His Royal Princess

by Debra Kayn

  "Goodbye, Princess Celina." Linje bowed. "Peace be with you."

  She hesitated at the hall leading to the wives' quarters, but pursed her lips and kept walking. Many years has passed since she'd relied on one of the mothers to help her. After all, none of them claimed her as a blood relative. She'd not let their goodbyes disappoint her too.

  Papa had always filled the vacancies left inside her from growing up without a mother—until now. Just the idea! How did he live with himself? Fathers did not ship their daughters off to a strange country with a business associate. He'd never do that with one of his other children, not without a mother coming to the child's defense. She was all alone.

  Going by his age, Mr. Randall should be on his second or third set of wives already. Never in her life did she think her father wished her a life sentence as a third, or worse, a fourth wife. Did the years she spent with him mean nothing?

  "Princess Celina."

  The distinguished-looking man ambled down the corridor, his heels clicking on the bare floor echoing against the tall ceiling and filling the silence. He stopped in front of her. She lowered her head out of respect, but caught a glimpse of a smile on his face. He appeared...pleasant.

  "How are you, dear?"

  "Fine, Mr. Randall." She directed her gaze toward his feet.

  "Please, call me Charles. Once you are under my care in California, it'll be perfectly okay to call each other by our first names."

  She nodded. She did not understand the reasoning, but she understood change, whether she wanted it or not. "I would like to leave now, if it's feasible."

  "Sure. Yes. Prince Joqua has already arranged everything."

  Of course. Her papa arranged many things—even her life plans. She figured he'd already have his private jet fueled and waiting to fly her off his island. Fine. She'd go and never set her gaze upon the man she called Papa again.

  The courtyard bristled with movement, and Celina soaked it all in. Young men strummed their guitars with the hope of attracting the attention of women who stood around chatting in groups nearby. Small children played a game of skipper, where they jumped from square to square. Mothers sat on the stone benches and conversed with each other.

  "Celina, wait," a voice called out.

  Tressa's mother, Marti, ran toward Celina. Her long gown billowed in the breeze sweeping off the ocean. The lump in Celina's throat grew bigger, and for a moment, she took pleasure that a parental figure came to say farewell.

  "Celina." Marti grabbed Celina's hands. "I wish you well, daughter."

  Daughter. The casing she placed around her heart threatened to crack over the endearment. Here was the one person who might be able to answer the question she needed to ask.

  "Marti, can you tell me why my mother was buried with the blessed in the Holy Ground?" She squeezed Marti's hands and searched her face for the answer.

  Marti drew back her hands and acted wounded. Celina reached out and picked up Marti's hands again. She ignored the onlookers who gathered around them, curious about the prince's daughter.

  "Please, Marti, it is important to me," Celina begged. "It's the only thing I want to know before I leave here, never to come back."

  Marti stepped closer to Celina, and keeping her head down, spoke to her in a low voice, no one would overhear. "It's not something I can speak of. Your father forbids the people to tell you the truth."

  "The truth? What is the truth?" Celina shook Marti's hands and tried to coax the secret out of the woman. She deserved to know what everyone else knew.

  "I must go. I'll miss you." Marti pulled her hands away and leaned over to kiss her on the cheeks.

  "Marti, I beg you. Tell me before I leave."

  "Find the truth, Celina. Find the truth about your mother," Marti whispered in her ear.

  The chatter of conversations came back to Celina, who became aware of the eyes trained on her. Mr. Randall waited patiently. What truth? She knew the truth...didn't she?

  The stories she'd heard growing up about her mother never included her ever being buried in the blessed area. Did the Antakians know Natalia was buried in the wrong area? Shaking her head, she gazed up at the palace one last time. It's off-white masonry smooth with age and the abuse of sand and salt stood majestically against the almost barren landscape of the island. This was her home where her family would stay all their lives. Never before had she felt so alone.

  She turned and nodded at Mr. Randall.

  "We can proceed, Charles."

