The Barefoot Princess

  CHRISTINA DODD

  The Barefoot Princess

  Contents

  Prologue

  Once upon a time, in the small kingdom of Beaumontagne,…

  Chapter 1

  If Jermyn Edmondson, the marquess of Northcliff, had known he…

  Chapter 2

  The next time Princess Amy Rosabel kidnapped an English nobleman,…

  Chapter 3

  Clutching Lord Northcliff’s greatcoat, Amy carried it down the stairway.

  Chapter 4

  By degrees, Jermyn came to consciousness. He didn’t particularly want…

  Chapter 5

  “My lord!” Miss Victorine’s frail voice quivered. “Dear boy…” Against…

  Chapter 6

  With great care, Amy opened the cellar door. With ladylike…

  Chapter 7

  Who was she? Where was she from?

  Chapter 8

  Outside, a sudden spring rain cast itself at the high…

  Chapter 9

  “We’ve got it! Miss Victorine, we’ve got it!” It was…

  Chapter 10

  Harrison Edmondson waved the messenger out of his office, then…

  Chapter 11

  “Damn you.” Damn him! Amy should have been afraid that…

  Chapter 12

  Free! Savage satisfaction coursed through Jermyn’s veins. Free!

  Chapter 13

  That night, Pom staggered as he left the pub. He…

  Chapter 14

  “Amy, dear Jermyn is asking for you.” Miss Victorine came…

  Chapter 15

  “I cannot take that jacket to wear. It’s too different…

  Chapter 16

  Jermyn rose on his elbow and stared at the still,…

  Chapter 17

  Miss Victorine read the letter over Amy’s shoulder, and sighed…

  Chapter 18

  Wax candles lit Miss Victorine’s kitchen with a steady light.

  Chapter 19

  “How could you believe me when I said I was…

  Chapter 20

  Jermyn pulled a knife out of a leather sheath bound…

  Chapter 21

  Harrison Edmondson stared at the letter in frustration.

  Chapter 22

  In the cottage, later that afternoon, Biggers took one look…

  Chapter 23

  “After much thought, I realized the reason why I’m so…

  Chapter 24

  Livid, Amy stared as Jermyn stalked away in high dudgeon,…

  Chapter 25

  Harrison Edmondson marched along the corridors of Summerwind Abbey, hearing…

  Chapter 26

  You’re alive. You’re alive! Amy tried to speak, but they’d…

  Epilogue

  The harvest moon rose huge and orange in the clear…

  About the Author

  Praise

  Other Books By Christina Dodd

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Once upon a time, in the small kingdom of Beaumontagne, there lived a young princess who decided that when she grew up, she would battle dragons. Her two older sisters told her that only princes battled dragons, but Princess Amy refused to listen to the naysayers. She wasn’t a girl like the others. She loved to run and shout, to pretend a stick was a sword and fight the suits of armor that lined the broad marble corridors, to climb the aged oaks and tear her silk skirts.

  Unfortunately, the only dragon that presented itself to Amy was her grandmother, a formidable old woman with strong opinions on how a princess should behave. Despite frequent attempts to vanquish Grandmamma, Amy always found herself behaving as she ought…or being carried away, kicking and screaming, over a stolid footman’s shoulder while her sisters wept and her father, the king, looked on and worried.

  Amy hated her grandmamma the dragon and at night in her ruffled bed, she prayed that Grandmamma would die. Amy knew she was wicked, but she didn’t care. She hated Grandmamma. Hated her, hated her, hated her.

  Then one day Poppa sent the little princesses away. Gone were the fluttering flags to carry as Amy marched, gone were the long banisters that tempted a princess to slide, gone were the ponies and the nannies and the games. Amy knew it wasn’t really Poppa who sent them away. It must be wicked old Grandmamma who was to blame, and blame her she did, for Grandmamma sent them to cold, dreary England—for their safety, she said. She separated Crown Princess Sorcha from Amy and her sister Clarice. She made Clarice and Amy stay at a boarding school where no one really cared if Amy fought dragons or behaved like a princess.

