how much he loved her? That his heart beat
only for her? He kissed her wildly, having no patience for more wooing
embraces. “England?” he asked with a ragged breath as he pulled away.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of such a place.”
She threw her arms tightly around him, and he could feel her tears
against his neck. Suddenly all the times he had spoken of England and his
duty came back to him. Her stiffness, the hurt in her eyes.
“I do this as much for you as I do for England,” he said softly, surprising
himself with the admission.
For the first time since he had taken up the cause of England’s
protection, he was placing equal importance on something else. Not
something. Someone.
“Can you walk?” he asked. “Or should I carry you?”
“I can walk,” she said murmured.
They started forward once more, nagging doubt assailing him. The
farther they walked, the bigger the knot grew in his stomach. Was it the
idea of failing in his duty? No, it couldn’t be. He wouldn’t allow for
failure. He’d come too far to concede to misgivings. He would see to
England’s protection no matter the result in Leaudor.
So what bothered him? What had his chest clenched with dread, his
hands shaky?
 They walked in silence, drawing closer to the monastery. Then it hit him
like a ton of stone blocks.
She had never said she loved him.
 Chapter Twenty-Seven

Isabella and Merrick trudged through the thick brush that shielded the
stretch of beach where the secret passageway from the monastery came
out. She hoped they would be able to gain access through the tunnel,
because she knew going to the gate would be suicide.
As they shoved aside another thatch of bushes, the landscape fell away
to the sandy soil of the beach. She shouldn’t have been surprised to see
Father Ling standing on the beach, but she was.
He watched them approach, his robe swirling in the breeze. He made no
move toward them but waited until they drew abreast of him before he
acknowledged them.
Sadness rimmed his eyes as he reached for Isabella’s hands. “You have
seen Prince Stephane.”
Unable to speak, she nodded.
He motioned toward the rock outcropping that hid the entrance to the
tunnel. “Come. There is much we must discuss.”
She and Merrick followed the monk down the long tunnel until they
were well into the monastery. When they entered the main hall, Father
Ling turned to Merrick. “My brethren will see to your needs. I have need
to speak to the princess.”
He spoke dismissively, to Isabella’s surprise. He had never sought to
exclude Merrick from any of their conversations, and it puzzled her now.
Merrick merely nodded and turned to the two monks who waited to
escort him away.
Father Ling motioned her forward, and they walked into a small
chamber she believed must be his private quarters. She sank wearily onto
the silken pallet in the middle of the room and waited as he sat cross-
legged in front of her.
Her mind swam in a crazy pattern, her head throbbing with each
movement she made. So much had happened since she set foot back on her
home soil. She wondered if she had stepped into some bizarre nightmare,
and if she had, when would she wake up?
Father Ling probed her with his all-knowing eyes. “I am sorry for your
pain, Your Highness.”
 The knot grew bigger in her throat. She would not cry. She would not.
“Thank you,” she croaked.
“Your father had concerns about Prince Stephane,” he said gravely.
“How long?” she asked, unwilling to believe she was the only one not to
have seen Stephane for who he was.
“For some time.”
She blew out her breath in a long puff. “I don’t understand.”
“He worried for your and Davide’s safety,” Father Ling added, watching
her closely.
She opened her mouth and closed it in rapid succession. “Father
suspected Stephane might do something so horrible?” She shook her head
in silent denial. “Why?” Even though he had done more than horrible.
How could any one word describe the atrocities he had committed? But
that anyone might have suspected. It was more than she could imagine.
“Your father was ill, Your Highness. He didn’t want you or Davide to
know. Not at first.”
“Ill? How ill?”
“Sick enough that he knew he would not be able to perform the duties of
the crown for much longer,” Father Ling said quietly. “He sent Stephane
here to secretly seek the relics in the sacred quest. King Fernando’s hope
was that Stephane would be successful and could succeed him to the
throne despite his misgivings.”
“But I don’t understand…”
“He failed,” Father Ling said. “He chose the relics.”
Isabella stared at the monk in shock. That Stephane had embarked on
the quest and failed was more than she could comprehend. But it was all
beginning to make sense. What else would make Stephane so desperate?
She had thought it insane for him to go to such lengths to procure a
crown that would be his anyway. She had never dreamed he had been
removed from consideration. Which meant that she or Davide would have
been the next ruler behind their father.
Stephane who had spent a lifetime preparing for nothing else than to
rule. It must have destroyed him.
“Your father saw the darkness growing within the young prince,” Father
Ling said solemnly. “The restlessness, the haste to make bad decisions.
Your father had hoped he was wrong, but in the end he was proved right
when Prince Stephane failed in the quest.
 “After his failure, the prince was unapproachable. He sequestered
himself for days, refusing to see anyone. Your father realized he would
have to do something to ensure the safety of the rest of the family. But
before he could act…”
He broke off. “You know the rest,” he said quietly.
Isabella knotted her fingers into a fist and pressed her knuckles to her
lips. If only she had known. She could have prevented the deaths of her
parents.
“You could not have prevented that which was fated to be,” Father Ling
said softly.
She looked up at him, the knowledge burning in his wise old eyes. “Tell
me, Father, what is fated to be? Will I be queen?”
He looked sadly at her. “You know I cannot reveal the future even if I
knew such matters.”
She looked down, sadness, fatigue, despair creeping over her, invading
every corner of her soul.
“What troubles you most, my child?” he asked.
She flinched as the question intruded on the heart of just what troubled
her. Merrick. How did he fit into the equation? She had yet to tell him of
her feelings. Hadn’t finished sorting them out for herself.
“I love him, Father,” she said simply.
“He is a good man.”
She raised her eyes to meet his once more. “Yes, but is it enough?”
The monk’s expression softened. “What is it that you are really asking?”
She sighed and covered her face with her hands, rubbing her eyes with
slow, circular movements. “I don’t know what to do,” she said helplessly.
“I think you do,” he said gently.
She raised her head and looked questioningly at him.
“You are who you are, and he is who he is,” Father Ling said, an
enigmatic expression on his face. “You would not want half a man. He
would not be happy with half a woman.”
Her brow furrowed and she pursed her lips in confusion. She was too
tired to decipher riddles.
A knock sounded at the chamber door and another monk appeared.
“Father, the captain is here at your request.”
“Ahh good,” Father Ling said, nodding his head approvingly. “Tell the
captain we will join him shortly.
 He turned back to Isabella. “We must hurry if we are to prevent Prince
Stephane from taking the throne. His coronation is set for an hour’s time.”
“Stephane has already planned his coronation?” she demanded, sitting
upright on the pallet.
Father Ling nodded. “That is why I have summoned the captain of the
Royal Guard here. We must act quickly.”
“But he failed the quest!” she exclaimed. “How can he be crowned if he
doesn’t produce the relics?”
“Desperation always makes a way,” Father Ling replied. “He has bent
many of the Order to his cause. They will vote to rescind the laws
regarding succession.”
“Over my dead body,” she vowed, launching herself to a standing
position.
A small smile curved the monk’s lips upward. “Come then. We have
much to discuss with the captain.”
***
Simon paced impatiently in the main hall waiting for Isabella and
Father Ling to reappear. He felt completely at odds with himself, a
sensation that was foreign. He hadn’t suffered such a battery of emotions
since learning of his brother’s suicide.
He didn’t regret telling her he loved her. Even if it was something she
didn’t want to hear. But what he thought would free him, had instead lain a
heavier burden on his heart. He hadn’t really considered that she didn’t
return his feelings, and now that he considered the possibility, the slow
burn of disappointment snaked its way through his heart.
He looked up as Isabella and Father Ling strode into the room followed
by a man in military uniform. He started toward Isabella, but held himself
in check. He waited instead for them to gather in the center.
“Lord Merrick, I apologize for your wait,” Father Ling said with a bow
of his head. “I fear I had rather distressing news for Her Highness. News
that she must hear.”
