The Royal Runaway

by Lindsay Emory

  After a long, painful pause, he answered. “Boson Chapelle employees were dropping out of sight. Christian exited the world stage in a very loud way. He didn’t show up in Britain . . .” He shrugged. “People don’t just hide for four months.”

  “I did.” I took a sharp, deep breath that hurt. “On an island that England has been trying to claim for centuries.”

  Nick didn’t blink. “That wasn’t the goal here.”

  “It’s just a useful benefit, that now I’ve given you key information about a strategic territory in the North Sea . . .”

  “Christian was a notable British citizen who was ascending to another nation’s throne. With his connection to the Cayman papers—”

  “And to the next Queen of Drieden . . .”

  “Of course we were going to try to ascertain what happened.”

  “I’ve ascertained that you are full of bullshit.”

  Nick’s eyes half-closed. “Thea . . .”

  “Don’t use that name,” I snapped.

  “You’re doing that? With me?”

  It was my only defense. Retreating into princess mode slammed walls between me and others. And it had to be done now. I remembered what my grandmother said the morning of my wedding. That there would be no more tears for Christian.

  And indeed, even as I looked at a photo of Christian’s lifeless form, I shed no tears.

  Everything inside me, everything I knew, said to walk away from this now. All the rules of propriety and etiquette and fucking common sense had screamed at me to leave Nick alone.

  But I hadn’t.

  Ever since I had met him, I had sought him out, followed him. Had I known, subconsciously, that Nick would give me the answers I was craving?

  Or just the adventure I had always wanted?

  Looking for answers about Christian’s disappearance—any woman would want to know why she’d been thoroughly humiliated on the international stage.

  Itching for adventure—it wasn’t uncommon for people to seek thrills on the top of mountains, behind steering wheels, plunging to earth with only a parachute for safety.

  But when the climber started leaving oxygen tanks behind; when a seat belt was ignored; when the parachutes weren’t double-inspected—then the adrenaline junkie had a serious problem.

  Seeing the photo of a dead man had shocked me into sobriety.

  “It’s time to end our partnership,” I said, packing as much regality as I could into that short sentence.

  I don’t know what I expected, but I certainly hadn’t expected him to stand, crush me in his arms, and take my mouth in a desperate, hard kiss.

  I savored it for a split second, one last hit for a woman addicted. Then I came to my senses.

  I slapped him. Hard. Then I shoved him away.

  Nick stepped away, his green eyes flashing.

  “I’m Theodora of Drieden. When I say something’s over, it’s over.” I lifted the printout of Christian. “And people are going to know what happened to him.”

  “What are you going to tell them, Thea? How are you going to explain it when you don’t have a body? Or a motive? Or a murderer, in fact?”

  They were questions I didn’t have answers for.

  Nick leaned closer in, and his voice dropped. “What are you going to say when they blame it on you?”

  “Like you did?” It hurt more than I thought it would to say it.

  He was unflinching; he didn’t look away. He didn’t deny the accusation.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’m Theodora of Drieden—”

  “It doesn’t matter how many times you use a title; it doesn’t make it important.”

  I opened my mouth to tell him what an ass he was being, but then I realized something. His argument was pointless. “I’m Theodora of Drieden. And you’re the Portuguese.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “In 1678, Queen Marie-Theodora led the Driedish fleet through a hurricane to defeat the Portuguese.”

  Nick crossed his arms. “You and your history lessons.”

  I continued with my story. It was a good one. “Marie-Theodora was recently widowed. She had survived an attempted coup from her own son, executed him, and decided to sail with a tiny fleet to directly address the Portuguese who had aided her son’s coup d’etat. She ordered the cannon attack, directed the strategy, and lost eight of eleven ships, but seven days later, she won.”

  “Your point, Princess?”

  I lifted my chin and showed him my true colors. “You have manipulated and used me to gain incriminating information about my family. And by doing so, you’ve become my enemy. Like Marie-Theodora, I will do everything I can to protect what’s mine.”

  “What are you protecting? A grandmother who’s been slicing herself a few billion off the top for the last forty years?”

