The Royal Runaway

by Lindsay Emory

  A few hundred meters away from the lock house, Nick hopped off the trail and onto a dock where a typical Driedish canal boat was moored. We were above the lock, so there were no other ships nearby—most people were heading into the countryside, away from the hustle of the city.

  “Whose yacht is this?” I asked in a low voice when Nick stepped onto the deck, clearly intending to take control of the vessel.

  “My friend’s,” was his easy reply.

  “Max Cornelius? Or John Lock?”

  “Yes.”

  I shook my head. “I deserve an answer before I steal a boat.”

  Nick gave me a scornful look. “You’re not stealing it; I am.”

  “I thought you said your friend owned it.”

  “Didn’t say he knew about me using it.”

  “Are there ladies’ clothes on board?” I asked as I pitched forward, tripping on the hem of the overly long pants yet again.

  “Go below and find out. And stay below.”

  “Don’t order me around.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Don’t . . .” Frustration welled. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not a queen.”

  Nick’s smiled turned sardonic. “That’s right. Let’s stick to protocol, then. Your Highness.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I’m just . . . Thea,” I finished lamely, wishing I could communicate more clearly this morning. But I hadn’t slept properly in weeks, I was possibly on the run from my own rogue security forces, and this man, with his cool, capable confidence, threw me off my stride.

  Nick nodded toward the stairs leading below deck. “See what you can find. But when I say hide, please do, Your Highness. Unless you’d like to be shot today?”

  I didn’t bother replying to that.

  Below deck, I opened some cabinets and found smaller-sized men’s clothes, which I quickly changed into. I took the opportunity to wash up in the cabin and almost fell into the toilet when the boat lurched and motors whirred somewhere to my right.

  I climbed the stairs back up and peeked over the deck, quickly seeing that Nick, once again, had orchestrated the perfect escape.

  The canal lock had opened and we were now in the middle of a large flotilla of sailboats, houseboats, fishing boats, and more.

  And as we crept up the narrowing canal, I heard police sirens in the distance, from the direction of the city.

  Nick glanced that way as well, in a disinterested fashion, before turning his attention to the difficulties of steering a boat slowly in a crowded, narrow sea.

  His confidence was supremely magnetic. In my mind, he was Batman and Jason Bourne and John Wayne knit together in a dark and attractive package. And I had no idea where we were going, or why, but I knew I had never felt like this before.

  And I liked it.

  thirteen

  WE’D DOCKED FOR THE NIGHT. While Nick had spent the day gathering supplies in the nearby village, I’d spent most of it thinking up some questions . . . and some answers.

  “I need you to explain a few things to me.”

  Nick put down his newspaper. “The earth moves around the sun. Those funny little pieces of paper with your grandmother’s face on them are called money, and no, you can’t get pregnant that way.”

  “Are you trying to annoy me?”

  “Well, it is my second favorite thing to do with you.”

  The reference to our kiss flustered me. Now all I could think about was kissing him again. I gave him a look because I would not be distracted.

  “What happened to Christian?” I paused slightly, then decided to go for it. “I command you to tell me everything.”

  He smiled slightly. “You’re so sexy when you get medieval.”

  Sexy? Me? Well . . .

  No!

  I lifted my chin, giving him my best Big Gran impersonation. He folded his newspaper. My imperiousness had clearly worked.

  “The last time you saw Christian was two nights before the wedding, correct?” he asked.

  “Yes. It’s Driedish tradition for a royal bride to spend the day before her wedding in contemplation.”

  “Like a nun?”

  I lifted my hands. “Last chance, I guess.” Now it was my turn to ask a question. “When was the last time you saw Christian?” Once again, I wondered whether Christian had known his brother was alive before he’d disappeared.

  Nick’s smile faded. “That’s not important.”

  Maybe it wasn’t. I moved on and explained what I had been told after Christian disappeared, that he’d left the royal apartments sometime the night before our wedding and returned to Scotland without a word.

  “And didn’t you think that was strange?” Nick asked. “That Christian didn’t leave you a message?”

  “Of course it was strange. A princess being left at the altar is very strange indeed,” I snapped.

  A pregnant pause grew between us. Finally, Nick spoke, gruffly. “I’ve never been in his position, but it seems I’d want to talk to the woman I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with before I decided to run off.”

  “Maybe he knew he wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life with me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe it was all a scam from the beginning.” I hadn’t allowed myself to speak those words aloud until now, but the possibility of it had percolated in my brain during those long nights on Perpetua.

  Nick looked skeptical. “What would Christian have gained from such a stunt?”

  “Fame. Money.” I made a useless gesture. “He’s the most infamous man in the world right now.”

  “Except he hasn’t been seen in four months.”

  “And he’s not at Brisbane Castle?” I asked. Again.

  He shook his head in a single decisive slice.

  “What evidence do you have that he’s been kidnapped?”

  “He’s off the grid. No one knows anything.”

  “Well. That makes me feel a bit better.”

  Nick’s brows furrowed. “How so?”

