She hated it. Hated him with all the fervor of a woman betrayed.
As hard as she could, she threw the jacket in his face.
He caught it, tossed it over a chair, and watched her as hungrily as a slinking wolf after its dinner.
An apt description for Rainger.
Snatching up the chemise, she pulled it over her head. She donned the petticoats and tied them around her waist with such a firm tug she hurt herself. “Despite the huge fool I’ve made of myself, I am accounted to have a good mind. But I suppose that’s compared to other women, isn’t it? It certainly isn’t as clever as your mind. Or perhaps it would be better if I said—it’s not as treacherous as your mind. It’s not as sneaky and slimy and... does everyone downstairs know who we are?” Remembering the children yesterday, the flowers, the joy with which the village celebrated their wedding, she realized the absurdity of the question.
“They are very happy for us, their sovereigns.” He donned his breeches as if resigned to momentary celibacy.
She scrubbed her hands over her hot cheeks. Mortified. She was so mortified. In the eyes of everyone in this dear little village, she was not their queen. She was a fool.
Get dressed. She had to get dressed and out of here before she lost her temper and leaped at him.
She stepped into the gown. The buttons ran up the back, and she twisted to fasten them. She got the top. The bottom. The middle gaped. She knew it gaped. But she wasn’t going to ask him to help her.
Because the more she thought about the events that had brought her to this moment, the worse her humiliation. And her anguish. “Dear God, you’re the one who set the fire at the convent. You burned my sisters’ letters.”
“It’s all right,” he said in a soothing tone. “I have others.”
“What?” She couldn’t have heard him correctly. She stopped chasing the buttons and glared at him. “What did you say?”
“I have letters for you from Clarice and Amy. They’re in my saddlebags. Just a minute, let me get them.” He started toward his bags.
She launched herself at him. She grabbed at his back, spun him around, and took the front of his shirt in her fists. “My sisters? You’ve seen my sisters?”
He looked taken aback by her assault. Not hurt, but taken aback. “Yes, and I’m pleased to tell you they’re in the bloom of good health. They’re married to good men—”
“My sisters are married?” Clarice was married? Amy, her baby sister Amy, was married?
“And by now Clarice has a baby.”
“Clarice was expecting?” Clarice was a mother. Sorcha was an aunt. And she hadn’t been there for the birth. She hadn’t held her sister’s hand or soothed her pain.
“Clarice married a Scottish nobleman, Robert MacKenzie, earl of Hepburn by name. Amy married an English nobleman, Jermyn Edmondson, marquess of Northcliff by name. I’ve met them both.” Rainger sounded so calm and earnest, as if he thought that would reassure her. “And you may be assured your sisters have made honorable matches.”
“Unlike me.” She backed away from him.
“You’re very angry, much angrier than I expected, but you don’t understand.” He followed her. “Let me fasten your buttons while I explain—”
“I don’t want you to fasten my buttons, and I understand perfectly well. You knew how distraught I was about losing my last contact with Clarice and Amy. In fact, you destroyed that contact.” The cloak. She wanted her cloak. She wanted as many layers of clothing between her and Rainger as she could have. She wanted miles between them. Years between them. “But according to you, that was immaterial, for you had in your possession more correspondence, correspondence that could easily be a replacement for the letters which I had read, reread, held close to my heart, and were my most cherished possessions in the loneliness of my exile in a convent?”
“I knew your sorrow was temporary. I knew once I let you discover my identity, I would give them to you.”
Right now, scratching his eyes out sounded like good sense to Sorcha. “You dare. You let me ride for days through the wilds of Scotland, where I could have frozen or fallen in a gorge or been killed by robbers or assassins, and you say it’s acceptable that you didn’t give them to me?” She swirled the cape, setting an illusionary boundary he would be smart not to cross. She pulled the collar close across her shoulders. “You were in the dungeon for too long if you can make that logic work for you.”
He took a long breath as if trying to gather patience.
He had the guts to act as if he needed patience.