Simon tensed and looked searchingly at Isabella’s strained features.
What news had the monk imparted? The pain etched into her brow
squeezed incessantly at his entrails. He wanted to reach out and hold her,
soothe the worry lines in her face.
 The monk gestured for the soldier to come forward. “Your Highness,
this is Captain Lucien Montforte, captain of the Royal Guard.”
The captain knelt in front of Isabella and laid his sword at her feet. Then
he looked up at her and placed a fist over his heart. “I am here to serve,
Your Highness.”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, though she tried valiantly. Simon
watched her struggle with her emotions as she reached out to touch the
man’s shoulder.
“Thank you,” she said in a wavering voice.
“Prince Stephane’s coronation is set within the hour,” Father Ling spoke
up. “We must stop him.”
“I must challenge him,” Isabella said quietly.
“Aye, you must,” Father Ling said in a solemn voice.
Simon stared at them, thoroughly confused by her statement.
“Challenge him?” He didn’t like the sound of it. He much preferred a plan
that called for them rushing in pistols firing.
Isabella nodded, her mouth set in a firm line. “I would be asking him to
prove his claim by fighting me,” she said. “Winner takes all. May the
righteous prevail.”
He frowned. No, he didn’t like it at all. Sounded positively medieval.
“And what if you lose?”
“The idea is that good will overcome evil, therefore the winner is the
one in the right.”
“May the righteous prevail,” Father Ling echoed.
“That’s absurd,” Simon said in disbelief. Fear threatened to smother him
entirely. The idea of Isabella honorably challenging her treacherous
brother ran his blood cold.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” she said, recounting words she had
said to him on more than one occasion.
“Don’t,” he cut in. “This isn’t about me understanding your customs.
It’s about reality. You can’t expect your brother to play by the rules. He
won’t act honorably. He’ll do whatever necessary to remove you as a
threat, the only threat to his being crowned king. He’s already killed your
parents and Davide. He won’t so much as blink over killing you. I’d prefer
to kill the bastard myself and get it over with,” he added after a pause.
“I must do it myself,” she said firmly. “No matter how you may want to
help, it is something that I must do on my own, even if I die trying.”
 Her words sent chilling fear down his spine.
She placed her hand over his and smiled sadly. “I now know how you
must have felt when Kirk betrayed you. I cannot ever remember feeling
such awful pain as when I learned of Stephane’s perfidy. I don’t know that
it shall ever go away.”
He squeezed her hand, his chest tightening as he digested what she
asked of him. “Asking me to stand idly by while you place your life in
jeopardy is to ask me to cut out my own heart. I can do neither.”
Father Ling placed a hand on Simon’s arm. “All will be well, my son.
You must have faith.”
He glanced up at the monk, at the knowledge in his eyes. Then he
looked back at Isabella. Remembering his earlier words to her—that he
had faith in her—had him cursing to himself. He was well and truly
caught. He could not protest her choice when he had voiced his faith in her
in the caves. “I have faith in you, Isabella,” he said in a low voice.
He eyed Father Ling, who looked a bit too smug at Simon’s
proclamation. “Do you have a plan for how we will prevent Stephane’s
coronation?”
“I would hear your thoughts,” the monk said evenly.
The two men stared at one another for a long moment. The monk was
allowing Simon a way to protect Isabella. He nodded at the monk then
focused his attention on the matter at hand. “Where is the coronation to be
held?” Simon asked.
“In the town square. The townspeople will be summoned so that he may
gain their support,” Father Ling replied.
Simon rubbed his chin thoughtfully and glanced over at Isabella. She
was pale, but determination sparked in her eyes. Her gaze sought his as she
waited for him to speak.
“How large a contingent do you command?” he asked the captain.
“One hundred men comprise the Royal Guard. Our only duty is the
safety of the royal family.”
“And how many are loyal to Prince Stephane?” Simon asked.
The captain’s eyes grew steely. “My men follow me. I follow Princess
Isabella.”
Merrick nodded, impressed by the man’s loyalty. “Can you plan a large
distraction, Father?”
The monk smiled. “Of that you may be certain.”
 “Captain, direct your men to protect Stephane as they would if he were
the rightful heir. Only when Princess Isabella makes her appearance do
you let your allegiance be known. Then see to her protection at all costs.”
The captain nodded. “It will be done.”
He turned to Isabella. “If you are set on challenging your brother, it
must be after all other threat has been eliminated. The royal guard will be
responsible for evening the odds.”
“I won’t fail,” she said, determination flooding her voice.
“I know you won’t,” he said softly.
He looked around at the others. “We haven’t much time.”
The captain bowed to Isabella and hurried from the room. Father Ling
swept after the captain to gather the other monks. The only two remaining
were him and Isabella.
He gathered her hands in his and pulled her closer. He was at a loss as to
what to say to her. The task ahead of her was enormous, and though he had
faith in her abilities, madness had a way of empowering an individual. Her
brother would not be easy to defeat.
“I would thank you, Merrick,” she said softly.
Irritation surged through his veins. Frustration. “It’s not your thanks I
want, Isabella.”
She looked away, turned away from him, her expression uncertain.
Guilt plagued him. She should be focusing on her upcoming challenge,
not be distracted his needs.
“Forget I said anything,” he murmured. “You should direct all your
energy to the upcoming challenge.”
He motioned for her to precede him from the room, and they trailed
after Father Ling. Relief shadowed her face which only served to darken
his mood.
 Chapter Twenty-Eight

Their path to the platform in the middle of the town square was
impossible. Guards lined the perimeter, making it difficult for anyone to
come from the crowd. Intermixed in the throng were several soldiers, all
keeping a keen eye on the villagers gathered for the coronation.
Isabella stood anxiously beside Merrick, awaiting the distraction the
monks had planned. She surveyed the platform where the Royal Guard
stood at attention. At the forefront stood Stephane, his expression
triumphant. Anger shook her when she saw he wore the same ceremonial
robe her father had worn at his coronation. Merrick’s hand closed over her
arm, soothing her wrought nerves.
Her eyes narrowed when she saw the members of the Order, standing
shoulder to shoulder behind Stephane.
Isabella stiffened. Were they there to proclaim that the old ways would
be done away with? Not if she could help it. She glanced around anxiously,
wondering when the distraction the monks had planned would take place.
“It won’t be long,” Merrick murmured beside her.
“My fellow countrymen. All citizens of Leaudor. Gather around and
hear me.”
Isabella whirled back around to face the platform as Stephane spoke. He
stood with his arms raised, trying to quiet the crowd.
“I have grievous news and a story to tell as well. Several months ago
King Fernando and Queen Marie-Claire were ruthlessly assassinated. My
mother and father,” he said in a choked voice. “The assassins tried to kill
me as well, but I escaped. I’ve remained in hiding all these months in an
attempt to find and punish the ones responsible for throwing our country
into turmoil. And,” he said drawing out the last word. “To my shock and
horror, I discovered that Princess Isabella, my beloved sister, was behind
the sordid plot.”
The crowd erupted in a frenzy of shouts, questions, and exclamations of
disbelief.
Isabella clenched her fists and tried desperately to control the red hot
rage that rolled over her. Beside her, Merrick’s arm tightened about her,
and she knew he sought to contain a rash reaction.
 “She conspired with the Prince Regent in a plan to hand over Leaudor to
the English. Indeed, when my brother, Prince Davide, went to England in
an attempt to stop her, he was killed as soon as he set foot on British soil.”
The crowd became angry, many shouting insults against England, others
cursing Princess Isabella for her treachery.
Again Stephane held his hands high. “Fear not, for you have all been
avenged this day. As she met her English partner outside the palace to seal
their agreement, she fell to her death from the marble cliffs. I, as the
rightful heir to the Leaudorian throne, am here to take the crown. We will
band together with our brothers, the French, and repay England for the
injustices that have been carried out against us.”
