His to Princess

by Theodora Taylor

  Papy lays his rough hand over Talia’s, as if it’s her and not him who has just been roughed up by the prince’s men.

  “Trankility, baby gran. You too nice for de boy king. We all too nice. Gwan with you, gwan home, bring these little baby grans up nice.”

  He sighs like a character at the end of a caper film as they leave the prince behind. “This near finished.”

  Chapter 13

  Aldrich isn’t sure how long he stands there, watching the road. Long enough for the old man’s truck to disappear in a cloud of red dust. Long enough for the dust to settle down again, and the road to fill with curious locals.

  Long enough to make a decision.

  He wants her.

  He wants her, and he doesn’t care if she’s carrying someone else’s baby. He has to get to her before she boards a plane and disappears into international airspace.

  He calls for his first.

  “Bernard. Bernard!”

  “A moment, Sir,” Bernard says nearby.

  Aldrich opens his mouth to retort. A moment? When has his assistant ever made him wait?

  Bernard is speaking to a woman in a traditional wrap, with a girl at her side. And after only a few more moments of discussion, he brings the two over to speak with Aldrich.

  “Bernard, we’ve got to follow Talia,” he says in a low voice as his private secretary approaches.

  “Your Highness, I think you’ll want to hear this,” Bernard says. “I present Luana Sullivan, and her daughter.”

  The local woman does a little curtsy and giggles. The crowd forms a ring around them to watch the conversation.

  “Enchantée, Your Highness,” she says with a thick Vickee accent, and Aldrich nods.

  “What can I do for you Madame?” he asks.

  “Eh! Look at me, I chat to de prince heyah on Terre d’Or. It so nice. Sad, de king, he leave us. We spy de ceremonies on de telay, dwan by Suzettes. But you, you nice. Big ideas prince. Me girl, she want to work in de hotels, when she big—”

  “Ma-maah,” her daughter whines, embarrassed by her mother’s rambling.

  And Bernard also gives the woman an aggrieved look before saying, “Madame Sullivan, if you could tell the Prince Regent what you just told me. That is the most important matter.”

  Chapter 14

  As Aldrich implied, Papy was the type of grandfather who would normally wait around for Talia’s plane to take off from Terre d’Or’s one-hangar airport. But today, he’s so anxious about leaving the prince alone in his village, she all but shoves him toward the truck, insisting he doesn’t need to wait here with her for the single engine island hopper to get in the air. He hugs Talia tightly. Then he mutters something about making sure the putain de connard boy king is full out of his village before peeling away in his old truck.

  So she waits alone, planted on a bench in the shade of tall bamboo. It’s just as well. Papy’s been good to her, and despite what happened with the prince, this has been the trip of a lifetime. She’s not ready to think too hard about how sad she’ll be when she doesn’t wake up in his house tomorrow. Or how she’s going to break the news about this unexpected pregnancy to her parents…

  “Ready to go, Miss Jeffries?” A man appears in khaki shorts and a polo shirt, but he’s got an accent unlike any she’s heard on Terre d’Or so far.

  “Are you the pilot?”

  “Sure am! Call me Marlin,” he says, picking up her suitcase. “Sorry for the delay, I rarely come to Terre d’Or, so I had to settle some affairs in the control tower.”

  He jabs a thumb toward a one-story building at the end of the single strip of cracked and faded tarmac.

  Talia’s eyebrows shoot up.

  “No worries, miss! I’ll get you out of here in one piece,” he continues, in an accent she finally places as Australian. “We don’t have many people flying out these days, but that’ll change soon, won’t it? When the resorts are built. That’s why you’re here, right? Heard they might hire a few foreigners for the development. You one of those American consultants then?”

  “No. Well I am an American, but I’m half Vickee. My mom’s from the island, and I’ve been staying with my grandfather for the last few months,” she explains as she accepts his hand to balance and she climbs the steps into his small commuter plane.