“I was in the dungeon for a very long time, but believe me, Sorcha, the hardship there made me a different man. All the things you said about the old Rainger were true. I was feckless, selfish, ungrateful, and unkind. I take full responsibility for the loss of my country and I will do everything to make it up to my people. These people.” He waved a hand toward the taproom below.
“Are you trying to tell me you’re better now? You have lied to me, deceived me in every way, made me think I saved myself from an assassin... ” She paused.
He nodded in confirmation, nodded as if she should appreciate him riding to her aid.
“You encouraged me to think I could take care of myself when I so obviously can’t.” She pointed a finger at him when a thought occurred to her. “You fixed the horse trading, didn’t you? Somehow you made MacMurtrae pay the fair price.”
“Well, yes.” Rainger had the acumen to look slightly abashed at that. Slightly. “I couldn’t allow him to cheat us.”
“You have made a fool of me every step of the way, and in your warped mind I’m supposed to be grateful that your hardship in the dungeon made you a different man?” His audacity took her breath away. “It certainly did, and one I do not welcome or want.”
He ignored her rejection.
Because he thought ignoring it would make it go away? Perhaps. But more likely because he believed himself to be totally justified in his perfidious charade.
“You insufferable snake. You ghastly hound.” This was the problem with living in castles and convents. She didn’t know hurtful-enough names. Out of the depths of her mind, she pulled the worst she knew. “You cad!”
The worst she knew wasn’t good enough. He did no more than blink at her vocabulary. “I didn’t make a fool of you on purpose. The deception was necessary because I didn’t know the direction of your mind about returning to Beaumontagne and fulfilling your promise to marry me.”
“So you lied to me and kept my sisters’ letters a secret?” Shoes. She needed shoes to walk out of here. “How does this make sense?”
“Let me explain.”
“Do.” She could scarcely grind the word from between her clenched teeth.
“Your grandmother told me I had to find her lost granddaughters and when I married one, she would give me an army to defeat Count duBelle and win back my country. By the time I found first Clarice and then Amy, they had already met their future husbands and in fact were”—he waved a hand at the bed and essayed a smile—“fluffing the sheets with their men.”
Did Rainger really think he was funny? Or charming?
“So I knew finding you was my last chance. When I did, I thought it best to assure myself of your affections by—”
“Lying to me?” She snatched up the hose and her boots and sat in a chair.
“By not being the man you despised so heartily.”
She paused while pulling on her hose and shot him a scathing glance. “Did it never occur to you that whether or not I despised you, I would still do my duty to my country?”
“I thought it would be easier for you to do that duty if you felt affection for me.”
“And you created that affection by pretending to be a simple but noble man.” She tied her garters, then had to loosen them for fear she’d cut off the circulation to her feet.
“I’m not simple, I admit that. Arnou is less intelligent than me.” He bobbed his head in artful imitation of the role he’d play
ed for so many weeks. “But no one could have guarded you on your trip across Scotland with more dedication.”
“I would have to say you are simple. Possibly even moronic.” Her poor, worn boots were dry, warm, and polished. She shoved her feet inside and laced them with the same vigor she’d shown for her petticoats and her garters. “You’ve just told me you deceived me and married me only because I was your last chance to win your kingdom, and you’ve protected me because if I die, your chance to be king dies with me.”
Rainger walked over, looked down at her as if that proved his superior position, and said, “You asked for the truth.”
She leaned back, folded her arms over her chest, and looked up at him with as much insolent confidence as she could muster. “Because it makes everything that came before a lie. Arnou protected me and married me for me. For the first time in my life, someone was kind, was dedicated, to me. Not to my position as princess. Not to what I could do for him. Not to honor tradition or to make a profit. Now I’m the half-wit, for believing that I’m pretty or lovable or worth dying for. You are simple for believing I will ever forgive you.”
His face grew cold and still and in his lethal gaze she caught a glimpse of his true self—a ruthless prince who would stop at nothing, sacrifice everything, for his vengeance and his position. “Last night you swore you would make me your consort. You swore you’d fight your grandmother and your prime minister for me. You swore you loved me.”
