Princess Danielle:Yes we should do. You can find me tomorrow at the parish hall, clearing away rubbish.
Luke read this with a sense of relief. Surely they wouldn’t need a chaperone on church grounds... sanctity and sacrilege and all that. They would discuss the betrothal and the wedding in frank terms, and he would not put his hands on her again.
He stepped into the hall the next morning, prepared for frank speech. “Hello?” he called. His voice echoed in the cavernous room. The door was ajar and he pushed in, knocking over a mop. The room smelled like stale air and mice. A detached cobweb hung limply from the door like old lace. The sun had returned, and light poured in, revealing dust motes and chipped plaster. Furniture had been stacked along the side of the room, leaving the floor open for rain barrels placed beneath holes in the ceiling. A bird flew from the rafters and swooped out a window. The far end of the hall was dominated by a stage, its warped boards bulging at odd angles. Voices rose and fell in a conversation behind an open stage door.
“Hello?” Luke called again, stepping around a rain barrel. In the center of the hall stood a rickety table littered with parchment. A breeze fluttered the paperwork, but it was pinned down by songbooks. Luke glanced at the paper. It was various to-do lists and sketches of the hall set for a party. She appeared to be making wedding plans.Good.Despite everything, progress was being made.
She’d endured a lot at the pond. His sloppy revelation of her heritage, then the (hopefully less sloppy) liberties he’d taken with her body. Now he would reveal the rest of it. And the complicated emotions and physical intimacy would stop.
In addition to shopping for jewelry, Luke had devoted the last two days to digging more deeply into her family. This was another thing he could do for her, provide information about the family of her birth. Another trade. Sweetening the deal. It was the least he could do, and it kept him busy. He’d returned to the Eastwell Park library and thrown himself into the archived newspapers. He’d stayed up half the night, staving off his nightmares with research.
He’d come here today to pin down details of the wedding but also to make it very clear that their relationship could work like a trade. She was a royal princess with assets he required, and he was a smuggler who understood how to cut a deal. They were not building a life together. They were not falling in love. They weren’t doing anything more than negotiating, which was how he’d meant to approach this union from the beginning. They’d strayed from this somehow; she was beautiful and beguiling and he was weak. But no more.
“Princess Danielle?” he called out. He pitched his voice toward the conversation behind the stage door.
She made no answer, and Luke ambled closer to the stage.
“I’ve told you no,” said a voice. It was the princess, sounding distressed. Luke stopped walking.
“And I won’t reverse from this,” she continued, “so you may cease your hounding.”
“You’llnot reverse,” came a man’s reply, “andI’llnot reverse. So now—what? We joust?”
And then Luke remembered. The man who owned the Maidstone quarry. Finchwomb? Sizeloam? Luke hadn’t bothered to learn the man’s name, but his bullying of Danielle was unforgettable. He’d sought her out again? Here?
“This building could be made presentable, good as new, in a fortnight,” the man was telling her. “Furniture restored, windows replaced, dust and grime scrubbed away. And with no effort from you. When it’s presentable—haveyour party, whatever it is. My gift to you. After that, we’ll take ownership and the real work can begin. Structural repairs. Foundation, roof, masonry. Your grants could never cover the scope and scale of work required. Keep the donations and buy yourself something pretty.”
“The grants were given in good faith to restorethisproperty,” said the princess.
“Yes, well, your restoration is impractical and, honestly, selfi—”
“Hello,” Luke said blandly, stepping into the doorway.
Two heads swiveled to him. The room was small, a place to store hymnals or costumes. Stinchcomb’s back was to the door. He’d crowded Princess Danielle in a corner. Luke could just see the side of her face around the padded shoulder of his coat. Luke’s annoyance whipped from windy annoyance to hurricane rage.
“Captain,” she called, rising up to see him.
“Aye,” he said, keeping his voice calm. To Stinchcomb, he said, “Back away from the lady.”
The quarry owner pivoted but did not move. “I beg your pardon. We’re engaged in a priv—”
“Isaid,” Luke intoned calmly,“back. Away.”
The older man held his ground, and Luke kicked the door with the heel of his boot—bam! It hit the stone wall behind it with such force, the plaster flaked. Stinchcomb jumped.
“Miss Allard?” Luke said blithely. He extended a hand to her.
She went, shoving around the older man. Luke meant to tuck her behind him, but she stood beside him, chin raised. She looped her hand around his bicep. He saw the ring then, flashing blue from her left hand. Luke felt something snap-to inside him; a lock, sliding into place.
“Oh, I remember you,” Stinchcomb said. “You’re the brute she’s compelled to fight her battles.”
“Captain Bannock is a gentleman,” said Princess Danielle.
“You’re both mistaken, I’m afraid,” Luke said calmly. “Not a brute, not a gentleman. But I am no one with whom to trifle. Is there a problem?”
The man said, “There is no problem,” at the same moment Princess Danielle said, “It’s more of the same.”
“More of the same...?” Luke speculated.