  “Well, welcome home! Hope you enjoyed your visit. Sit up front with me, if you like,” he calls out, moving around the plane to rotate the propellers.

  Why not? She makes her way down the narrow aisle towards the cockpit.

  “Beautiful island,” Marlin quips as he climbs in next to her and puts on a headset. “It’s a shame to see greenery civilized, but I think it’ll be good for the people here.”

  He flicks a few switches and speaks to the control tower in fluent Vickee. Talia buckles up, and her feet find the floor just as they take off without having to wait in a queue. While they bumble into the sky, the small plane dipping and drifting in the ocean breeze, Marlin continues to deliver his unsolicited opinion.

  “I know they’ve got their farming, their vanilla and cinnamon and such, but it’s just not viable. It’ll be good for them to have genuine jobs like the rest of us, eh?”

  Any other day, Talia might have pointed out that some people might be happier working for themselves under the open sky than for someone else indoors. She would have told him life on Terre d’Or is surprisingly viable, or else she wouldn’t be sitting next to him, pregnant and in perfect health, after living on the small island for six months. But not today. Maybe it’s the morning sickness, or maybe it’s that she’s in the cockpit of a frighteningly tiny airplane, but she’s fairly sure if she opens her mouth, her breakfast will make an abrupt appearance.

  The archipelago of les Iles de la Victoire span out before them, a collection of six small islands gathered together as one nation. Marlin points out the mainland, the biggest island that is the farthest away, and it all becomes real for her.

  Terre d’Or is behind her. In her past. Her heart aches. Aldrich has a fiancée. A duchess. He’s marrying a duchess and he lied about it. From day one.

  Don’t think about him. Forget him, the law student she used to be advises.

  But how can I? the woman she’s become asks back.

  She doesn’t get an answer to her question. It’s stuffy and hot in the small cockpit, and the isolating white noise of the buzzing propellers makes Talia’s eyes droop. Her brain starts to float.

  It feels like only a moment has passed when Marlin shakes her shoulder. “We’re here, Miss Jeffries,” he says in a flat voice.

  The propellers are no longer buzzing, and the air is cool. Her feet scrape loudly against the metal floor of the cockpit as she shifts, waking up. “Sorry. I fell asleep.”

  “No worries, Miss Jeffries,” he says, glancing outside then back to her. “Anyway. Off you go.”

  Talia rubs her eyes and leans forward, turning around to make her way down the aisle.

  “You go on, miss. I’ll take care of your bag.”

  Marlin seems stiff now, not as warm and friendly as he’d been before she fell asleep. Almost formal. What happened—?

  She stops short when she reaches the open door at the back of the small cabin, the answer to her question immediately evident…

  They’re not at the international airport where she’s supposed to catch her first real-size plane home. Instead, Châteauneuf Victoire, the royal castle of the de Chanval du Fort family, is sprawled out before her. The same Mediterranean-style castle with stucco walls, red tile roofs, and lush landscaping that’s featured on the cover of her guidebook. Talia’s also seen it in a few architectural magazines. It’s even on the Victoire francs she has in her wallet.

  At first it feels like a dream. She’s standing in front of this huge masterpiece in the doorway of a little charter plane. But the surreal dream quickly turns into a very real nightmare when she notices who’s barreling down the path to the airstrip.

  Her not so prince charming, a
long with a phalanx of goons dressed in the official palace uniform.

  And he looks furious.

  Chapter 15

  This is bad. Really, really bad.

  After being met at the plane by Al’s goons, the same overly large men who dragged her grandfather from his home, Talia is dragged across the small airstrip and grounds through what must be a servant’s entrance, and shoved into a dimly lit room. They don’t say a word to her, but stand like sentries on either side of the door, all but daring her to try to get past them.

