The Royal Runaway

by Lindsay Emory

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  This book is dedicated to the women who have the power to change the world. That is to say, all of them.

  “Well-behaved women seldom make history.”

  —LAUREL THATCHER ULRICH

  one

  IT WAS MY WEDDING DAY. I imagined other brides had similar days. They, too, softly smoothed their white skirts, brushed a piece of lace with their fingertips, and clutched a handkerchief into a crumple.

  Other women felt like princesses on their wedding day. Me? I really was a princess. I had the tiara, the palace, the framed certificate, and everything.

  They delayed telling me about my missing groom as long as they could, until it became apparent that the schedule would have to change, that we wouldn’t leave for the cathedral in the flotilla of white carriages drawn by horses in matching ostrich-feather headdresses.

  Because I, Princess Theodora Isabella Victoria, second in line to the crown of the Kingdom of Drieden, had been stood up.

  Left at the altar.

  People spoke in hushed tones around me, trading whispers I couldn’t make out and didn’t really want to hear.

  Before I found out the truth, I knew we were behind schedule. I should’ve been loaded into the carriage by now, waving and smiling at the adoring public lining the streets. I shouldn’t still have been sitting here, waiting.

  My mother was called out of the room, which should have alerted me that something was up. The palace staff usually did everything they could to avoid talking directly to my mother—she had a way of making their lives difficult.

  Then Caroline was called out. Caroline was my emotionally stable middle sibling. My maid of honor. Not because she was older than Sophie, the youngest, but because Caroline could be counted on to think through any unexpected problem that arose—the train, the bouquet, the . . . missing groom.

  Caroline returned, her mouth in a sharp line. She knelt at my feet, took my hands, and laid out the problem.

  My fiancé was nowhere to be found.

  I simply stared at her. An avid amateur historian, I racked my brain for any similar situation in the Driedish history books. What was the proper protocol for a canceled royal wedding? What does a jilted princess do next?

  Then the whispers stopped. The atmosphere froze. My grandmother had entered the room. Tall and straight, she held her head as if there were always a crown balanced upon it—the big one with the Jaipur sapphire. She came to me and held out a box of tissues.

  Something about that gesture undid me. I could be as regal and disciplined as the next royal princess, but my gran handing me a tissue made it real somehow. I had been humiliated in front of my country, in front of the world.

  Five minutes passed and my grandmother lifted my face and blotted my wet cheeks. “There will be no more tears shed for him. His name will never be spoken in this house again.”

  It was an order from my queen.

  My eyes immediately went dry.

  two

  FOUR MONTHS LATER . . .

  IT WASN’T A SURPRISE THAT I’d been sent away. It was easier for people to manage the fallout if there wasn’t a lightning rod continuing to draw the electric attention of the world.

  All of the Queen’s advisors agreed that the best place for a jilted princess was a cold island in the middle of the North Sea, a Driedish territory called Perpetua. Why they couldn’t have agreed that jilted princesses should spend four months in the Maldives, I would never understand.

  I’d returned to the palace three days ago, and since then my nights had rapidly deteriorated into an endless cycle of nightmares, herbal teas, and television reruns. It was really so boring. I was over Christian Fraser-Campbell. Completely. The man had left me at the altar. Why I kept having the same dreams about him, I had no idea.

  He would be in a dark tunnel, running away from me. Then I would run after him (which would never happen in real life—I have my pride). I’d call his name, praying that he would stop running, that he would shout something back in his charming Scottish brogue. But he’d always stay silent; he’d always keep running. And I’d keep chasing. Until the headlights of an oncoming train would overtake us both.

  It was clichéd and predictable.

  I disliked being both.

  The palace doctor had left the sleeping pill prescription wordlessly on my desk the day of the wedding, after being among the group of ten Big Gran had ushered into my suite to deliver the bad news.

  I hadn’t taken a single pill yet, and now I was wondering if I should. I had an interview scheduled tomorrow—“PRINCESS THEODORA’S FIRST POST-JILT INTERVIEW”—with Chantal Louis of The Driedener. Another lost night of sleep would mean that the dark circles under my eyes could not be concealed by the usual layer of makeup. My makeup artist, Roberto, would have to bust out the hard stuff, which he would moan about, and then I’d apologize for it and there would be a whole uncomfortable balance of power over heavy-duty concealer. #Princesslife #thestruggleisreal

  I was over my ex. Really, I was. Which is why I was heading toward my bathroom to fill a glass of water and take a pill. To forget about the bastard. And to prevent under-eye circles.

  But instead, something drew me back to the large window that overlooked the city below. The palace stood above the city on a bluff that probably had been quite daunting in the Middle Ages. In the twenty-first century, the city had climbed up to meet the palace, many of the buildings standing at or above the height of the tallest tower of the ancient home of the rulers of Drieden.

  I pulled the thick brocade curtains back and stared at the lights of the city, still beaming bright even after midnight.

