Chapter 12
In the end, Luke paid a man in a passing carriage to deliver Princess Danielle home. After that, he didn’t see her for two
days. They exchanged notes instead. It was all he could manage while pulling himself together. The letters were brief, the
language spare.
Luke: Are you well?
Princess Danielle: Yes, I am well. Are you well?
Luke: I’m well. Were your parents alarmed by your ruined clothes?
Princess Danielle: My clothes were insignificant compared to our great family reckoning. You were correct, the secrets are no more.
Luke could not, in good conscience, respond to that statement. Instead, he traveled to Maidstone and called to the modest
jewelry shop there. The offerings were paltry and the proprietor an opportunist, but he bought a small ring with a thin gold
band and a winking sapphire. He had it delivered with no note at all, simply his card.
And now he was the sort of man who bought jewelry for women. In the hours after the ring was delivered, he realized he was also the sort of man who sweated and fidgeted as he waited for some acknowledgment.
Princess Danielle: Captain. The ring. It’s gorgeous. Thank you. I’ve never owned anything so beautiful.
Luke: Fitting, I thought, for a princess.
Princess Danielle: Or perhaps I’m being paid off in the manner of the Beckley boys? I saw them in the village, and they crossed to the other
walkway to avoid me.
Luke read the note three times. He could not continue in this manner.
Luke: May I see you? We should finalize plans for the wedding.
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’ll not reverse,” came a man’s reply, “and I’ll not 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—have your 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 restore this property,” 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—”
“I said,” 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.
“He wants to buy this hall to use as a recruitment office for his sand pits,” she said. “But he needs my influence to convince
the vicar and the people of Ivy Hill to sell.”
“Need we call this a ‘problem . . .’ ” wondered Stinchcomb, “or an opportu—?”
“Yes,” Luke cut in. “I do believe it is a problem. It’s a problem when a man corners a young woman alone.
It’s a problem when the same man hounds her repeatedly for the answer of Yes after being told—also repeatedly—No.
Intimidation, in general, is a considerable problem, especially when directed at my future wife. ”
“You, sir,” drawled the quarryman, “insult my honor, and I will not . . .” With shaking hand, he began to peel off his glove.
“Stop,” Luke said on a sigh. “No duels. I haven’t the time nor energy. If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.”
“That’s quite a boast.” The man snorted under his breath, but he made a show of tightening his glove rather than removing
it. He wouldn’t meet Luke’s eye. He muttered, “Marry the girl, will you? She’ll be a trial—”
“Look, Stinchcomb, if you say another word, I will buy every building on this high street including this parish hall. If owning
property of Ivy Hill is your goal, I’d tread very lightly, indeed.”
“What need have you for property in Ivy Hill?”
“I’ll transform the lot into the finest cat sanctuary England has ever seen and colonize it with Miriam Dinwiddie’s many cats.
Few projects, in fact, would make me happier. Do not test me, Stinchcomb. You should go. Immediately. Never address Miss Allard
again. In fact, do not think of Miss Allard again—not as a resource, not as a soft mark, not as someone you knew, once upon a time. Do you understand?
Are we perfectly clear?”
The man could only nod. Luke made a sweeping gesture with his hand and stepped back, clearing the way to the door. The man’s
face was tight but he didn’t counter him. Muttering, he shuffled out.
When he was gone, Luke blew out a breath. “Sorry.” He snatched off his hat, ran a hand through his hair, and reseated it.
“I— Thank you,” she said, sliding her hand free of his arm. Her voice was breathless, her cheeks flushed.
“There are less verbose ways of dealing with men like Stinchcomb,” he told her, drifting from the room, “but excessive chatter seems to be his weapon of choice. Bludgeoning him would’ve had far less impact.”
She chuckled, and he felt the sail in his heart swell. He eyed her. “You are well?”
“Oh yes, perfectly well.”
“I don’t mind telling you, the sight of you pinned in the corner by him was . . .”
“Pitiful?” She chuckled.
“No,” he said. “Infuriating.”
“Oh.” A blush rose on her cheeks.
The truth was, it made him furious to see the other man so close, lording himself over her.