  She settles for glaring at them, while rubbing her arm. Okay, she might be exaggerating a little. Her arm doesn’t really hurt, and they hadn’t so much dragged her as swiftly escorted her. More like how a dedicated wedding usher would escort an elderly aunt to a ceremony that’s already begun. Only instead of being taken into an ornate church, Talia has been forced into—she looks around, blinking—a truly lovely bedroom. It's a sea of calming blues and creams, with two floor-to-ceiling windows that open onto a balcony, velvety blue curtains, and intricately decorated wall panels like something out of a luxurious Paris apartment. A plush sofa sits between the windows, and fine antique furniture in polished layers of chestnut and walnut wood grain hold marble based lamps and vases of fragrant orchids. Several subtle doorways blend into the walls. Behind one, Talia can see a walk-in closet, the others are closed and she can only wonder how far the luscious living space extends.

  But still, the AWOL law student inside her feels compelled to point out to the guards, “You are in complete violation of my civil rights, not to mention a few liberties I carry as an American citizen—”

  She’s interrupted by the sound of loud buzzing.

  No! No! No! She runs—okay, waddles—as fast as she can to the nearest window. But despite her protests, there’s no denying what she sees. The little plane taking off into the distance. Taking away Marlin, and her only chance of getting off this island.

  As if on cue, she hears the distinct clicking of two pairs of heels. And when she turns, she sees her two guards face each other, arms straight at their sides, chins raised.

  Aldrich enters, passing between the two men and looking back to nod. At this, the guards seem to know by some sort of prince-guard psychic link that it’s time to step out of the room and pull the doors closed behind them.

  Which leaves her alone with Aldrich.

  He stops a few feet from her, his stance hard and unforgiving, as his eyes rake over her body.

  After a long moment, he says, “So Talia…after you left this morning, I spoke to a woman, Luana Sullivan. You may know her. She is the wife of the physician you saw on Terre d’Or. Can you guess what she told me?” he asks.

  Talia tilts her head and pretends to think hard. “Let me guess…that HIPPA laws are something your country should jump on? Like yesterday?” she responds.

  He doesn’t laugh, or even look slightly amused.

  “Madame Sullivan informed me you are three months pregnant. With twins. My twins.”

  “Really, she said that? Because I never mentioned a father to the doctor—”

  Talia stops when he hits her with a killing look.

  “When were you going to tell me?” he asks, his voice little more than a razor slicing through the air between them.

  She starts rubbing her arm again, but this time for much different reasons. “I—I don’t know…”

  “Were you going to tell me?”

  Geez, he’d fit right in at Columbia Law School. But she stands up straighter, glaring right back at him as she answers, “Yes. I mean, of course I planned to tell you! Eventually. But, I wanted to do it from a safe distance…like maybe when I wasn’t in a country where your word isn’t literally the law, and where you don’t—I don’t know—have the power to reroute my flight home to your castle!”

  If he feels any remorse over his actions, it doesn’t show. “I am their father. I deserved to know,” he says, pointing at the Aubusson carpet. “I can provide those babies with the best medical care. The best life—”

  “Really? The best life? As the illegitimate children of a married king?” she shoots back.

  Aldrich stops. Puts his pointing finger away. “Ah yes, you do not know. The wedding between Philomena and me has been called off.”

  Okay, wait…what?

  “Uh, say that again?” Talia asks, not knowing how to process this unexpected new piece of information.

  He answers with a decidedly Gallic shrug. “It did not work out. The details are unimportant. Politics, you know. To be honest, it was a relief. I came immediately to tell you, but then I saw, well…that.”

  His eyes travel to her belly and darken.

  Talia’s heart soars, only to plunge straight back down when she remembers his lies. And how she ended up here, in the real castle of Victoire. She hardens again, and takes a step back from the prince who abused his power to bring her here.

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear you won’t be spending eternity with the duchess, but I’ve got to get back to school and work like crazy if I want to get my degree before these babies come. I’ll head home, and once I’m settled, you and I can discuss a suitable custody arrangement.”

  Talia forces a bright tone to punctuate her words, but he continues to scowl down at her, his hands fisting and un-fisting at his sides. As if he’s trying to keep himself from hitting something. Or someone.

