Page 25 of Within the Hollow Heart

He froze. The foolish grin that had somehow found its way to his face dropped like a stone in his stomach.

“What’s the matter?” she whispered, her steps coming to a halt. “What happened?”

“I—” He shook his head, loosening his grip on her. “Nothing. It’s nothing.” He swallowed and took a short step back from her. His hand flexed at his waist, palm still warm from the heat of her, wanting to reclaim its grasp. “Perhaps we should—that is, I’m afraid I may no longer be able to—” He cleared his throat, strengthened his resolve. “I’ve just recalled another engagement, my lady. Our evening must end here. I regret if I have misled you in any way, but this—”

“There you are.” The voice came from the open doorway to the ballroom, slicing through whatever words Nickolas might have said.

Off his guard entirely, he glanced toward the voice, startled to recognize a lord he’d met years before. The lord had been a visiting envoy from Norcliffe. Nickolas straightened automatically before dipping swiftly into a low bow. He felt Jules’s hesitation beside him, then came relief when she fell into a curtsy. They both rose, Jules keeping her head bowed, eyes downcast. She had not been introduced, and before them, fate save them, stood the princess of Norcliffe and several members of her court.

The familiar lord came forward. “Lord Brigham. I’ve been searching for you. You must be introduced to her highness. She’s been eager to finally meet you.”

The princess stepped gracefully from among the crowd of courtiers, thin silver mask covering only her eyes, embroidered gown trimmed exceptionally well in gold. She was tall and dignified, her manner seeming more affable than prim. Nickolas had not expected her to be so striking. William would have to use every tool and trick at his disposal to win a woman of her status.

Her Highness, Princess Mireille, may I present—”

“Lord Brigham,” the princess interrupted smoothly. “Please, let us not stand on ceremony. I feel as if I know you so well by the stories our mutual friends have imparted.” Her lips tilted playfully. “You have quite the reputation for misadventure, my lord.”

“All lies, I assure you.” A crowd had gathered around the doorway, both inside and out of the ballroom. Nickolas inclined his head. “Highness. It is a privilege.” Out of the corner of his vision, Nickolas saw Ian moving across the courtyard but could not take his gaze off the courtiers, the elder Lord Adair and his sons among them, and Lord Carvell with his daughter. Nickolas’s skin prickled at the nape.

He shifted to introduce Jules, but she no longer stood at his side. She was gone. He cleared his throat.

Princess Mireille reached forward, taking Nickolas’s arm. “Come,” she said. “Let us stroll through the courtyard. Perhaps you will tell me stories and, afterward, invite me to dance.”

Nickolas glanced over his shoulder, searching, but found no sign of Jules. Ian was evidently gone as well, the figures that had been milling about the courtyard now closing in. “I’m afraid I…” He tilted his head for a better look past the moonlit topiary and saw a slip of delicate silvery blue disappear into a far-off doorway before a pair of figures blocked his view.

The princess slid her hand companionably into the crook of Nickolas’s arm. “Call me Rei, please.”

Nickolas’s gaze returned to hers. Saints, up close she was even lovelier. Her features were fine, dark-olive skin glowing in the torchlight, her scent light and flowery instead of the heavier perfumes so many peers wore. She was waiting for him. He knew it. The crowd was waiting for him too. He was meant to take her through the courtyards, to charm her and try to win her with the games courtiers played. He was a Brigham. It was practically his duty.

But he didn’t know what had happened to Jules. He glanced once more through the courtyard, finding the lord he’d seen arguing with Gideon outside of the chancery only days before now speaking with Carvell. Nickolas didn’t like leaving Jules unattended. His mother’s men might be anywhere nearby. At the very least, he should apologize. He should escort her back to her rooms.

The princess gave a gentle squeeze to Nickolas’s arm.

“I’m sorry, Highness, but… I must go.” He withdrew his arm from hers, to the stunned gasps of the onlookers, and gave a cursory bow. “If you’ll forgive me.”

Her expression revealed surprise, but she inclined her head courteously.

He stepped forward once more and leaned in to tell her quietly, “Be wary, Your Highness, of suitors with interest in trade.” At the edge of the doorway, inside the ballroom, Nickolas caught sight of Lady Brigham’s deadly glare. He swore silently, and the moment she was swallowed up by the shifting crowd, he turned to move hastily away.

CHAPTER13

Nickolas sped through the courtyard, keeping himself hidden from view of the ballroom as best he could. Ornamental shrubs rose around him in tall cones, and the pathway was edged in wisteria, sweet and musky in the still night air. The muffled voices and distant echo of the orchestra faded, replaced by the hollow babble of fountains.

It took three tries to find the door through which Jules had disappeared, and when he finally did, he was only certain it was the right one because the moment he opened it, a hulking man slammed into him and rolled him to the ground. Sword still sheathed—they’d been in a courtyard outside a ballroom, for fate’s sake—Nickolas wrapped his hands around the man’s coat sleeves and jerked him to the side. The man was stout; he barely moved at all.

Nickolas wedged his elbows between himself and the man’s chest and twisted, gaining enough space to free one of his legs. But he was no more than half liberated before he was flat on his back again. Long limbs his only advantage, he slipped an arm over the man’s shoulder, wrapped it about his thick head, and pulled in a spin. The man flattened his feet to the ground for leverage, at one point calling Nickolas a beef-witted bamboozler and spitting a bit of what was probably blood—Nickolas was no novice, despite the other man’s superior size—before they were rolling again. Finally gaining the upper hand, Nickolas tried to shove away, but formal shoes weren’t meant for scuffling, and he slipped in the slime and shattered remnants of a clay pot the pair had knocked to the floor.

Off balance, Nickolas was an easy target, and the man leapt, as quick as a bull, to pin him to the ground once more.

Nickolas drew his fist back, entirely spent of gentlemanly restraint, then froze when a bucket of tepid, reeking plant-water was thrown onto both of them.

Nickolas blinked up to find Jules standing over them, her expression oddly vacant. She let go of the bucket, and it clanged to the floor beside them. When she turned away, Nickolas shoved the man’s forearm off his chest with a grunt of disgust. Ian—for Nickolas was finally certain, in the sparse light coming through the room’s windows, that that was who his opponent had been—slid to the side, running a hand over his close-cropped hair and flicking the water free.

Jules stepped away then turned and leaned against a long gardening table to remove her soiled gloves. “The two of you are done now.”

Wet and thoroughly reprimanded, Nickolas and Ian sat in repentant silence, their chests heaving for breath. Nickolas did not argue that he was not responsible, thathe’dbeen the one attacked. Not since he understood what Ian’s job was. Nickolas had never seen a man fight in that manner. Ian was meant to be Jules’s protector; he might have jumped on anyone who came through the door. “Saints. Where did you train to be a guard? You’re deuced awful at it.”

The man looked up at him. “I’m not a guard, you daft cad.” He ran a thumb over the split on his lip. “I’m her coachman.”

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