  Then the news came, the most horrible news in the whole world. Poppa was dead, killed in the war, and Amy realized she was to blame. Somehow her wicked wish had skipped Grandmamma and taken Poppa’s life. Somehow Amy had to make things right.

  That was the year Amy was nine. That was the year she stopped pretending to battle dragons, and began to fight them for real.

  Chapter 1

  Devon, England

  1810

  If Jermyn Edmondson, the marquess of Northcliff, had known he was about to be kidnapped, he wouldn’t have gone out on a walk.

  Or maybe he would have. He needed some excitement in his life.

  He stared fiercely toward the gray bank of fog creeping across the cresting green ocean and covering the isle of Summerwind. Far beneath his feet, the waves crashed in foamy malice against the rocks at the base of the cliff. The wind combed his hair and lifted his unbuttoned greatcoat like the wings of a black seabird. The salt stung his nostrils, and a faint beading of spray misted his face. Everything here in this corner of Devon was wild, fresh, and free—except for him.

  He was bound here. And he was bored.

  With disgust, he turned away from the vista with its constant, tedious, battering waves and limped toward the garden where spring crocuses had begun to poke their greenery up through the barren soil.

  Yet he took no pleasure in the small glimpses of gold and purple that shown through winter’s dull, brown blanket. His estate contained nothing to entertain a man of his interests. Only country balls enlivened the nights, peopled with bluff squires, giggling debutantes, and sly mamas on the hunt for a title for their daughters.

  True, he had determined that the time had come for him to wed—indeed, he’d demanded Uncle Harrison submit a list of the current crop of debutantes and suggest a proper bride—but he would not take as his life’s mate a girl who considered a hearty walk along a bucolic lane as entertainment.

  So unless one could ride or sail—and the carriage accident two months ago he’d suffered had curtailed his activities sharply—the days were interminable, stretching endlessly, quietly, filled with long walks in the fresh air. And reading.

  He glanced down at the book in his hand. My God, he was so sick of reading. It wasn’t as if the London papers arrived with any regularity. He’d even begun to read in Latin, and he hadn’t done that for thirteen years. Not since his father had died. Not since he’d left this place forever.

  How he wished he’d stayed away!

  It was pride that sent him dashing away from London. He hated being an invalid, and he hated more being the center of cloying attention as he recovered. When Uncle Harrison suggested Summerwind Abbey as a retreat, he had considered the idea had merit.

  He knew better, now.

  In the gazebo, he seated himself on a cane chair and rubbed his wretched thigh. He’d suffered a bad break in the accident, and that country physician he’d called to attend him two nights ago had told him, in his ignorant Devon accent, “The best medicine is time and exercise. Walk until yer leg is tired, but don’t ye overdo! Walk where ’tis safe and flat. If ye
slip and wrench that newly-mended bone, ye’ll do yerself permanent harm.”

  Jermyn had dismissed the man with a snarl. It hadn’t helped that, only the previous day, he’d taken the steep and winding path down the cliffs toward the beach—and fallen because of the weakness in his leg. He had scarcely been able to drag himself back up to the manor. It was that pain which had made him send for the doctor in the first place, and he was not appeased to hear he should stroll on his veranda like a dowager or a child.

  Opening his book, he allowed himself to sink into the tale of Tom Jones, a tale told when England was green and warm, and youth was a joy to be savored.

  The rollicking adventures penned by Fielding captured him against his will, and Jermyn started when someone said, “M’lord?”

  A maidservant stood at the entrance, holding a glass on a tray, and at his consenting nod, she approached, the tray outstretched.

  He noted three things. He’d never seen her before. Her blue gown was shabby and the silver cross around her neck was exceptionally fine. And she stared into his eyes without deference as she thrust the drink toward him.

