His to Princess

by Theodora Taylor

  “Al, what is going on?” Talia asks carefully.

  “Please, there is so much to explain—” he starts.

  “Your Royal Highness! Oh, thank goodness!” Bernard calls, jogging up the main stairs with his usual lanky bustle. “The storm made it impossible for us to dock any earlier. A few weeks of playing boy scout is acceptable, Sir. People grieve in different ways. But we cannot lose the future king of Les Iles de la Victoire in a tropical storm!”

  “Your Royal Highness?” Talia repeats, her voice turning hard as she eyes Al.

  And Bernard stills, just now noting her presence.

  “My goodness, is that you Ella?” he asks, blinking hard.

  Talia glances away from Al and responds politely to his personal secretary, “No, sir, but Ella is my mother’s name,” she says.

  “Bon sang, you look just like her…” Bernard looks struck, as if he’s seeing a ghost.

  But then he seems to remember himself. He bows his head to give Talia a formal nod.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Madame—I do believe Ella married an American by the name of Jeffries, am I correct?”

  “Yes,” Talia answers carefully. “That’s my dad. Robert Jeffries. But please call me Talia,” she says.

  Obviously, Bernard would never think of doing such a thing. Al had seen the older Vickee politely address even the skeeziest of Eurotrash while escorting them from the prince’s hotel room. He was as formal as they came.

  But in this case, Bernard simply demurs with an introduction: “My name is Bernard Roda, and I am the personal executive secretary to His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent of les Iles de la Victoire. If you could come with me, I have a few papers for you to sign.”

  “Bernard,” Al all but barks, “It’s not…it’s not like that. She doesn’t have to sign anything.”

  Bernard laughs. “Oh, our prince...always making jokes. This one. Really, it will only take but a moment. If you could follow me…”

  “Bernard,” he says, low and threatening.

  However, the moment is disrupted when Talia cries, “Hold up… you’re the Bad Boy Prince of Victoire!?!?”

  Chapter 9

  So, she hadn’t just been one-night-standed. She’d been one-night-standed by a prince! A prince who was pretending to be a homeless veteran while squatting in Mamy’s castle.

  It can’t possibly be, but no, it most definitely is. Shave off the beard, clip the overgrown red locks, and… Oh. My. God.

  “You are! You are the Bad Boy Prince of Victoire! I can’t believe this!” she exclaims, recalling the headline she once saw in a dentist’s office waiting room. An Us Weekly plastered with a paparazzi photo of a clean-shaven Al, traipsing around Europe with some English pop singer, even though Al was already engaged to—

  She gasps, a cold realization blooming within her. “And you’re engaged! To a duchess or something, right?”

  Talia’s eyes dart from Al’s private secretary, to the yacht behind him, teeming with a royal crew and security detail. Then back to Al. But he only stands there, like she’s stabbed him through with her words. The moment is silent but for the laughter of seagulls above.

  Oh, God, what have I done? she thinks, her brain all but shutting down at the thought of even unknowingly sleeping with another woman’s man.

  Then the man who’d introduced himself as Bernard says, “Madame Jeffries, really these papers will only take a moment., if you would—”

  “I’m sorry!” Al, the apparent prince cuts Bernard off. “It started as a plaisanterie, a little joke, but then it became so much more. I didn’t know how to tell you…but I am not this man anymore, no longer a bad boy prince. My life is changed. Do you know my father recently passed—?”

  “Are you asking me to feel sorry for you?” she asks, but yes, she knows the king recently died of an illness. And part of her does feel a little sorry for him, too. But right now, the furious part of her is at the helm.

  He closes his eyes, then opens them again. “I want to be honest about who I am.”

  “Honest? Sure. Why don’t you start being honest now that you’ve been caught in your lies, not to mention cheating on your poor fiancée!”

  Well, not so poor. Talia also remembers from the article that the duchess is worth millions. But still, it curdles her heart to so much as think of sleeping with another woman’s man.

