The Ring and the Crown (The Ring and the Crown 1)

“What now?”

“We will find out tomorrow. He will live through the night, the Merlin assures me. There is a more pressing issue.”

“More pressing than my brother almost dying?”

“The princess. She is missing.”

Wolf looked at Duncan blankly.

“She was not in her room. She told the court she would appear at the garden party at midnight, but she is gone. No one can find her anywhere.”

“She’s gone?”

He walked with Duncan back to his apartments and saw Ronan standing there. It jolted something in him. Marie-Victoria was missing…

Ronan ran to him, a ministering angel, a dove. “Wolf, I’m so sorry! Your brother—oh my God…” she said, holding him in her arms.

“Is still alive,” he said.

“Thank God! But where are you going?” she asked as he pulled away from her, a faraway look in his eyes. “Wolf!”

He faced her, but he was still looking past her. “Ronan, I’m sorry—I can’t stay with you right now. The princess is missing, and I think I know where she is. I will come back to you, I promise. When this is over, I will come back to you.”

Isabelle felt renewed, revitalized. She felt better than she had in days, in weeks, in her whole life. She had a purpose, and something to live for—someone to live for—and he had been there all along. She and Louis-Philippe would leave for Cévennes that day, get the sisterhood’s blessing on their marriage, and be happy. They would be happy forever. It was so close now.

She urged her maid to pack faster. Louis would be coming back soon to pick her up, and she wanted to leave before daybreak. Before Eleanor and the Merlin decided to do something about the Frenchman who had killed the princess’s intended—let alone what kind of revenge the Prussian contingent would plan.

“Where do you think you are going, Isabelle?” Hugh said, entering the room without knocking. “Do you really mean to leave with him? He is nothing but a boy. Cévennes is a small estate—barely worth a mention. Stay with me and you will remain in your ancestral castle, and live as your father would have wanted you to live.”

Isabelle stared at him. “No. We are going. I would have left anyway. I would do anything to get away from you. We won’t have much, but we will have each other. We have always had each other, and now we will always be together.”

He took a step toward her, and she held up her hand. “Stop—right there. Don’t come any closer! Or I will tell him what you did! What you have been doing for years!”

“Do you think Jug Ears frightens me, Isabelle?” Hugh asked, his voice dark and threatening. “Do you really believe I’ll let that little bastard take you away from me?”

He crossed the room, and she shrank from him. He took her in his arms and licked her cheek. “You are mine, Isabelle—you will always be mine—you can never get away from me,” he whispered.

She had been nine years old when her parents, aunt, and uncle had died of the wasting plague. Hugh Borel had been a boy, ten years older than her and from a poorer branch of the family, but with a better claim through the paternal bloodline. He’d come to Burgundy, claiming the title and estate. She was only Isabelle of Orleans, Isabelle of Valois; she held the titles that claimed the French throne, but that was the extent of her inheritance. At first Hugh had been gentle and kind, and she and Louis had considered themselves lucky to have such a fine guardian.

The visits at night began a few years later, when she was a maiden. In the morning Hugh pretended nothing had happened, his face serene and innocent, but he was a monster at night. He claimed her as he claimed the castle, the title, and all the land that would have been hers if she had been her father’s heir. If she had only been born a boy. As she grew older, he stopped pretending and began to leer at her openly, so that others began to notice. Louis must have known what was happening, because that was when he stopped talking. He wanted to protect her so badly when they were younger, and it killed him that he couldn’t. Hugh had almost destroyed both of them.

It was only because her father had arranged her marriage to Leopold before his death that Hugh had allowed the prince into her life. Even though she had never met Leopold before—her father was the one who had traveled to the Prussian kingdom to make the arrangements—she had fallen in love with Leopold because she thought he would save her from Hugh. It was why she had allowed herself to be used, why she had been so accepting of his demands—because she was used to meeting Hugh’s.

Hugh was a coward, and had not stood up to the Prussians. Hugh was particularly frightened of Lord Hartwig, the old minister who insisted on performing a thorough search of their dungeons. He was looking for something he insisted Jeanne of Arkk had left there.

The Pandora’s Box. She knew where it was, and she showed them. Her mother used to call it their last hope, but she never knew what it was. Only when Lord Hartwig described it did she realize what she wore—the stone around her neck—the last inheritance from her long-dead mother. She had given it to Leopold freely, thinking that with it, she had bought her freedom as well.

No matter. She could care less about Leopold. She was going to be with Louis, her love, her wonderful boy.

“We are leaving you,” she said. “You can have Burgundy and all of Orleans. Take all of France, for that matter. Louis and I will have each other, and after today you will never see us again.”

Gill had rented them rooms at an inn near the port. Marie should not have been shocked at the shabbiness of her new accommodations, but she was. It occurred to her that she had never stayed anywhere that was not exquisite and beautiful and perfectly appointed until now. It was just a normal room, and Gill was right next door, but Marie was still shocked. The bed was so plain, the mattress so hard, and the food at the inn—Gill brought her up a plate, lest anyone see her—the food was so cheap. The meat was salty and tough, the bread hard, the cheese moldy.

Do you know what you are giving up for him? Aelwyn had asked her.

She had not known then; she understood now. But it was all right, Gill was worth it. She would do anything for him, would live anywhere. And hadn’t she longed for a cottage, anyway? A simple cottage, not a palace. She was done with castles and palaces; she’d had enough of those to last her a lifetime. She did not need her jewel-box room and her beautiful bed. Really, this clean, small room was all she needed, as long as she had Gill.

Gill knocked on her door. “Hey,” he said. “Is it okay?” He looked at the small, plain room nervously. “Are you comfortable?”