Journeyman’s Ride Read online

  “Yes?” She hated yelling but refused to cross to meet him, not willing to give him the upper hand again.

  Danner’s mouth turned down. “Don’t be late tomorrow.” He turned on his heel and strode into the building underneath his quarters. The door slammed shut behind him.

  Conscious that several persons had begun to look her way, she hurried to the train. Resolutely ignoring the mounds of smoking flesh upon the ground, she did her best not to inhale the aroma of death and asked a man who seemed to be in charge, “May I help?”

  “Get on with ya, girl. This ain’t no place for a woman.”

  She didn’t bother arguing, inclined to agree. Spotting her bags on the ground with several others, she reached for them and hauled them with her across the ground, glad at least that the station sat close by.

  Once at the station, she encountered a nice young man who offered to take her things to the hotel, where she would no doubt need a room.

  She glanced around, more than curious about Endville. From what she’d been told, the town was the last before one traversed through the Damned Plains. Once she’d crossed the border separating the East from the West, she’d seen less cultured society and more of the wild press of the land.

  When living in York, Miranda had only ventured into the world outside the castle in the presence of her mother, when gathering herbs and plants for the conservatory or accompanying her cousin when the mood struck her royal highness.

  Here, instead of the conservatory’s rich scents of orange and lemon, lavender and rosemary, death saturated the stale, dry air. Where the vast kitchens of the royal house always smelled of fresh bread and crackled with an ever-present cooking fire, here the only fire that burned lingered in the corpses around her and in the great steel locomotive.

  The accident could have killed her. Yet here she stood. Another town, different people, something new to add to her memories. Traveling the open world satisfied the ache in her for something more. And even though she couldn’t truly enjoy her limited freedom when not only Clarissa’s life but also her own hung in the balance, Miranda intended to make the most of this expedition.

  The many towns she’d passed through on her trip thus far fascinated her. The further west she traveled, the less like New Britain everything seemed. Even the accents of those around her sounded foreign. Not French, not Norse, but Western. The food was different, less savory but more refreshing. Cooks didn’t drench their meats in sauces. And the clothing…

  Here, whatever contributed to one’s survival would take the place of frippery and nonsense. The reality of living outside the castle walls, she reminded herself with a sense of contentment.

  Miranda wondered, not for the first time, why she didn’t simply walk away from all this and start life anew. No one knew her out here. No one would care if she suddenly began working and living in a town far away from this mess. With her savings earned from sewing and selling herbs in secret, she had enough funds to start a small business of her own. Perhaps she’d sew clothing or maybe cultivate rare herbs and brew medicines.

  But she had made a promise to her dying mother. To help a stubborn princess raised under the iron will of a selfish, vain queen with love for no one but herself. Integrity had mattered to Minerva Anvers, and it mattered to her daughter as well. Miranda would not break her promise, though she longed to.

  She sighed and walked back through town. Many of those she passed stared at her, no doubt interested in the wreck’s odd survivor, a woman with white hair who dressed like a man. Most of the women she’d seen wore long linen dresses and serviceable boots. A few hats, not a parasol in sight, and a kerchief or two. The men dressed for work, in denims or coarse cotton to combat the extremes of heat during the day and the cold at night.

  At home in York, the temperate nature of the seasons required an assortment of lighter shifts and thicker coats. Spring, summer, autumn and winter had definite impact on trade and the economy, or so she’d been taught by her mother. York depended upon commerce with the Continent and the Homeland. The few ships she’d had occasion to see had been so grand, so incredibly sturdy. They could have taken her all the way across the sea to the very birth of civilization. Yet for all its similarities to the Homeland, she’d often heard it said that many favored New Britain, where its citizens explored a new way of life.

  They still had the king, the royal cadre of his advisors and staff, the Johnny On the Spots who upheld the king’s law. Noblemen and noblewomen, as well as the lower classes engaged in commerce and lesser trade. But the plentiful riches of the waters and land in York had stamped out much of New Britain’s problems with hunger. The city was rich with foodstuffs and skilled laborers. Crafts sold for coins without fail, and trade among the New Britain townships flourished.

  Most of the king’s subjects welcomed his rule. Except for those enslaved by the bonds of servitude.

  Like Miranda. Like her mother had once been.

  Many of the older practices still observed in the Homeland remained at work in New Britain, and Miranda tired of it. She refused to die under the thumb of a selfish, overindulgent monarch who couldn’t keep himself occupied with his wife, too busy rutting with anything in a skirt. She could only thank the gods he’d sired her, else she’d no doubt be large with his child and nowhere to go, stuck under the malicious queen’s ever-vengeful eye.

  Miranda shivered, knowing she could never go back to York, not after having tasted the freedom of choice so far away from what she’d only ever called home.

  With that in mind, she made her way to the hotel and resolved to do whatever it took to get Clarissa back to her worried uncle. One way or the other, Miranda would pay off her debts and earn her right to freedom. Danner’s kiss replayed in her mind. A trade, he’d said. Her body for his protection.