  Also…

  “You’ve been lying to me for weeks!” she screeches at him. “Weeks! We spent so much time together, and you couldn’t find a moment in there to tell me, oh, I don’t know, that your family owns this castle!”

  “Non, it is not ours,” he answers, dipping his head to remind her, “It is Mamy’s chateau. And that it will always be.”

  But Al’s ever-present charm, so disarming before, only makes her sad now.

  Talia’s eyes cloud up. “I trusted you. I tried to help you and—”

  “You did help me!” he cuts in, reaching his hands out like she’s a mad dog he’s trying desperately to soothe. “You helped me very much, and you can trust me! You didn’t know my full name, but I never lied to you about anything else.”

  Her brain is in knots, trying to understand what’s happening. How any of this could possibly be happening.

  Then, like a lighthouse in a storm, she hears the best thing possible. Her grandfather’s voice, trumpeting across the breeze.

  “Talia! Wahgwan, lil grangirl?”

  “Papy!” she calls out, running down the stairs and toward the dock where the old man is tying up his little rowboat.

  He and the dingy are more than dwarfed by the massive yacht, with four masts and dozens of small sails. But she’s never been happier to see the little boat in her life.

  “Papy!” she says, squatting down and throwing her arms around his neck.

  “Tank de good one you awright. I be lookin’ but you not der,” he tells her, hugging her back. “Den de bridge be gwan. I—”

  He suddenly breaks off, glaring past Talia at the man who’s run up behind her.

  “Madame Jeffries, before you go, the papers really must be signed,” Bernard starts.

  “Look pon dat deyah! Dat Bernard?” Papy answers before she can, waving an angry finger at Al’s assistant. “What you dwan here, slick boy? I say already, de ‘land not for sale!”

  “No sir, I—” Bernard shakes his head.

  “Boy ’fyou wantin’ me Ella, you know she gwan. Long time already, an I never put blessing ‘pon you! Me Ella, she with de American boy for a good while now.”

  Papy makes a face like he’s not happy about that either, but at least it’s better than Bernard.

  The two men are the same race, with the same bronze brown skin and slightly Polynesian features. But while Papy is laid back in shorts and a flowered shirt under shoulder-length deadlocks, Bernard sports what one would expect of a royal staff member, just not one of this century: a tailored, navy jacket with too many brass embellishments, and ridiculous cream colored jodhpurs. He also speaks impeccable English, with just a hint of a French accent.

  “Monsieur de Samuel, I am merely here to collect His Highness the Prince Regent who has been in residence at the old castle these past few weeks.” Bernard says, nodding at Al, who’s come up to join them on the docks.

  Papy looks at Al, shirtless and bearded. “Eh? What de boy king dwan heyah now?”

  Papy then shifts his gaze to Talia, his eyes accusing, and her cheeks flush tellingly.

  “I thought he was a homeless veteran,” she says, now wishing she had said something to him earlier about the man in Mamy’s castle.

  Papy turns on Al now, his face blazing with indignant anger.

  “Whawrong with you? Gwan now! Nah nah nah, why you mess with me gyal?”

  “I know your wife, God rest her soul, took good care of Vieux Victoire for many, many years,” Al says politely. “But this castle is the property of the royal family. I have the right to come here whenever I like. Now, may I help you into your boat?
”

  “Nah nah nah, we don need none a yours,” Papy says. “You come Talia! Get away from dis boy king.”

  Talia perches on the edge of the dock and lets Papy lower her into the dinghy. She quickly sits in the rocking boat, and waits for him to deal with the oars.

  “Right then,” she hears Bernard say above on the dock. “Your Highness, shall we board your vessel as well? We can deal with the paperwork another time when…emotions are less volatile.”

  But Al ignores him. “Talia, I’m sorry!” he calls after her from the dock.

  She doesn’t answer. Instead, she turns her face away. Concentrates on Papy rowing. His strong old body is used to a lifetime of work, of survival, of struggle. He’s in his sixties, but he could keep up with any young man on this island. He would never hurt anyone the way Al has hurt Talia. She’s safe with Papy.