Isabella gasped. This was a disaster. Not only had he turned the entire
country against her, but now he proposed to throw them into war against
England. A pawn in Bonaparte’s egotistical aspirations of glory.
“She stole our sacred relics from the cliffs in an attempt to gain the
throne. I have gathered the Order so that we might begin a new day in
Leaudorian history. Break free from outdated traditions. Will you support
me and accept me as your king as we forge our way into a new era?”
The crowd roared their approval, shoving fists into the air and letting
loose a series of whistles.
“We cannot wait any longer,” Isabella hissed. “The crowd will never
accept my word.”
No sooner had the words left her lips an explosion rocked the area.
Screams filled the air as people swarmed in all directions. Isabella whirled
to see a plume of smoke rising from the far perimeter of the gathering.
Merrick grinned. “I knew we could count on Father Ling.”
The soldiers lining the platform leaped into action, pouring back to
where the smoke filled the air. Seizing their opportunity, Merrick and
Isabella rushed forward, against the tide of people running from the
platform.
The Royal Guard stood stoically to the side of Stephane until Merrick
put his hands down for Isabella to step on. He launched her up to the
platform. The captain shouted an order, and they quickly converged on
her, surrounding her with swords drawn.
For a moment, a satisfied expression settled on Stephane’s face until the
soldiers turned outward, signaling that they were protecting her, not
apprehending her.
 Around them, the screams died, and the people calmed. Then an excited
buzz rose as they recognized their princess. One by one, they filtered back
to the village center as if realizing the significance of what was about to
occur.
“’Tis the princess,” someone shouted.
A murmur went up, and the villagers surged even closer.
“Seize the traitor!” Stephane shouted. He glanced wildly around,
evidently realizing the absurdity of his order. There was no one to
apprehend her.
An uneasy titter swept through the crowd.
Isabella stared serenely at Stephane, her head held high. Beside her,
Merrick stood, a menacing barrier between her and anyone who would try
to harm her. His presence buoyed her in a way the soldiers surrounding her
couldn’t.
She stepped forward, ducking the swords drawn to protect her. “I
challenge you as set forward in the laws of the righteous.”
Stephane stared disbelievingly at her then burst into laughter. “You
challenge me?”
“What are you afraid of?” she asked, her voice carrying over the hushed
crowd. “You have made many claims this day. If you are right, God will be
on your side, and you will prevail.”
The crowd murmured, a current of approval racing through the
villagers.
Stephane emitted a harsh laugh. “The old ways are gone. The Order has
voted to do away with them.” He turned to the crowd. “The truth, though
painful, is that my sister murdered our parents. And our younger brother.”
A collective gasp went up from the crowd. Angry murmurs quickly
followed and the villagers pressed closer to the platform. The guards
moved forward, once more encompassing Isabella in their fold.
Father Ling stepped regally onto the platform and held up his hands for
silence. Leaudorians were reverent of Father Ling, and now they were
wildly curious as to what he would say. They pressed closer still, ignoring
the band of soldiers who struggled to return to the platform after
investigating the explosion.
“Much has been said of betrayal,” Father Ling said calmly. “The people
of Leaudor deserve to know who is just and who is not. Do you refuse
Princess Isabella’s challenge, Prince Stephane? Do you forego the
opportunity to prove your claims?”
“Proving my claims is not necessary when the Order knows who the
traitor is,” Stephane spoke out, his breath coming in rapid bursts. Sweat
beaded his forehead, and he rubbed his face nervously. “They have
proclaimed the old ways dead. I am the rightful king.”
“He failed the quest,” Isabella announced. “Regardless of what the
Order proclaimed, they did so under the direction of a man who was not
qualified to rule.”
“How did you know that?” Stephane choked out, anger wild in his eyes.
“You chose wrong,” she said calmly. “In the final chamber. That is why
you failed the quest. Father was right. A good ruler must also see with his
heart. Not just his eyes.”
“It matters not,” he hissed. “I will be king.”
“I issued a challenge,” she said. “Do you accept or do you show the
Leaudorian people who the true traitor is?”
Panic flared in his eyes as he realized he was well and truly caught. If he
refused, it would appear that he had something to hide. He would have no
choice but to accept.
Behind Stephane, the members of the Order exchanged uneasy glances.
Doubt clearly registered on their expressions as they witnessed the scene
before them.
“By what right do you make such a challenge?” Lord Helwedge spoke
up.
She turned and fixed her stare on the members of the Order assembled.
“My right as the true ruler of this country,” she said icily. “By what right
do you change our laws?”
He shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny and his gaze flitted over
the other members. None of them stepped forward, nor would they meet
her stare.
“Perhaps we were a bit hasty in our decision,” Lord Helwedge said,
clearing his throat nervously.
Father Ling stepped forward. “The princess has issued a challenge as
afforded to her in our laws. Do you seek to deny her?”
Lord Helwedge swallowed then looked over at Stephane. “Do you
accept the challenge issued before you?”
 “You can’t condone this,” Stephane cried. “You cannot allow her to get
away with her treachery.”
“May the righteous prevail,” Lord Helwedge announced, backing away.
Stephane turned to her, hatred burning in his eyes. “You will regret
making such a foolhardy challenge,” he hissed.
“Make the circle,” Father Ling called out.
The members of the order filed solemnly from their positions at the
back of the platform and formed a circle around her and Stephane.
From beyond the circle, Merrick fixed her with his gaze, his eyes
lending her his strength. She took in a deep breath and nodded at him. She
would prevail. Everything rode on her success.
Father Ling stepped forward and offered a blessing over her then faded
back from the circle. Stephane’s face flushed red at the monk’s slight and
the message it sent to the observers.
They circled one another warily. Isabella thought back to all Father Ling
had taught her. She had been an apt pupil, soaking up the ancient
traditions. But the lessons learned had never been more important than at
this moment.
Stephane struck first, swinging his leg out. She easily blocked it with
her hand and quickly struck a blow to his ribs with her foot. Bouncing up
on her toes, she danced around him, looking for another opening.
He faked left then straightened, throwing first his left then his right
hand. She jerked her head back, effectively dodging both swings, but his
leg arched in a precise kick, catching her in the shoulder.
Stumbling back, she moved to the side and resumed her stance. “Out of
practice, brother?” she taunted. “You kick like a weak woman. Surely you
can do better than that.”
His eyes narrowed, and he lashed out in anger, punching his fist toward
her face. She caught his wrist with one hand and brought her knee into his
gut, using his momentum to carry him forward. He grunted in pain, and
she slid her leg down to sweep his feet from underneath him. He landed
with a thump on the floor, rolling quickly away from her.
Slowly, he stood up, rubbing his abdomen. They circled again, each
measuring the other. She faked several punches in order to get him to
react. When his hands lowered, she threw her palm forward connecting
with his chin.
 His head snapped back, and he brought the back of his hand up to wipe
his mouth. Blood smeared from his lip, and he stared in disbelief at the red
trail on his hand.
Foregoing any pretense of traditional fighting, he lunged at her with a
roar. His arms closed around her, and he drove her to the floor, landing
painfully atop her. Her breath left her in one long whoosh.
Gasping for air, she jammed her knee up between his legs. He howled in
pain and rolled away from her. She scrambled up, using the opportunity to
catch her breath.
Stephane stood up, his face still drawn in agony. As she closed in to land
another blow, he caught her in the face with his fist, sending her reeling
back into the men who formed the circle. They caught her before she fell
and pushed her back into the ring.
Blood ran from her own mouth now, but she didn’t bother to wipe it. She
exploded in a flurry of action, pushing her brother back as she landed a
series of punches and kicks. Pressed against the men, he caught her ankle
and yanked her into the air.
