Lover Be Mine A Legendary Lovers Novel - By Nicole Jordan Page 0,68
that. “I don’t want sonnets from you, Jack. I would much rather you tell me about your father’s country and what to expect when we arrive.”
With an inward grimace, Jack turned his attention to the subject he tended to avoid at all costs.
Drawing out a map of France from his knapsack, he showed Sophie where the small principality of Navartania was located … tucked in a river valley in the Jura mountains, near the border of the Swiss Confederation.
“From Paris, we head southeast to Dijon, then east through Besançon. As for what to expect when we arrive, I am not certain.”
“You have never visited there before?”
“No. After Boney’s abdication, I toured France and Austria, but I had no desire to see my father’s homeland.”
Sophie’s gaze was both curious and sympathetic. “Your father tried to find you after your mother was killed, did he not?”
Jack felt his jaw harden reflexively. “He visited England months later, but my uncles believed he had no right to claim me as his son. And shortly afterward I was adopted by my Uncle Stephen.”
“But Prince Raoul wanted to acknowledge you as his son?”
“So he said. His own father was still alive then, however, so for years, there was no question of my inheriting the title. When I was seventeen, Prince Raoul succeeded to the throne. By then he was widowed and growing older and realized he would possibly die childless. Then last year he fell seriously ill, so settling the question of the succession became even more urgent.”
“You said a law was passed so that you could legally inherit the princedom?”
“Yes. Prince Raoul designated me as his heir presumptive. Navartania was founded by Huguenots and named after Henri of Navarre. My claim to the throne would not be contested on religious grounds since the country is Protestant.”
“But you rejected all his efforts to reconcile.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
Sophie didn’t reply directly. “Do you remember him from when you were a child?”
Jack nodded. He vividly remembered the strong, dark-haired, passionate nobleman whom his mother had adored. As a young boy, he’d loved his father, too, but that was before he grew old enough to understand that his father’s failings were nothing short of criminal.
Jack realized he was slightly irrational on the subject. He wanted Prince Raoul to pay for his mother’s death. In fact, thoughts of revenge had driven him for years. But he knew better than to say the word “revenge” in Sophie’s hearing.
When she continued to look at him expectantly, Jack cut off her uncomfortable line of questioning. “This is more than enough discussion about my father.”
“I don’t agree.”
“Why are you so interested in him?”
She pursed her lips. “I don’t give a fig about your father. I only care about how you feel.”
His mouth curled. “Females are always concerned about feelings.”
She gave a quiet little huff. “And you males care too little.”
Wanting to change the subject, Jack again reached in his knapsack, where he stored his victuals. “Could I have my dagger back for a moment?”
Her gaze sharpened on him. “Why?”
“Because I want to pare the rind off a wedge of cheese.”
Sophie reached in her reticule and handed him the knife. “Skye told me about your constant hunger pains. She also said that you learned to defend yourself with swords and pistols and knives. I suppose that is why you have this dagger.”
“It is. I always carry it with me. I have my coats tailored with a special pocket to conceal it.”
Her eyes widened. “Even your evening clothes?”
“Even those.”
“I think it sad that you feel compelled to hide a knife on your person.”
“I don’t want your pity, Sophie,” he said curtly.
“Well, you have it anyway. Not for Jack the man, but for Jack the young boy. What you went through … I can’t even begin to imagine how horrible it must have been for you.”
Dredging up those dark memories made his voice drop a register. “I was lucky to be rescued. Many children don’t escape those circumstances.”
“Skye said you made a pet out of a dormouse to help you survive the loneliness of captivity.”
“Skye talks far too much.”
Despite the bite in his reply, Sophie kept prodding. “What was its name?”
She wasn’t going to give up, Jack realized. He gave an exasperated sigh but answered her meddlesome question under duress. “I called him Pip—short for pipsqueak. He made these funny little squeaking sounds when he snored.”
“A dormouse actually snores?”
A reluctant smile curved his mouth. “Surprisingly, yes. At least mine did. I spent as much time trying to keep him