  Chapter Two

  The pilot's voice boomed over the loudspeaker of the airliner and thanked them for flying. At the end of the flight, Celina's hands no longer gripped the armrests on each side of her, and she was able to breathe again without the tightness in her chest hurting each time. Glad to arrive, she mused that the long flight between Antaka and America had spanned many miles.

  "Are you excited, dear?"

  She smiled at Mr. Randall, and turned her head to resume her observation of the other passengers on the plane. The clothing others displayed in public astounded her. The amount of skin they allowed to show shocked and fascinated her. No other person dressed in a long flowing robe like hers, which covered the whole body.

  "My home—our home—is only a few minutes' ride from the airport. Once we get you settled in and rested, I think we should sit down and discuss your father's plans."

  She nodded. Mr. Randall had talked a lot and filled her in on what to expect throughout the entire flight. He seemed helpful and courteous.

  She'd known very little about the man before today. He did business with her father and shared meals at the palace on his trips to Antaka; He also seemed quite happy to take her to his home.

  Celina wasn't a fool. She understood that American men took whatever they wanted and left at a moment's notice. American women did it too. Her mother had.

  The words Nari often spoke came true. Papa thought her worthless of an Antakian husband, and now she must pay the price. Her future was with an American husband. An older gentleman with graying hair, a round stomach, and a smile that came easily to everyone he met. Had Prince Joqua sold her to the highest bidder, or did he simply throw her away like unwanted garbage?

  The roar of the jet slowed down and came to a stop. Celina clutched her hands together on her lap. Mr. Randall reached over and patted her leg. The contact comforted her; no butterflies flitted inside her belly, and it surprised her. She expected a rush of sensations, but his hand reminded her of Papa's. Not a touch from someone she expected to share a bed with soon.

  People crowded the airport, zigzagging in front of her. She tried to stop and pay attention to them, but the current of travelers racing by pushed her along the corridor. All the different skin colors and odd assortments of dress hypnotized her. She stared. She wanted to remember every detail of the different fabrics and colors. The tales of her adventure would entertain her sisters for days.

  She tried to listen to conversations, but Mr. Randall ushered her through the airport. Even in different languages the people behaved in a manner unfamiliar to her. The men talked to women, and women walked ahead of men down the long hallway. The experience was both dizzying and confusing, as if caught between a nightmare and a dream.

  "Here's my driver." Mr. Randall motioned her forward to the doors swinging in a circle. She set a foot out, but the floor moved. She jumped back and nearly got her dress caught in the door.

  "I guess you have never walked through a revolving door." Charles laughed and grabbed Celina's hand. He pulled her into the contraption beside him.

  "Just for fun, let's ride it around in a circle, and when you think the moment is right, go ahead and jump off outside where you see that car parked." He pointed to a black limousine.

  She held still; only her eyes moved trying to make sense of the moving door. She counted the seconds between openings, and tried to guess the exact moment that the door opened.

  On the fourth time around, Charles encouraged her by chanting, "Go,
go, go!"

  She took a deep breath and jumped out. The tinkling soft sound of her laughter surprised her, and she covered her mouth with her hands. She did it!

  The heat outside the airport blasted Celina, and she tugged at the material around her neck. She turned to observe how Mr. Randall handled the heat and lost him in the crowd of people who exited the airport. It would serve Papa right if the moment she stepped down on American soil Mr. Randall lost her.

  The partition carried Mr. Randall around to face Celina. He walked out and joined her on the sidewalk. Her eyebrows rose. Impressed with his ability to make the entrance seem effortless, Celina clapped, and he gave her an elegant bow.

  "Don't worry. You'll be a pro at it in no time."

  "Your home has doors like this?" She half hoped it did.

  He shook his head. "Gracious no, but we do have an elevator in my office building downtown. A box carries you way up in the air and brings you back down to the ground. You can ride that whenever you want."

  An elevator? The thought of such mechanical wonders intrigued her. Back home, fabric usually hung on the doors, and no one built fun exits on them.

