The Wild Princess

Thirty-nine



Louise lay in Stephen Byrne’s strong arms, drowsy with the delicious warmth and floating sensations of a well-loved woman. Her desert landscape of an existence had been restored with the life-giving rain of this man’s loving her. Impossibly, she had bloomed again.

What her legal husband had been unable to offer, this strange and wonderful man had given her. She refused to think of the consequences of what they’d done. Refused to consider what obligations her rank might demand of her in the next hour, or day, or year. Please, let me linger in this moment for as long as possible.

In truth, she dared not move in Byrne’s arms, for fear of breaking the spell. They lay entirely, delectably naked, her arm draped across his chest, her head pillowed on the muscle of his shoulder. She listened with the attentiveness of a musician to the even rhythm of his heartbeat, soothed by the rise and fall of his chest. Her fingers played with the crisp curling hairs that ranged down from his chest to his stomach and beyond. When she reached up to stroke his face, her fingertips grazed the dark stubble, and even that seemed titillating, a pleasure to be savored and inviting more kisses.

He read her interest in having more of him. “You have spent me, woman.”

She smiled, turned her head to touch her lips to his flat, muscled belly. “I will be patient. Until you are ready for more of me.”

“You demand too much of a man, Your Highness.”

She giggled, feeling drunk with her own power. When was the last time she had laughed like this? Girlishly. No, wantonly.

“Will you be missed?” he said.

She ran her fingers down his thigh, marveling at its hardness. “Not for a good while. But I must join my mother and sisters later, for tea.”

“Ah.” Then he was quiet for a while before clearing his throat and beginning again. “I need to ask you something.”

“Yes?” A thousand possibilities rushed through her mind. What if he asked her to leave Lorne? She didn’t know what to say if he did. In her heart, she’d already taken the emotional leap away from her husband, giving herself over to Stephen Byrne. But if he asked her to leave her family, leave all she was and everything she could be to run off with him—as she’d imagined doing in her young, foolish days with Donovan—how should she answer?

His next words she hadn’t expected.

“Baron Stockmar,” he said.

“What about him?” she asked. Already the luscious floating sensations were leaving her.

“While I was sleeping, I think I heard you talking to yourself. Either that or I was dreaming. You said that name. Baron Stockmar.”

She sighed. Well, this was a cruel way, indeed, to be yanked back into the bleak reality of her life. “I did. The baron was in charge of virtually our entire household while my father was alive. In particular he oversaw our education—mine and my brothers’ and sisters’.”

“But he’s no longer around?”

“Right.” She edged up onto one elbow to better see his face while she explained. “When I asked my mother if she could think of anyone who hated us enough to want to hurt us, she mentioned his name. The baron was a terrible man. I believe he loved power more than anything else in the world—certainly more than people. But Albert, my father, admired him deeply. The baron had been his personal adviser back in Germany, before my mother and father married. He actually coached my father to encourage the possibility of Mama falling in love with him when they met, if you can believe that.”

“In other words, he gambled that she’d accept him over other suitors?”

“Yes, and his gamble paid off.” She smiled. “Later, when Papa came here to wed Mama, he brought the baron with him. My father intended for Stockmar to bring a kind of masculine order to our lives.”

Byrne laughed. “Organizing nine children? That seems near impossible.”

“Nevertheless, the baron threw himself into the task even before most of us were born. He believed children should be educated on a strict schedule. He fought constantly with my mother’s beloved former governess, Baroness Lehzen, over our education. After my parents’ wedding, Mama had given the baroness over to care for us children as we came into the world and became old enough to be taught. Mama trusted her, I think, more than any other person. They were devoted to each other. The baroness tried to protect us, tried to reason with Stockmar, telling him we were only children and needed time to play. The baron believed play a waste of time.”

Stephen Byrne’s fingers seemed incapable of remaining still. As she spoke he stroked up and down her back. She tried not to think too hard about the little shivers his touch produced. If she did she’d be unable to speak for the pleasure of it.

“Eventually,” she continued with no little effort, “Stockmar pressured my father to dismiss the baroness. Lehzen was sent back to her home in Germany. My mother was furious and wept for weeks at the loss of her dear friend, but the men refused to listen to her. From then on, the baron had full control over us and our tutors. He traveled everywhere with us—to Balmoral, Windsor, Osborne, and lived here with us at Buckingham. He had my father’s ear in all matters.”

“But the man’s no longer around. What caused his fall from grace?” Byrne said.

Louise remembered so vividly those sad, tempestuous days. “It was my father’s death. When Papa contracted typhoid and died very suddenly, the shock nearly killed my mother. She was beside herself with grief. I half expected her to reach out to the baron for strength. Instead, she did the opposite.”

He smiled and hugged her. “Good old Victoria canned him.”

“Like lightning. She banished the man to Germany, just as he had done to her dear friend the baroness. He lost everything. His grand suites in our castles. His royal pension. The invitations to state banquets. All gone.”

Byrne toyed with a lock of her hair, kissed the tip of her nose. “I shouldn’t wonder he’d be bitter, even though he’d brought it on himself.” He thought for a moment. “When you said his name out loud while I slept, were you thinking he had more than enough motive for vengeance? Could the baron be in league with the Fenians?”

“No. I was just recalling my mother’s words. She thought his ghost might have returned to haunt us. He died in 1863, destitute.”

“He’s dead?” Byrne looked disappointed, as well he might be. She suspected he’d hoped this was the missing link between their household and the Fenians. It wouldn’t have surprised her to find Stockmar had planted a spy in the palace. If he’d still been alive.

“So, you see,” she continued, “he can’t possibly be involved. That’s a dead end.”

“What about his family? Did he have a wife, brothers, sisters, children who might wish to avenge him?”

“His wife passed away years before him. They had a son, Christian. I know him. He’s a good man, successful in his own right, not the sort to hold a grudge on behalf of his father, or to use violence. In fact, I don’t believe he got along well with his father at all. I can’t believe he’d have a hand in any of this madness.”

Byrne frowned. “If it’s not Stockmar, then it’s someone else equally determined to aid the Fenians. We must identify them before they do worse damage.” He gently moved her aside and started to rise from the bed.

Louise reached out to stop him, placing her hand on his arm. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her. She let her fingers slide down his arm, to his hand resting on his bare thigh, and then to the place on his body she most wished to influence—and enjoyed the intriguing effect her touch had on him. He seemed to have recovered.

“As you have no fresh leads to follow,” she said, “I don’t suppose a delay of an hour or so more would matter?”

He grinned down at her. “Guess not.”

“Excellent,” she said.