The Gala Palace in Beaumontagne Three years earlier
With one skinny fist, Rainger punched a hole through the glass, then listened for a shout, which would betray that the guards had heard the crash.
Nothing. For now, his luck held.
Snaking his arm inside, he unlatched the window. The window swung open easily at his urging. He slithered into a dark, cavernous room and took a long breath of air rich with the scent of money. He was in the antechamber of the Gala Palace, where even in the depths of night the walls glinted dully with gold. No candles lit the darkness, but his eyes easily adjusted. He’d been staring into darkness for so long, he no longer recognized the light.
He had only a few minutes to find the fragile old queen and force her to do as he commanded. For if he was taken, he would be thrown into a prison cell—and he was far too familiar with prison to go quietly.
She lived in the west corner, where she received the afternoon sun. He remembered her needle dipping into her embroidery, over and over, dragging thread behind it while her cold, clear voice nagged on and on….
Stopping, he closed his eyes and swayed, lost in memories and sick with the need to avenge himself. And sick with hunger. God, it had been two days since he’d eaten, eight years since he’d eaten well.
Then his eyes snapped open, and swiftly he moved into the corridor. He moved without sound through the silence, halting to listen at every corner. The guards were outside on the castle walls. In the palace, nothing moved. Not even a mouse dared disturb Queen Claudia’s rest.
The door of her chambers opened beneath his touch, and he knew at once he’d come to the right place. The scent of lavender was overwhelming. Dainty feminine furniture crowded every inch of the sitting room, and the single night candle that burned in the next room showed a rumpled, massive bed with a replica of the ornate crown carved on the headboard.
As he made his way toward the bedchamber, the scent of lavender grew stronger. He stepped across the threshold. The queen’s bedchamber was huge and high, not the most comfortable room in the palace, but certainly the grandest, and that was what mattered to that damned old queen. He glided forward, toward the mound of blankets that covered her reclining figure.
He had dreamed of this moment. In the depths of his prison cell, where the light seldom shone, where the gray walls closed in and the ceiling was not quite tall enough for him to stand—he had dreamed of being here, staring at the old besom and knowing that at last he was going to get revenge.
For one moment, his eyes clouded and the blood thrummed in his veins. He took a long, slow breath. His head steadied.
And behind him, he heard the hammer of a pistol click into place.
Swinging around, he saw the white-haired lady sitting in a chair by the window, wrapped head to foot in a wool blanket, the barrel of her pistol protruding from its folds.
In her hoarse old voice, she commanded, “Put your hands up, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
Distantly he noted at least two bloodstains on her Aubusson carpet—he didn’t make the mistake of disbelieving her. Lifting his hands, he watched as she reached for the bell cord, and said, “But Your Majesty, don’t you recognize your only godson?”
She paused. She stared at him.
He knew what she saw. His gray rags hung on his bony form. His eyes burned with fervor. A beard covered his chin and a mouth that had forgotten how to smile. And he smelled. Smelled like a man who hadn’t seen soap and water for years.
He was not at all the noble edifice her godson should be.
“What are you babbling about?” she asked.
He bowed, as best he could with his arms up. “Prince Rainger de Leonides, at your service.”
“You insolent imbecile. My godson was shot dead by the revolutionaries eight years ago.”
“The rumors of my demise are greatly exaggerated.”
She gave a brief cackle and said, “Light the candles.” The clawlike, bejeweled hand that held the pistol was so steady she might have been twenty, and not the eighty-two he knew her to be. “Move carefully. I would hate to get nervous and shoot my godson by mistake.” Disdain dripped from her tone, but she didn’t shout for the guards.
He did move carefully, taking a taper and lighting it in the fire, then igniting as many of the candelabras as he could see.
“Turn around,” she said.
He faced her. She was old, so old, and so thin. Her once-handsome face had fallen into a mass of wrinkles. Her fingers were twisted with rheumatism. But he knew she wouldn’t surrender. At the age of seventy-six, she had fought back the revolutionaries. She had reclaimed power, and now, six years later, she wouldn’t surrender to anyone. Certainly not someone who had broken into her castle. Not someone she imagined to be an imposter.
She searched his features, seeking some confirmation that he told the truth.
Her face fell, and again she reached for the bell cord.
He tensed, and in a cold, dead voice said, “I’ll attack if I have to.”
“Very princely,” she said with a sneer, but she drew her hand back. Sighing, she gestured to the window. “I saw you coming. I always see them coming, these noble young women tripping bravely across the courtyard with tales of being one of my long-lost granddaughters. You’re the first man to think of this angle, of claiming to be Rainger. What made you think it would work?”
She sounded so weary he pitied her. He knew better; by sheer ruthlessness, Queen Claudia had survived the revolutions that wracked their two countries. But on his desperate journey through the countryside, he’d heard the gossip. Her son, the king, had died. The weight of ruling rested on her skinny shoulders. And no one talked about the girls. About the princesses. “Let me light you a cigarillo,” he urged.
“How nice of you—and how convenient for you. You would have to come close to give it to me, and what would you do then? Snap my neck?”
