The Wild Princess

Thirty-seven



At first Louise wasn’t certain of the source of the noises. The uproar that invaded the tranquil garden where she sat reading with Lorne sounded like a cross between braying donkeys, caterwauling felines, and some otherworldly beast. She had to listen for a bit before she began to pick out two distinct human voices—one a full octave deeper than the other. As they came nearer, she finally made out actual words of an old Scottish drinking song:



Towerin’ in gallant frame,

Scotland my mountain hame,

High may your proud standards glor-i-ously wave,

Land o’ my high endeavor,

Land o’ the shining ri-ver, Land o’ my heart forever,

Scotland the brave!



Then she knew.

Although it was still early in the afternoon, this could only be the drunken carousing of men. Two in particular. Not again, she thought.

Lorne shot to his feet and stood at the ready, as if to protect her from armed invaders.

“It’s all right.” She touched his arm as she set her book aside and rose from the stone bench. “I have a feeling I know who it is.”

John Brown and Stephen Byrne lurched around the hedgerow, arm in arm, bleating out another verse she suspected they’d made up themselves. Something about bloody battles fought and foes vanquished in Londontown.

Lorne stared with incredulity at the American. “How any of the ladies of the court can find that man appealing . . . ,” he muttered.

It was all she could do to keep from laughing. At Lorne’s comment, as well as at the incongruity of what appeared to be a burgeoning friendship. The antagonism between Byrne and the Scot had been so constant and extreme, she’d never imagined them in such a companionable, albeit filthy and disheveled state.

If her mother saw them like this . . . She stepped forward, blocking their progress toward the main wing of the palace. “Gentlemen?”

“Oh,” Byrne said, staggering to a halt with a sheepish grin. “It’s a . . . a princess.”

“That it is, my bonnie lad. A royal personage of great beauty. Your Highness.” Brown bowed tipsily, but his sloppy smile faded as he took in a solemn Lorne. “And her sweet little . . . whatever.”

“Sh-sh-sh,” Byrne said, finger to his lips. “Is a secret.”

“Not much of one!” Brown bellowed, laughing so hard he pressed a hand to his belly as if it hurt.

“You are both disgustingly drunk,” Louise accused them. “Don’t pay any attention to them, Lorne. Goodness. In the middle of the day and in the queen’s garden of all places. What’s wrong with the two of you?”

Byrne removed his companion’s arm from his shoulders and stood to attention, favoring one leg. “Right you are, ma’am. We are sloshed.”

“In-inebriated,” said Brown.

“Seven or eight sheets to the very wind.” Byrne spiraled a hand skyward.

“Good lord.” Louise looked at her husband, who seemed no less perplexed than she. It wasn’t unusual for Brown to carry an alcoholic aura on his person through the day. But she’d only ever seen him truly drunk on a few occasions, and then just late at night after her mother was off to her bed. The only time she’d seen any evidence of Byrne’s drinking at all was in Scotland, the morning after his brawl in the pub with Brown. “What has happened? Why this ridiculous display?”

“Cele-brating,” Byrne stated. He swiped his Stetson, much the worse for wear, from his head and smiled at it crookedly.

“Defeated the emenn-emy,” the Scot said.

She bent down to better look up into Byrne’s eyes and waited for them to focus on her. “What enemy?”

“Dirty Darvey,” he said. “Dead. Long story. Need to sit down now.” His knees began to fold under him and, if Lorne and Brown hadn’t held him up, he would have collapsed to the ground.

Louise spoke to the only sober male in the group. “Lorne, we’d best get them both inside and cleaned up before my mother sees them. She’ll have a fit.”

“As well she should,” he grumbled. “Who is this Darvey, and have they really killed the man?”

“Later,” she said.

Lorne went ahead to chase the servants out of the lower kitchen. Once she and Lorne had maneuvered the pair inside where there was access to water and soap, Louise got to work cleaning up Stephen Byrne, while Lorne stood by with towels as Brown gave his hands and face a scrubbing and told the story of their battle with the bawd’s gang.

She wasn’t sure how much of the tale might be true, and how much a product of the Scot’s love of drama. But one thing was clear to her—Stephen Byrne had risked his life to protect Amanda’s family. Indeed, he’d saved the life of her son, the only child Louise could ever expect to have.

With bruised and scraped hands and faces clean, the extent of the pair’s injuries seemed less life threatening than they’d at first appeared. “Now off with your shirts,” she said.

Byrne smiled at her. “Thoughtyou’dneverask,” he slurred, and reached for her.

“Stop that.” She smacked away his hands and caught Lorne’s curious gaze hesitating over her then shifting to Byrne. Whatever he was thinking, she hadn’t the time to find out. She frowned at the gash in Byrne’s left trouser leg, which appeared to be crusted with dried blood. “What’s this now?”

He shrugged. “Crowbar. Hurts”—he hiccupped—“like hell.”

She tried to roll up the pant leg. When that didn’t work she peered inside the slashed fabric but could see nothing. “Drop the pants.”

Byrne grinned.

She cast Lorne a desperate look. “He’s hopeless.” When she turned back again, her mother’s agent had collapsed against a cabinet, eyes closed, his beard-stubbled face pale as porcelain. While he was passed out and harmless, she ripped off the pant leg at the tear. “Oh my, that is bad.”

“Don’t think it’s broke,” Brown mumbled, resting his head in his hands. “He was walkin’ on it. To the pub and back here.”

“Was he now?” She examined the purpling flesh and jagged wound. Best if it were seen by a physician, but perhaps it would heal on its own. She did all she could to clean up the rest of him, trying to ignore the little spurts of heat through her fingertips as they grazed his lovely muscled abdomen and chest.

It occurred to her, as she heard more of the story from Brown, that Stephen Byrne might have died in that alley had the Scot not come along when he did. The thought sickened her. Moreover, she would have been the cause of his death. Had she known Darvey wasn’t just a bully capable of picking on the weak, that he was truly a dangerous killer, she’d never have asked Byrne to confront the man.

Louise cleaned him up as best she could then ordered Brown and Lorne to carry him to one of the empty servants’ rooms in the attic, to sleep off the drink. She followed along, thinking it was probably a good thing he was drunk. The alcohol numbed the pain, for the time being.

When the other two men left the room, Louise lingered behind. She tenderly pulled the sheet up over Stephen Byrne, smoothed her fingertips through the black wing of hair fallen over his forehead. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so very sorry.” Then she sat down to watch over him while he slept.