She landed with a painful thud to the floor, and he jumped down on her,
a knife suddenly appearing in his hand. She caught his wrist as he plunged
it downward, his intent to drive the knife into her heart.
Merrick was right. Stephane would not fight her honorably. He would do
whatever necessary to achieve his goal. Sadness pierced her heart in place
of the dagger’s blade. Her brother—her childhood confidant and protector,
a person she had mourned deeply for—would kill her without thought.
Sweat poured from her face as she struggled to keep the knife from
descending into her flesh. But he was just as determined to end her life as
she was to stay alive. Their eyes connected, and the moment seemed
frozen in time. She searched the depths of his ocean green eyes, eyes just
like hers, for some semblance of the man she knew. But all that stared
back at her was madness.
She reared back and slammed her head into his. Pain exploded through
her skull, but it had an equally devastating effect on Stephane. The knife
clattered to the floor, and he rolled away, blood pouring from his eye.
Still lying on the floor, she rotated with lightning speed and kicked him
in the side of the head. She bounced up, her other foot catching him under
the chin on her way up. His body arched, and he flipped over onto his back
with the force of her kick.
 She reached down and grasped the knife, the temptation to end his life
so strong, she nearly plunged it down into his heart. Putting a tight rein on
her emotions, she leaped on him and wedged her forearm under his chin,
pressing into his throat so he was unable to draw a breath.
She held the point of the knife to his chest and straddled his body. “Tell
me of your arrangement with the French. Did you enter into a devil’s
bargain with them to secure Bonaparte’s escape?”
He attempted a laugh though the sound gurgled out of his throat. “I
entered no such bargain. His supporters…needed money to free him. I
supplied it…in return for their help in removing certain members of
Leaudor’s ruling family. What they do afterwards is of no consequence to
me.”
“When is his escape planned?” she demanded.
He smiled an evil, triumphant smile. “You are too late.”
“I should kill you,” she whispered, loosening her hold on the knife.
“You don’t deserve to live.”
“Then do it,” he taunted, sucking in a deep breath as the pressure against
his throat was lessened. “End my miserable life. You know you want the
throne as badly as I do. Kill me and it will be yours.”
She shook her head and slowly rose. “I’m not like you. I’m not willing
to kill for personal gain.” She stepped back, her rage leaving her in one
fell swoop. She had dreamed of this moment. Of having revenge for the
deaths of her parents. So many times she had imagined ending the life of
the person responsible, but now when it was all within her reach, she
couldn’t bring herself to do it. It would make her no better than Stephane.
“I claim victory,” she said calmly. “For I could have killed you. But I
want you to live with what you have done. I want you to rot in prison. I
want your last thoughts before you go to sleep at night to be of the mother
and father you killed in order to take something that was not yours.”
“Kill me,” he said raising his head. “I won’t go to prison.”
“You have no choice,” she replied. “Everyone here has heard of your
deeds.”
She dropped the knife at her feet as the royal guard surged forward to
apprehend Stephane. Strong arms wrapped around her shoulders, and she
looked up to see Merrick standing beside her, his eyes dark with concern.
She wiped the blood at her mouth with the back of her hand and let out
her pent-up breath in a long, painful sigh. “It’s over.”
 “Yes,” Merrick said quietly.
Father Ling held up his hands once more and all attention turned to him.
He spoke softly, and everyone strained to hear. “I stand before you as
witness to Princess Isabella’s completion of the requirements to ascend the
throne.
“She journeyed into the caves and returned triumphant. She is truly
worthy to be queen and the rightful heir. Her heart is pure, and she is free
of the betrayals that have rocked our nation.”
He turned to face Isabella. “If you would kneel so that I may place the
crown on your head, I would offer blessing on your reign and pronounce
you Queen of Leaudor.”
She hesitated for a moment, the enormity of the event overwhelming
her. She had done it. Avenged her mother and father. Hot tears slipped
down her cheeks and the crowd blurred before her.
Merrick urged her forward, his hand steadying her. On shaky legs, she
knelt in front of Father Ling and bowed her head.
Father Ling turned to address the crowd. “Hear me, people of Leaudor.
Today, the righteous have prevailed. Princess Isabella shall hereto forth be
called Queen Isabella. Long may she reign.”
A monk beside him produced a brilliantly cut tiara, and Father Ling
gently placed it atop Isabella’s head. Then he offered her his hand and
helped her rise.
He then bowed before her. “I give you Queen Isabella Genevieve
Elizabeth Chastaine.”
The crowd erupted in cheers.
“You should remove her to the palace as quickly as possible,” Father
Ling said to Merrick.
Merrick nodded and wrapped a protective arm around her. He led her
gently toward the edge of the platform. As they passed Stephane, hatred
twisted the features of his face into an ugly mask. In a flurry of movement,
he broke away from the soldier who held him and pulled a small pistol
from his pants.
The world slowed around Isabella. She watched in horror as Stephane
raised his gun and pointed it in her and Merrick’s direction. A loud crack
split the air, and she felt herself falling as Merrick shoved her down. Pain
seared her arm, and she heard Merrick curse loudly above her.
 She gripped her arm and felt something warm and sticky. She pulled her
hand away and stared in amazement at her own blood.
Another shot sounded and she turned her head to see Stephane fall a few
feet away, a red stain rapidly spreading on his chest.
No!
She struggled to get up, the pain piercing the haze of confusion
surrounding her.
“Lie still,” Merrick commanded.
“No, I must speak to him before…before he dies,” she protested,
pushing herself up.
Gripping her arm to staunch the flow of blood, she stumbled over to
where Stephane lay. His skin was chalky, his face bathed in sweat. Blood
poured from the wound in his chest, pooling around him on the platform.
He turned glassy eyes to her, so much pain mirrored in their depths. He
coughed, his body jerking with the movement. A trickle of blood seeped
from the corner of his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Don’t speak,” she said, tears clouding her vision.
He coughed again, more blood spilling from his mouth. “If only he had
believed in me,” he said raggedly. “I would have done anything to please
him.”
She pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. “Oh, Stephane.”
“He wasn’t…he wasn’t even surprised…when I failed. I saw his eyes.”
Stephane’s voice trailed away. Tears slipped down his cheek to mix with
the blood surrounding him. “I hated him for that.”
Isabella no longer tried to contain the sobs building in her throat. Raw,
guttural anguish ripped from her heart as she watched her brother draw his
last breath.
His chest rose and then stuttered, paused, then fell one last time never to
rise again. His head lolled to the side as he stared out over the crowd with
lifeless eyes.
With a trembling hand, she reached out and gently shut his eyes. “May
God have mercy on you,” she whispered.
Strong, comforting arms wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her
to a standing position. Merrick guided her away from Stephane, but she
looked back one last time.
“Come, Isabella,” Merrick said gently. “You need immediate attention.”
 She allowed herself to be led from the platform and to the royal coach
positioned at the edge of the crowd. The villagers parted, bowing as she
walked by, but she didn’t acknowledge them, so great was her shock, her
anguish, her utter heartbreak.
Merrick assisted her into the carriage then slipped in beside her. “It’s
over now, Isabella. No one can hurt you any more.”
She blinked and focused on his beloved face. Hurt? She didn’t think she
could possibly hurt more than she did at this moment. She nestled against
him, ignoring the throbbing in her arm. It was a short ride to the palace.
She would enjoy the precious few moments in his arms.
 Chapter Twenty-Nine

Isabella sat in her private quarters, the room chaotic around her. The Royal
Guard had fanned out and secured the palace, banning the members of the
Order from returning. Servants rushed back and forth bearing water and
bandages in response to Merrick’s barked orders.
He looked so fierce, completely in command of the situation, yet when
he focused his attention on her, his demeanor changed completely.
“Hold still,” he directed.
He gently pulled the sleeve of her shirt away from her wound. “It’s just
a graze,” he said as he began washing the blood away.