  Freedom would come because she considered no price too much to bear. And if she enjoyed the cost of her salvation, so much the better. She smiled at the thought, determined that no matter what Mr. Danner thought he had in store for her, she’d do him one better. Not because she wanted to, she hastily reminded herself, but because she had to.

  She touched the chain at her throat and climbed the steps to the hotel.

  Chapter Three

  I ought to have my head examined. Twenty-four hours after making the second biggest mistake of his life, Danner scowled at the sunny female as they followed the humming whir of his automated wagon over the grassy divide. The small conveyance had cost more than a horse, but it didn’t need the upkeep or the water the four-legged creatures did. The auton used solar power to heat the coils that pushed the small rotators, which allowed it to hover waist-high over the ground. The thing carried his belongings with ease and spanned no more than half his height in width. Rails caged his possessions safely atop the thick platform, and a handy lock kept the conveyance from being stolen when he ventured through Western towns.

  He’d purchased it years ago to hold his supplies. As a journeyman, he was used to travel—it was his life’s calling. But since his exile from home and being stripped of his Ride, he’d had to become more creative in getting around. He knew from experience that aside from riding the locomotive, walking gave him less of a headache than caring for an animal. Besides, a journeyman needed the open air to be truly at peace, a state he was working his ass off to achieve once more.

  As good as her word, Princess Miranda, who wasn’t a princess, walked beside him. She continued to study the conveyance with a dazed expression on her face.

  Not from passion, unfortunately, but from her apparent interest in all things Western. Too bad they didn’t seem to include him. He still couldn’t believe she’d called his bluff. What the fuck was he going to do with her? He knew what he wanted to do, but Danner couldn’t in good conscience accept payment for this trip with sexual favors.

  Could he?

  It took him a few moments to ignore the sight of her full lips, fine ass and those long, long legs to decide that no, he couldn’t.

&n
bsp; The woman had a serious case of the crazies. If her cousin was the princess of York, he’d eat his damned hat. Clarissa of York had less height and less meat on her bones than the sexual temptation next to him. A refined aristocrat with noble blood, the princess had the condescension of true royalty.

  But this Miranda, he wasn’t sure what the hell to make of her. She didn’t seem as stuck up as most Easterners, and she sure as shit put his dick in a knot. She was truly beautiful, but without the attitude that normally went with it.

  That kiss he’d planted on her must have fried his brains, because walking all the way to the Crystal Palace was sure to get them both killed. Danner hadn’t meant to touch her, but he thought he’d seen lightning in her eyes, and he’d been helpless to resist. Strike him dead by the Old Man himself, but she’d tasted like pure sin. Everything he’d ever wanted in the press of her soft lips and sweet mouth.

  Stars above, she’d rendered him mindless. He tried to convince himself he’d suffered the aftereffects of the godbolts. But even now, a day later, he still wanted her.

  Passion hadn’t scared her off. Instead it made his every step agony. He had to constantly fight his arousal, knowing that she’d agreed to his crazy bargain and he had the right to take her—even if doing so went against his staunch principles. Yeah, well, look where your principles have landed you. A bastard with no place to call home.

  He cast another lingering glance at the white-haired little witch.

  Fuck no. The last time he’d let a woman lead him by his cock, he’d lost his position, enraged the god of lightning and thunder, and landed in the East—a place even more chaotic than the Underworld. It made the West look like paradise. He turned to Miranda.

  “Look, princess, we don’t need to do this.” He glanced behind him, still able to see the hazy outline of Endville in the far, flat distance. Not too far gone yet to turn around. “We can fake proof you went all the way into the Damned Plains. I bet we can even piece you into a moving picture of the palace if you really want to impress them. Your friends will never know you weren’t there.”

  Miranda sighed, and thoughts of her breathy cries, her naked body on a bed, filled his imagination.

  The woman wouldn’t answer, and he groaned. “You going to tell me what we’re really doing?” he asked, not for the first time.

  She managed to tear her gaze away from the interlocking coils of the rotor wheels and grimaced. “You are such a stubborn man, Mr. Danner.”

  He ground his back teeth. “It’s not Mister. Just Danner.”

  “You know, I was told many things about you, but no one ever said you were a fool.”

  “Dammit. You little—”

  “I was told you owned an auton, which would carry our supplies. I was also told you charged an honest wage for honest work. That I would be safe with you, and that you have survived the godwrath many a man has not.”

  The wagons were rare, expensive and damned good for protection as well as storage, so he understood her wanting to hire him. He usually charged minimal fees, because he didn’t need more money than it took to buy a meal or a place to sleep every now and then. Helping folks had been ingrained into him since birth; it was a part of who he was. And the godwrath, well, it would take more than a godbolt and the stormy, noxious particles in the winds of godsbreath to kill him.

  As they crossed the first of several rolling hills that stretched the plains, he lost sight of Endville and sighed. “Princess, explain to me again how your cousin is at the Crystal Palace.” He glanced at her. She carried herself with poise, had the accent and speech patterns of someone well educated and had shown him enough coin to prove she could pay him.

  Naïve, but he appreciated the thought. Lucky for her he wasn’t a murdering thief.