“I swore I loved Arnou.” She clenched her fist. “Arnou is dead.” And she mourned him. God, how she mourned him!
Jumping to her feet, she shoved Rainger aside. She picked up his leather saddlebags, usually so hefty and cumbersome she could scarcely lift them, and shook the contents onto the floor. A coil of rope, a pistol and shot, a corked bottle, and a blanket spilled out onto the floor.
And two sealed letters.
“Don’t. Wait. The saddlebags are too heavy.” Rainger rushed up her side. “Let me—”
She slammed her elbow into his sternum.
He doubled over with a gasp.
“The ladies at Madam’s told me how to do a few other things besides blow the hornpipe—a pleasure you’ll never enjoy, at least not from my talented lips.” She picked up the letters. She looked at her sisters’ dear, familiar handwriting. Her eyes filled with tears, making her realize how precarious was her hold on her poise. “But now that you’ve trapped me, secured your position and your army, and ensured your crown, I’m sure there’ll be other women ready and willing to perform that service. Don’t let any misplaced loyalty to our wedding vows stop you.” She stalked toward the doorway. “But, of course, a vow made for expediency need not be kept. Kings have been proving that for generations. And that, you bastard, is why there are revolutions.” She slammed the door behind her.
Rainger rubbed his breastbone and tried to catch his breath. As exit lines went, that was impressive—but he’d sworn he would allow no man to speak to him with such contempt ever again, and certainly not the woman he’d made his wife. Certainly not the wife he’d courted, caressed, and kissed.
She wasn’t going to get away with this.
He stalked to the door, flung it open—and heard Sorcha running down the stairs, sobbing as if her heart had broken.
Quietly he shut the door.
He rubbed his eyes. Both his eyes.
That conversation hadn’t gone quite as well as he had hoped.
But damn, she did look good in a dress.
Chapter 20
Clutching her precious letters, Sorcha stumbled down the stairs and into the taproom. She glanced around the chamber, which had been so merry last night. She saw men. Men speaking in low, pained voices. Men sitting around the long tables holding wet cloths to their heads. Men with bloodshot eyes and shaking hands.
She contained her sobbing long enough to glare at them. She hated men. All of them. Stupid men. All of them. Horrible, stupid, rude, disgusting, stupid, stupid, stupid...
Whirling, she headed for the kitchen. She hoped it would be empty.
It wasn’t. The women were there. Women who looked as hung-over as the men. Women moving slowly about the kitchen. Tulia frying ham and sausages. Grandmother Sancia stirring a pot of oatmeal.
No one was eating.
All eyes turned to Sorcha. Everyone observed her wild hair, her blotchy complexion, her trembling lips.
“Oh, my dear,” Tulia said. “Was it that bad?”
The innkeeper’s sympathy was the last straw. Sorcha didn’t care who saw her, who heard her; she couldn’t contain the flood any longer. Letters in hand, she sat down at the table, buried her head in her arms, and once again gave way to a flood of tears. She cried for her father. She cried for her sisters. She cried for the years of loneliness. She cried for herself, because she had believed, truly believed, that people were noble and kind and if she looked for the good in them, she would find it. She cried because the belief had been cruelly betrayed.
When her sobs finally began to dissipate, she felt a hand slip into her empty one. It was a fragile hand with twisted fingers and delicate skin. Lifting her head, she looked into Grandmother Sancia’s wise, sad old eyes.
“Stop crying, now,” Grandmother Sancia said. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
“Let me button your gown.” Roxanne helped her out of her cloak and fastened the buttons Sorcha had been unable to reach.
Tulia handed Sorcha a large white handkerchief. “Blow your nose, Your Highness.”
“The phrases Blow your nose and Your Highness do not go together.” Sorcha blew. “Don’t call me Your Highness. Not yet. Call me Sorcha. Just Sorcha.”