  Sharing the name with the country, Drieden City was a beautiful mix of modern and historical, quaint and contemporary. It had started to crumble into redundancy in the early twentieth century with the decline of the traditional shipping industry that had sustained it for centuries. But then oil was discovered. First, crude oil bubbled out of the marshlands, then it oozed out into the triangle of the dark, cold North Sea that Drieden controlled, and a nation was given its second life.

  Growing up royal, every minute detail of Driedish history had been drilled into my head. As the second in line to the throne—after my father, the Crown Prince Albert, God help us all—I took its study seriously and applied myself dutifully to the stories of my homeland. Often I would close my eyes and imagine what the kingdom looked like in 1350, when Olaf the Conqueror first claimed the fertile lowlands. Or in 1650, when King Henry III refused to send colonists to the New World, condemning colonization as a foolish, wasteful enterprise.

  I loved those stories. I loved this view and the city lights that seemed to throb inside my veins.

  Later, I would look back on this moment and wonder why I hadn’t simply popped the sleeping pill and crawled back into my gilded four-poster bed, the same one that my grandmother and great-grandmother had slept in before their ascendancies to the throne.

  I’ll never know what made me change into street clothes, pull my hair into a bun, and slip on running shoes. But that’s exactly what I did.

  I knew the covert ways out of the palace like the back of my hand. Part of it was due to a natural gift for observation and investigation; part of it was thanks to my formal education. It had been i
mpressed on me by my tutors, secretaries, and Big Gran herself that a good princess should learn everything about her country.

  That included secret ways out of the palace.

  This wasn’t the first time I’d slipped out undetected. That had been when I was a teenager, a university student. There were things I’d wanted to do, places I’d wanted to go, people I’d wanted to see without my official security detail getting involved. For years, it hadn’t been a problem. Drieden is a small country and the monarchy can still be informal if it wishes. My uncle John, the Duke of Falender, works as a banker in the financial district. My brother serves in the armed forces. Until my engagement, I produced documentary films. With a discreet and small security presence, my family has been able to keep up the pretense that we’re normal folk who just happen to live in that big old house on the hill.

  With my recent notoriety, though, and my resulting cloistering in the palace and assorted hideaways, I hadn’t been outside royal boundaries in over three months.

  And sometimes a girl just needed a change of scenery.

  My feet flew over the carpet, down the southwest stairwell, across the landing, into the upper gallery through a service entrance, then down another set of stairs that led into the herb garden, which was next to the kitchens with their loading dock and abandoned at this time of night.

  Just like that, I was outside in a small courtyard. There was a guardhouse at the bottom of the cobblestone drive, but I pulled up the hood of my jacket and hopped into a nearby white Fiat with plates that matched the keys I had snagged from the loading dock bay.

  The gates opened swiftly (as they should for an official palace vehicle) and I drove two hundred meters and . . .

  I had no idea where I was going.

  To the lights?

  Why?

  Because the lights were pretty?

  Was I insane?

  Probably. Now I was talking to myself. Just like Prince Karl the Holy when he believed a trout told him to invade France.

  My foot pressed the gas pedal, indicating that I was, in fact, insane. Sleep deprivation had sucked all the common sense out of my head.

  But I kept driving. Instinct and a memory pulled me forward.

  There had been a night, two years ago, right after I had started dating Christian. I had gotten a call from him; he had flown to Drieden to surprise me. “Come see me,” he had urged. He had given me the name of a bar where I was to meet him in an hour. And like tonight, I had managed to slip out of the palace completely undetected.

  Romantic, right?

  Without being aware of my destination, I now suddenly found myself parked outside that same bar. It seemed just as I remembered it. A cocktail lounge in the theater district, its raucous crowd was decidedly different from the posh, upper-crust circle Christian usually ran with. As soon as I walked into the disorienting mix of shadow and neon, I remembered that I hadn’t brought any money or identification. Another sign of my deteriorating mental state. Still, I took a seat at a table covered with chipped red paint. After all, the point of this excursion wasn’t to drink. If I’d wanted to get drunk, the palace had vast cellars full of very expensive spirits at my disposal. If I’d wanted to lose myself, I would have just taken the damn sleeping pill.

  The point of this trip was . . .

  I had no idea.

  Now I closed my eyes.

  I saw Christian, as he was the night I met him here. His longish blond hair curled around his collar. His skin still tan from the ski season. Was this what I wanted? To see Christian again? Was that why I came here?

  “Excuse me. Is this seat taken?”

  A deep voice. A Scottish accent. Christian?

  “No,” I answered, wondering if I was dreaming. A new part of my nightmare, perhaps? I peeked through my eyelids.

  My new tablemate settling into the chair opposite me was not Christian Fraser-Campbell, ninth Duke of Steading. This stranger was the complete opposite of Christian, dark and rough, but not altogether objectionable.

  “Hello,” I said, automatically being polite and proper even though I desperately wanted him to leave me alone.

  “Hallo there. What brings a beauty like you out on a night like tonight?”