  “Because I’ve spent the past four months not knowing anything, either,” I replied before moving on to inspect the shopping bags he’d brought back to the boat.

  All I’d asked for were some personal supplies: a toothbrush, a comb, and some clean underwear. When I saw what he’d bought, I groaned. “Really?” I said, digging into the bag and coming up with a half dozen black lace thongs dangling from my finger. “These are what you bought me?”

  A mischievous glint sparked in his eyes. “I know you said I must consult with you in all things, but in this you failed to specify your preference, Princess.”

  Sometimes this man was so infuriating I wanted to knock him overboard. “Fine,” I huffed, and shoved them back in the bag.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to discuss it further? It would be no problem at all for us to weigh the pros and cons of your knickers.”

  I flipped him the royal bird. Once again, I was going to have to direct this conversation away from Nick’s dirty mind. “The last place I saw Christian was my father’s house.”

  His eyes dropped over me, apparently still enjoying his imaginary thong debate, before he answered with a frown. “What’s the name of it, Cello House?”

  “Ceillis House. It’s quite near here. Oh! I wonder if Christian could have left a note there. Or maybe some sort of indication about why he had to leave?”

  Nick was now serious. “I’ll have to break into the estate.”

  “We.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We’re going to Ceillis House,” I told him. “And we’re not breaking in.”

  fourteen

  I KNEW ALL OF THE WOODS around my father’s house. After docking the river yacht at the small pier at the neighboring property, I led Nick through the trees to the stream that would bring us directly behind Ceillis House. But first we ran into someone, as I had suspected we might.

  The f
isherman was of medium height, his middle age signified by a curved belly and a full array of costly and intricate fly-fishing tools tucked into the many pockets of his oilcloth vest. Pale strawberry-blond hair glinted in the morning sun as he turned and saw me.

  “Thea, how lovely to see you.”

  “Hello, Father.”

  We did not embrace. We never had. Our relationship was cordial and warm as the current Drieden summer day, which is to say, warmish.

  As Father was also Albert, the Crown Prince of Drieden, the Duke of Ceillis and Montaget, and currently the next in line to the throne, I didn’t introduce Nick. It wasn’t appropriate and frankly, my father didn’t care. He barely noticed me, never mind the presence of what he’d assume was a bodyguard in black.

  My father was obsessed with fly-fishing. A man with all manner of luxury at his fingertips, with enough power and influence to shape public opinion, even history, and the heir to the Driedish throne, chose to spend as many days as he could throwing tiny pieces of string and feather onto the surfaces of streams in the hope that a stray fish would decide it was time for lunch at exactly that moment. Gran had fought my father’s nature for years, and had forced him to take part in day-to-day royal life. But after the divorce, everyone slowly started giving up in that endeavor. Whether it was because Father was unpopular or because he often put his foot in his mouth when he did participate in royal appearances, Gran now allowed him to live quietly at Ceillis House and away from palace life—unless she needed him for an important event in Drieden City.

  A therapist could spend years unpacking my father’s issues. Then again, the fact that I, a royal princess, was currently running away from her own security forces and sneaking around her own country would probably provide content for an entire encyclopedia of psychological analysis as well.

  “I’ve come to pick up a few things from my rooms,” I told my father. As we’d all learned, sometimes it was better to tell Father what needed doing than to ask him.

  Asking him was frustrating for all involved, as my mother had learned when she asked him first for love, then affection, then a divorce. All of those requests had taken at least fifteen years to be processed by the distant, preoccupied mind of the Crown Prince of Drieden.

  “Yes, of course.” Father nodded. “You know the way in.”

  I caught Nick’s wry expression. Father was a security guard’s nightmare and our best friend today. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t get alarmed, and didn’t care much about what went on around him.

  “How’s the fishing?” When I could, I tried to connect with the man. After all, we were in the same family business, and we’d have to work together, if nothing else, for the rest of his life.

  Father grimaced at the sun. “It’s not warm enough. The flies haven’t begun to lay their eggs.”

  I nodded encouragingly. “They’ll be out soon.”

  “I suppose,” he said, but he seemed dubious as he frowned at the icy stream lapping about his ankles.

  We left the Crown Prince of Drieden on the side of the stream, and I led Nick up the well-worn path to Father’s country house.

  Ceillis House was where my parents had lived when Henry, Sophie, Caroline, and I were young, before the divorce, when we’d had a relatively normal childhood for being heirs to the throne and all. Occasionally we were called to Big Gran’s side for state functions. A few times a year we were dressed in stiff silks and stifling wools to shake hands and salute sharply. For the rest of our childhood we played in the large nursery, rode horses under the sharp eye of Mother’s stable master, and attended school at the village academy.

  In short, we were raised as typical, if privileged, Driedish children. Even though it was no longer my home, I still could appreciate the handsome symmetry and impressive size of Ceillis House.

  Nick had walked behind me as my pretend bodyguard while we were still in my father’s sight, but once we were beyond the woods that traced the stream, he was by my side, alert and in charge. “There are no security guards?” he asked for the twentieth time as I opened the doors to the back terrace.

