The Wild Princess: A Novel of Queen Victoria's Defiant Daughter

The stranger reached down and grabbed her hair by the roots. He wrenched her head back, forcing her to make eye contact with him. “I said, what’s your name?”

To as much as touch a princess, if you were not her husband or a family member, was unimaginably rude, a breach of etiquette as well as the law. She was so shocked she could only stare at him and answer.

“I am Princess Louise, the marchioness of Lorne.” Since she didn’t know whether it would help or hurt her cause to lie, it didn’t seem worth pretending she was someone she was not.

He released her hair and stood up, hands on hips. His satisfied smile turned her stomach. She should have lied.

Louise held her injured shoulder with her opposite hand to keep the bones from shifting against each other. Held immobile, it hurt a little less.

“That’s grand,” the man said. He stood above her another moment then lifted one foot and nudged her shoulder.

“Ah!” she cried. “Please don’t. It may be broken.” Or dislocated. Just as bad.

“No need to tie you down then, is there? You won’t be going anywhere.” He turned and trudged away from her toward the other man at the wheel.

“Please. Take me to the nearest dock,” she shouted after him. “I need to get back to my family.” She had to let them know she wasn’t dead. Had to find out what had happened to them and to Stephen, and how many men they’d lost in the explosion and fighting. “I’ll pay you anything you like. Anything!” she screamed at the red-haired man’s back.

He didn’t respond, although she was certain he’d heard her. The younger one turned and glanced once at her then gave a whoop and did a little jig at the wheel.

So . . . they considered her a prize.

What did they want her for? If these were Fenian raiders, they might easily have killed her by now. Did they intend to leave her body for the police to find—like those two unfortunate civil servants in the park? Or would they hold her for ransom? Both Parliament and her mother had pledged noncompliance with Fenian demands. Then again, what if they simply spirited her away as their prisoner of war, intending to keep her indefinitely, saying they would only release Her Royal Highness when Ireland ruled herself. Which would be never, if her mother had any say in the matter.

Either the foul water she’d swallowed, or the realization her life might well end within the next few minutes, sent a spurt of sour bile up into her throat. Louise closed her eyes and fought back her fear.

Fifty-four

Byrne lowered the binoculars. “She didn’t drown. They’ve got her.”

“Thank God,” Lorne said, grinning.

Only then did it occur to him that Lorne didn’t know who had pulled his wife out of the drink or what Rupert Clark was capable of. He made short work of an explanation, watching Lorne’s face transform from joy to utter despair.

“But what will they do with her?”

“I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. We have to catch up with them and take her back before they reach land.” Byrne tossed the binoculars back to the marquess and raced from the bow to the cockpit of the tug, with Lorne close behind.

“Why before? Wouldn’t it be easier at a dock, on dry land?”

“No. They’ll have arranged to meet their mates. We don’t know how many of them will be waiting, and there’s no way to alert the police.” Byrne glanced at the old man and his son, trying to gauge how much they’d be willing to risk for the life of a princess. “See that steamer up ahead, Cap?”

“The one just hauled that lady outta the drink?” The old man chuckled his approval. “He done a good job gettin’ her out alive, I’d say.”

“Those two men are the ones who blew up the bridge,” Byrne said. The captain’s brow rose as one piece above milky eyes. “And the woman he just beat us to is Princess Louise.”

“Gor’,” said the boy.

“ ’Tis a dark day on the river,” the captain said, shaking his head.

“It will be darker if we don’t stop that boat. Can you catch up with them?”

“Don’t know.” The captain frowned. “Them’s pretty sprightly boats them old ferries. Tugs’re built more for pushing and pulling than speed.”

“But your engine is powerful. You have a screw propeller, no paddle wheels—more thrust, right? Maybe up to more stress than theirs. If you had to run her hard, could you overtake them?”

Byrne saw decision flash in the old man’s eyes. “Mebbe.” He turned to the boy. “Johnny, get busy with that boiler. Give me all she’s got.” He looked back at Byrne. “I’ll bring you close to the bastard as I can. How you get aboard, I’ve no idea.”

Neither do I, Byrne thought, but that’s exactly what he’d have to do. Or Louise would be lost to him.

Fifty-five

Louise propped herself up on the wide, wooden planks of the deck and worried her bottom lip between her teeth. She breathed carefully, supporting herself with her uninjured arm as she looked around, unwilling to give up yet.