  A man dressed in a black suit opened the rear of Charles' car, and Celina entered first. She scooted to the far side of the seat, and Mr. Randall directed the man to drive them home.

  "Would you like a drink?" He opened a little cabinet door inside the car.

  She leaned to check the labels on the bottles, but from her position, they appeared blurry. "I would like water, if you have any, please."

  The plastic bottle of water chilled her hand, and she debated if it would seem improper to lay the bottle against her cheek to cool off. The heat from outside resembled the steam rooms back on Antaka. No wonder the women here chose to wear such little clothing.

  The stretch limousine pulled up to a stately, two-story brick house surrounded by trees with leaves the size of pumpkins. Although attractive, the house appeared much smaller than the palace, yet bigger than the size of the common people's homes back on the island.

  The driver turned off the engine and opened up the back door. She stepped out into the heat. Charles held her hand, and together they walked up the steps to the front door.

  "Let's go in and get you settled. I think you will enjoy your room. The air-conditioner keeps the house cool, and you can escape from the heat outdoors until you get used to it. Before long, you'll be an old hand at handling the weather."

  She let Mr. Randall guide her through the double doors. She stood inside and clutched her small bag—her only possession from home—and surveyed Charles' home.

  The walls lacked the adobe texture and cloth hangings and appeared to wear a light green color. Figurines littered the wooden tabletops—men on horses and miniature battle cannons. The chandelier alone impressed her, with all the jeweled glass hanging from it. She wondered if every home in America were dripping in riches.

  Obviously, this house belonged to a stranger, and she didn't belong.

  "Celina, may I introduce you to the lady who runs the ship around here." Charles motioned a woman into the foyer. "This is Mrs. Stevenson. If you have any questions and I'm not available, she can help you."

  Celina bowed her head toward Mrs. Stevenson. The woman's eyes crinkled at the corners, and her kind smile welcomed Celina.

  "It's nice to meet you, Celina."

  "It's a pleasure to meet you too, Mrs. Stevenson."

  The woman appeared much older than her, around Mr. Randall's age. Probably his first wife.

  Charles smiled at Mrs. Stevenson and patted Celina's shoulder. "Mrs. Stevenson, why don't you show Celina to her room and see her settled. I imagine she's tired of putting up with my company. The trip was long for both of us, and I personally need a nap." Charles placed his hands on his lower back and stretched.

  "This way, Miss."

  Mrs. Stevenson walked up the stairs, and Celina followed. Her hand slid along the wood banister. She marveled at the smoothness of the wood, polished to a shine.

  Portraits adorned the walls of the upstairs hallway, but Mrs. Stevenson walked too fast, and Celina couldn't tell if any of the faces belonged to Charles.

  "Here we go. If you remember that your door is the fourth one on the left, you'll have no trouble finding your room until you get to know the layout of the house better."

  The door swung open without a sound. A beam of light cast its way out into the hall and landed on Celina's feet. Curious, she stepped forward and peered around the room.

  A huge bed with four posts on each corner sat against the far wall, covered by a plush blanket resembling the beige and white rolling hills of sand back home. The cover,was at least six inches thick, and beckoned her to lie down and rest. Four pillows, equally thick and plush, matched the soft printed fabric of the monster blanket on the bed. To the left, a dresser with a mirror above it stood against the wall opposite the single window.

  Tucked into the corner next to the bed was a bench covered in throw pillows that gave view to the outside from the three windows surrounding it. If only she'd brought one of her beloved books with her. The bench provided the perfect spot to relax and forget that she was no longer in her own country. She stepped into the room and ran her hand over one of the many hairbrushes in the tray on the dresser.

  "There's a walk-in closet and an attached bath, so you'll have everything right at your fingertips. If you come across anything else you need, just let me know. I can remedy the situation immediately. I know Mr. Randall wanted everything to be perfect for you." Mrs. Stevenson swept her arm around the room.