He would have said her experiences had made her bitter and suspicious, but she’d always been that way. “I don’t want to snap your neck, or at least not for the reasons you imagine. You’re my only hope. I want my kingdom back. I want revenge on the rebels who killed my family and put me in prison for eight long years. And I can’t do it without your help.”
Her heavy gray eyebrows rose in regal astonishment. “Even if you were Rainger, what makes you think I would help you?”
Again, faintness came over him in a wave. Backing up to the table, he propped himself against it.
“One does not sit in the presence of a queen without invitation,” she said.
“I’m leaning.” He folded his arms. “I know you, Grandmamma. The first time I met you, you dragged me in from my perch atop the highest banner pole and whacked my legs with your cane. You said I was the only heir to Richarte, and I would take care or answer to you, for God had given me the kingdom next to yours and you wouldn’t allow me to ruin God’s plan with sheer male stupidity. Then you made me write out the whole Book of Kings from the Bible. I was six.”
She looked thoughtful, although whether that meant she remembered or not, he couldn’t begin to guess. Mildly, she asked, “Do you think I’ve changed?”
“Not particularly. You look as ancient as you did the first time I saw you.”
She gave a dry cackle. “You always were a snot-nosed little brat.” The pistol drooped, and she propped up her wrist with her other hand. “All right, here’s what you’ll do. You’ll wash, shave, and dress, and if I think you pass muster—”
She wasn’t going to have him killed.
“—then I’ll allow you to perform a quest to prove yourself.”
“A quest?” The room was spinning—or was it his head?
“You do remember my granddaughters?”
“Very well.” Three little princesses, one of them full of mischief, one forthright and determined…and one who was destined to be his queen. Sorcha.
Sorcha.
“Ten years ago, as the troubles grew too great, I sent my granddaughters to England for safety from those bastards, those marauding rebels, those ungrateful peasants who imagined they could be royal by owning a crown.” Little drops of spittle flew from her mouth as she spoke of the rebels, and her eyes glowed evilly.
“They’re gone? The girls are gone?” He hadn’t known that, for his country had been swept by rebellion at the same time, and he hadn’t retained the throne. He hadn’t gone into exile. He’d been condemned to a living death.
“They’re gone. England was safe, so I sent them to separate places around the country, to people I paid to care for them, but it was five years before I regained control and could send for them.” Her lips curled in disgust. “They’ve disappeared.”
“The people you paid—”
“Were not trustworthy. When the money stopped coming, they sent them away, put them adrift, let them go. One couple even died to avoid their responsibilities. I’ve lost my granddaughters. I haven’t been able to find them.” Queen Claudia’s voice dropped an octave. “That’s where you take over.”
He understood. He understood at once. “You want me to find them.” He straightened his shoulders. “Very well, but first you must help me retrieve my kingdom.”
Mouth puckered, she shook her head slowly. “I think not.”
“But my people are suffering! A tyrant cruelly rides them for taxes—”
“Find my granddaughters, bring them home.” She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming intently. “When you do, I give you permission to wed whichever one you want. Then, and only then, will you be able to use the powers of Beaumontagne to recover your kingdom. That is the deal I offer you, Prince Rainger.”
The old lady was implacable—and she held the trump card.
He made his decision. “Done.”
She leaned back. It was almost as if his ready agreement changed her mind about him.
He laughed. Dear God, he laughed with dark, harsh amusement. “Did you think I would rail against your decree? Throw a tantrum and pout? Do you know what I’ve done for the last eight years? I’ve lived in a dungeon, always dank and cold, usually dark, tapping messages to my friends in the next cell, digging a tunnel with my fingernails, existing on the edge of despair. Once a year, the tyrant whose traitorous ass sits on my throne came down to mock me and watch his men beat me.” Lifting his shirt, he turned his back to her.
“Jesu. He did that to you?” As she viewed the mass of scabs and scars that crisscrossed his back, her voice shook with revulsion. “It’s one thing to flog a man, but once only. More breaks his spirit, makes him an animal who knows nothing but loathing or—” Her breath caught.
He faced her. “Or madness.” He allowed the raw hate to seep into his eyes…and perhaps she saw that edge of madness in him.
But whether he was mad or not—and he didn’t know—she needed him. She had no one else.
He knew it.
She knew it.
“Yes, Grandmamma,” he said, “I am Rainger, but not the Rainger you knew before.”
“No. I see that now.” Slowly, she put the pistol on the table.
“After the lessons in patience and control I’ve been forced to learn, do you imagine I see difficulty in bringing you your granddaughters? That is nothing compared to what I’ve already done. You have the troops. I’ll do as you say—but after that, you will do as I demand. I’ll find your granddaughters. I’ll wed the one of my choice. And you’ll give me the men and troops to win my kingdom back.”
“Agreed.” She beckoned him closer.
Cautiously he came forward, staggering a bit, and leaned over her.
Her claw settled on his arm, and she squeezed it hard enough to bruise. “But be aware—you’re not the only one who’s hunting my granddaughters.”