  A safe idiot.

  She can still sense Al standing on the dock behind her. Watching her go. And it makes her heart ache.

  But she doesn’t look back.

  Chapter 10

  Upon receiving the news from Bernard, His Royal Highness the Prince Regent of les Iles Victoire, Aldrich Gerulf Pierre de Chanval du Fort, slams a fist on his father’s desk. But no, this is not his father’s desk, he reminds himself in the next heartsick moment.

  It is his desk now. And he is sitting in his Châteauneuf Victoire receiving room. Several months have passed since he watched Talia glide away from him in the rowboat, her back to him, and her spirit so obviously broken by his deceit.

  How could he have been so heartless? He knew from the beginning she was not his kind of girl. The kind of girl he usually chose was in it for the bragging rights. The type who couldn’t wait to sleep with royalty, even if Bernard made them sign an iron-clad confidentiality agreement about sleeping with said royalty.

  But Talia…she didn’t even know who he was. And if she had known, she wouldn’t have had a thing to do with him, seeing as how she blamed his family for the possible ruin of everything her grand-père holds dear.

  Getting close to that girl had been the best and worst thing that could have ever happened to Al.

  Every moment they’d spent together in that abandoned castle was like a fairy tale. Her watching him hunt down a fish or a bird, cringing as he gutted or plucked it, but then cooking it into a fantastic lunch with the onions and spices she brought with her…because the best Aldrich could do was grill it over a fire.

  The young coconuts they drank down like water, and the fizzy local palm wine she brought from Terre d’Or. It had barely any alcohol, but how they laughed while drinking it. Al hadn’t laughed that much with anyone, and he hasn’t laughed at all since they parted.

  Talia had thought he was a broken man, a homeless veteran. She’d wanted to help him because she’s the kind of woman who believes helping others is the right thing to do. Because she’s a good person.

  And he took advantage of her kindness.

  Losing his father was hard. His death had been a long time coming, and was no shock to anyone, but it was still surprisingly hard. Especially knowing what he would have to take on after his father’s death: a political marriage to Philomena. Who, while very beautiful, is of no interest to him at all. And he is certain she feels the same towards him.

  In their world, a marriage between royals is rarely founded on love. He and Philomena will play their parts, of course. They will attend official functions together, all the while looking the happy couple. And they will create a necessary alliance between Les Iles de la Victoire and Diamant. Eventually, Philomena will give birth to his successor. But beyond that, they will lead separate lives. Their respective staffs will be well trained and discreet, which means they can both pursue whatever romantic dalliances they choose without worrying about it becoming tabloid fodder.

  But Talia…she changed him. Made accepting the life laid out for him so much more difficult. The sparkling, gold-leafed path lined with wealth, power, influence and the perfect future wife—one who would know how to play the part of queen in public, but understand his distaste for monogamy behind closed doors.

  Al knows he should be satisfied, happy even. His coronation is in a month. He’ll be king. The King. This is the culmination of everything he was prepared for as a child and a young man. Yet, all of it has about as much appeal to him as a pile of ashes now.

  When he closes his eyes, Al doesn’t imagine a sparkling future. Instead, he remembers being on his hands and knees, scrubbing the stone floors of Vieux Victoire. Climbing palm trees to pick young coconuts when Talia was thirsty. Dusting, wiping, and polishing until his arms ached. But he didn't care, so long as he was doing it beside her. Hell, he even worked when Talia wasn’t there, keeping the top floor clean—not just to stop her from snooping in places she shouldn’t, but also because he knew it would make her happy.

  Before his heart had been cold and dusty, locked in a dark chamber, and hidden. But then Talia invaded his castle. With all her dusting and opening of windows, she’d managed to air out the cobweb-filled spaces his heart had burrowed in, and now…

  Now he feels too much.

  Every night before falling asleep, he sees her hurt face. Hears her pained voice. “And you’re engaged!”

  Al misses her. More than he misses his father, even. Because unlike his father, Talia hadn’t cared about his title or his circumstances. She’d wanted him for his company, and she’d taken him at face value.

