The Wild Princess

Ten



Having done all he could by the end of the day to make certain the royals in residence at Balmoral were safe, Stephen Byrne took himself off for a strenuous ponder. The locations best suited to problem solving were, in his estimation, working men’s pubs. Having obtained a stool at the end of the centuries-old oak bar in The Wooden Ox, not far down the road from the castle, he asked for a good dark stout and set to work on both it and his thoughts.

If he’d thought it necessary to station himself outside Louise’s door and watch over her the night long to keep her safe, he would have. But Brown had the place locked up tighter than the Tower of London, his own men stationed at every entrance plus reinforcements ordered up from Aberdeen to patrol and post as sentries. So there seemed little need for him to lose sleep in a drafty hallway. How the princess had slipped past the guards that morning was beyond him. He imagined she’d spent a good part of her youth at Balmoral, and like as not, she and her siblings had discovered secret passageways they’d used in their play. He’d have to alert Brown to that possibility.

Aside from his confidence in the Scot’s security measures, Byrne had another excuse for staying away from the castle. He expected the marquess would be paying a visit to his wife’s bedroom, if only as a matter of form and to calm any untoward gossip among the court. But perhaps Lorne would attempt to perform his husbandly duty.

Byrne didn’t like to think of the dandy, or any other man, touching Louise. Lurid images flashed through his mind, leaving him feeling raw.

Who could really say what went on between the couple? If anything at all. He’d seen them in the carriage during the trip north, sitting apart, never reaching out for each other, never holding hands or touching surreptitiously when others weren’t watching as newlyweds always do. The younger princess wedged between them seemed to serve as a mutually agreed upon barrier.

Maybe Louise was just angry with her husband over a disagreement they’d had, and she was making her point by temporarily withdrawing her affection. Despite Lorne’s attraction to partners of his own sex, he might still have relations with his wife. It wasn’t unheard of for a man who favored other men’s company to be capable of servicing a woman. The warmth they’d displayed at the wedding seemed real enough. It was only after their wedding night that a chill seemed to descend over them.

To Byrne’s thinking, this was the very opposite of what should have been. Affection for a mate naturally grew with time.

A thought struck him then, and he chuckled. Might it be the marquess had attempted to fulfill his obligations in bed but failed to perform satisfactorily for the lady? If he, Byrne, entertained the princess in his bed, he’d be damned if she left it without rosy blooms in her cheeks and stars in her eyes.

Then another possibility came to him. Perhaps the man had demanded acts from her that had shocked her. Offended her. Hurt her.

The bastard.

Byrne’s hand tightened on his glass. He had to make an effort to loosen his grip before it shattered under the pressure. No use speculating, he told himself. Whether or not Louise was married, whether or not she was happy or miserable—the woman was beyond his reach in every imaginable way. He might as well have designs on the famous Lillie Langtry or the queen herself—though that last thought was a singularly unappealing one. Whatever life held for Louise was none of his concern and beyond his control. There was little sense in working himself into a lather over it.

Byrne looked around the pub he’d chosen. When he’d first entered The Ox he sensed a ripple of nervousness, stifled conversation. He was a stranger in these parts. The farm boys and town’s merchants took their time checking him out. But he hadn’t come here to make friends and didn’t want to encourage anyone to approach him. He cast a steely glare around the room before dropping his gaze into his foamy ale, signaling his lack of interest in friendly banter. He couldn’t think while he was talking or listening to tall tales and local gossip. What he most needed to do tonight was try and figure out Rupert Clark’s next move.

He had no doubt that it was Clark the Fenians had brought over from America. Clark with his brilliant red hair and missing fingers. He’d never met the man in person but had seen a photograph of him, standing in the front row in his uniform with his Confederate unit.

The black powder man’s face was unremarkable—square jawed, clean shaven, pockmarked from childhood illness like many, his eyes dulled with sadness. In the photograph his hair color was impossible to tell, but he’d heard a description of the man from a prostitute who’d slept with him, a Union sympathizer. In the picture, Clark held the barrel of a rifle in his injured hand, showing only the thumb and index finger, the other three having been blown away. He could have hidden the maimed hand behind his back, but it appeared to Byrne that he was intentionally displaying his loss. As if the hand was his badge of courage.

