Miss Burton Unmasks a Prince (22 page)

“Margarita,” Carlo said in a low voice. “Do not move.”

Meg shook her head. Carlo needed to realize that another adventure was not going to resolve things. She was still leaving for London in the morning, and they would never meet again. A band of thieves accosting them in the woods would have been a welcome diversion a week earlier, but Meg needed to put a stop to this, for both their sakes.

She stepped toward the man with the musket. “I am sorry you went to such trouble, sir, but I need to return to the castle.”

“Margarita,” Carlo hissed.

“I do appreciate the gesture, but the timing is all wrong, and I’m simply not in the mood for this.”

The soldier spoke to his companions, and it took a moment for Meg to realize he was speaking French. Were these men French? She could not imagine that Carlo would devise an escapade with a group of Frenchmen. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, and she took a step closer to Carlo.

The man with the musket was apparently the leader. At his signal, the four men surrounded them. He faced Carlo. “How fortunate that we should find you here, Your Highness.” The man’s words were sarcastic, yet he still inclined his head respectfully. “We’d planned a much more elaborate scheme to apprehend you and your sister, but just as we were secreting ourselves in the woods to wait for the guests to leave, what should we overhear but the very man we’d come to find declaring his name aloud?” The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. “It was as if you were asking to be captured.”

“But he’s not really the prince. Tell them, Carlo,” Meg said.

Carlo took Meg’s hand and pulled her closer and slightly behind him. “You must know,
monsieur
, that the estate is surrounded by Spanish and English soldiers. You and your small group do not stand a chance.”

The man lifted the end of his musket into the air and set the weapon to rest on the ground, appearing quite unaffected by Carlo’s words. “With a hundred carriages coming and going tonight, I am afraid I disagree with you, Your Highness. We were not searched as we entered, and I am confident it will be just as easy to depart.” He swept his hand in front of him. “If you would be so kind as to accompany us.”

Carlo tensed.

“Ah,” the Frenchman said, raising his brows. “I had not considered that you might resist. In this, you are very unlike the rest of your family.” He motioned to one of the men, who seized Carlo’s arm.

Carlo pushed the man away, swinging his fist into his jaw, and managed to shove another to the ground before the third man clubbed Carlo over the head. He wobbled, and the three managed to restrain him with rope.

Meg stood frozen to the spot. Should she attempt to help Carlo? What could she possibly do against four armed men? She turned, intending to run for help, when one of the men grabbed her around the waist, lifting her off the ground.

Meg screamed and kicked and scratched at the man, but it did no good. He clamped a hand over her mouth and held her tightly, even as she squirmed in his grasp.

Meg’s heart pounded painfully in her chest. Her eyes darted around and finally found Carlo’s. He glared at the man who held her and then turned his gaze to hers. His expression softened, and he shook his head slightly. Meg stopped struggling, although she could not force her muscles to relax.

The men spoke with their leader for a moment, and Meg concentrated on their words. It seemed that the men were attempting to decide if she was Princess Serena. The leader was not sure if Serena had red hair, but the man who held her argued that she wore a crown, so she must be.

The leader stepped closer to Meg, studying her face. His gaze moved to the costume crown in her hair.

“Monsieur.” Even though he sat, bound upon the forest floor, Carlo’s gaze held the Frenchman’s, and his voice still managed to command. “Do not hurt my sister. We will accompany you peacefully.”

The man nodded, and Carlo’s legs were untied. They were led through the woods to a waiting carriage. Carlo was pushed roughly inside.

Meg tried to be brave, but she pulled away as the man dragged her toward the dark coach door. Her eyes darted toward the castle. The music of the ball still drifted toward her. The ball seemed ages ago, yet it was still taking place. Their disappearance would not be discovered for hours—possibly not until the next day.

Her breath came in gasps, and she heard herself whimper as the man lifted her into the carriage. The last thing she saw before the door was shut was a pearl bead upon the ground, glowing in the moonlight.

Rodrigo’s eyes adjusted to the dim interior of the carriage. He steadied his breath as he attempted to think calmly. Meg sat in the corner of the seat across from him, her shoulders hunched and arms crossed. Her eyes were wide with fear.

