Chapter 28 #2
Luke almost, almost gave himself away. He heard her voice—he knew her voice—and every muscle in his body went from slack to coiled. His shoulders and neck strained. He wanted to lift his
head, he wanted to see, he wanted to know what in the bloody hell she was doing inside this castle, making herself known.
He forced himself not to react. He must wait. He could not salvage this—and by salvage, he meant trade himself for Danielle’s life—unless he chose the exact, perfect
moment. In that moment, he must do the exact, perfect thing. Of course, he had no idea what he’d do nor when that moment might
be. His brain was a maelstrom of energy, and fear, and reactionary, violent denial. Why? Why here and now? She’d escaped cleanly
over the garden wall. He’d seen her go with his own eyes.
And yet.
His body was rapidly turning to ice, limb by limb. He was so incredibly afraid for her. He knew what Surcouf was capable of.
“Comte d’Moulac? Or perhaps I should refer to you as Captain Surcouf,” Danielle called. She’d pitched her voice above the
music. It was loud and clear, but he could hear her nerves. She was afraid. She was afraid—and yet, she persisted. She was
saving him for the second time in one night.
“Who’s there?” Surcouf called.
There were whispers and murmurs. Luke heard boots slide and people call, “Make room!”
“Good evening, my lord,” Danielle said in beautiful French.
“I beg your pardon for my tardiness. I found myself quite indisposed after my journey and required a moment of respite. In the crush of your party, my security detail has been lost. I find myself with no one to properly introduce us. I hope you’ll excuse the informality of introducing myself. Will his lordship indulge me?”
There was a pause. Luke strained every fiber in every muscle to keep from going to her. What was she saying? There was no
reason for her to introduce herself to Vincent Surcouf—no reason to be so close to him, no reason for him to look upon her.
Vincent Surcouf should not have the incredible privilege of breathing the same air as Danielle.
There was a pause—of course there was a pause. Luke was rapidly losing his mind, and part of the mindlessness was waiting
out pauses. Luke could only assume that Surcouf was taking it all in. A beautiful girl. An interruption. The princess for
whom he’d been searching, strolling up to his bloody party and begging his indulgence. Surcouf’s avarice would expand like a mushroom.
Too late, Luke thought, gritting his teeth.
“I am inclined to feel very indulgent, indeed,” Surcouf finally said. “Whose acquaintance do I have the privilege of making?”
Luke wanted to lift his head—to see this scene—but he dared not. Not yet. Danielle sacrificed her own safety. For him. Naturally, the guards surrounding Luke
were as transfixed as Surcouf. He couldn’t look up, but he could sneak sidelong glances right and left. He listened carefully,
gauging the density of people on the dance floor, the movement of the symphony. He listened for the clink of glasses and the
scrape of forks against plates. His only weapon was a dagger in his boot. His primary tactic would be scooping up Danielle
and bolting, turning over tables and throwing crockery to get out.
“I am Her Serene Highness, Danielle Allard d’Orleans, Princess of the Blood, my lord,” Danielle was saying. “How do you do?”
“Princess Danielle . . .” said Surcouf, drawing out the name in careful consideration. “Are my eyes to be believed? But I
have searched for Princess Danielle d’Orleans for years. I have sailed round Europe, hoping to recover the princess from exile.
Forgive my shock and disbelief, please. Pray, who is your escort?”
“I am never without Sister Marie Rivier, who has been provided by the Visitation Sisters as chaperone, protector, and guardian
since my return to France.”
Luke nearly sagged in relief. Marie was with her. It would be a long time before he forgot the sight of Sister Marie bludgeoning
an armed guard, pivoting into a protective crouch in front of Danielle, and then taking out the second man.
A very loose plan began to form in Luke’s mind. Sloppy. High-risk. But what choice did he have? She’d captivated the guards
enough for him to jerk free, but he would need to move very far, very fast. He would wait until Surcouf suggested something
impossible—like leaving the ballroom with Danielle, or that she demonstrate proof that she was the missing d’Orleans princess.
