The Runaway Princess

by Christina Dodd

  Lost. Pathetic. Yes, that was she. “I am not a princess.”

  “Then you’re a whore.”

  Scandalized, she gaped at him.

  “A very expensive whore.” His face grew cold. “What other kind of woman comes to a spa alone, without a chaperone, without even a maid?”

  The kind of woman who never had a maid, and who didn’t want someone snooping into her background.

  “And as a whore, you are available for my pleasure.” The broad hands she admired clasped her by the elbows, and he pulled her close, curving his body over hers like a wolf protecting its mate. His head lowered toward hers, and she ducked.

  “No,” he whispered, pressing her against the glass and tilting her face toward his with his fingers under her chin.

  Belatedly, she remembered her Chinese techniques. She tried to smash his nose with her forehead. But he, apparently, had not forgotten her early maneuver, and gripped her jaw firmly.

  “I have money to pay you whatever you want,” he said. “A whore is in no position to refuse money.”

  “I am, too!” she cried.

  “But you’re not in the position to have all the tourists informed of your profession.”

  She stiffened at the thought of her carefully cultivated mystique dissolving, at the people who resided here looking at her with contempt.

  He chuckled, soft and deep, the sound of his laughter grating as painfully as a shredder across her knuckles. “They’re already talking about you, little girl. Wondering about your background. If not for Henri and his steadfast support, the gentlemen would already be knocking at your door. Didn’t you think of that?”

  She hadn’t, and she wished he hadn’t told her.

  He angled his head, and his mouth touched hers, a light salutation.

  She almost choked. A kiss. Her first kiss, delivered by an angry maniac who imagined her first a princess, then a prostitute.

  “Relax,” he whispered.

  His breath played across her face, fanning the sensation of intimacy. The protruding windowsill cut into her lower thighs. The cold of the window seeped through the thin silk of her gown and petticoat. She shivered, and he gathered her closer, sliding his hand across her back, kneading the chill away.

  “I can keep you warm.” His voice was smooth, hypnotic. “A woman of your experience needs a man to keep her warm.”

  Wedging her arms between them, against his chest, she said, “I’m not—”

  His lips pressed more firmly to hers, cutting her protests. His eyes were closed, those ridiculous lashes shadows on his cheeks, and he looked serious, as if this kiss required his concentration.

  Concentration. That was what she required to remain calm. He was kissing her, true, but whatever he expected from her, she did not have to give. She didn’t know what it was, for one thing. She didn’t want to arouse the beast, for another. Leona had said kissing, when done right, could overcome a man with baser needs. Leona had said—

  “Close your eyes.” He lifted his head and stared, holding her, all of her body crowded against all of his, by the strength of one arm. The other hand still held her chin, but moved to stroke her cheek “Such eyes,” he whispered. “So reproachful. So revealing. They ravish my soul.”

  “Are you being funny?” she asked suspiciously.

  His nostrils flared with disapproval. “You are not at all polished.”

  “You’re forcing yourself on me, and complaining of my manners?”

  “A most exasperating woman.” He sounded sanctimonious, and he looked bedeviled. She expected him to thrust her away, but instead he smoothed his lips over her eyelids until they closed. “Now keep them closed.” And he kissed her once more.

  Apparently annoyance did not dim his ardor; indeed it seemed to have the opposite effect. This time his lips were warmer, more insistent. His body heated hers like a stove.

  Lovers. She had seen lovers kissing among the alpine flowers on one of her walks, and surprise had made her stare in vulgar fascination. Their mouths had been open to each other, they’d strained with some obvious fervor, and desolation had sent her hurrying in the other direction. At that moment, she had feared she would never know such familiarity.

  Now she was here, in the arms of a violent madman despoiler murderer, and she was inclined to continue. That sinful something unloosed on the day she left her former life now whispered, What harm in knowing?

  She puckered her lips and relaxed into his arms.

  And his tongue touched her mouth.

