A/N: Wow! I'm so excited at the response for the first chapter. I really didn't think so many would follow me into this crazy AU world I came up with, but boy I'm so glad you did! I'm really having fun with this! This next chapter has some necessary exposition, and I hope it doesn't get too tedious, but I wanted to better define how I've manipulated the circumstances and the characters from the show. I hope it meets with your approval. Thanks so much for choosing to follow me down another road less travelled by. And welcome to my new readers! Nice to meet you!
Chapter 2
Prince Patrick leaned his head against the post and closed his eyes. He had hoped that they would believe that a spoiled prince would be helpless, so that they would leave him alone. This, of course, would allow Grace to emerge from her hiding place, untie him, and they could steal back one of their horses. Unfortunately, the so-called Saint Teresa was very cautious, and the tallest member of her band had been given guard duty, while she and Kimball went off God only knew where.
"You must be Little John," said the prince, opening his eyes and staring at the man who sat on one of Grace's trunks nearby.
"No, and don't try to distract me. The boss warned me you were likely a slippery little fish."
"So that would make the other lad Friar Tuck? Perhaps Will Scarlet? Funny though, you don't seem very merry."
Rigsby couldn't help the bark of laughter at his characterizing of the short yet muscular Kimball as Friar Tuck.
"I take it back," commented Patrick with a rueful grin.
Rigsby forceably sobered his demeanor. The boss wouldn't like it if he was found sharing a joke with their captive.
"Now that's enough outa you, Princess Jane," Rigsby said, remembering himself. "I'll put that gag back on if you don't stifle yourself." He raised the musket from his lap and gestured toward the handkerchief and rope lying in the hay near the prince's feet. "Or I might find a better way to stifle ya."
"As you wish," said Patrick good-naturedly. But of course, his silence only lasted a minute at most. "Tell me—Rigsby is it?—what's all this about? You don't strike me as kidnappers. Thieves, obviously, but somehow taking helpless people captive seems…beneath you."
Rigsby shifted uncomfortably. No, he didn't like it one bit, but he wasn't about to contradict the boss to this man, whose bag of gold coins they'd confiscated would feed everyone in their village for a month.
"I said, shut up," he said sternly.
"What's become of my men?" asked the prince, genuinely concerned with this answer. "Did you kill them?"
He'd been haunted by the image of their driver, Ron, lying on the ground, still as death, and wondered also if Karl had managed to slip away unscathed. Perhaps even now he'd made it to Lord Craig's Castle Hartshorne.
"Unlike most men of your ilk, we kill no one…not if we can help it. Your men are safe enough, though I won't vouch for their comfort."
Patrick nodded, his hopes dashed that Karl would be bringing help. But at this point, it was enough to know they were alive; nothing he could do about rescuing them until he could rescue himself and Grace.
"Where's your boss?" he asked, changing the subject.
"None of your business."
"I'm right here, Jane," said the woman in question.
She'd opened the barn door just enough for her small frame to slip inside. Her cloak was gone and she stood before him, wearing, of all things, men's doeskin pants. Patrick's mouth went dry as he took in the sight, how the tight-fitting garment clung to her shapely legs and cupped her magnificent derrière. Her muslin tunic was loose and belted, showing off her tiny waist. She wore fine black riding boots, but they were worn and scuffed with use. She'd braided her dark hair into one single plait down her back, tied at the end with a thin strip of leather. He found he missed the wild waves he'd glimpsed earlier.
From her hip hung her sheathed sword, and a smaller hunting knife encased in its scabbard. It occurred to Prince Patrick that she was more magnificent than any of the women he saw everyday at court.
He caught her telltale blush when she noticed how his eyes had raked up and down her body, and his appreciative grin heightened her color even more.
"I told you not to talk to this man," she chided Rigsby, trying to cover how uncomfortable she was in the prince's presence. Rigsby looked sheepish, but shot Patrick an angry look.
"Go help Kimball with that other task," she ordered mysteriously. Rigsby nodded and left quickly, pleased to escape his troublesome guard duty.
"I was merely inquiring after my own men," Patrick said, oddly feeling the need to defend Rigsby.
"I'd be more worried about my own pretty neck if I were you, Princess."
"Why? I'm worth nothing to you dead."
"True," she conceded. "But I might change my mind if I grow too irritable. Your coach and horses are encouragement enough to cut my losses now."
He grinned, knowing she was bluffing. "Well, if you continue with your plan to ransom me, you'll need to have proof that I'm alive. My father is a very skeptical man."
"Another good point." She drew out her knife and advanced toward him, and Patrick felt his heart skipping a beat. What might she send as proof? A finger? An ear? The tip of his nose?
