The Barefoot Princess by Christina Dodd Read Free Book Online Page A

her shoulder. “But he didn’t want me to get shot just because you wanted to blow him away.”
    “Blow me away?” What an odd phrase to come out of that gentle lady’s mouth. He laughed shortly. He stood and dusted off his trousers, before placing the knife on the table.
    And realized at once that his amusement did not sit well with Amy. She looked at him in disdain and distaste. “How does it feel to be such a big, bad aristocrat that you have to use this dear little lady as a shield?”
    Actually, he was feeling a little ashamed of himself, but he wasn’t about to tell this virago. “I pushed her aside when you shot at her.”
    “You shoved her out of the way when you realized I would shoot you,” she answered hotly.
    “That’s not true.” He couldn’t believe how she misinterpreted his action. “Don’t you have any respect for your betters?”
    “I do. That’s why I’m going to help her up the stairs and put her to bed with a cup of hot tea. You can just sit here and…and jingle your manacle!” With her arm around Miss Victorine, Amy started for the stairs.
    “Now dear,” he heard Miss Victorine admonishing, “he wouldn’t have hurt me. He was always such a nice boy.”
    He sank down on the cot. When he was young, everyone said that, considering the circumstances, he was a nice lad.
    He had loved coming over to call on Miss Victorine. He’d adored her cakes and the fuss she’d made over him and the scent of her lavender sachets. She had been a civilizing influence on a lad knocked flat by events he didn’t understand and over which he had no control.
    He didn’t remember when or why he’d stopped his visits. It had been nothing more than part of growing up—discovering hunting and balls and women and cigars and forgetting the sea and the sky and the clouds and the earth. He’d seen them in a flash when Amy had raised her gun, pointed it at him, and said in a cool, strong voice, “ Three .” He’d seen his whole life in his mind for the last time, or so he’d thought, and when he remembered that piercing moment of fear his hands shook.
    He didn’t know what the hell was going on here, but he didn’t intend to die in this damned cellar at the hands of one crazed old woman and a young female steeped in bitter disdain. He bloody well was going to escape.
    Sitting up, he went to work on the manacle.

    In the best bedroom, Miss Victorine uttered no protest as Amy helped her out of her Sunday garments and into her worn flannel nightgown. She winced as she lifted her arms to let Amy drop the gown over her, and Amy could see that purpling bruises were rising from beneath Miss Victorine’s fragile skin.
    Hotly Amy wished that beast downstairs possessed a single moral, or showed a decent regret—or had his hands tied so she could pummel him until he repented of his ways, or was unconscious, or all of them.
    Amy’s fulminating silence must have indicated the direction of her thoughts. Or perhaps Miss Victorine understood Amy all too well, for she said, “Amy dear, do you remember when Pom brought you to me all wet and bedraggled?”
    “Of course I do.” With the tongs, Amy took a few red coals, put them into the bed warmer, and chased the chill from the thin sheets.
    “I asked where you came from, and you turned your face away and wouldn’t say a word. You refused to tell me about your country or your title or your poor lost sisters.” Miss Victorine petted Amy’s arm. “I feared you were deaf or mute. You were certainly starving.”
    “You gave me your dinner.” Amy held up the warmed sheets and invitingly gestured Miss Victorine in.
    “And the first words you spoke to me were, ‘Aren’t you afraid I’ll kill you in your bed?’”
    “I am eternally charming.” Amy laughed at herself and at the absurdity of her current circumstances. “The marquess of Northcliff would agree.”
    “He doesn’t know you yet, dear. Once he does, he’ll be in love with you like the lads in the