  With the edge of her hand, she shoved him hard, right on the Adam’s apple. “Yuck!”

  He dropped her and grabbed his throat.

  Sidling away from him, she demanded, “What did you do that for?”

  “What?” he asked hoarsely. He coughed slightly, then repeated, “Do what? I was just kissing you.”

  She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth in the most offended manner she could devise. “You licked me.”

  She had hoped to insult him. Instead, hand on his throat, he stared down at her. The brilliant cobalt of his eyes faded to a thoughtful shade of slate. “One would think you have not made your fortune by prostitution.”

  “I am not a whore. I told you, I’m Evangeline Scoffield, an Englishwoman. I inherited money from the . . .” She stared up at his domineering features in despair. She didn’t want to tell him about her silly fantasies. Especially not now. When he laughed at her, the humiliation would wither her, and all her memories of this time would be tainted.

  Only, nothing but the whole truth would do. Otherwise, how would she save herself, as a proper Englishwoman should do?

  “I’m listening.” He folded his arms across his chest.

  Obviously, passion had not overcome him. Probably, he’d never lost his discipline, for she wasn’t a creature of irresistibility. She sagged with private, contraband disappointment. This week had proved that. She was only—“Evangeline Scoffield. I’m an orphan bought from a foundling school. I worked for a lady . . . who . . . died.”

  “What kind of work did you do?”

  “Leona had this incredible library”—incredibly musty—“and she wanted a . . . well, I suppose you could call it an inquiry aide.”

  “A dull occupation for one so vibrant as you.”

  “Oh, no!” She shifted away from his searching gaze. “At least, not at first. I was eleven when I went to her, and hungry for knowledge, not to mention skinny and pathetic.” Smiling, she invited him to picture the child she had been, but he stood stoically. “She taught me Greek, Latin, French, Spanish, Slavic, and an obscure dialect called Baminian.”

  “You speak it like a native,” he commented.

  “Yes, well, Leona was a skilled linguist!” Was she getting through to him? She couldn’t tell. “I can translate Mandarin Chinese and German. I know how to make fireworks, how to break a horse, how to ride a camel.”

  Or rather, she knew how to do those things in theory. She had no practical experience. She and Leona had gone nowhere, done nothing but read and learn. Letters and drawings had come from distant scholars, and Evangeline had rubbed the ornate ink strokes with her fingertips and wished she could go to those places. Her adolescence had slipped by, frittered away on dreams of freedom and travel.

  But she didn’t think it would be wise to admit that to this cynic. “I could even dissect a human body,” she said triumphantly.

  “I will make sure I keep all knives away from you while you’re around me.”

  In any other man, Evangeline might have thought that was humor. In this man, she considered it a warning.

  She ought to refuse to explain herself any further. After all, he was waiting without a visible flicker of interest for her to finish. Hastily, she continued, “My knowledge was limited only by Leona’s interests, and Leona was interested in everything. And I was grateful to be there.”

  “In East Big Mouthie, Cornwall.”

  “East Little Teignmouth, and yes, I was grateful. Anythi
ng was better than the alternatives.”

  “What alternatives were those?”

  “Governess, starvation, or, your favorite, prostitution,” she said in a clipped tone. She wasn’t getting through to him. It was as if he could comprehend none of the languages she spoke. Perhaps if she spoke in a really low baritone . . . “She wanted me to have her money, so when she . . . died . . . I, um, inherited it.”

  The proportions of his face thinned with disapproval.

  “I bought these trappings and came here playing a role because I couldn’t bear to expire without ever having tasted the wonders of the world,” she concluded rapidly.

  “You call that the truth?” His nose, a craggy edifice, grew pinched, and his lips compressed. “I had hoped you would see your error. Did not the good sisters teach it is a sin to lie—Your Royal Highness?”

  Had he been hoaxing her with his accusations of prostitution? Looking at him now, all dignified censure, she thought he had. He’d been testing her, trying her out like a rider with a new horse.

