Princess of Fortune. Miranda Jarrett

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      “Women.” Cranford shook his head, as if that single word could sum up all the world’s real ills. “You’ll need a pistol before you accompany the princess, Greaves. Unless, of course, you are carrying one at present.”

      “No, sir.” Tom could not believe that these really were his new orders from the admiralty, to trail around London like an armed nursemaid after a spoiled princess. Damnation, he didn’t want to believe it.

      “These shall see you through.” Cranford opened the top drawer of the sideboard and took out a long pistol box, holding it open for Tom to choose which gun he preferred. So all of this had been planned from the start, even his acceptance, and as he lifted the nearest gun from the case, he wondered if even that, too, had been preordained. There was nothing fancy about the gun, a standard-issue pistol such as any sailor would carry into battle, yet Tom found the familiar feel of such a gun in his hand oddly comforting. At least something in this morning was as it should be.

      “I do not expect you to train that upon every greengrocer’s window, Greaves.” The admiral watched with approval as Tom raised his arm to test the gun’s sight. “After all, we’re in London, not the Peninsula. It’s more a precaution than anything, a way of letting the rest of the world know you are serious about the princess’s well-being. Most of the villains who could bring her any real danger are cowards, anyway, and simply being at her side should be enough to scare them away.”

      “I shall follow my orders, sir.” Tom took the plain leather belt that the admiral offered, buckled it low around his waist and hooked the pistol to the ring on the side. It wasn’t exactly the height of London fashion, hanging there over his waistcoat, but it would serve the purpose that the admiral wished.

      The admiral nodded. “I never doubted you’d do your duty, Greaves. You’re an officer of the king, and you’ll do whatever is necessary. While you are out with the princess, I’ll have word sent to your lodgings to have your dunnage packed and sent here. You have a manservant?”

      “John Kerr, sir. He has been with me since my first command.” Old Kerr would be as disappointed about these new circumstances as Tom was himself, and just as unhappy that they wouldn’t be returning to sea.

      “Then I shall make certain my sister has a place for him here, as well.” The admiral unstopped the decanter of port on the sideboard, poured it into two glasses and handed one to Tom. “Here you are. You might need a little fortifying, eh?”

      Tom took the glass, the sun turning the liquor golden between his fingers. The surgeons had advised him against drinking, fearing the toll that alcohol might take on his heart, but when he thought of the woman waiting for him in the carriage outside, he decided the risk was worth it. If the port did kill him, then he wouldn’t have to join her after all.

      “Long live the king.” Cranford lifted his glass, and Tom did, too. “And confusion to the French.”

      “Confusion to the French,” echoed Tom, “especially in Monteverde.”

      He downed the port in one long swallow, feeling its heat ripple through him. He stood very still, glass in hand, and waited for the shock, or stabbing pain, or whatever it was that the liquor was supposed to do to him.

      But nothing happened. The songbirds in the garden outside were still chirping among the roses, the admiral’s nose was still red, and he, Captain Lord Thomas Greaves, was still very much alive.

      “Best you were off, Greaves.” The admiral set down his glass, wiping his mouth with the length of his finger. “The princess will not like to be kept waiting.”

      No, she wouldn’t. Tom didn’t need to reread his orders to know that, and with a last bow to the admiral, he headed toward the front door, the pistol heavy against his hip and the prospect of guarding Princess Isabella di Fortunaro a burden he couldn’t escape.

       Chapter Three

       I sabella stood exactly in the center of Lady Willoughby’s front hall and tried hard—very hard—to keep from losing her temper. It was hot in the airless space, with the doors and windows closed tight and the afternoon sun streaming in through the fan light overdoor. Inside Isabella’s black lace gloves, her hands were sweating, and the long curving feather on her bonnet kept tickling the nape of her neck in a most annoying fashion. The tall case clock ticked away each second with a solemn finality, counting off the wasted minutes that Captain Lord Thomas Greaves was making her wait.

      She did not like waiting. She never had, and she never should, considering her rank, but she was determined to give him the benefit of the doubt for this first time. It might not be his fault. Likely the admiral was keeping him with some sort of nonsense, the foolish old man. She would be gracious, and grant the captain the favor of her patience.

      But if he ever dared keep her waiting like this again—ah, she would not forgive him, ever.

      “I am sure the captain will here shortly, ma’am.” Lady Willoughby gave Isabella her usual watery smile. “He seems like a very nice gentleman.”

      Isabella sniffed. “He has not been brought here to be nice. He is here to keep me safe.”

      Once again she looked out the long window beside the door. Lady Willoughby’s glossy green carriage with the matched grays was sitting there waiting at the curb, taunting her with the freedom it represented. She didn’t care if the others believed she was exaggerating: she was a prisoner. This was the closest she’d been to leaving this house since she’d been brought to it in the middle of the night, three weeks before, and she could not wait to feel the warmth of the sunlight and the breeze across her skin, and to see more of the city beyond this single boring square.

      “I am very sorry, princess,” Lady Willoughby said, as if she could read Isabella’s thoughts, “but I cannot let you go alone. For your own good, you see. You must wait for the captain to escort you to the carriage.”

      Isabella frowned, glancing pointedly at the two large footmen standing ready to barricade the door if she tried to escape.

      “Oh, yes, of course, you silly goose,” she muttered in Italian, as much to irritate the other woman as to keep her own comments safe. “We cannot tax the gaolers hired to keep me caged like an animal, can we?”

      “Yes, just so.” With no notion of what the princess had said, Lady Willoughby smiled again, even as she wrung her hands with despair. “I’m sure when the captain comes, you shall have the nicest drive imaginable.”

      Isabella smiled in return and kept speaking in Italian. “True, true, true, quite the nicest, once you give the captain my leash to hold for himself.”

      She couldn’t play such tricks on Captain Lord Greaves. How could she have known that Cranford would have found even a single man in this country to speak Italian so well? Tears had started to her eyes when she’d heard the familiar, rolling words, she’d been that struck with sudden homesickness, and for one horrible moment she’d gasped aloud from the shock. But after that she’d managed to hide her feelings, the way a princess always must. She hadn’t let the captain know how surprised she’d been or how lonely she’d felt, and she certainly hadn’t revealed that she’d found him passing handsome, too.

      He wasn’t like the other English sailors she’d met on the interminable voyage here, rough, ill-spoken men with dreadful battle scars and missing teeth, and he wasn’t like the sorry old warhorses the СКАЧАТЬ