  He didn’t immediately take it. Instead he noted the girl’s fine-grained skin, so different from the tanned complexions of the local milkmaids. Her eyes were an unusual shade of green, like the sea thrashing under the influence of an oncoming storm. Her hair was black, upswept, and curled tendrils escaped from the ribbon that bound them. He’d wager she was not yet twenty, and pretty, so pretty he was surprised no farmer about had claimed her as his bride. Yet her expression was severe, almost austere.

  Perhaps that explained her single state.

  Without being given permission, she spoke. “M’lord, you must drink. I brought it all the way out here to you!”

  Half annoyed, half amused, he said, “I didn’t command it be brought.”

  “It’s wine,” she said.

  She was a plucky wench, without the manners imbued in the least of his servants. Yet she was new. Perhaps she feared trouble if he didn’t take the offering sent by the butler. “Very well. I’ll accept it.” Lifting the glass, he paused while she still stared, waiting anxiously for him to take a sip. In a crushing tone, he added, “That will be all.”

  She jumped as if startled by his presence, as if she had forgotten he was a real, living lord to be feared and obeyed. She cast him a glance, dropped a graceful curtsy, and backed away, her gaze still on the glass.

  He cleared his throat.

  She looked into his face, and in her eyes he thought he glimpsed a flash of bitter resentment.

  Then, with a toss of her head, she hurried across the garden.

  Interestingly enough, she didn’t walk toward the manor, but toward the shore, and she moved with the confident stride of a lady who commanded all around her. Jermyn would have to speak to the butler about her. She needed to be taught to promptly return to her duties…and to treat her master with the respect due him.

  When she was out of sight, he took a long drink, then sputtered at the flavor. Lifting the glass, he stared at the ruby color. The wine was bitter! How long had this been in his cellar?

  Obviously the butler had grown lax in Jermyn’s absence, hiring impertinent maids and serving inferior wines. Resolving to speak to him, Jermyn went back to his book.

  And blinked at the words. The page was growing dim.

  He looked up and blinked again. Ah, yes. The sun was setting and fog was encroaching on the land, bringing with it the gloom that seemed to brood endlessly over a Devon winter.

  How odd that his boyhood memories of this place were so different. He remembered long days of sunshine, filled with walks accompanied by his father or romps with visiting friends. He remembered wild storms filled with the excitement of howling winds and crashing waves. He remembered the scent of spring flowers and the crushed grass beneath him as he rolled down the hill.

  He shook his head. Such memories were evidently the fond recollections of a boyhood long vanished.

  The bitter wine had stimulated his thirst, and reluctantly he took another swallow. The texture was almost gritty, the flavor foul, and with disgust he tossed the remnants into the rhododendrons around the gazebo.

  He found himself sweating. Had a wave of heat struck the garden, like a sudden, early spring? Digging his handkerchief out of his pocket, he blotted his face, then shed his greatcoat in a graceless act that left it bunched beneath him on the chair.

  Looking back at the open book, he discovered the letters moving erratically. The light was going faster than he had realized, or the words wouldn’t behave so badly.

  He tried to slap the book shut. The book flipped out of his suddenly clumsy fingers. His tongue grew large in his mouth. He lifted his head so he could stare across the garden, but the motion took a long time. The fog was creeping up from the ground, blurring his vision.

  Or was it wine that made everything fuzzy?

  The wine…

  A startling conviction struck him. He staggered to his feet and stood swaying. The wine had been poisoned.

  He was dying.

  When his carriage had lost its wheel and he’d careened off the road between London and Brighton, he had thought he was going to die. But this…this was more insidious, more…

  The floor wavered and rose defiantly beneath his feet. He toppled over, landing with a crash that reverberated the boards and made him distantly aware of the impact on his injured leg. “Help,” he tried to shout. He heard people calling, running…

  Aid was on its way.

  High above him, a man’s Devon-accented voice proclaimed, “It worked, Miss Rosabel. Worked fine.”