  If he were indeed mad, then he played his delusion with a cool logic she might admire . . . if only she were not the object of that delusion. “I’m not the princess, and I’m not lying!” Or not much. “I’ve got a copy of the will in my bag. It’s a good will, it really, really is. Perfectly legal. If you’ll just let me get it . . .”

  He caught her as she tried to step around him and into the open area of the room. “Let me tell you what I think. I think you are the spoiled daughter of the House of Chartrier.”

  She would have protested again, but he held up his hand. “I listened to you,” he reminded.

  “But you don’t believe me. You haven’t seen this princess in twelve years, but you think you know her.”

  “The evidence points to your true identity. You have been attending the convent school near Viella, just across the Spanish border. You recognized me in the dining room and retreated to your room to make up a plan—an inadequate fabrication which you were ill-equipped to tell.”

  “I didn’t feel the need to explain myself to a madman.” She asked suspiciously, “And why do you want this princess so badly?”

  “I don’t feel the need to explain the obvious.” He mocked her with her own words. “You know you panicked when you saw me holding the penknife I sent you as a present for your fifteenth birthday.” He nodded toward the desk where the contents of her secretary were scattered willy-nilly.

  “I panicked because I thought you were going to stab me.”

  He smiled, a slight lift of the lips. “Only a fool would hurt you.”

  She hated this. He sounded so sensible, so . . . so . . . uncrazed. If he kept talking, he could almost convince her she was Ethelinda of Serephina.

  But even if she assumed he was sane, there was still the nagging question of his identity. Choosing her words carefully, she asked, “If I were truly the princess, and I recognized you in the dining room, why would I flee in alarm?”

  “I weary of your foolish questions,” he said disdainfully.

  “Humor me.”

  “You would flee”—he said repressively—“because you know I am Danior. Danior of the House of Leon.”

  With a sinking sensation, she realized she was familiar with the name. “Danior of Baminia?”

  He nodded. “Your betrothed.”

  Four

  Evangeline backed toward the corner of the chamber. “But you can’t be a prince. You can’t!”

  Danior’s heavy, dark eyebrows rose. “Why not?”

  “Because you’re too . . . too . . .” Big. Broad. Muscular.

  She’d seen pictures of princes in her books. Lots of them. Princes wore capes lined with robin’s egg blue silk that they threw carelessly over one shoulder. They wore velvet caps trimmed with soft feathers. They trod so lightly that the ground was grateful to hold their weight. They were slender, graceful—and charming.

  A prince did not wear unremitting black and white, like any gentleman of fashion. He did not have thighs as thick and sturdy as Roman columns and arms like a Roman centurion. He certainly did not stomp like a giant staking out his territory, so that the floors groaned and the crockery rattled.

  The crockery was rattling as Danior moved toward her, obviously not charmed; his mouth compressed into a thin line. “Why not?” he rapped out.

  “You have no neck,” she blurted, pressing up against the nightstand beside the bed.

  He reached up and touched the knot of his plain white cravat. “Of course I have a neck. How else would I swallow?” As if he realized what he’d said, he tossed his hand out in disgust. “You’re talking nonsense, and I’m defending myself.” He glared down at her. “It has been twelve years since I’ve seen you, yes, but I was fourteen on the day I bid you good-bye, and I think I have not changed significantly since then. If my looks displease you, I am sorry, but that is no reason to try to evade your duties. As time goes on, I am sure we will grow accustomed to each other’s appearance.”

  She had two choices. She could either go back to her “he’s insane” theory, or she could accede that this peasant-built man was Danior of Baminia. She feared the latter was the truth, and she sighed as another of her lifelong fantasies, that of the elegant prince, writhed in a short and painful death. “So you think I look different?”

  “Of course you look different. You were a child, totally unformed and undeveloped.” His gaze swept her quickly from head to toe, then returned to linger on her generous bosom, displayed as attractively as possible by the cut of the gown. “Although I never expected you to grow so . . . tall.”