She knelt beside him in the hay, and he caught a whiff of her scent: cinnamon as if she'd been baking, combined with the outdoors and a pleasant, indefinable fragrance that was all her own. His heart began to pound for an entirely different reason as she contemplated him a moment, trying to decide what part of his anatomy would best suit her purpose.
He stared at her, how her skin, lightly tanned by days in the sun without neither hat nor parasol, seemed to glow with good health. Had he not feared she might cut one off, he would have reached up his hands to see if her cheek was as smooth as it looked.
He watched in delight as a sudden grin broke out on her face, just before she reached out and captured one of his blonde curls. She lopped it off with her knife and waved it triumphantly before him. "This'll do, Goldilocks," she said. She caught his sparkling eyes as he admired her satisfied expression.
"Lots of people have blonde hair," he said. Her face fell a little, then alighted on the golden ring he wore, stamped with the royal crest and encircled with rubies. She reached for his finger and he couldn't help cringing since she still held the knife in her other hand. She felt his nervous reaction and laughed softly, rather mischievously, he thought. Her skin was warm and soft against his, and he heard her sudden increase in breathing before she slipped the ring off his finger and she dropped his hand. He swallowed in relief and their eyes met, their faces mere inches apart. Her green eyes widened with awareness, and she backed up awkwardly, straightening.
"There will be no doubt now who I hold," she said, pocketing both his ringlet and the ring, her eyes averted.
"You're probably right," he agreed. He felt shaken, as if he'd had a sudden shock.
He watched her return her knife to its home at her waist, then look at him with sudden curiosity.
"Why are you, Prince of Maliborough, here in Hartshorne? I would think given our two kingdoms' rather cold relationship this is the last place someone like you would be."
Of course, he couldn't tell her that he was escorting his sister to marry Lord Craig. He thought quickly.
"I'm on a diplomatic mission, hoping to avoid war," he said. He kept his eyes trained on hers, trying to put as much sincerity there as he could. Her eyes narrowed, but she asked nothing more.
"My man will ride to your king come first light. Don't go anywhere," she said as an afterthought. He grinned at her little joke, and she smiled back, before abruptly catching herself and turning toward the door. And then he was alone. He cocked his head and listened, then called softly to Grace.
His sister emerged cautiously from the carriage, her bright red hair catching the dim light of the lantern.
"Quickly," he said. "We may not have much time."
She ran to his side, untying his hands, having to use her small white teeth to pull at the complicated sailor's knots. That done, she went to the back of the post and worked on the knots there. She had just begun to get a handle on the knots when there was a noise at the door.
"Go!" Patrick whispered harshly. She began to run toward the carriage, but the heel of her dainty slipper caught in the hay, and she tumbled to the floor. The prince's eyes flew to the entrance just as Rigsby sauntered in, a plate of bread and cheese in hand. He stood paralyzed a moment at the unexpected sight of a highborn lady in a white cloak, sprawled in the hay at the prince's feet. He dropped Patrick's dinner and rushed toward her.
"Stop!" he yelled as she ran behind the carriage. But Grace only stopped when she heard the hammer of the musket being cocked back.
"Grace," cried Patrick, a mixture of disappointment and fear lacing his voice.
She turned around to face the tall man who was advancing ominously upon her, gun in hand.
"What have we here?" he said roughly, but his eyes swept her lovely features with something akin to awe. She was the loveliest thing he'd ever beheld. "Been hiding in the carriage, have ya? I expect you're kin to the prince here."
"I'm Princess Grace of Maliborough," she said haughtily. "Please remove that weapon from my sight, yeoman, and I demand you release my brother."
"Brother, eh? Well, well. We've struck gold—two royals for the price of one. Wait'll the boss gets a look at you." And he grabbed her slim arm so she wouldn't try to run again.
While Rigsby was distracted with his sister, Patrick had moved his free hands behind him to see if he could finish undoing the knot that held him to the post.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said Kimball from the doorway. The burly man strode to the prince and pointed his pistol at his forehead, before going behind him and re-tightening his bonds.
He looked at Grace, quickly assessing the new situation. "I'll get more rope," he said simply.
Patrick sighed in frustration, his eyes going to his sister's, their hopes for immediate escape dashed.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Lady Teresa of Sacraham entered her cottage door after her latest encounter with the prince. She felt light-headed, shaky. She had never had such a strong reaction to a man before. He was too handsome, too charming by far—not the sort of qualities she expected to find in one so entitled. He seemed to see right through her, and she felt trapped by his eyes, by his smile. He made her blood sing in her veins, and the brief moments of nearness had nearly overwhelmed her senses.
She reached into her pocket and found his soft curl, and she rubbed its fine texture between her fingers. How would it feel to run her bare hands through all of that golden mane of his, to kiss those full lips? To lay down with him in the fragrant hay and—
"Daughter? Is that you?" There was a hoarse cough, and she followed the voice to the padded chair by the hearth. Teresa shook herself out of her reverie and rushed to his side. She automatically pulled up his shawl more tightly about his shoulders, squatting before him then to look up into his rheumy blue eyes.