He had insisted on seeing to her care himself, shunning offers to
summon the royal physician. His touch warmed her, comforted her in a
way no doctor could.
She winced slightly as he wrapped a dressing around her arm.
“Are you all right?” he asked, and she knew he wasn’t only asking about
her injury.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
His eyes glowed with concern, and he leaned in, capturing her lips in the
softest of kisses. He seemed to realize that with only the slightest
provocation, she would shatter into a million pieces.
Feather-light, his lips skimmed across hers then to her cheek where he
captured a tear that trailed down.
“Your Majesty, I bring news,” Lucien Montforte announced from the
doorway.
He bowed when she looked up. She motioned him over, and Merrick
moved to sit beside her on the settee.
“Jacques Montagne was found dead in his cell.”
Isabella blinked in surprise remembering Jacques’ earlier prediction
that he wouldn’t live. “How?” she demanded.
“Suicide. He hanged himself.”
She shook her head. Either he hadn’t been able to live with his guilt or
he realized Stephane had not been successful in his bid for the throne.
“That’s not all, Your Majesty. We found a letter of confession in his cell.
He requested ink and paper not an hour before he was found dead.”
 “What does it say?” Merrick spoke up.
“The plan to free Bonaparte is real. There are detailed plans and dates
listed in the letter,” the captain replied.
“I need that letter,” Merrick said grimly.
The captain held out the paper, and Merrick rose, retrieving it from the
captain’s outstretched hand.
Isabella watched the transformation from her gentle protector to a man
with the defense of his country uppermost on his mind. He spoke in low
tones to the captain as they studied the letter. She should be listening,
planning with them. As queen, the protection of her own nation should be
at the forefront of her thoughts.
Instead, her entire being was focused on Father Ling’s words. He is who
he is. You are who you are. You would not be happy with half a man.
She closed her eyes, her heart screaming a litany of nos. Father Ling
was right. What she hadn’t understood then was crystal clear to her now.
She opened her eyes and balled her fingers into fists. Nothing in her life,
not the deaths of her parents, not Stephane’s betrayal, had prepared her for
what she must now do. “You must return to England,” she said softly,
careful to keep the tremble from her voice.
Merrick turned to her, his eyes heavy with regret. “Yes. Bonaparte’s
planned escape could spell disaster for England. For France, if it is not
prevented. I must carry what I know to the regent. To Castlereigh.”
She nodded, too afraid to betray herself by speaking.
“But I shall return, Isabella.”
He stared at her, determination rigidly set into his features. She knew he
spoke the truth. He would not lie to her, betray her. Which made it all the
more difficult for her to lie to him.
She could not allow him to give up what made him who he was. Even
for her. Everything she most admired about him would be forfeit. How
long would they exist before he regretted his decision to leave England?
To give up his life’s pursuit?
Half a man. No, she couldn’t accept anything less than his entire being.
And half of him would always belong to England.
“No,” she said.

Simon stared at her, sure he hadn’t heard correctly, but the painful
thudding in his chest told him he had.
 “You don’t want me to return.”
He said it, not as a question, but as a statement.
She looked away then drew herself up firmly and faced him again.
“Your duty is to England as my duty is to Leaudor. Neither of us can
compromise that aim. We…we can never be,” she said quietly.
He struggled with the magnitude of what she was saying. Until a few
moments ago, he hadn’t known himself that he was capable of giving up
everything that he was to be with someone he loved, but when faced with
the prospect of leaving her, he only knew he must return. He could not be
without her. Whatever that entailed.
“Look at me, Isabella. Look at me,” he said when her gaze fluttered
briefly over his face. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want me.
Want us. That you don’t…love me.”
She had never returned his sentiment. Had looked away when he
confirmed his declaration. He had to know. Was he so horribly wrong? Had
he thought he finally realized the true depth and scope of loving another
person only to realize how very mistaken he was?
She pressed her lips firmly together then took a deep breath. “I don’t
love you, Merrick.”
And there it was. His worst fear realized.
All the air left his lungs as if someone had punched him in the stomach.
Old hurts came rushing in from the past. Not good enough. Not worthy.
“I admit I hold a certain amount of affection for you,” she stammered
when he said nothing. “And Leaudor owes you a large debt of gratitude.”
“Stop,” he bit out, holding a hand up. “Save your gratitude. I don’t want
it. I’ve heard all I need to hear.”
He searched her face for some sign that he was wrong, that he was in the
midst of a terrible nightmare. Her usually vibrant, oceanic eyes stared
dully at him, something remarkably like sympathy reflected in them.
God, what a fool he was. She pitied him.
“If it pleases you, Your Majesty, I would like to procure immediate
passage back to England.”
He spoke stiffly, formally, as if they had never spent an entire night
loving, as if he weren’t speaking to the woman who comprised the other
half of his soul.
“Captain Montforte will see to it at once,” she said, her voice barely
recognizable through his haze of anguish.
 His father. His brother. Kirk. None of them mattered, their betrayals,
their disappointments paled in comparison to this.
He turned, no longer able to look at her. With measured steps, he slowly
walked away. Out of her chambers. Down the hall. Out of the palace. Out
of her life.
 Chapter Thirty

London, England
October 1815
It was over.
Bonaparte had been recaptured. The fighting was finished. England was
safe again. For the moment. Until the next mad scheme. Until one country
sought to dominate another.
For how long such peace would last was anyone’s guess. There were
always plots to circumvent, assassinations to prevent and information to
gather. Investigations to lead. It was a never ending cycle. And he was so
damn tired.
Simon stood outside his London address staring at the empty townhouse
he called home.
“Is there anything further, your lordship?” the driver of the hack called
down to Simon.
Startled into action, Simon bent down to collect his bags. He nodded at
the driver and started up the walk toward his door. He glanced skyward. It
would rain soon, ushering in brisker autumn air.
As he stepped inside, he dropped his bags in the foyer and shrugged
from his overcoat. Timmons bustled in, a welcoming smile on his face.
“Welcome home, my lord.”
He bent to take Simon’s bags and hurried up the stairs, leaving Simon
standing alone once more.
Simon walked into his study, satisfied to see a fire burning in the hearth.
He poured a drink and stood in front of the flames to rid himself of the
chill that had seeped into his bones.
He felt no joy to be home again. Just overwhelming fatigue. He hadn’t
felt joy since his last day on Leaudorian soil.
Isabella.
A fresh wave of pain assaulted him, and he flinched as he heard her
words all over again.
 I don’t love you.
How could he have been so wrong? It was a question he had asked
himself a hundred times in the months since walking away from her.
Tormenting himself did no good. Isabella didn’t need him. She had a
country to rule. Any worth he’d held for her quickly dissipated once her
objective had been achieved. But the pain would not feel so fresh, so raw,
so new if he didn’t love her still.
He turned away from the fire, his gaze flitting over the window. It was
raining. The perfect accompaniment for his mood. He shuffled to the
sideboard and poured another drink.
It had been a long time since he had indulged heavily in spirits, but an
evening spent in his cups seemed the perfect homecoming. Maybe then he
could forget the past year. Forget he ever met Queen Isabella Genevieve
Elizabeth Chastaine.
***
The hours passed. The drinks blurred. And so did his pain. Simon
slumped in his armchair and stared unseeingly into the dying fire as he
downed another glass of brandy. He started to pour another then looked in
disgust at the empty decanter in his hand.
“Timmons!” he bellowed.
He needed another bottle. Somehow the contents of this one had
disappeared.
“My lord, you have a caller,” Timmons said from the doorway.
“Well, send them away,” Simon grumbled, waving his hand
dismissively.
Timmons hesitated and Simon focused unsteady eyes on him. “Who the
bloody hell is it?” he demanded.
“I don’t know, my lord,” Timmons replied, a perplexed expression on
his face. “He’s a peculiar looking man. Dressed as a monk.”