“Margarita?” He began to reach toward her but realized his hands were still bound, and instead he lowered them between his knees.

“Your head.” Her gaze moved to where the soldier had struck him.

“It is fine.” He attempted what he hoped was a reassuring smile, even though his head pounded.

“Where are they taking us?” she whispered.

“France, I imagine.”

Meg’s eyes widened. “We cannot go to France. What happens when they discover that we are not who we claim to be?

That precise thought was forefront in Rodrigo’s mind. They had been fortunate indeed that the leader of the French soldiers had not known English well enough to recognize that Meg did not speak with a Spanish accent. They would have certainly killed her if they had known she was not Serena. That ostentatious costume crown had very likely saved Meg’s life—for now.

The Frenchmen had made it clear that they had no intention of harming a member of the royal family. Rodrigo and Serena were only of value if they were kept alive, which would work to Rodrigo’s advantage. His main objective would be to help Meg escape before it was discovered that she was not the princesa.

But first, the other matter still needed to be resolved.

“Margarita, you would indeed be in danger if it’s discovered that you are not Serena. I on the other hand . . . I am safe for now.”

Meg opened her mouth and leaned forward as if she would argue but then closed it again. She lowered her head. “It is true then. You are the prince.”

“Yes.” Why did he feel the need to apologize for it?

“You signed my dance card.” She darted a look at him and then dropped her gaze again, to where the booklet had hung at her wrist. She must have lost it when the soldiers seized her.

“I didn’t want anyone else to claim your waltz. I’m afraid the idea made me quite jealous. Although, after watching the stiff way British men dance, my worry lessened considerably. If there had been a Spaniard threatening to waltz with you . . .” Rodrigo offered a small smile, attempting to lighten the mood. He did not even want to picture Meg dancing in the more sensuous style favored by the Spanish. Unless it was with him, of course.

“Serena knew?”

“Yes.”

“Who else?” Meg said in a small voice.

“Only the duke and my sister. They honored my wishes and did not reveal it to you.”

Meg’s voice held no inflection. “And that is why you wished to speak to me before midnight? Before the company removed their masks.”

Rodrigo wished he knew how to read her reaction. “I wanted to tell you privately.”

Meg simply nodded but did not lift her gaze. After a moment she spoke again. “Do you think Daniel and Colonel Stackhouse will discover we are missing?”

The abrupt change of subject told him that she was not unhurt by his deception, but he did not wish to cause her any more embarrassment. They could revisit the topic when it wasn’t so fresh.

“I do not think it will be realized for hours. Unless Lord Featherstone chooses to tell that we did not return after you left the drawing room, and I cannot imagine he would mention it.”

Meg flinched when the earl’s name was mentioned, and Rodrigo wished it had been Lord Featherstone’s smug face on the receiving end of the very satisfying blow he had given the French soldier.

“They will not know in which direction to follow us,” Meg said.

“I fear that is the truth.”

Meg looked around the carriage as if searching for something. She still did not meet Rodrigo’s gaze. Her gaze lit upon the window next to her, and she sat up on the bench, moving the heavy curtains the smallest bit to peek out. She turned her head from side to side in order to get a view from different angles without disturbing the curtain, and then she reached beneath it. Rodrigo heard the click of the latch being opened and a rush of cool air blew into the carriage. The sound of the French soldier’s voices drifted on the wind.

Rodrigo listened for a moment, but the creaking of the carriage made it impossible to hear what the men were saying.

Meg removed her gloves and set them aside, then she twisted and pulled on the large, knuckle-sized pearl beads that covered her bodice. When she had torn off a handful, Meg reached slowly beneath the curtain and dropped the beads one by one through the window. She waited, most likely to see if there was any reaction from the soldiers outside the carriage, but there was none. The voices continued uninterrupted, and Meg turned back to the row of beads, tearing the thread and working them loose.

Rodrigo watched her, amazed by her creativity, not wanting to tell her that it would most likely do no good. They would be on a boat, sailing across the channel long before anyone happened upon the beads. But if it comforted her or distracted her mind from their situation, he would not discourage it.

