The Wild Princess

Fifty-three



Louise felt cold, dreadfully cold, head to foot. From her waist down, she was submerged in the Thames River’s slime—dark as tea, the consistency of congealed gravy. The upper part of her body stretched across a shattered door of the coach but was no less wet. She’d swallowed mouthfuls of the filthy water before kicking off her shoes and hauling herself up onto the only part of the broken coach within her reach that seemed not to be sinking.

She was fairly certain a bone in her shoulder or collarbone had snapped during her fall. Her ribs ached, and the pain whenever she took a breath was unbearable. The stench coming off of the water filled her mouth and nose. She concentrated on drawing only shallow puffs of air into her lungs between coughing fits.

Swimming was impossible without the use of both arms, even if she had been able to free herself of the wretched, water-soaked gown. She prayed a boat would come along and rescue her before she lost the last of her strength and slipped off her makeshift raft into the river to drown.

She might have lain there for two minutes or two hours, for she lost all sense of time. A guttural throbbing sound roused her from her semiconscious state. Clinging with her good arm to the door, she turned her head, trying not to move her shoulder or shift her torso and thereby anger her ribs.

A boat. Oh, Lord, yes—a boat.

It was moving swiftly toward her, propelled by twin paddle wheels, one on either side of the wide hull. She hoped the captain saw her because there was no way she could move out of his way. She was reassured when she saw a figure standing at the bow, waving to her. Never in her life had she seen a happier sight. She blinked, hoping she wasn’t hallucinating.

The captain brought the steam-powered boat chugging up to meet her as gently as if he’d been docking the queen’s yacht. Her heart swelled with gratitude.

Down came a rope and a shout from above. “Hold on a moment longer there, miss. We’ve got you. Never fear.”

Although Louise couldn’t see her rescuer from water level, she heard his shouted instructions over the thump-thump-thump of the engine and understood he was telling her to slip the open loop around her body. The least pressure on her shoulder and chest caused her increased pain, but she struggled to obey, thinking only of resting safe and warm upon a dry deck. She gritted her teeth, eased her left arm and injured shoulder through the loop, then leaned over to guide the rope around her back and thrust in her good arm.

The man must have been watching closely. As soon as the rope was secure, he began pulling her up.

Louise swallowed a shriek of agony as the rope cinched tighter around her chest. Her weight, so much more due to the sodden gown, added to the pressure of the rope tightening around her. She fought to stay conscious. Now that her rescue was guaranteed, all she could think of was her family. She had ejected her sisters from the coach, along with Lorne and the duke. But had they survived the onslaught of attackers? From a distance she still heard shots being fired, the ring of bayonets on sabers, shouts of men, and terrified cries of horses.

But her thoughts were cut short when, with a final effort, two men in dark suits leaned down over the gunwales of their boat, grabbed her by the arms, and pulled her up and over the wooden rail then down with a careless thud onto the deck.

“Oh, please, gently!” she cried. “Sirs, I’m broken.”

Their rough hands released her. She looked up into the faces of two strangers.

One was older than the other, his coarse red hair whipped up by the wind, as he wore no cap. He observed her with dull-eyed marsupial interest, devoid of emotion. “Open her up, boy,” he growled at his companion. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Yessir.” The younger one beamed at her then bolted away toward the drive house. His exuberance reminded her of a beagle on the scent.

Red hair turned back to her, his eyes fixing on her, flitting away then back again, as if in deep calculation. “Went fishin’ and caught us a princess. That right, dearie?”

She was in too much pain to react to his rudeness. “You don’t look like watermen,” she murmured. In fact, they didn’t sound like it either. Their accents were wrong. American? She tried to at least straighten up to a more dignified sitting position from her sprawl on the teak planks. “But I thank you with all my heart. You’ve saved my life.”

The man leaned down and peered at her gown then still closer at her face. “Which one is you?”

If he was American, maybe he knew Byrne? She felt an immediate surge of hope at the thought of her lover. If Stephen had been down here instead of up on the bridge, he’d have swept her up in his arms, laid her on a cushion, and covered her shivering body with a toasty quilt.

“Do you suppose you might find me a blanket. Anything for warmth. I’m so terribly c—”

The stranger reached down and grabbed her hair by the roots. He wrenched her head back, forcing her to make eye contact with him. “I said, what’s your name?”

To as much as touch a princess, if you were not her husband or a family member, was unimaginably rude, a breach of etiquette as well as the law. She was so shocked she could only stare at him and answer.

“I am Princess Louise, the marchioness of Lorne.” Since she didn’t know whether it would help or hurt her cause to lie, it didn’t seem worth pretending she was someone she was not.

He released her hair and stood up, hands on hips. His satisfied smile turned her stomach. She should have lied.

Louise held her injured shoulder with her opposite hand to keep the bones from shifting against each other. Held immobile, it hurt a little less.

“That’s grand,” the man said. He stood above her another moment then lifted one foot and nudged her shoulder.

“Ah!” she cried. “Please don’t. It may be broken.” Or dislocated. Just as bad.

“No need to tie you down then, is there? You won’t be going anywhere.” He turned and trudged away from her toward the other man at the wheel.

“Please. Take me to the nearest dock,” she shouted after him. “I need to get back to my family.” She had to let them know she wasn’t dead. Had to find out what had happened to them and to Stephen, and how many men they’d lost in the explosion and fighting. “I’ll pay you anything you like. Anything!” she screamed at the red-haired man’s back.

He didn’t respond, although she was certain he’d heard her. The younger one turned and glanced once at her then gave a whoop and did a little jig at the wheel.

So . . . they considered her a prize.

What did they want her for? If these were Fenian raiders, they might easily have killed her by now. Did they intend to leave her body for the police to find—like those two unfortunate civil servants in the park? Or would they hold her for ransom? Both Parliament and her mother had pledged noncompliance with Fenian demands. Then again, what if they simply spirited her away as their prisoner of war, intending to keep her indefinitely, saying they would only release Her Royal Highness when Ireland ruled herself. Which would be never, if her mother had any say in the matter.

Either the foul water she’d swallowed, or the realization her life might well end within the next few minutes, sent a spurt of sour bile up into her throat. Louise closed her eyes and fought back her fear.