Simon bolted upright in his chair. “Monk you say?” His heart hammered
in his chest. Could it be Father Ling? Had something happened to Isabella?
He could come up with no reasonable explanation for the monk to be in
London.
“Send him in at once,” he ordered.
He rose from his chair as Timmons left and hastily straightened his
rumpled clothing. He ran a hand through his mussed hair in an effort to
make himself more presentable. Harsh stubble abraded his hand as he
rubbed his palm over his jaw. He hadn’t shaved in days.
A few moments later, Father Ling walked into the study, his brown robe
plastered wetly to his body. His hood was pulled back and his normally
serene features wreaked of fatigue.
Simon crossed the room to greet him. “Father Ling, this is a surprise,”
he said as he took the monk’s arm and guided him toward the fire.
“Have Mrs. Turnbull prepare Father Ling some hot tea,” he directed
Timmons.
“I am happy to find you well, Lord Merrick,” Father Ling said as he
stood warming his hands by the fire.
“You say that as if there had been some doubt,” Simon said dryly.
“These have been troubled times,” the monk said solemnly. “You have
risked much in the past months.”
“How is Her Majesty?” Simon cut in. He had no desire to discuss the
last few months. He was more interested in why the monk was here and if
Isabella was all right.
“She is…well,” Father Ling said slowly.
“What brings you here?” He voiced only one of the hundred questions
swirling around in his mind.
“I have come to correct a wrong.”
Simon’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. He turned as Mrs. Turnbull
bustled in with a tray of hot drinks. “Please sit,” Simon said, motioning for
Father Ling to rest in the armchair closest to the fire.
Mrs. Turnbull pressed a cup into the monk’s hand, and casting him a
curious glance, she retreated from the room, leaving the two men alone.
“I have made a serious misjudgment,” Father Ling said quietly,
surveying Simon over the cup he held to his lips. He took a sip before
continuing. “I feared that neither you nor Queen Isabella would be happy
as half a person, nor would you be content with only half of your mate.
What I did not see at the time is that both of you are only whole when you
are together.”
Simon’s mind raced to comprehend the cryptic statement. “I’m not sure
I understand.”
“Isabella sent you away because she thought it the right thing to do. At
the time so did I.” Regret filtered over his features. “I underestimated the
depth of your love for one another.”
 “She does not love me,” Simon said flatly. “I appreciate what you are
trying to do, Father Ling, but Isabella made her feelings very clear to me
before I took my leave.”
Father Ling’s face softened. “Ahh but she does, my son. Does the sun
not rise in the east and set in the west? So too is her love as constant.” He
looked down at his cup. “She is as unhappy as you are. I traveled here
because I see two dying souls. Two halves of a whole that can only live if
they are together.”
A buzz began in Simon’s ears and became louder as he sought to contain
the overwhelming flood of pain that rushed over him all over again. Try as
he might, he had been unable to put Isabella from his mind in the last six
months. No matter that he told himself she didn’t love him. That she had
used him and discarded him like yesterday’s rubbish. If he closed his eyes,
he could still smell her soft feminine scent, a mixture of jasmine and inner
strength. Could feel her touch, the satiny smoothness of her skin, the
silken waves of her hair.
He shook his head and eyed Father Ling, careful to keep a check on his
emotions. “All she had to do was say the word and I would have never left
her side.”
Father Ling set aside his cup and leaned forward, his usual calm
replaced by agitation. “She died that day. She became a shell of her former
self. She sent you away, lied about her love so that you would not be
forced to choose between her and everything that made you the man you
are.”
Simon’s face twisted as his incredulity grew. “Are you saying that she
lied to me in order to make me leave?”
“Tell me, Lord Merrick. If she had professed her love for you that day,
would you have left her?”
“I would have come back, of course,” he said hotly. He began pacing in
front of the chair where Father Ling sat, his anger rising by the minute.
“She should have had faith in me, damn it. Let me make my own decision.
Instead she made us both damn miserable.”
“Aye, she did,” Father Ling admitted. “I fear I am partly at fault for
giving her guidance when I shouldn’t have.”
The monk’s expression was bleak, and Simon felt a twinge of sympathy
for his plight.
“I am sure you did as you thought best at the time.”
 “Good intentions are not any solace when the result is pain,” the monk
said wryly.
“How is she?” Simon asked softly. He needed to know anything about
her, to be able to reach across the miles and feel as though he was near.
“She is a strong woman. But she grieves for you,” Father Ling said
quietly. “Our country has already prospered under her leadership, but she
is unhappy.”
Simon blew out his breath. “I appreciate you coming all this way to tell
me these things, but I am unsure of why you came. If she truly wanted…
me.” He stumbled over the words. “If she wanted me, would she not come
herself? Send a personal letter? Does she even know you are here?”
The monk smiled sadly. “She still feels she did the right thing, and even
though her sorrow grows with each passing day, she refuses to place her
own desires ahead of what she feels is best for you and your country.”
“Then what do you want from me?” Simon asked.
“It is up to you to make her see she was wrong,” he said simply. “You
will have such an opportunity sooner than you think. It is up to you to
seize the chance. I merely wanted to give you the motivation to do so.”
Simon gritted his teeth. “Oh no, you don’t. Not this cryptic prophesy
again. You cannot come all this way to dangle a carrot in front of my nose
only to snatch it away at the last possible second.”
The monk smiled. “Patience is a virtue, my son. And it is rewarded.
Think on the things I have told you so that you may make the proper
decision when the time comes.”
He rose and walked forward to clasp Simon’s hands. “Go with God, and
may you lead a long prosperous life no matter the path you choose.” He
paused and stared piercingly into Simon’s eyes. “I hope that our paths
cross again. Soon.”
His eyes twinkled as he let his hands slide from Simon’s. “I will take
my leave now.”
“Wait,” Simon called as the monk started to walk from the room. “The
hour is late. May I, at least, offer you a place to rest for the night?”
Father Ling stopped and turned to face Simon. “You are generous, my
lord, but I find I am quite enjoying your fair country. There are many
interesting sights to behold as I travel. I will seek my rest beneath the stars
this night.”
 Simon shook his head as the monk disappeared in a swirl of robes. The
man was enough to inspire violence.
He sagged into his chair and rubbed his hands over his face. There was
no hope for him to sleep now. Thoughts of Isabella consumed him. He
ached for her. He needed her. She was the only person who could complete
him. And yet…
Had she really sent him away to prevent him from having to choose
between his country and the woman he loved? A curl of anger stirred to
life within him. How could she not have trusted him enough to allow him
to decide for himself?
A person in love does not always see so clearly.
Father Ling’s voice whispered in his mind. Simon sat straight up,
searching for the source of the voice. Had the monk not departed yet?
He strained to hear, but the house remained eerily quiet. He was losing
his mind. Why not? He’d already lost his heart. Surely his sanity wasn’t
far behind.
Love is a madness all in itself.
“Stop it,” Simon muttered. He shook his head as he heard the echo of
Father Ling’s soft laughter.
Clearly he’d had one drink too many.
“I’m going to wake up in the morning and this will all have been a
dream.” He waited for the monk’s response but silence reigned.
He rubbed his eyes in disgust, angry that he had allowed himself to
believe…even for a second. Tomorrow he would feel very foolish indeed.
***
Simon sat at a table in the far corner of the room, waiting for the Duke
of Ardmore. He checked his timepiece, wondering if he had misunderstood
the time of their meeting. He drummed his fingers on the mahogany table
as his eyes scanned the room for his grace.
He’d awoken this morning to Timmons delivering an invitation from
the duke to dine with him at White’s. Which could only mean one thing.
Simon would be given another assignment.
His lips curled into a half-smile as he remembered a similar meeting
nearly a year ago. When he first learned of the atrocities in Leaudor and
set out on a course that would forever change his life.