  Jermyn pried open his eyes. A huge pair of battered boots stood planted in front of his nose. With a mighty effort, he turned his head and looked past the thighs, past the belt, and far, far up toward the blunt, heavy face. A behemoth stood over him, a rough man with huge hands and a grim expression.

  This wasn’t help. This was danger.

  What did the giant want?

  Then Jermyn saw the girl standing beside the huge man. A pretty girl. A girl with a direct green gaze that seemed to scorch him down to his soul. She wore a blue, tattered gown. He’d seen her once before.

  “He’s looking at us,” the giant’s voice rumbled. “Why isn’t he knocked fer kindlin’?”

  “He probably didn’t drink it all,” the girl answered. “That’s all right. He’ll do as is. Wrap him up. Let’s finish this before someone comes to check on him.”

  She was the servant who had brought him the drink. She had tricked him. She had poisoned him.

  She pulled out a knife with a blade so bright and sharp he could see nothing but the point.

  She was going to kill him…

  Jermyn wanted to fight, but he couldn’t lift his heavy limbs. He tried to curse, but his mouth would not speak.

  Taking a sheet of white paper from her bosom, she placed it on the table beside his book and affixed it to the flat surface with a swift, downward slash.

  The giant shook out a white canvas shroud.

  These people, these murderers were speaking, yet Jermyn could no longer pluck words from the gibberish of sound. His heart beat sluggishly. His blood slowed in his veins.

  Death was approaching.

  He closed his eyes one last time.

  He had been murdered in his own garden.

  Chapter 2

  The next time Princess Amy Rosabel kidnapped an English nobleman, she intended to make sure he weighed less.

  From a distance, Lord Northcliff hadn’t appeared large or impressive, but up close he was disconcertingly muscular, and when she had served him his wine she had been able to tell he topped her by at least six inches.

  Now, as she stood in the gazebo and stared down at his limp body, she whispered, “He’s as big as a beached whale.”

  Pomeroy Nodder, as taciturn a man as Amy had ever met, said, “Not a whale, miss. No blubber. But he’s a big un. Always was, even as a lad.”

>   The setting sun peeked through the gathering wisps of fog, casting a golden light on His Lordship. His hair was a deep, rich red like burnished mahogany. His eyebrows were dark and slanted upward in devilish mockery. Even unconscious, Lord Northcliff managed to look scornful.

  Fie on his scorn. For luck, she touched the silver cross of Beaumontagne that hung on a chain around her neck. He was in her power now, and she would make him pay for his treachery.

  Pom grunted as he rolled Lord Northcliff into the sail. “Give me a hand, would ye, miss?”

  Dropping to her knees, she helped wrap Lord Northcliff, and the effort made her sweat in a most un-ladylike manner. Her royal grandmamma would not approve of such improper perspiration—but then, her grandmamma was a thousand miles away in the kingdom of Beaumontagne in the Pyrenees Mountains, and with any luck, that was where she would stay. Just the thought of the forbidding old woman made Amy sweat even more.

  As Pom hoisted Lord Northcliff onto his shoulder, she snatched Lord Northcliff’s greatcoat off his chair. Lugging it after Pom, she followed as he carried His Heavy Lordship down the steep path to the shore.

  The coat was hefty, and she hurried as she tried to keep up with Pom’s long steps. He was a big man, a fisherman who made his living by lifting heavy nets filled with sardines, and even he was panting by the time their footsteps crunched through the gravel on the beach.

  From the boat hidden in the thickening fog, Miss Victorine Sprott’s fearful voice cried, “Who…who goes there?”

  “It’s us. We got him,” Amy called. “We’re bringing him aboard.”

  “What took you so long? I’ve been sitting here imagining dreadful things.” The elderly woman sounded both relieved and fretful.

  Amy steadied the boat while Pom stepped over the bow, then hurried to help lower Lord Northcliff onto the boards. “Everything went as planned,” she assured Miss Victorine.