  Celina set her small bag on the dresser and peeked through the door leading to the closet. Clothes lined the walls, and at least twenty pairs of shoes stood on the floor.

  "Wait," Celina called out to the retreating elder. Lowering her voice, she asked, "How many other women do I share this room with?"

  "Other women?"

  "Yes, the other wives of Mr. Randall, do they sleep in this room too? Are these their clothes?" She pointed at the closet. Surely, this room served others too.

  "Oh, gracious no. Those are yours. Mr. Randall bought everything you should need, and that includes clothes more appropriate for life in California and the weather here. I believe that was part of the agreement between the prince and Mr. Randall. He's to see to your every need."

  Celina's hands tightened on the material of her dress at her hips. "For me?"

  She looked back at the clothes in the closet. Charles expected her to wear American clothes?

  "Yes, dear. I'll help you when you want to change clothes. Just push this blue button right here by the door and speak into the box. I'll be able to hear your voice without you leaving your room."

  Celina nodded. The box compared to a telephone, she understood that.

  "I know there is a lot to take in at once." A look of compassion passed over her face. "Rest, and when you feel refreshed, everything will be easier."

  The click of the door as Mrs. Stevenson left brought a new sensation to Celina. Alone in a strange country. Everything Antakian stripped from her, similar to how someone goes to jail for many, many years. Would she still be the same person in six months? A year? If it was the last thing she did, she'd never forget who she was or where she came from.

  As she took in her new home, Celina unbuttoned her long, heavy dress—the same kind she wore every day in Antaka—that fell from her figure and puddled to the floor. She picked the dress up and hung it on a hook she found in the closet. Like all Antakian women, the dress was the only thing she chose to wear. Although a female hid her body from males, when alone or in the vicinity of the other women, she lounged around nude.

  She walked over to the bed and stood beside it, wrinkling her mouth to the side as she contemplated how she should sleep in such a grandiose bed. If she slept on top of the massive blanket, she'd need to cover herself from the chilled air in the room, but if she crawled under the blanket, she feared the blanket might suffocate her. She r
ubbed her arms. Under the blanket it will be.

  She swept the blanket back, surprised it weighed less than she thought, and slid into the bed. She curled up on her side, pulled the covers over her shoulders, and stared at the wall. The last time she slept, she lay beside her sisters.

  She longed for the sound of Nari complaining, or Danika giggling to keep everyone awake. Disconnected, she eyed the phone on the bedside table. The idea to call the palace and hope someone answered came to her, but she doubted anyone who answered would allow her to talk with her sisters. She squeezed her eyes shut. Even in a different country, the prince found displeasure in the choices in her head. Damn, you Papa.

  The first tear fell, slid across her nose, and landed on the pillow under her head. She let the other tears fall, but with each teardrop she feared she lost a little part of herself. A part of Antaka.

  A faint knock woke Celina. Did she sleep, or just lay down for her nap? She threw back the covers and walked to the door. She dragged her feet across the carpet and opened the door.

  Mrs. Stevenson stood on the other side, her mouth open and her hand poised to knock once more. Celina opened the door wider and stood back to allow her to enter.

  Mrs. Stevenson stepped in and hurried to shut the door.

  "Celina, why in heavens aren't you dressed?"

  Looking down at her naked body, she raised her eyebrows. Wasn't it obvious?

  "I was sleeping when you knocked on my door."

  "Good gracious, what if Mr. Randall knocked on your door?" Mrs. Stevenson turned from Celina and busied herself rearranging the items on the dresser top.

  The older woman kept her back to Celina, and with a moment of clarity, Celina realized her body embarrassed Mr. Randall's wife. She hurried over and grabbed her dress off the hook.

  "No, Celina! I mean...no." Mrs. Stevenson hurried over to the closet. "The clothes in the closet are yours to wear. There's no need to wear such a dress here in California." Softening her words, she added, "You'd fall right over with heat shock wearing such a heavy dress. I'll help you pick out something more comfortable to wear."