Byrne knew the man’s work only too well. He’d seen the deadly results. There was nothing more horrifying than what dynamite could do to a human body—the damage far more grisly than bayonet, gunshot, or even cannon wounds.

On the Edinburgh road, where he’d found the telltales of Clark’s presence, he’d learned the master dynamiteer had an assistant. That was probably the only reason he’d found any evidence at all. It had been the other man’s job to clean up before they retreated. Evidently, whoever he was, he wasn’t as careful or as experienced as Clark.

There was another reason, one he hadn’t mentioned to Louise, for his being sure that a trap had been laid to enable the Fenians to snatch, rather than murder, a member of the royal family. He’d discovered broken brush on the hillside above the road, signs of horses and riders. Twenty or more, he guessed. A small army of men had been lying in wait for the caravan. With the distraction of the explosions, and orders to grab just one member of the royal family they’d already selected, their odds for success were fairly high.

So now, Byrne wondered, would they try again?

Absolutely.

Right away, or later? And where? Those were the more difficult questions.

His head hurt from trying to puzzle it out. If he guessed wrong, missed a vital clue, the results might be catastrophic. The only advantage he had was that the Fenians didn’t yet know that he knew their intentions. They would assume they still held the trump card—the element of surprise.

He called for another pint from the bartender, drank it down a little more slowly than the first. But before he could come to any theory worth trusting, he became aware of another stall in the conversation throughout the dim, smoke-filled pub. Another stranger had arrived.

Byrne kept his head down at the same angle, eyes fixed on his brew. He sensed motion coming toward him, tensed. But the newcomer passed on. Byrne kept his body and head still but shifted the angle of his gaze to follow the retreating figure.

Blond waves curled down the back of the man’s neck. The fine fabric of his evening frock coat, light-colored waistcoat, and noble posture left no doubt in his mind who it was. The Marquess of Lorne had come alone, probably without Brown’s or anyone else’s knowledge except for the guard he must have bribed to let him pass. He’d bet the best horse in the queen’s stable that Louise hadn’t shared her secret means of escape with her husband. After all, here it was their honeymoon, and he was sneaking off for a sociable drink with his mates? More likely, come to prowl, Byrne speculated.

There were no women here. Only farm boys, townsmen and tradesmen, maybe a traveler or two. Lorne seemed familiar with the place. Byrne remembered that Balmoral, and therefore The Ox, wasn’t far from the Campbell family’s estate. Perhaps this pub was already a favorite haunt?

Lorne didn’t take long to strike up a conversation with a young man at a table in the dark corner. The local boy finished his drink then left. Lorne stayed, waving off the barkeep’s offer of another ale, drumming his fingertips on the tabletop. Biding his time. Then the marquess paid up and, with a casual air, walked out the door into the night.

Byrne sucked down a deep breath, argued with himself, stalled for another minute, then tossed his tab on the bar and followed out the door.

A full moon shone down on the village square and the few buildings surrounding it. The air smelled of clover, farmland dung, pine, and an oncoming frost. Byrne spotted Lorne standing a short ways off, hands in his pockets, looking at ease, as if he was simply enjoying the night air. At last he straightened, looked around, as if to get his bearings. The castle was off to the right. Lorne turned left.

Byrne gave him a head start then tailed him down the road, staying far enough back to remain cloaked by the darkness. After less than a quarter mile, Lorne stepped off the road and into a field of maize. He seemed to be heading toward a line of woods. Soon a light pricked out from among the trees, and the marquess adjusted his course toward it. Byrne stopped at the edge of the road and watched the lone figure continue across the moonlit field until he’d nearly reached the first trees. The light went out.

Byrne swore.

So the rumors and his guesses were true. He had no feelings one way or the other about another man’s choice of bed partners. Let him poke where he pleased. Hell, what was the joke about lonely shepherds?