  “My name is Miranda. Clarissa is the princess. I am a by-blow, if you must know.” She refused to look at him.

  “Huh?”

  “A bastard,” she enunciated, her body as taut as a pulled bow.

  Hit a nerve. He smiled. “Ain’t we all, darlin’.”

  She lifted her chin and continued. “Clarissa has recently come into her own.”

  “So she’s what, sixteen?”

  “Actually she’s eighteen. She’s lived with the king and queen since her mother died when she was just a girl. It’s no secret the queen always wanted a child, and after the death of Clarissa’s mother, her father, Prince Reginald, found her to be too much of a bother and shipped her off to the royal palace. Clarissa was due to come out two years ago but her father died. During her requisite mourning period, the Corcoates sons have taken every advantage of their father’s close association with King Norcross of York, Clarissa’s uncle. While William Corcoates, the father, tries to gain favor from the king, his sons have tried courting Clarissa—who, as you know, is the last royal left to inherit the throne.”

  “Right.” He nodded. “Norcross has no heirs and only had one brother, the now-dead Reginald. Clarissa’s the last of the direct Royal Bloodline. But she’s female, so Norcross is waiting to abdicate to her future husband, who he’s planning to choose. That about the gist of it all?”

  She blinked. “Correct. Philippe Corcoates is the oldest of his siblings, so he had a real shot at winning the throne by courting Clarissa. Of course, once he stole the spyders from court, he lost any chance for the princess’s hand. The king will never reward him with the crown now.” She paused. “If I may say, you’re very well versed in Eastern rule.”

  “I may look stupid, princess, but I’m not. I spent a year in the East, much to my regret. Besides, I’ve found it’s always wise to know your neighbors.”

  “True.” She stared at him, then cleared her throat. “As I was saying, Philippe wasn’t content to steal only the spyders. In the five years since he disappeared, he apparently spent some time plotting to take Clarissa and is currently holding her for ransom.”

  “See, that’s what don’t make any sense. If she’s in danger, the entire royal army would be all over the damned place.”

  “Must you swear?”

  “So what’s going on, honey?”

  “I prefer princess to honey,” she muttered.

  He pushed a button on the auton and it stopped. He stopped with it, waiting.

  “Oh very well. The king’s men have been scouring the Northern and Southern sections of the West for months, but they’re being very discreet. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, Princess Clarissa has been venturing across the sea on holiday. Having her fun back on the Continent.”

  “But you said she’s being held at the Crystal Palace. So why are the king’s soldiers looking in the wrong places?”

  The way she paused told him she worded her answer with care. Interesting.

  “The king has been told his niece and heir is missing. He has little more information than that, and to let on that he doesn’t know what happens in his own court would cause disaster. He prides himself on his vast arrays of intelligence within York. Point of fact, he has no idea I’m not still with her. He believes that the princess and her companion have been taken hostage.”

  “But here you are.”

  She bit her lower lip, obviously uneasy. “Philippe sent me a private message the day he took Clarissa. He gave me six months to find my way West without being seen. He said if I didn’t come alone, and come quietly, he’d make it quite public that Clarissa has spent time alone with him and encouraged his advances.”

  “You sure she wouldn’t willingly let him?” Prince Philippe had a reputation with the ladies. Though Danner couldn’t understand it, most women thought the jackass handsome.

  Miranda’s lips twisted, and he had his answer. She wasn’t sure. “Philippe is a ruffian. I don’t see why she’d let him do anything at all to her.” But she didn’t sound convinced.

  “A ruffian, hmm? Miranda, what’s he done besides steal the spyders that’s got you so bothered?”

  Her lips drew tight and her shoulders stiffened. He didn’t think she’d
say, and then she explained. “Philippe and Clarissa grew up together in court. He often spent time with the princess, an appearance meant to further the notion that the wealthy Corcoates family and Prince Reginald, the king’s only brother, were amicable. I do believe the king always intended to marry Clarissa to one of them. He stands to earn quite an extensive amount for his niece, and the king is nothing if not savvy about his personal finances.”

  An understatement. Norcross was a tight-fisted son a bitch who wouldn’t think twice about putting orphans and widows out to pasture if it meant lining his pockets. Personally, Danner didn’t know why the gods tolerated the asshole ruling the East, where the people seemed to worship money and ignore the gods. Then again, most of the deities he knew had turned a blind eye to what many considered the godless lands. Out West, however, the gods continued to interfere whenever the fuck they felt like it.

  Miranda continued to chatter about court intrigue dealing with the other members of the Corcoates family, who apparently held a lot of influence out East.

  He yawned. Politics bored the shit out of him. “Yeah, yeah. William’s a dick, Horace is loony. And? Your cousin?”

  She scowled at him. “My point is that Philippe had become rather desperate for attention some years ago. It was most unfortunate. Before he absconded with the spyders, he saw me attending Clarissa and became rather enamored.” She paused, waiting for him to say something. When he remained silent, she protested, “I did nothing to provoke his attentions. Nothing.”

  He shrugged. “Okay. So he wanted you. You’re beautiful. It’s not hard to believe.”

  She blushed, a striking rose covering her cheeks.