given him the grime and the aura of a workingman. His beard and the rag he’d tied around his face had covered his features. Most of all, he’d changed. The dungeon, the beatings, the loneliness, the despair, the desperation had changed him beyond all belief.
On the other hand, Sorcha hadn’t changed at all. He hadn’t expected her to look so very much like the princess he’d known—bright blue eyes, fair skin with a dash of golden freckles, copperred hair.
Beautiful. So beautiful. Like a dream he’d once had.
When he’d been a prince, honored, feted, respected, most of all, clean, he hadn’t cared about the crown princess. He’d been in love with other girls, other women, older women who taught him the pleasures of the flesh... and eventually the meaning of treachery.
But when the first disbelief and anguish of prison had ceased and he found himself sleeping alone night after night, he’d begun to dream of Sorcha. Of his betrothed. For eight long years of imprisonment, for another three years of searching, he’d dreamed of her. And to so suddenly see her on the beach, to watch her tie up her skirts and plunge into the icy water after a boat with the possibility of saving a stranger’s life—by all the saints, it was better than beef, better than soap, better than sex.
Well, not better than sex, but damned good.
Most important, she was single.
Her sisters hadn’t been. Both of them had found men to love, Englishmen who wed and worshipped them. Clarice and Amy had taught him caution, and now as his crown princess moved farther and farther away from him, he weighed his options and made his plans.
He slept. He preserved his strength. And he waited. On the third day in MacLaren’s prison cell, he lay on the cot, his eyes closed.
He heard the rattle of keys. Every sense went on alert. He caught the scent of strong whiskey—MacLaren—and the murmur of another voice—MacLaren’s manservant.
Rainger could probably take both of them, but he remained somnolent. Now was not the time to make his move. Not while in MacLaren’s crumbling castle with all of MacLaren’s servants and kin roaming above.
MacLaren stuck a musket into Rainger’s face and said, “Don’t stir or I’ll blow yer head off, and with pleasure.” He wore a sturdy oak truncheon on a belt at his waist and a knife in a scabbard tied on his wrist. Apparently he wasn’t going to be caught without a weapon should Rainger attack. “Brian, tie him up.”
Rainger’s gaze slid to Brian. His large ears, balding head, and sunburned skin glowed with the privilege he’d been granted. He wrapped rope around Rainger’s wrists, his grin showing black gaps where his teeth had rotted away. While Rainger made the obligatory feeble struggles, Brian threw a blanket over his head.
Rainger went limp as they lifted him, pretending unconsciousness as they carried him from the cell.
“Quite the wee coward, isn’t he?” MacLaren panted under the effort of hauling Rainger along.
Rainger’s butt dragged in the dirt and hit each step as they carted him up the stairs. Despite the bruises, he knew that was a good thing; it meant they were short, both a good eight inches shorter than him, and when free of MacLaren’s fortress, he would hold the advantage.
“I wouldn’t be for letting ye oot at all,” MacLaren informed Rainger’s limp form. “But Mother Brigette said I should and the papist woman has a way o’ knowing what I do. ’Tis almost spooky how she knows.”
Rainger bitterly reflected that she’d known he lied, but not his motives. As far as he was concerned, she had damned poor intuition.
But at least she’d kept Sorcha hidden for him. At least there was that.
The first fresh air he’d breathed in three days seeped through the dusty wool cloth. The first sunshine came through, tinted with brown, but welcome. So welcome.
The two men draped him facedown over a horse.
No, a donkey.
No... well, Rainger didn’t know what it was, but
On the other hand, Sorcha hadn’t changed at all. He hadn’t expected her to look so very much like the princess he’d known—bright blue eyes, fair skin with a dash of golden freckles, copperred hair.
Beautiful. So beautiful. Like a dream he’d once had.
When he’d been a prince, honored, feted, respected, most of all, clean, he hadn’t cared about the crown princess. He’d been in love with other girls, other women, older women who taught him the pleasures of the flesh... and eventually the meaning of treachery.
But when the first disbelief and anguish of prison had ceased and he found himself sleeping alone night after night, he’d begun to dream of Sorcha. Of his betrothed. For eight long years of imprisonment, for another three years of searching, he’d dreamed of her. And to so suddenly see her on the beach, to watch her tie up her skirts and plunge into the icy water after a boat with the possibility of saving a stranger’s life—by all the saints, it was better than beef, better than soap, better than sex.
Well, not better than sex, but damned good.
Most important, she was single.
Her sisters hadn’t been. Both of them had found men to love, Englishmen who wed and worshipped them. Clarice and Amy had taught him caution, and now as his crown princess moved farther and farther away from him, he weighed his options and made his plans.
He slept. He preserved his strength. And he waited. On the third day in MacLaren’s prison cell, he lay on the cot, his eyes closed.
He heard the rattle of keys. Every sense went on alert. He caught the scent of strong whiskey—MacLaren—and the murmur of another voice—MacLaren’s manservant.
Rainger could probably take both of them, but he remained somnolent. Now was not the time to make his move. Not while in MacLaren’s crumbling castle with all of MacLaren’s servants and kin roaming above.
MacLaren stuck a musket into Rainger’s face and said, “Don’t stir or I’ll blow yer head off, and with pleasure.” He wore a sturdy oak truncheon on a belt at his waist and a knife in a scabbard tied on his wrist. Apparently he wasn’t going to be caught without a weapon should Rainger attack. “Brian, tie him up.”
Rainger’s gaze slid to Brian. His large ears, balding head, and sunburned skin glowed with the privilege he’d been granted. He wrapped rope around Rainger’s wrists, his grin showing black gaps where his teeth had rotted away. While Rainger made the obligatory feeble struggles, Brian threw a blanket over his head.
Rainger went limp as they lifted him, pretending unconsciousness as they carried him from the cell.
“Quite the wee coward, isn’t he?” MacLaren panted under the effort of hauling Rainger along.
Rainger’s butt dragged in the dirt and hit each step as they carted him up the stairs. Despite the bruises, he knew that was a good thing; it meant they were short, both a good eight inches shorter than him, and when free of MacLaren’s fortress, he would hold the advantage.
“I wouldn’t be for letting ye oot at all,” MacLaren informed Rainger’s limp form. “But Mother Brigette said I should and the papist woman has a way o’ knowing what I do. ’Tis almost spooky how she knows.”
Rainger bitterly reflected that she’d known he lied, but not his motives. As far as he was concerned, she had damned poor intuition.
But at least she’d kept Sorcha hidden for him. At least there was that.
The first fresh air he’d breathed in three days seeped through the dusty wool cloth. The first sunshine came through, tinted with brown, but welcome. So welcome.
The two men draped him facedown over a horse.
No, a donkey.
No... well, Rainger didn’t know what it was, but
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