  “A custody agreement,” he repeats. “That won’t work. Both of the babies you are carrying will be in line for my throne. Do you think I’ll allow you to finish out your pregnancy in some New York City dormitory?”

  “First of all—Columbia law students live in apartments not dorms, and second of all, allow me? Listen here, Al. You may be a prince, but this is the twenty-first century. You don’t get to dictate what I do!”

  He leans forward to snarl back, “As long as you are in my country, and carrying my children, I get to dictate everything you do.”

  “Oh really? What’s your plan then? Keep me prisoner here in Tropical Versailles?”

  A small tic appears to have developed just under his left eye. “What else am I supposed to do? I cannot let you run away with my heirs in your belly!”

  “Your heirs? They’re my children, too! You can’t do this!” she says, truly distressed at the prospect of being forced to remain a veritable prisoner in the home of a man who regularly got written up in the tabloids for serial dating pretty much anyone with boobs, bleached teeth, and a Brazilian blowout. All despite having a fiancée waiting in the wings.

  “I don’t like it either, Talia,” he answers, his voice level but insistent. “It would be so much easier if you were here as a willing guest…”

  He lets the words hang in the air, as if expecting her to smile and say, Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place! I’d love to be a prisoner here in your country because I made my first big mistake after spending the last twenty-four years following the rules. I most certainly deserve to be held here against my will for having unprotected sex with the wrong man. Why YES, of course I’ll stay!

  But no way in hell is she going to respond to his unspoken offer. Maybe if he hadn’t lied. Or seriously violated like, all her rights to get her here.

  So instead of saying anything, Talia lets his words hang until they drop.

  And eventually Aldrich says, “It seems there’s nothing more to discuss.” He walks back to the door, opens it, but turns to say, “Please make yourself at home. I’ll call for you soon.”

  So very polite. So ruthlessly civilized. So completely the opposite of the man she fell for back at Old Vick.

  Talia says nothing.

  And the next thing she hears is a conversation in hushed French. Orders spoken too low and too fast for her to comprehend. But she understands well enough that her guards will remain outside the door, ensuring she doesn’t leave this lovely bedroom. She knows this even before the door shuts with a soft click, and the man she knew as Al leaves her utterly alone in a prison
of his own making.

  Chapter 16

  How could she—? How could she dare to think of leaving with his children? Of giving birth to them in the States? Maybe even meeting another person, one who would raise Aldrich’s children—his children! —as his own.

  Aldrich paces his office, a caged lion in a zoo created by one unbelievably stubborn woman. Yes, he’d lied to her about his identity, but what she’d been planning to do—what she’d almost taken from him—it was worse. So much worse.

  In his mostly untroubled life, Aldrich has never felt anything like the rage now burning inside him.

  And then his mother happens.

  Cued only by a long trill of German—which is the trick she uses whenever she wants to get past his French and English-speaking guards without too much fuss—the office door bursts open, and a flurry of silk and jasmine rushes towards him.

  “Tell me mon chéri, est-ce que c’est vrai? Is it true?” His mother’s long, silvery hair brushes across his face as she kisses him on both cheeks, and drags him to two facing arm chairs.

  “Am I to be an oma?” she asks, switching back to German.

  Just as Aldrich grew up speaking French, she grew up speaking German in her small, but extremely rich European border kingdom, thanks to a German nanny. Neither his father, nor most of the palace staff, spoke the language. So she wasn’t above switching to her native tongue any time she wanted to have a private chat with her son.

  “Ja,” he answers, tersely. Really, really not wanting to have this conversation with her right now.

  But one syllable from him is all his mother needs to jump up from her chair, and spin around with her arms spread wide like Julie Andrews in the Austrian Alps.

  “Oh! This is such a joy to hear, and after the tragic news from Dr. Vel! Here I had believed our line would die out with you. Kaput! But now…now! We are saved! Our family name will continue, and most importantly, I will finally be an oma!”