Meg filled up each of her gloves, occasionally pouring a collection of beads through the window. Rodrigo thought he would never tire of watching her. Her expression was determined and her eyes intent. The crease he loved sat in its place above her nose. Small streaks of moonlight darted over her as the curtains moved. The silvery bands played over her curls and highlighted the soft skin of her cheeks.

“I know why you did it.” Meg’s voice startled him from his contemplations.

“You do?”

“Yes.” She still did not look at him. “It must become tiring to be a prince and feel as though you were always just known for your title and not as the man behind it. I suspect it’s rather lonely.” Meg’s gaze rested on him for a moment, and then she turned back to ridding her gown of its embellishments. “I am guilty of the same—I judged you without knowing you.”

Rodrigo’s throat was tight. He should have never wondered if Meg would understand. She described his feelings exactly. Before he could reply, Meg continued.

“I’ve not been entirely honest either.” Her voice was quiet.

Rodrigo leaned forward to hear over the noise of the carriage, the voices outside, and the wind blowing through the crack in the window.

“I did not tell Carlo that I was sent to England to find a wealthy husband. I find the entire situation disgusting, so I did not want Carlo to know. I could not bear it if he were disappointed in me.” Meg’s voice was nearly a whisper. “Ladies are expected to act a particular way around a gentleman they wish to impress. When I was with Carlo, I did not have to worry about remembering all of those things. He liked that I was different. Even if it meant listening to poetry and acting out adventures. With Carlo, I didn’t have to pretend to be any other than Meg.”

Meg glanced at Rodrigo and then lowered her eyes again. “I imagine it was rather the same for the prince.”

“You have described it exactly, Margarita,” Rodrigo said. He moved to sit next to her on the bench. “Without a title, Carlo was free to just . . . be.” He studied her, willing her to raise her eyes, but she continued to work at a piece of thread, loosening the bead it held.

“I shall miss Carlo,” Meg finally said. “I do not think I could act the same with the prince.”

Rodrigo touched a finger to her chin, lifting her gaze to meet his. “I think you could. In fact, I know it to be true.”

She shook her head. “With the prince, I would be Margaret. Not Meg and never Margarita. I would need to be a proper young lady.”

“Perhaps you should give the prince a chance,” Rodrigo said. “He might surprise you, and I have heard he can be quite charming.”

“How could he ever trust me when he knows the truth of my situation?” Meg turned and dropped more beads through the window. “Besides, the prince and I have not even been properly introduced. There is no way to form an acquaintance.” The corner of her lips twitched the slightest bit.

“Yes, I fear that is an obstacle. But I believe there is an exception to that particular rule of etiquette. You can find the entire rule listed under
formalities to be observed by political prisoners
. If two strangers happen to be bound for an undisclosed location and there is no one available to perform the appropriate introduction, it is entirely proper to introduce oneself.”

Rodrigo shifted in the seat to face her and bowed, as well as he could in the cramped quarters with his hands bound. “I am Principe Rodrigo de Talavera of the Two Siciles, native to Madrid, and lately resident of the dower house at Thornshire Castle. Pleased to make your acquaintance, miss.”

“Margaret Burton of Charleston.” Meg offered her hand, and Rodrigo inclined his head and kissed the air above her fingers.

“And now, Miss Margaret Burton of Charleston, since neither of us has previous experience with this type of situation, I think we should depend upon our mutual friend, Carlo, to indicate how we proceed. What would you tell him right now?”

“I would tell him I am afraid.” Meg looked up at him with moist eyes. “I don’t want to go to France and be a prisoner and . . . the guillotine.” Her face paled as she said the word sotto voce.

Rodrigo’s heart suddenly weighed a hundred pounds. He kept his voice calm, and he hoped soothing. “And what would Carlo do?”

Meg looked at him through her lashes. “He would hold my hand,” she whispered.

Rodrigo found her trembling hand, holding it awkwardly as his own hands were bound.

Meg slid toward him, sitting on the seat next to him and leaning her head on his shoulder. She rubbed her other hand gently over the ropes connecting his wrists. “Does it hurt? I can untie the knots.”