  “At the gate,” I explained for the twenty-first time. “That’s it. No one bothers to come out here.” There were acres and acres of farmland and woods surrounding the house, and the paparazzi had stopped hounding Father when my parents’ divorce was finalized ten years ago. No one was interested in photos of my father fly-fishing. Or reading. Or drinking coffee. That was as exciting as life got at Ceillis House.

  Which was why my father’s offer to host the traditional pre-wedding ball had been so surprising. I’d suspected Big Gran might have had something to do with the invitation, but I had been too distracted by the wedding plans to really look into it. I was told that Father wanted the ball at Ceillis House, and I’d agreed with no questions asked.

  Now, walking upstairs and into the bedroom that I used on my visits, I encountered memories of that night, of Christian, of endless wedding talk and the nonstop nerves that had flipped my stomach upside down and inside out for months.

  “Are you sure no one will report this?” Nick couldn’t resist one more look down the hall before quietly shutting the bedroom door.

  “Father keeps a minimal staff. They’re trained to keep to themselves.” If my father hadn’t raised a fuss, no one else would question my presence. At least, not until I was long gone.

  “What are you looking for?” Nick asked when I immediately went toward the wardrobe and started rifling through it.

  “Clothes,” I snapped. “I’m not wearing your friend’s pants anymore.” I pulled out jeans, sweaters, and my own preferred brand of underwear, and then went to find a suitcase in the closet. As both a perk and necessity of being a princess, I had a wardrobe in several houses and palaces around the country, just in case.

  When I came back into the bedroom with a suitcase with handy wheels, I found Nick putting my clothes back into the wardrobe.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded.

  “You can change. But we can’t carry out a suitcase.”

  “No one has to carry it. It has wheels.” I reached into the wardrobe to get my clothes back out and he put his arm across the opening.

  “If you want all your clothes, you can stay here.”

  I stared at him.

  “Your father might not have any security on this floor, but this is still the house of the heir to the throne. Someone will notice if you’re hauling out a suitcase.”

  “I’m Princess Theodora. I’m allowed to carry whatever I want, wherever I want.”

  We were at a standstill. He was doing that cold tough-guy act. I was doing my haughty princess thing.

  “Shouldn’t you be looking for clues about Christian?” I asked, with a challenge in my voice.

  I got him there. He looked at my suitcase with wheels, shook his head, then said, “One backpack. Then you can show me Christian’s room.”

  “Fine,” I said through gritted teeth. He dropped his arm and let me pull out one change of clothes to wear, one to carry. After a brief internal debate, I decided to change right there in front of him. If the Scot was a prude, he could choose to walk out of the room.

  He didn’t.

  I shed the clothes that presumably belonged to Max Cornelius and began donning the clothes that belonged to another invented persona—Princess Theodora of Drieden.

  After I pulled a sweater over my head, I saw Nick watching me, his green eyes aflame like the fire he’d built in the lock house. While it was true that Driedeners were comfortable with nudity, I was not prepared for the heat that licked down my spine under his intense gaze, so I attempted to distract us both with yet another question.

  “So what will we look for in Christian’s room?”

  That did the trick. Nick squinted out the window, which was simply draped with white sheer curtains. “This was the last place he was seen.”

  Which wasn’t an answer at all, really. Was I going to have to do all the work myself? I
zipped up the backpack I had found in a bottom drawer and pulled on an old pair of riding boots. With the amount of scrambling through weeds and brush we’d done this morning, the boots seemed a better choice than any of the other options in a princess’s spare closet.

  “This way,” I said.

  Christian had stayed in the guest wing on the third floor. We didn’t pass anyone on our trip across the house, which was normal. Because Father used only his own apartment of rooms, there was no reason for maids or other servants to wander the halls of the guest wing at ten a.m. on a Thursday.

  Nick stayed alert and eagle-eyed even as we walked in solitude and shut the door behind us. The room was neat and I saw no evidence that anyone had ever stayed here, much less a guest four months ago. There was no half-packed suitcase on the floor, no rumpled bedsheets or a cap left off the toothpaste. But then again, there wouldn’t have been even when Christian was here. When guests stayed at Ceillis House, servants unpacked for them, ironed their shirts, laid out warm towels before their bath, and turned the bedside lights on low so that when a bridegroom returned from his wedding ball, his chamber would be cozy and comfortable.

  Nick slowly circled the room as I told him all this, helpfully describing the typical hospitality practices of my father’s house and how nothing unusual had happened that night.

  “We said good night at about two in the morning and then he came up here.”

  Something about that made Nick react with a sardonic lift of his eyebrow.

  “What?” I demanded. “That’s what happened.”

  “He was fucking hopeless, wasn’t he?”

  “At what?”

  “At being your boy toy.” Nick made a clicking sound. “Two nights before your wedding, you sleep apart from your fiancé? Hopeless.”

  I didn’t want to hear this again. “Look, I know it’s hard for someone like you to believe that two people would act with appropriate decorum in the Crown Prince’s house. Not everyone has to strip off their clothes and . . .”