"What can I do for you, Father?"
He reached out a crooked hand for hers, and she held it gently.
"I don't mean to trouble you, my dear. You are such a good girl to me. Might I have some tea laced with a bit of brandywine? My throat is terribly tight tonight."
She squeezed his hand lightly and nodded. "Of course. Right away."
It was always a shock to see him like this, even though she lived with him, saw him, took care of him every day. Years before, Sir Virgil Minelli had been a trusted knight in young Queen Madeleine's court, then, as he'd become too old to sit a horse for long, she'd sent him to Sacraham to act as sheriff of the district. But everything changed when the queen was accused by parliament of mishandling her power, of negotiating with Maliborough without their knowledge. Now, she was held in Hartshorne's highest tower, and her younger cousin, Lord Craig, had assumed power until she faced trial.
With the new order at Hartshorne, came a new order in the districts, and Sir Minelli was summarily excused from duty. In his place was the newly anointed Sheriff, Lord LaRoche, a large toad of a man who ruled the district with a soft voice and an iron fist. Teresa, her father, and brothers were banished from the sheriff's manor to the simple cottage they lived in today. Teresa didn't care that they'd dropped in status—money and prestige didn't concern her—but she knew her father didn't deserve the disgrace, and she was convinced the onset of his illness had been partly due to a broken heart and feelings of deep betrayal.
The years passed and while the queen still languished in her high tower, parliament continually bickering over her fate, things began to worsen for the people of the land. Taxes were raised to fill the royal coffers to silently prepare Hartshorne for war against Maliborough, and those who could not pay faced the stocks or whipping, or hanging. When her younger brother Thomas spent three days in the stocks, Teresa could no longer bear to see another suffer for the sake of gold.
And now, she had captured a prince. She had nothing against Maliborough. So far as she knew Hartshorne was the aggressor, so it was very odd that Prince Patrick was on the road to Hartshorne castle, only lightly escorted. Teresa gave not a lick for politics, except when it benefitted or hurt her people. In this case, she knew instinctively that something was going on in the upper classes that well might turn the tide of impending war. She would bet Prince Patrick's fancy coat that it had something to do with him.
Teresa was just checking the kettle on the fire when a knock came at the door. She smiled reassuringly to her father and went to answer it. It was Kimball.
"Boss," he whispered. "Our guest list has increased by one."
"What?" she said, startled. She stepped outside with him, closing the door so she wouldn't upset her father. He had no knowledge of her activities, and she wanted to keep it that way so that he wouldn't have to lie for her if he were ever questioned.
Kimball succinctly explained the situation in the barn and Teresa had to shake her head in wonder. "I can't believe we missed her. That prince is certainly a wily one."
Kimball cocked his head a little at her tone of admiration. "Yes. What do you want us to do with her?"
She thought a moment. "Well, we can't keep them in the barn anymore. The prince was on his way to Hartshorne castle for an important meeting. If he doesn't arrive at the appointed time, Lord Craig may send men to look for them. Let's move them to the hunter's cabin, deeper in the woods. We'll have to do it tonight before you leave for Maliborough in the morning."
"Rigsby and I will see to it."
"Thank you, Kimball. Let me get my father safely to bed and I'll follow after with supplies. You'll have to ride even more quickly and carefully tomorrow," she cautioned.
"I'm up for it."
She knew his loyalty was unquestionable. He and Rigsby had served her father when he was sheriff, and they too had been displaced by the changing of the guard. They also had younger siblings and aging parents to feed.
"I'll see you and Rigsby at the cabin," she told him.
"Not to worry, Boss."
And with those heartening words, he disappeared into the darkness. Teresa put her face in her hands, taking one brief moment to let the events of this night wash over her. Things had just become extremely complicated, and fear threatened to overwhelm her. If they were caught, if the prince and princess were discovered in her custody, it would mean the hangman's noose for all of them. But one moment of doubt was all she allowed herself. With new resolve Teresa shook off her worry and did what she always did—whatever she had to do to protect her family and friends.
Even if it meant dealing with a handsome prince who seemed to have magically stepped out of her girlish fantasies.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
An hour later, Teresa gave the secret knock on the cabin door, then was quickly let in by Rigsby. She carried with her a basket filled with bedding, food, water, and clothing.
She got her first look at Princess Grace, a beautiful young woman with captivating red hair and a creamy complexion. Teresa felt instantly drab by comparison. The siblings were tied to chairs pushed in to the simple wooden table, and they both looked exhausted, the princess's brow furrowed with worry.