What set him to burning was the dishonor the man was doing his lovely wife. Had the marquess even consummated their marriage? What did he expect Louise to do for affection or even for simple sexual satisfaction? He didn’t for a minute believe the commonly held belief that females of good family lacked sexual yearnings. In his experience, women of any and all ranks in society were equally passionate when with the right man.

A woman without a title might divorce her husband or, more likely, accept a series of lovers. But a princess didn’t have the luxury of anonymity. Kings, princes, male nobility of lesser stature, were more or less expected to take mistresses. In some marriages contracted purely for the purpose of political alliance, the woman might even encourage her less-than-appealing husband to take to another woman’s bed, rather than suffer his unwelcome attentions. But a queen or princess could not have a lover, or at least not admit to having one, without suffering dire consequences. In the not-so-distant past, queens had died for their indiscretions.

Byrne cast one final bleak look toward the shadowed line of woods then whipped around and marched back toward the public house. “None of your bloody concern,” he reminded himself. “Leave him to it.”

But after another two stouts on top of the ale, he still couldn’t forget what he’d seen or dismiss what he knew. Anger swelled in him like a gouty foot.

Did Louise know? Of course she must. The woman was neither blind nor a fool. But the fact that her husband hadn’t been able to control his sexual appetite for even one month after their wedding—Byrne just didn’t understand that.

He hurt for her. He felt the insult as a dull, throbbing pain at the back of his skull.

But what could he do about it?

On loan to the Queen’s Secret Service, he was expected to protect members of the royal family. Technically, that included Lorne, who hadn’t yet reappeared at the pub or passed by on the road outside the window, where Byrne had stationed himself at a table, keeping an eye out. What if the marquess stayed away from the castle all night? What if this sneaking about became routine? If Lorne wasn’t discreet, he’d cause both Louise and the queen great embarrassment. What with all this Irish trouble, perhaps he’d even get himself killed.

Byrne conversed with the dregs of his third stout, which had begun nagging him toward action. No! I’ll damn well not hike off into those woods to drag the fellow home by the scruff of his neck like a truant schoolboy. On the other hand, sooner or later, he’d have to deal with this mess.

Despite all attempts to calm himself with yet another pint, he was still seething when the door to the pub swung open and the doorway blossomed into a tartan kilt wrapped around a powerful package of muscle. John Brown made his way to the bar in two strides the length of an omnibus, and held up a pair of thick fingers. The barkeep brought him his drinks and quickly retreated, as if taking cover at the first sign of a gale.

The man must have seen Brown drunk before.

Sensing it was the wrong thing to do, but unable to stop himself—emboldened as he was by his beverages—Byrne left his table. He wove his way over to the bar and slung a hip over the stool next to Brown’s. The Scot seemed not at all surprised to see him. He nodded at the barkeep, who brought Byrne yet another foamy glass. Byrne’s head was already swimming, but it was poor manners to turn down a man’s gift.

“All quiet up on the hill?” Byrne asked.

“Quiet as can be.” Brown drank deeply. “ ’Bout done in myself, what with these crazies pestering HRM. Any idea what they have in mind next?”

He didn’t need to say who they was. The Fenians. “Not a clue. You?”

“Naw, laddie. Wish that I did.” He ordered up another drink for himself.

Byrne declined a fifth . . . or was it a sixth? When he shook his head, it felt like it was sloshing with a brew of beer and worries. He knew he should keep his mouth shut. It had a habit of getting him into trouble. But he couldn’t ignore what he’d just witnessed.

“I’ve been here drinking close to two hours,” he murmured.

Brown released a soft humph of amusement. “Alone?”

Byrne nodded. “One of our friends from up the castle dropped by for a short while. Don’t think he saw me.”

The Scot scratched his beard and nodded his head. “Someone I should know ’bout?”

“Maybe you already do.”

“Wouldn’t be our bonnie bridegroom would it?” Brown offered him a quick glimpse of bearish yellow teeth, almost a snarl.

Byrne didn’t bother to answer. “Does she know?” The words stuck in his throat. He felt the muscles of his neck and shoulders go rock hard. His jaw locked.