  Only to discover everything she believed him to be was a lie.

  “Your Highness?” Across the desk, Bernard clutches his leather padfolio tightly against his chest. “Do you have any thoughts about next steps now that she’s turned down your generous offer?”

  No. No, he didn’t. This had been his last attempt at making amends: offering her the use of his private jet for her flight back to the States. But it seemed she’d rather endure the horrors of economy class on two separate flights than accept even this smallest of gestures from him.

  “I couldn’t even get past Gaétan, her grandfather, to speak with her directly,” Bernard says on the other side of the desk, shaking his head. “Honestly, if the old man didn’t resent me so much…”

  “Tell me what happened. Exactly what happened,” Aldrich commands, desperate for news of Talia.

  “Of course, Sir. Monsieur Gaétan informed me Miss Jeffries purchased a plane ticket to return to the States. And as for the confidentiality papers…”

  Bernard scowls at the memory, “he refused, claiming it would bring him personal shame to tell anyone his precious granddaughter even breathed the same air as that putain de connard prince. Excuse my language, Sir.” Bernard bows his head apologetically.

  “Of course,” Aldrich says absently, but his insides are spinning. It can’t end like this. It can’t…

  “He said the sooner Miss Jeffries leaves Terre d’Or behind, the better. He also proffered his family’s resignation as caretakers of the old castle, so we’ll have to find a—”

  “She’s already bought her ticket,” Aldrich says, cutting the other man off, not caring in the least about their new job opening. “For when?”

  Bernard opens his leather padfolio and slides on a pair of fashionable looking reading glasses. He moves his finger quickly across the touch screen.

  “Soon, Sir,” he says after a moment’s consultation. “According to my sources, she has booked a short flight from Terre d’Or to the mainland today. Tonight she will start her journey back to New York City.”

  “Today.” Aldrich drops his head to the back of his leather seat. “She’s leaving today.”

  Merde. Right after Christmas, just like she’d originally planned. Back to the life her parents mapped out for her.

  He wants to fix this. He needs to fix this. But how, with only hours to go until her departure?

  “Sir? I am terribly sorry but there is one other pressing issue to be dealt with today,” Bernard says, his voice full of regret.

  “Yes, what
is it?” Aldrich asks impatiently, without looking up from his pondering.

  “I am afraid the royal physician insists on speaking with you directly. It is in regard to your last health screening, the one you took to fulfill your pre-marriage contract to Lady Philomena,” Bernard says.

  “Can’t you meet with her?” Aldrich sighs and looks towards the ocean outside his office window. Talia will be on the mainland today. He imagines her stepping onto an airplane, and never coming back.

  Aldrich knows he must let her go. Because of his coronation in January. Because of his obligations to his country.

  He’ll somehow plod forward and do what’s expected of him. And maybe one day he’ll forget her.

  Maybe.

  Bernard clears his throat, attempting to regain Al’s attention. “I tried, sir, but she insists on speaking with you directly.”

  “Fine then…”

  He might as well grant the royal physician an audience. Nothing else could possibly make this day any worse.

  Dr. Vel enters his private office a few minutes later. She is small and serious, with the same piercing brown eyes as Bernard, but with full Polynesian features that mark her as a non-Vickee. She wears a crisp, white lab coat, and carries a rather stereotypical black medical bag. Aside from the large tropical flower in her hair, she looks like she just walked off the set of an American medical drama.

  “Your Royal Highness,” she says, bending her knees in a curtsy. “I do apologize, but it’s very important we go over your examination results together. In private.” She looks nervously at Bernard.

  “Do not worry about Bernard,” Aldrich says. “I trust him completely. Now please… continue.”

  The doctor nods, then opens her bag and pulls out a folder filled with what appear to be lab reports.

  “I wanted to speak with you sooner, but given your results I decided it would be best to double and triple check them. I even sent an anonymous sample to a lab in South Africa, to be sure this wasn’t simply the result of a glitch with our equipment, or some form of foul play,” she says.