When that happened, Luke would pull away and launch himself at her. He would pretend to take her hostage, pulling the dagger
from his boot and holding it to her neck. He didn’t relish the idea of brandishing a blade against his wife, but desperate
times.
No one expected a member of the band to take a hostage.
The result would be confusion, then chaos, but Surcouf wouldn’t permit anyone to touch him if he appeared to hold Danielle’s life in his hands.
He would drag her into the raucous crowd, the nun would follow, and they would steal away into the night.
It was less of a plan, really more of a snatch-and-scramble suicide run. A manhunt would ensue; they’d have a devil of a time
getting out of the forest, let alone the country of France. Surcouf’s reach—likely the bastard himself—would follow them to
England (if they made it that far). But it would remove the immediate danger to Danielle. And he had no better idea.
Now Sister Marie could be heard introducing herself to Surcouf, dropping the names of churches and cardinals and Orleans family
crypts—details that would legitimize Danielle to the Frenchman.
The Frenchman would barely listen; he’d want to believe Danielle was the princess. She was young and beautiful; a hundred times better than any woman Surcouf could imagine.
And he’d been hunting her for years.
“What an unexpected and incredibly welcome delight, Highness, Sister, to have you grace us with your esteemed presence tonight,”
Surcouf announced. “Please, will you join me at my table? I am among friends at the moment, but your comfort is my priority.”
There was a pause. Luke coiled, prepared to reach for his knife and lunge.
“Clear the area,” Surcouf barked. “Everyone out. Refresh the buffet. Locate my sister.”
Luke peeked. Servants began to scatter. Lords and ladies scrambled from the dais.
“I can only assume you’ve been told, Highness,” Surcouf went on, his voice warm and cajoling, “that our families had hoped
for a union between us.”
“Unfortunately my family is largely unknown to me, my lord,” Danielle answered. “As I’ve said, I’ve only recently left exile.”
“Even without the hopes of our families,” Surcouf said, “seeing you, I should be honored to be . . . united. I hope you’ll
forgive my boldness.”
“United, my lord?” Danielle asked, sounding innocently confused.
Luke almost, almost looked up. What did she intend? He didn’t understand why she would encourage this sort of talk. Sweat rolled down his neck.
He struggled to control his breath.
“But of course. The good sister will have told you,” cajoled Surcouf, “that life after exile will mean betrothal to a suitable
man, Highness. Marriage. The important work of restoring the aristocracy to France will want unions between ancient families
like yours and mine. But please, we needn’t discuss it here. Will you join me? Sister Marie, too, of course. My guards will
ensure that we are not disturbed. My guests are unruly and the music is loud but they’ve made room, see? I’m so sorry you
were separated from your party when you arrived. If I’d known to expect you, I would have hosted a different sort of ball.”
“Forgive me, my lord,” Danielle said, “but did you say that life after exile will mean a betrothal? Marriage?”
The roar in Luke’s ears made it difficult to hear. But what had she—?
“Never you fear,” soothed Surcouf. “I’ve said too much. Forgive me. I’ve searched for so many years to find you, and now that—”
“Oh, I harbor no fear, my lord,” cut in Danielle. “It is confusion. If marriage is the union of which you speak . . .”
An odd chuckle from Surcouf. “Well, if you must know, perhaps I do speak of marriage, Princess.”
“Oh dear,” Danielle said. “To be perfectly clear, I cannot marry you, my lord, because I am already married.”
Oh God. Luke forgot himself. His head snapped up. His wife stood proudly before the Frenchman, chin high, shoulders back. In her
arms, she held an orange cat.
“Married?” asked Surcouf, all indulgence gone from his voice. “Married to whom?”
And then Luke knew. God help him, he knew.
She wasn’t distracting the man, or stalling, or setting some larger plan into motion. She was simply giving Luke his moment
of comeuppance. She was striking at the heart of Vincent Surcouf without raising a knife.
“To an Englishman, actually,” Danielle said. “Captain Lucas Bannock, he’s called. He is my husband.”
Before she finished saying his name, Luke tore away from the guards and dove for her.