 Footsteps approached and Simon looked up to see the duke come to a
stop across the table from him. Though several years older than Simon,
His Grace was still an imposing figure. He was tall and only slightly
graying around the temples. His broad shoulders and barrel chest
contributed to his commanding presence.
“Merrick,” he said with a nod of his head.
Simon rose and offered a polite bow. “Your Grace.”
The two men sat, and the duke waved a footman over. “Would you care
for a drink?” he asked Simon as the footman hovered, waiting to fulfill
their request.
A wave of nausea rolled through Simon’s stomach, and sweat beaded his
forehead. The mere mention of spirits was enough to make him blanch. He
held up a hand. “Nothing for me, thank you.”
The duke waved the footman off then pinned Simon with a stare. “I’ll
come straight to the point of our meeting. His Highness has followed your
progress this past year and has been very impressed with your service. So
much so that he is bestowing upon you the title of Duke of Malbane.”
Simon raised an eyebrow in surprise. This was not what he had expected
from this meeting. “That is very generous of His Highness.”
The duke leaned back in his seat. “The regent has studied the situation
in Leaudor with great interest. He feels he may have underestimated their
worth to us as an ally. He’d like to correct such an oversight with all
haste.”
Simon nodded. “Leaudor would make a very worthy ally to England,”
he said slowly.
His head pounded a bit more, and he could no longer blame it on the
brandy he’d consumed the evening before. He was being punished. For
what he didn’t know, but clearly, the idea of being able to forget Isabella,
Leaudor… It was fantasy.
“Yes, His Highness completely agrees. It is why he wants to suggest a
political union of sorts. A marriage between our countries if you will.”
Simon’s head snapped up, and the knot grew in his stomach.
“As the queen has yet to marry, the regent wants to suggest a union with
an Englishman.”
Simon closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Absurd really, to allow the
idea of Isabella with another man to cause him so much pain. He knew she
would eventually marry. There were heirs to produce. A dynasty to grow.
 He attempted to relax his features. “Queen Isabella is not so easily led,”
he said lightly. “I rather doubt she will be persuaded to marry someone of
the regent’s choosing.”
The duke nodded. “The regent has heard of the queen’s reputation. A
very strong woman, indeed. Extraordinary. But it can’t hurt to ask, can it?”
Simon slowly shook his head.
The duke smiled. “Splendid. I knew you would agree.”
Simon arched his brow. “Agree?”
“Indeed. The regent wants to suggest a marriage between Queen Isabella
of Leaudor and the Duke of Malbane.” His eyes twinkled merrily as he
studied Simon.
Marry Isabella? He stared at the duke in stunned disbelief.
“I can see I caught you quite by surprise.”
Simon continued to stare, his ability to form a coherent thought all but
gone. Father Ling. Now his visit made sense. The crafty old monk. How
had he known? Simon shook his head. No sense even asking such an
absurd question.
He focused his attention back on Ardmore. “I am honored by His
Highness’s regard, but if I were to marry Isa—the Queen of Leaudor—I
would be expected to swear allegiance to Leaudor. Serve her and not
England.”
The duke smiled. “You have served England well these past years.
Indeed, she has had no more faithful steward. His Highness has complete
confidence that your marriage to Her Majesty would benefit England. And
that you would continue to serve our interests with your presence there.”
He leaned forward, his expression becoming serious. “You’re miserable,
Merrick. It’s time to address your own needs. It’s why I suggested to His
Highness…that is, His Highness suggested this marriage,” he corrected in
mid-sentence.
Understanding dawned. “You petitioned His Highness for the marriage.”
The duke shifted in his seat then fixed Simon with his stare. “I did.”
“Am I so transparent?” Simon asked with a forced laugh.
“When you returned from Leaudor, I knew something was wrong,” the
duke said quietly. “You weren’t the same man as before. Much of it was to
do with Kirkland’s betrayal, I know. You counted him as a brother. But
there was something else. I didn’t want you to travel to the continent. In
fact, had we not had such a pressing need for your services, I would have
grounded you immediately and sent you packing to your estate.”
Simon sat in silence and looked down at the table. What could he say?
He was receiving the blessing of his monarch to wed the queen of another
country, all but commanded to do so. A woman he loved, who might just
love him despite her statements to the contrary.
After so many months of desolation, the unfamiliar flicker of hope was
tapping a steady rhythm in his chest. Dare he take a chance that Father
Ling was right? He rubbed a hand through his hair, unsure of what to say,
what to decide.
“I can see this has come as a shock,” the duke murmured. “I was led to
believe that you held some affection for Her Majesty, and that she returned
it to some degree. Was I wrong to pursue the angle of a political
marriage?”
Simon stared intently at the duke, wondering just how he’d come by his
information. “No,” he finally said. “You weren’t wrong. I do…love her,”
he finished awkwardly.
“Then what are you waiting for?” the duke asked with an arched
eyebrow. “His Highness won’t extend the offer for long. He was quite
cross at the prospect of losing one his best agents, but the idea of gaining
an ally overwhelmed any protest he had.”
What was he waiting for? He had just been handed the chance to marry
the woman he loved beyond measure without proving himself disloyal to
the country he had served for the last eight years.
If Father Ling was right…and Isabella really loved him. But was he
right? Simon shook his head and curled his fingers into a fist.
“What say you, Merrick? Or should I say Malbane? Are you prepared to
do one last good for England?”
 Chapter Thirty-One

Leaudor
October 1815
“Your Majesty, an English contingent has just arrived and awaits an
audience with you.”
Isabella turned in surprise as her secretary made the announcement. She
frowned. She expected no such visitor. “Who leads this contingent?” she
asked.
“His Grace, the Duke of Malbane.”
Isabella turned back to her view from her private balcony,
disappointment heavy in her heart. “Inform His Grace that I will receive
him shortly. See that he has refreshment and place him in my private
sitting room.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Isabella listened as her secretary quit the room then expelled a long
sigh. Time had not lessened the pain of losing Merrick. She still felt it as
keenly as if it were yesterday. But what nearly destroyed her was the look
of anguish in his eyes as she said those damning words.
I don’t love you.
If only she could take them back. Wipe away the past six months.
Instead she had only added to the long list of betrayals in his life.
“What could England want?” she muttered crossly. They already had
what she most desired.
In a whirl of skirts, she turned and strode from her chamber, her lips
firmly set. Whatever the Duke of Malbane wanted, he would be advised to
present his case quickly before she sent him packing back to England. She
was in no mood for diplomacy.
Two guards stepped in beside her and escorted her down the hall to her
sitting room. She paused outside the door and drew in a breath before
throwing it open and gliding inside.
 Across the room, a man stood. A very familiar looking man. He stared
directly at her, and the world stopped around her.
Merrick?
The room tilted crazily beneath her, and for a moment, she feared she
would so something extremely silly, like faint.
She glanced around the room searching for who had accompanied
Merrick here, but besides the guards, no one else was present. She waved
her guards away, and they backed from the room.
“Isabella,” Merrick said in greeting, his voice low and cautious.
It took every ounce of restraint she could muster not to launch herself in
his direction and throw herself in his arms.
“Merrick. Wh—what are you doing here? I was told the Duke of
Malbane requested an audience with me.”
He smiled crookedly. “Risking one’s life for his country has its rewards,
I suppose. I’ve been awarded the title of Duke of Malbane by His Majesty,
the regent.”
“Congratulations.”
She continued to stare at him, hating the awkward silence between
them. Had she stood here and stiffly offered congratulations as if he were
a soldier in her ranks who had just been promoted?
Finally he cleared his throat and drew out an official looking document
from his breast pocket. He was dressed in accordance with his station,
formal breeches and waistcoat, stiffly tied cravat, polished Hessians. He
looked every inch the statesman, but she missed the Merrick she had spent
so much time with. The torn and ragged trousers, the threadbare shirt, his
bare feet when his boots had been stolen.
