Page 4 of A Touch of Charm
“Do you remember what I told you about nocturnal animals?” Thea asked, gripping Mary’s tiny hand with both of hers.
The girl nodded frantically.
“Well, we are diurnal. Humans sleep at night. Thus, we are not easily scared of the animals we are used to encountering, such as rabbits, birds, and butterflies.”
“But what about owls? I want to catch a fluffy baby owl!” Mary whispered, her breath hitching as she looked over her shoulder. “Where do we find one? Or a baby wolf, like a puppy, right?”
“I don’t think wolves come so close to gardens and roads. I’ve rarely seen them beyond the Carpathian Mountains.”
“Never mind. Mother said there are no wolves in England,” Mary whispered again, reminding Thea how different the countryside was from home.
Thea bit her tongue. She’d said too much. Anyone who knew how terribly far those mountains were would question where she was from and who she was.
Note to self: European mountain ranges in Mary’s next geography lesson.
But being found out wasn’t Thea’s problem in this instance.
As they skirted the garden’s edge, everything went dark with a suddenness that stole her breath. Her hand grasped the air where Mary’s had been, but the connection was severed.
“Mary?” Panic rose within Thea’s throat. “Where are you?”
A large, moist hand came from behind and slapped her on the mouth, holding her so tightly that she could barely exhale through her nose. Then the hand disappeared, and Thea’s senses flared, every sound and scent magnified, but something rough was shrugged over her head. In the fabric’s suffocating embrace, Thea took a deep breath and heard heavy steps. It smelled moldy. The rough fabric poked Thea’s skin, probably jute or hemp. A sack enveloped her head, and the world narrowed to the frantic beating of her heart.
Chapter Two
The night skycovered the countryside like an inky shroud as the landau carriage rumbled back to London along the dirt road. Andre leaned back against the plush seat, a soft smile playing on his lips as he recalled the joyous celebration of Alfie and Bea’s wedding mere hours ago.
“What a day.” Prince Stan’s declaration startled Andre in his reverie. His unlikely but welcome companion sat across from him, staring out the window absentmindedly. “A lovely affair,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the clatter of hooves.
“Indeed,” Andre replied, his gaze drifting to the dimly lit countryside. He felt every bump in the road, his overindulgence at the wedding feast making itself known in his queasy stomach. He fidgeted, trying to ignore the sensation. What a marvelous day, he mused, glad for his friend Alfie and his newfound happiness with his lovely bride. Could he also discover a woman who would cherish him with the same intensity as Bea adored Alfie? With such devotion and warmth?
Andre had never thought about getting married, especially after that terrifying night in Florence when he ran for his life.
The marriage of Nick, the oculist, to Pippa brought about changes. Then Alfie, the apothecary, had married Bea. At night, when Nick returned to his townhouse on the same street, the practice at 87 Harley Street would be less crowded, leaving only Felix, the dentist, and Andre. Even Nurse Wendy had moved out since she was Nick’s younger sister and lived with him and Pippa at the townhouse now.
Andre sighed, pondering the day once more.
Stan’s demeanor swiftly changed. His eyes sharpened, and he frowned, peering into the darkness. Andre’s heart skipped a beat.
“What’s happening?” he asked, but Stan didn’t answer.
The sound of distant hooves reached Andre’s ears, different from the rhythmic trot of their horses. His pulse quickened as he strained to listen. The hairs on his neck stood up when he heard screams in the distance.
Stan hurried, locking the carriage door and balling his fists. The carriage jolted to a halt, the horses neighing and stomping in fright. Shouts filled the air, none of them in English. German, but not the familiar kind from Vienna. Prussian? Andre swallowed hard, fear creeping into his chest. He tried to remain calm, but the tension in the air cut his breath off. His senses sharpened, every rustle and creak amplified in the dark just like that night in Florence…
“Do you have a pistol?” Stan asked.
Andre shook his head vigorously. He never had a pistol. Knowing the wounds those guns inflicted, he hated them. Andre had removed bullets and gunpowder from flesh more often than he could count.
A sudden blow echoed through the night, followed by the sickening crack of bone breaking. Andre flinched; the familiar sound sent a shiver down his spine.
“Get out!” a voice bellowed in Prussian.
Andre’s heart raced as he understood the command and the criminals knew they’d understand—they had not been chosen by chance; they’d been expecting them—why else would they speak Prussian in the deep dark woods in England? The door handle rattled, and Stan pushed Andre back but positioned himself, ready for combat. Stan’s years of military training and his sense of responsibility as a prince showed. His movements were precise, his posture unyielding, and his gaze steady, as if every step carried the weight of duty and discipline. The way he instinctively shielded others, even in the smallest moments, spoke volumes of a life shaped by command and obligation. But Andre’s fear intensified—he despised violence and the lasting damage it could cause.
The door flew open, and chaos ensued. Stan jumped out of the carriage and launched himself at a man whose features Andre couldn’t make out. It went too fast, and Andre ducked. As soon as he stepped out of the carriage, he saw the shadows of a fist swinging at him. He saw figures grappling in the dim light, punches landing brutally. A woman pulled away from one of the dark figures, her hands fumbling to tear free the sack that covered her head. Andre blinked, straining to see in the dark. Another figure launched himself at the prince, but Stan fought back, grunting with effort. Amid the confusion, a woman grabbed Andre’s arm. She shook wildly.
“Protect her!” Stan shouted urgently.