“Every woman cries after her wedding night.” Grandmother Sancia squeezed Sorcha’s fingers. “It gets better.”
Sorcha glanced around. The women, all the women, surrounded the table, nodding.
“At first, it’s painful and messy, and he falls asleep immediately afterward, but truly, it does get better.” Rhea smiled encouragingly.
“Oh.” They were talking about... “Oh.”
“Even if it doesn’t get better, it only lasts a second or two.” Pia sighed hugely.
The women nodded harder.
“Then all you have to worry about is a wet spot on the sheets,” Ora said.
“On your side.” Roxanne’s quip brought a round of laughter. Laughter that quickly died as they watched Sorcha, waiting to see how she would react.
“It’s not that.” But Sorcha’s lips trembled, and she didn’t know how to tell them the problem.
She shouldn’t complain. They knew who she was. They knew who Rainger was. But like Rainger, they didn’t care how she felt about the match. They only cared about themselves.
Sorcha couldn’t even blame them. They looked to her and to Rainger for the end of their exile. They wanted her to be happy because they wanted to go home. They would rather believe she hated his lovemaking than to know she hated him.
“He’s not too quick. It took hours.” She inhaled, her breath still wavering from her bout of tears.
“Yes. A clumsy slow man is worse than a clumsy fast man. Horace, God rest his soul, lived long enough to be both.” Grandmother Sancia made a bottoms-up gesture toward Tulia.
Tulia tapped the wine keg, poured a pewter cup full, and slapped it on the table before Sorcha. “Drink. It’ll make you feel better.”
Sorcha looked at the sealed letters, her sisters’ letters, in her hand. She saw how battered they were from their long journey in Rainger’s saddlebags. And she drank. She drank all the wine.
Tulia filled Sorcha’s cup again.
Grandmother Sancia tapped the table with her finger. Tulia filled a cup for her. Looking around at the other women, she said, “We should all have a drink.”
As the cups were filled and passed around, Sorcha tenderly broke the seal on Clarice’s letter.
In her elegant script Clarice wrote all the things Sorcha wanted, needed, to say to her. She said she missed Sorcha d
esperately, that she worried about her constantly. She told Sorcha how she and Amy had survived by selling Grandmamma’s cosmetics to anyone who would buy them.
Sorcha read between the lines and recognized the desperation that must have brought them to such a pass.
Gently Clarice broke the news that Amy had run away, but assured her they were in communication and that Amy was all right. She talked about the baby she and Robert would have, and she closed with the prayer that soon they would be together.
Sorcha cried and hugged the paper as if somehow Clarice could feel her affection.
Then, with less care and more eagerness, she tore into Amy’s letter. She could almost feel Amy’s enthusiasm as she read the sharply slanted script. Amy had had an adventure, one that involved kidnapping a marquess and capturing a villain. She blurred over the details—Sorcha resolved that one day soon she would hear everything about Amy’s escapades—but one thing was clear. Amy adored her marquess... and they, too, were going to have a baby.
Sorcha’s baby sister was going to have a baby. Sorcha counted the months on her fingers. Amy would have the baby soon.
Once more Sorcha put her head down on the table and sobbed.
She’d missed so much of her sisters’ lives—lives she now knew had been difficult and vulnerable. She hadn’t saved them from starvation or fended off attackers. She hadn’t vetted their husbands. She hadn’t seen them wed.
Most important, she cried for relief.
Her sisters were alive and well. For the first time in years, she could let go of the frantic worry that they were destitute or hurt or dead. Her joy was so great it was almost heartrending.
She used the huge handkerchief until it was damp. Then Tulia thrust a cold wet towel at her and Sorcha pressed it to her swollen eyes.
The table was covered with cups. Women sat on benches, staring morosely at Sorcha.
Sorcha shrugged, smiled with wobbly reassurance, and worked to completely regain her composure.
“Well, here’s the proof there are no good men,” Pia said in a lugubrious tone. “If the prince can’t make his wife happy, there’s no hope for any of us.”