As she looked beyond his outer finery, she was shocked to see how
haggard he appeared. He was thinner than she remembered, and tiny lines
creased the corners of his eyes. Tired looking eyes. But to her starving
gaze, he never looked better.
“I come bearing a proposal from His Majesty, the Prince Regent of
England,” Merrick began formally. “He believes a union between our
countries would benefit our governments and our people. To seal such an
alliance, he suggests a marriage.” He stared directly into her eyes.
“Between Queen Isabella Genevieve Elizabeth Chastaine and an English
nobleman.”
 Blood rushed to her cheeks, and she froze. How cruel was this situation?
Merrick arrived to arrange her marriage to a high-ranking member of the
English aristocracy? Anger at the regent’s presumption followed closely
on the heels of her initial surprise.
“And who pray tell does your regent propose I marry for the good of
England?” she asked icily.
“Me.”
Her mouth fell open, and her gaze flew to his face, read the sudden
vulnerability that flashed in his eyes as he made the simple proclamation.
“I don’t understand,” she began lamely.
He closed the distance between them until he stood a breath away. She
closed her eyes and inhaled his scent. Her hands itched to touch him, to
reassure herself that she wasn’t dreaming. After so many nights of waking
to an empty bed, she could not countenance that he was here, standing
before her, proposing marriage.
He reached out and placed his hands on her shoulders. Then he moved
one hand to cup her chin and gently tilted her face to look up at him.
“There is something I must know, Isabella. Something I have traveled all
the way from London to find out.”
She blinked and waited for him to finish.
“Do you love me, Isabella? Tell me the truth this time. Don’t allow our
countries, our duty, what you might feel is best for me to interfere this
time. Right now there is only you and me. Nothing else matters except
your answer to this question.”
Hope, anguish, fear, anticipation. They all burned brightly in his eyes.
She could no longer lie to this man. The man she loved more than she had
ever loved anyone else in her life.
With a small cry, she threw herself into his arms and buried her face in
his chest. She gripped him tightly. As tightly as he now held her. He
stroked her hair and pressed kisses to the top of her head.
“I would hear your answer,” he murmured against her hair.
She drew away, moisture forming in her eyes, blurring his image before
her. “I love you, Merrick. More than I can possibly express.”
His expression softened and relief flickered in his eyes. “And I love
you, Isabella.”
She lost the battle to keep her tears at bay as they slipped down her
cheeks. He thumbed one away, his fingers achingly gentle on her face.
 “Why did you send me away?” he asked.
Her heart constricted. “I could not bear for you to give up everything for
me.” She still couldn’t stand such a prospect.
“Don’t you realize you are everything to me?”
His hand slipped behind her neck, and in one swift motion, he pulled her
to him, crushing his lips against hers.
This was no gentle, loving kiss. It was the kiss of a man starved for a
woman. The kiss of reunited souls.
She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, her lips melting against
the pressure of his. She sucked his bottom lip between her teeth and
nipped gently. His hands tangled in her hair, ran the length of her back and
pulled her even closer to his body until they formed one seamless shape.
“I am never letting you go again,” he rasped as he pulled slightly away.
She gazed up at him, hopeful and yet fearful. Her original concerns were
still there. Unresolved. How could she allow him to give up his life for
her? How could his regent?
“What is this talk of marriage?” she asked as he took her hand and led
her over to the settee. She forced a note of lightness to her voice, but
inside, her heart was pounding thunderously against her chest.
He sat down and pulled her down to perch on his lap. “The regent
suggested a political marriage. A union between our countries. An
expression of goodwill.”
“Did he now?” She could no longer keep the worry from her voice.
“And you just happened to be the one he chose to sacrifice?”
“Sacrifice? I would have started a bloody war if anyone else had been
chosen.”
He stared at her, his gaze reaching into her innermost sanctum, delving
deeply, uncovering her fears. “What is it that worries you, Isabella?”
She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and bit firmly into the
flesh. “How do you feel about all this, Merrick? I cannot allow you to be
used as a pawn by your regent. I could not bear for you to be unhappy.
You’ve made your life protecting your country, and you do it very well.”
He smiled tenderly at her, understanding lighting his eyes. “Rest
assured, my love. If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be. The regent was
quite cross at the prospect of losing me. The fact is, Isabella, I cannot be
happy without you, and I’d like to think I could make you happy as well.”
He cupped her chin and looked piercingly into her eyes.
 “You’ve agonized over a choice you feel I would be forced to make
should we want to be together, but there is no choice. There never was.
From the moment I realized I loved you, there was no other choice for me
but to do everything in my power to be with you.”
She swallowed against the emotion knotting her throat. Unable to call
back her tears, they slipped once more down her cheeks. Never had she
imagined hearing such powerful words. Words that sent a shaft of joy
streaking through her heart.
It had been too long since she had felt anything beyond despair. And
here, the man who meant everything to her sat telling her things she hadn’t
dared hope to hear.
“Will you marry me, Isabella?” He looked intently at her, the full force
of his love evident in every nuance of his demeanor.
Her heart flooded at his question. The tears ran faster down her face.
“Yes,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. She reached out with a
shaking hand to cup his cheek. “Oh yes.”
She grinned broadly, her heart lighter than it had been in months.
He smiled and turned his mouth into her hand to kiss her palm. “That is
the most wonderful word I have ever heard in my life.”
She closed her eyes and laid her head on his shoulder. “I am sorry I hurt
you, Merrick. I will never do so again. I will spend the rest of my life
making you happy. I swear it.”
He wrapped his arms solidly around her, holding her tightly as if afraid
to let go. “We will make each other happy, my love. And we will tell our
children our story so they may tell their children.”
She picked her head up and pressed her forehead to his so that they were
eye to eye. She smiled the smile of a woman replete with the knowledge
she had found happiness.
“Our future will be wondrous and our children will never tire of hearing
how their mother and father fought their way over two countries in order
to fulfill their destinies.”
“I have much to thank Father Ling for when he returns from England,”
he said as he stole another kiss from the corner of her lips.
She pulled away, looking at him in confusion. “What on earth are you
talking about? Father Ling hasn’t left Leaudor in over forty years. He is
quite adamant that he will never leave until he returns to his resting place
in the East.”
 Merrick blinked then narrowed his gaze. “Never left Leaudor? Are you
certain?”
“Quite certain. He has been here every morning for prayer and
meditation. Afterwards we breakfast in the garden.”
She cocked her head and glanced sideways at him. “Why would you ask
such a question?”
“No reason,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I obviously
drank some tainted brandy.”
She smiled and framed his face in her hands then she bent to kiss him
once more. “I will make certain we stock only the finest spirits from now
on.”
***
Outside the palace, down the mountain, in the village of Bourgis, Father
Ling stood staring up at the castle nestled in the bosom of Soleil
Mountain. His robe swirled in the breeze and an uncharacteristic smile lit
his face.
He gazed skyward and nodded slowly. “Your daughter has made a sound
choice, old friend. Leaudor will flourish once again.”
A distant echo sounded and the villagers who milled about stopped and
strained to hear. They shrugged and went about their work, but many
would later swear they heard King Fernando’s deep laughter ring out over
the valley.
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Maya Banks is a #1 New York Times and USA Today bestselling author
across multiple genres including contemporary romance, erotic romance,
romantic suspense and Scottish historical romances. She lives in Texas
with her husband, three children and assortment of cats. When not writing,
she enjoys traveling, reading and spending time with her family. A
southern girl born and bred, Maya loves life below the Mason Dixon, and
more importantly, loves bringing southern characters and settings to life in
her stories.

For up-to-date news on book releases, visit Maya’s website or Facebook

page.

www.mayabanks.com
www.facebook.com/authormayabanks