  At the word beauty, the rest of my defenses rose. I was in a dim bar with eyeglasses I’d borrowed from my secretary and a hood still pulled over a messy bun. Any man who thought I was a beauty at the moment was either delirious, drunk, or dead.

  I said the first thing that popped into my head. “I’m meeting someone.”

  “A boyfriend someone?”

  I noted that he did not offer to get up. Instead, he leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms, all ears for whatever my answer was.

  Rude, I thought.

  “No,” I informed the ill-mannered Scottish stranger. “A coworker.” It was the blandest answer I could imagine. Maybe boredom would make the man go away.

  His eyebrows rose. “At this hour? Here? What kind of a job are you working?” His eyes draped over me in a perfect expression of sarcasm and speculation. “You’re not . . . picking up anyone?”

  It took me a moment. “Are you insinuating that I’m a prostitute?”

  “Well, if you are, you’re a badly dressed one.”

  “What, are you an expert?”

  His mouth slid up on one side, clearly amused. “Not regarding fashion, no.”

  Ugh. How could I get him to go away?

  I imagined the most boring profession ever. “I’m actually a historian.” It wasn’t too far off from my former job producing documentaries.

  “Are you now? How fascinating.”

  Damn. Now I’d really have to turn on the boring. “I specialize in Driedish rural agrarian history.” I made a tenting motion with both hands. “Specifically the congruence between animal husbandry, agricultural economics, and women’s health.”

  There. Dull-level ten. That should do it.

  Instead of running away from the madwoman ready to discuss the most obscure, driest subject ever, though, the stranger leaned forward, as if he were eager to hear more.

  “Ah.” He brightened. “Farming. A noble profession, indeed, although given to long days, uncertain futures, and way too much drink.” He waved a hand and caught the attention of a nearby waitress. “Two whiskeys, please.”

  “I couldn’t—”

  He interrupted with sparkling eyes. “But my lady, you already have.”

  three

  TWO GLASSES OF WHISKEY WERE slapped down on the table, droplets of amber liquid splashing out onto the chipped red paint.

  I’d had my first sip of whiskey at thirteen, stolen from my father’s glass at the Royal Lodge in Kasselta in the Northern Province. If any of the adults had seen me, they’d ignored it. Misbehavior was to be dealt with by a nanny or Big Gran. No one else had dared—or cared—to discipline me.

  Tonight I was only misbehaving a little, and I still loved the burn of whiskey. It always reminded me of a roaring winter fire, heat and comfort with an edge of danger.

  Like this moment, when someone at a neighboring table was glancing over at me with this stranger: this was danger. I ducked my head and lifted the glass to my lips.

  “What are you doing?” the man asked me, sounding rather affronted. “It’s customary in my country to toast before a drink.”

  “What would you like to toast to?”

  He regarded me thoughtfully for a moment as if considering his options. Then he lifted his glass. “To the Queen’s health.”

  “Which one?”

  He drew back. “What do you mean, ‘which one’?”

  “You’ve got a queen. So do I. Which one are we toasting to?”

  He smiled. “To yours, of course. As a Scot, I’ve always had a wee problem with Queen Liz.”

  My toes curled at his reference to Elizabeth II of England, Scotland, and Wales as “Liz”—and not in a good way. I had met Elizabeth only twice, and had no personal relationship with her, but a lifetime of
etiquette conditioning couldn’t be undone by one unintended late-night drink with a Scot that I was already regretting.

  “To Queen Aurelia,” he said rather loudly.

  “To the Queen,” I murmured before taking my sip and then immediately making a face. I’d had much better whiskey.

  My drinking partner made a face, too, after tasting his. “Jesus, what is this?”

  “Something cheap.” I pressed my lips together. Could I sound more like a snob?

  But the man laughed instead of being offended, and when he did, I noticed him for the first time.

  Really noticed him.

  He was not just dark and rough. He had the look of a man who, after being punched in the face a few times, hadn’t quite bounced back to his original features. There were marks and scars from a myriad of dubious adventures, no doubt. No, he wasn’t Hollywood handsome, but he was something far more interesting.

  A survivor.

  He was crude, rude, and from tonight’s display, clearly socially unacceptable. But for the past four months, I’d been wallowing in self-pity after my public humiliation, and here was someone who probably knew something about how to overcome bad things.

  “What’s your name?” I asked impulsively.

  He rubbed a thumb across his glass before answering. “Nick. Nick Cameron. Yours?”

  Damn. I’d walked right into that one. My tendency to ask people questions about themselves was seen by the royal advisors and courtiers as a benefit. I was comfortable with “the people.” My questions made them comfortable with me.

  But now . . . My stomach tightened. Even though I knew his name and had allowed him to buy me a drink, Nick was still an unknown. He wouldn’t be comfortable with Princess Me. And I didn’t know if I could trust him.

  “Thea,” I answered finally, giving him the name that only my family and closest friends use.

  He repeated the nickname and the way that he deliberately said it, pressing the tip of his tongue behind his front teeth, was irresistibly attractive. He was a man who did things with purpose. With a plan.