“The princess?” Brown drained his current pint, at the same time signaling the barkeep for another. “Expect she does. Victoria said she was sure Louise was aware of the company the man kept in the past. But I don’t know. The princess discounts court gossip more often than believes it. This is one rumor she should have listened to.”

“Such a beautiful woman,” Byrne mumbled. “Ah, Louise, Louise . . .” He was feeling dizzier by the moment. The bottles arranged along the bar back blurred and swam before his burning eyes. Pretty shades of amber, ruby, crystalline clear and jade, they looked to him rather like a pretty image through a child’s kaleidoscope.

Byrne heard himself talking, as if his voice came from another person across the room. As if he was just sitting there on his stool, listening to a stranger ramble on about whatever rattled through his brain, as blokes do when in their cups. It wasn’t until he felt a shadow fall across him, blocking the light from the lamp over the bar, that he looked up to see Brown standing there, fists digging into hips, glowering down at him.

“Watch what you say, laddie,” he growled, threat crowding his words.

“I’ll say what I pleash,” Byrne slurred, not entirely sure what he had said but feeling boozily determined to defend his opinions, whatever they might be.

All of a sudden, the anger and bitterness and frustration that had been building inside of him rose as an unbearable pressure in his chest. The thought that this very special woman had signed on for a lifetime of deception and unhappiness was too much for him to handle while in his sodden state. The indignity of her situation burned like a hot poker.

“All I said,” he blurted, “was Louise is bea-oo-ti-ful.” Or something along those lines. More or less.

Brown appeared to swell in size, his head moving toward the ceiling as he drew himself fully erect. “You said more’n that, you villain. It’s blasphemous it is. Even thinkin’ of putting yourself in that man’s place in her bed—”

“I said that?” Byrne smiled. It was the first pleasing thought of the evening. “Well then, who’s to say it’s such a bad idea. Me and the princess—”

He never got to finish his sentence.

Brown’s fist connected with Byrne’s jaw, sending him flying off his stool, sprawling on the rough oak floorboards. Although he was nowhere near as large a man as John Brown, and that massive clot of knuckles had the power to shatter bones, Byrne’s jaw survived intact. It happened to be one part of his anatomy, he’d learned from experience, that was as hard as Connecticut granite.

He glared up from the floor at the Scot. The room’s spinning slowed then snapped into focus as the giant’s blow produced a rapid sobering effect.

“I meant no offense to Her Royal Highness,” Byrne said, pushing himself to his feet. “But, Mr. Brown, you and I both know it was bloody wrong, that match. I won’t pretend otherwise.”

The Scot’s chest expanded as he pulled in a mighty breath that sounded like the wind foreshadowing a violent storm. “I’ll not have you so much as lookin’ at the lady. Hear me well, Raven. You mind your investigatin’ and stay away from Victoria’s family.”

Byrne nearly laughed at the man’s preposterous bullying but thought better of it. He also should have thought better of his next move. He poked a finger at the center button of the giant’s shirtfront, emphasizing his words. “It’s—not—your—place to give orders to a man in the queen’s Secret Service.”

Brown’s fists kneaded at his sides. His eyes glowed, dangerous coals. “I says it is.”

This time when the Scot lunged for him, Byrne was ready. He ducked then went in low and fast with a right fist to Brown’s gut. Followed with a lightning fast left hook to the ridge of bone just under one eye.

Brown swung back at him, powerful as a steam locomotive. If the punch had connected with the intended side of his opponent’s head, there was a good chance Byrne might not have stood up again. Ever.

Byrne dodged and ducked again. Fist and arm sizzled over his head.

The rest of the fight happened fast, as bar fights do, eating up no more than five minutes before it was over. But to Byrne’s bleary memory, it was a beautiful battle: stools cracking over backs and shoulders, bottles exploding, knuckles smashing and oozing blood . . . until neither man was capable of lifting a hand through his exhaustion.

Only then did the barman climb out from behind his counter, club in hand, and chase them out the door into the night with a warning they’d be paying for the damages.