Miranda Jarrett - Princess of Fortune

“I told you, Captain, I am not fragile, and I do not require any of your surgeons’ attendings.” She sighed again, wincing as she rubbed her palms together. “Now I wish quiet to contemplate.”

Thomas frowned. The princess did not strike him as a contemplative woman by nature, but if that would help her recover, he could scarcely object.

“Very well, then,” he said softly. “We shall speak later.”

“Later,” she mumbled, her eyes squeezed shut. “Not now.”

Tom suspected she was only pretending to sleep, just as she was pretending to contemplate, but he would grant her that, too. He could use a bit of contemplation himself. Although he had already realized that nothing concerned with the princess would be easy sailing, even so he couldn’t have predicted the disaster they’d found in that infernal ladies’ shop.

What incredible odds had placed the Monteverdian seamstress in Copperthwaite’s? Monteverde was a tiny country. There couldn’t be that many refugees making their way to England, let alone living and working at a skilled trade in London while they plotted revenge against their former king. How much more were those odds compounded by the preposterous coincidence of the princess impulsively stumbling from the carriage into that particular shop at that particular time? Not even the most confirmed gamblers at White’s could have predicted such a sequence.

And now it would be up to Tom to guess what would happen next, with the princess herself as the stakes.

He watched her as she slept, or contemplated, or whatever it was she was doing to escape his questions. Though her face was at ease, there was a fresh wariness clouding it that hadn’t been there earlier, and he was sorry that he hadn’t been able to spare her that change. The admiral hadn’t told him much of her history, or even the details of how she’d escaped the French to come to England. He didn’t know what had become of her family. War was never a good place for a young woman, and he wondered grimly how many other things she’d witnessed or experienced that she wished never again to discuss.

And he’d meant it when he’d called her brave. When the woman had come at her with the scissors, she hadn’t fainted or screamed or tossed her petticoats over her face, the way too many young ladies would. Perhaps that kind of nonsense was bred out of princesses. True, he’d known no others for comparison. But this princess had stood her ground, with a rare courage and grace that he could understand and respect.

He studied her now, her dark lashes feathered over the curve of her cheeks. Her breathing was deep, making her mostly bare breasts rise and fall above the low neckline of her gown, and with an honorable effort he forced himself to look back to her face. She wasn’t priggish or overly modest, he’d grant her that. Earlier he’d judged her handsome at best, not pretty, but the more time he spent in her company, the more his opinion was changing. She was pretty. Too pretty, if he were honest, and he shook his head as he considered all the trouble such thoughts could bring him.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she stretched her arms before her, relishing the motion like a waking cat. “We have reached the Willoughbys’ house, Captain, have we not?”

He hadn’t even noticed the carriage had stopped. “Ah, it seems we have.” He leaned from the window, swiftly scanning the front of the house and down each side of the street. “Here, let me help you down.”

But she drew back, her chin down and her arms folded over her chest. “I should prefer you to go first, Captain. To make sure that all is as it should be.”

He nodded, understanding, and privately pleased that she’d put her trust in him. Once more he scanned the quiet square, then held his hand out to her.

“All’s snug, ma’am,” he said gallantly. “Come ashore whenever you’re ready.”

But instead of taking his hand, she slipped past him unassisted, dangling her bonnet from her wrist by the ribbons. She hurried up the steps by herself, leaving him once again feeling chagrined and in the uncomfortable position, for any captain, of following instead of leading.

Perhaps, he thought, they’d not made such progress, after all.

“How was your drive, ma’am?” Lady Willoughby was asking as the princess handed her hat to a maid. “Was it pleasant?”

“‘Pleasant’ is not the word I should choose.” The princess paused before the looking glass, patting and plucking at her hair where the bonnet had flattened it. “Unless, of course, your English definition of pleasure is to be beset by murderous anarchists. Isn’t that so, Captain Greaves?”

“We did have our adventure, Lady Willoughby,” Tom said. The countess looked bewildered, yet also clearly relieved that she was no longer the one responsible for the princess’s “adventures.” “But no real harm was done, as you can see. You are certain about not summoning a physician, ma’am?”

“No, no, no.” The princess frowned at his reflection behind hers, clearly displeased that he’d been considerate enough to ask again. “You will come with me now to the garden, Captain.”

She was leading again, and again he was left to follow, this time down the hallway through the house, and he did not like it. He did not like it at all. “Where in blazes are you going now?”

She stopped and turned to face him. “I am going to the garden, Captain,” she explained with the kind of excruciating patience reserved for small, simple children. “You are joining me. There we shall speak to one another. Then when we are done, we shall leave.”

She glanced past him, back to the hovering maidservant. “I want a pot of chocolate brought to me in the garden, a plate of toast, browned on one side only and the crusts cut away, and a small pot of orange marmalade. I will also require a basin of cooled water—cooled, mind, and not cold, or warm, or scalding, or I shall send it back—and a linen cloth for drying.”

So the old princess had returned, ready to demand the sun and the stars, and expecting to get there, too.

Not that he was above giving orders himself. “Another place, ma’am. Not the garden.”

She stopped again, so abruptly they nearly collided. “The garden is safe. The admiral said it was. There are tall brick walls on three sides, and the house on the fourth has the only entrance.”

“I’ve had men on my crews who could scale a twelve-foot wall like cats,” he said. “They’d be over a garden wall in less time than it takes to say it.”

“Ohh.” Her bravado faltered as her face fell, and again he glimpsed the princess from the carriage. “I have sat there for weeks and weeks, not knowing. Now, however, I see that such a place would not be—would not be wise.”

“No, ma’am.” He didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t have to. “Surely there’s another room in this house, a parlor or library.”

She nodded, and turned the knob on the nearest door. “This is the earl’s library.” She went to stand in the center of the room, before the empty fireplace. “You must understand, Captain, that I have not been here before. So many books depress me. Do you care to read, Captain?”

The room was little used and gloomy, with the louvered shutters over the windows closed tight against the sun’s damage to the bindings. There’d be little threat to her in here, that was certain.

“I do,” he said. “On blockade duty, or a tedious voyage with foul weather, a book is often my best companion at sea.”

“I have never found the patience for reading.” Even now she was pacing, short steps that crossed and recrossed the patterned carpet. “I haven’t the concentration. But that is not what we must discuss, is it?”

“Why don’t you sit?” He held a silk-covered armchair for her. “I don’t intend this to be a trial for you, you know, and I—”