  Tall? She could have sworn he hadn’t been going to comment on her height, and fascination definitely sparked in Danior’s eyes. Behind her, she fumbled with the handle on the water jug. “Why not?”

  “Hm?”

  Yes. That was interest, compounded by that possessive gleam she’d seen in the dining room. Her alarm returned and doubled. “Why didn’t you expect me to grow so tall?”

  “Oh.” He looked her in the face. “You were such a short little thing. Don’t you remember how our people chuckled when we stood together?”

  She had to be firm. She had to be. “No, because I wasn’t there. I’m not your princess.”

  He stared at her as if deep in thought, then nodded once, rigidly. “And obviously, I’m not your prince.”

  Her heart lifted for one brief moment before he continued.

  “I forget that you are young, and wish perhaps that your life had not been arranged from the moment of your birth. So I wifi give you romance.” Darnor sank to his knees before her and took her free hand. “Princess Ethelinda, wifi you honor our betrothal and after the ceremony of Revealing, marry me in the Cathedral at Plaisance?”

  Evangeline stared at the top of his bowed, yet not humble, head, and she realized she’d never been in such trouble in her life. Not when she’d been a hungry waif. Not when she’d been put to work at the orphanage. Not even two months ago when she’d slipped away from East Little Teignmouth in the deep of night.

  Danior said, “Together, we can reunite our two kingdoms and create prosperity for our nations.”

  She was in trouble because she wanted him to be Danior of Baminia. She wanted to be Ethelinda of Serephina. And more than anything in the world, she wanted to believe she had a home to go to, where people looked to her with hope and affection and considered her the fulfillment of a prophecy.

  She swallowed. Her grip on the pitcher loosened, and her hand reached around to hover above his head, almost touching the thick black sweep of hair.

  With one word, she could change her life. She wouldn’t have to go back to England and start a bookstore in loneliness and obscurity. She remembered every tale Leona had told about the Two Kingdoms. Perched on the spine of the Pyrenees, Baminia and Serephinia had once upon a time been united. A foolish quarrel had split them, and although never had there been actual combat across their shared border, the peoples cordially despised each other.
According to the prophecy of Santa Leopolda, Prince Danior and Princess Ethelinda were fated to bring their countries together again, but for some reason—Evangeline looked at Danior and thought she knew why—the real princess had written a letter denouncing her heritage.

  And here, conveniently, stood Evangeline, who spoke the Baminian language and knew their customs and history. She could fool everyone into thinking she was the princess, and no one would ever know the truth.

  She stood on the brink of the greatest adventure of her life. The adventure she’d always dreamed of.

  She opened her mouth to say, “Yes, I will marry you.”

  Instead, what came out was, “I am Evangeline Scoffield of Cornwall. I’m a commoner, an orphan, and I’m going to go back to England and open a bookstore.”

  The substance of adventure, when compared to the dream, contained just a little too much gritty reality for plain Evangeline Scoffield.

  Yet adventure clutched her by the hand, and its name was Danior. His grip tightened, and deliberately, he lifted his head and looked into her eyes.

  Determination. The man vibrated with determination. “I will marry you,” he said, “if I have to cross all of Hell’s rivers to do it.”

  “Might be necessary.” Behind her, she groped for the ceramic handle, and she heaved the pitcher in a wide circle. Water sloshed as she tried to crack Danior in the head, but he buried his face in her ribs. When the weight of the swinging pitcher threw her off balance, he caught her midsection under his shoulder and stood with her.

  With grim satisfaction, he said, “You are a very predictable woman, Ethelinda.” And he tossed her on the bed.

  The pitcher clattered to the floor as she brought her hands up, but nothing could hold off the full weight of his descent. It was like having a log fall on her, and despite what he said, there was nothing noticeably noble about this log.

  “I said I would wed you.”

  She tried to adjust so she could get her hands out from beneath him.

  Effectively, he moved to crush her deeper into the feather mattress. “I want you to remember, this isn’t my chosen method of courtship.”