"Aw, Saint Teresa, you've brought us a housewarming gift," said the prince wryly.
She ignored him and focused on the princess. "It seems your brother had a little secret he was reluctant to share," she said. "Thank you for joining us."
"If you harm us, my father's men will kill you where you stand."
Teresa raised an eyebrow, then grinned at Rigsby. "Feisty one, eh?"
Rigsby grinned, but she caught the tall man's look of intense admiration of the princess, and Teresa suddenly had a feeling of deep trepidation. She'd have to have a word with him about being careful not to allow one's emotions to interfere with the business at hand. But as she glanced at the prince's charming grin, felt her heart skip a beat, she wondered who was going to remind her.
"Don't worry, Your Highness, you'll be treated well, so long as your father comes through with our ransom request, which, it seems, will now be doubled. And true, Jane, I did bring some gifts of a sort. You're both to put these clothes on. Should someone stumble upon this cabin, we wouldn't want them to think you're somebody important."
She dug through the basket and held up one of her older dresses. "Looks like it will be a little short on you, Princess; I'm sorry that can't be helped. I'm sure Rigsby won't go wild from a glimpse of the royal ankle."
She turned to the prince. "As for you, Jane, you may borrow some of my brother's clothing. You're of a height, so there should be no problem there. I'm afraid they're not your usual silks and satins, but we do live the simple life here in the back of beyond." She tossed the homespun garments on the table.
"We'll muddle through," he said. He wiggled his bound hands, which were tied to the arms of the chair. "You'll need to untie us if you want us to change, of course."
"Of course. One at a time. Rigsby…"
He went over to the prince and worked at the ropes, and stood before her, then took up his borrowed clothing. "Am I to have an audience?"
Teresa flushed, realizing that she'd been staring. "Uh, no. I'll wait outside."
As the door shut behind her she bided her time, fidgeting outside the door in the cool spring evening. After five minutes, she became impatient and peeped into the window, her breath catching as she beheld Prince Patrick in his smalls alone, his chest and back more muscular than she had imagined, as were his lightly furred thighs. He had the body of a horseman, perhaps even a swordsman, and not that of an idle prince. He must have felt her eyes upon him for he paused and looked right in her direction, his grin slowly breaking over his face. Caught, she moved from the window, her heart pounding in her chest at what she had seen, and the fact that he had seen her.
Rigsby opened the door to her a few minutes later, and she nearly laughed despite her embarrassment at the once proud peacock dressed in the garb of a yeoman. But then she found herself wondering how the wheat colored linen could make him look even more dashing, and somehow, more unnervingly real.
"Your turn, Princess," she said gruffly, refusing to meet Patrick's eyes.
"Which one?" asked Patrick with amusement, used to the new moniker she'd bestowed upon him.
"The ginger, not the fair-haired," she said, trying not to laugh again. Why did he have that power over her, when she had little else to laugh about these days?
Grace had merely closed her eyes as her brother had disrobed, but Teresa sent both men outside now. Teresa may be a thief, but she still respected a lady's privacy. After she untied the princess, she watched dispassionately as she began to undress, a becoming blush tingeing her alabaster cheeks. When Teresa saw that the princess obviously needed help with unlacing her stays, she moved reluctantly forward, remembering when she'd lived at court with her father, and had been forced by propriety to wear the uncomfortable undergarments. She was never able to take them off by herself.
Wordlessly, Grace allowed Teresa the intimacy of loosening the ties enough so that she might step out of the corset. She kept her back turned and hastily put on Teresa's blue muslin dress. It slipped right over her head, no fastenings required. The princess was more endowed at the top than Teresa, so the bodice fit tightly, her cleavage pressing against the square neckline. Teresa shrugged, unapologetic; it couldn't be more uncomfortable than wearing a whalebone corset.
"Thank you," said the princess softly, taking Teresa off guard.
She said nothing, oddly touched by the younger woman's humility.
"Sit in your chair again," Teresa ordered a moment later. She re-tied the princess's bonds and then opened the door to Rigsby and the prince.
When she beheld with surprise her tall partner knocked to the ground, out cold, and the prince nowhere to be seen, she gave a very unladylike curse, then plunged into the darkness after him.
A/N: Well, a cliffie of sorts, lol. I hope you don't mind. The next chapter should have a little more talk AND action, I promise. Please sign in and let me know how I'm doing. I answer all signed-in reviews!
Also, with the way this site tends to go wonky with the e-mail alerts for chapter updates sometimes, I'll start tweeting when I've posted a new chapter. You can follow me Donnamour1969. Up until now, I've mainly used Twitter to follow/stalk my favorite stars and, of course thementalistwriters, but now I see the value of reaching out to my readers here at fanfiction. Hope to see you in the twitterverse soon! I'd love to tweet with you!