  Rage roared through my ears. “How dare you! You dare preach to me about what’s important? About what I should protect? You’re a coward!”

  “Which castle were you living in when I was fighting the Taliban? When I nearly had my head shot off my shoulders every night?”

  “A man who won’t face his own family is a coward. A man who serves his country by lying to a woman before he gets her into bed. That’s not honor in any language.”

  A bitter, harsh laugh came from Nick. “Oh, such a brave little princess. Such scary battles ahead. Dear Grandmama, whatever shall we do with the billion dollars you stole?”

  His mockery made my stomach turn. There was truth in it, perhaps, but the larger truth was that he didn’t understand me at all. I was going to explain myself only one more time. “I’ve spent my whole life in the cross fire between freedom and duty. My parents picked their sides. You picked a side. But those with true courage, those who want vengeance, justice, won’t stand in no-man’s-land. They use their power to effect change. So you can either be at my side when I take my vengeance against those who killed Christian, those who threaten my family. Or you can run away like a coward, afraid to take what you want from life. The choice is yours.”

  A thick silence filled the room. “Vengeance is an awfully strong word for a princess,” he finally said. “Take it from someone who knows.”

  “I’m going home,” I spat, turning and heading toward the door. I didn’t have to explain anything else to him. A lioness doesn’t explain herself to a mouse.

  “Will you be telling the world about my brother?”

  The way he said that melted my stone heart a little. Maybe I was imagining it, but there was something rough and authentic there. Something that would have made me turn around if I hadn’t already decided my course of action. I didn’t want to admit he was right, but . . . in so many ways it wasn’t right for me to announce Christian’s death.

  “That’s the Duke of Steading’s responsibility,” I said scathingly.

  Then I went home to Drieden to follow the example of my ancestors. And to defend my country against those who threatened it.

  thirty-three

  MY GRAND PLANS FOR MY return to Drieden were, as usual, ruined by a man.

  A dead man, in my case.

  Somehow the press had found out about Christian, and by the time I landed in Drieden, they were calling it a suicide. How they got this information, or who told them, I had no idea, but a fresh uproar was waiting for me and the palace had assigned double the usual guards to meet me at the airport.

  To anyone else, it would appear that they were protecting me from the mob of photographers. But I suspected there was another explanation. Big Gran wanted to keep me under her control.

  Her secretary met me as soon as I exited the armored car and informed me that Aurelia would expect me in an hour.

  I ignored that directive.

  And the next two.

  Lucy came to see me and threw her arms around me. She offered sympathy and condolences for Christian’s passing, but I saw other thoughts on her face, shadows that she probably thought were well hidden.

&n
bsp; Fear, worry, doubt.

  For Pierre Anders, Christian’s death was a political tool, and it seemed he immediately was on every station, telling the country his views on abolishing the monarchy. “Another casualty of a corrupt enterprise,” he said on prime-time television with a shallow show of sorrow.

  “You didn’t even know him,” I muttered at the TV, after Lucy had forced me to sit down and eat a sandwich for dinner.

  “There’s been another call from Her Majesty’s secretary—” she began.

  “Nope,” I said with my mouth full.

  “I know you’re overcome with grief.” She hit the off button on the remote just as yet another engagement photo of Christian and me flashed on the screen. “But this rebellious streak will not be tolerated for much longer.”

  I half-laughed at the thought. They all thought this was a rebellion, that I was so insane with grief I couldn’t simply tell my grandmother “no.”

  I wished it were my typical Thea rebellion, where I snuck out of the castle just to show I could.

  The truth was, I was scared.

  Now that I had the facts about my grandmother, about how she’d embezzled billions into private offshore accounts, I had no idea what—if anything—I should do about it. While I had invoked her legacy, the ghost of my namesake Marie-Theodora hadn’t yet come to explain to me what my brave next steps should be.

  And it wasn’t just Christian’s death that was giving me pause. There was, of course, the unexplained slaughter and disappearance of those who had access to Magdalena Energy International files at Boson Chapelle.

  If my grandmother was behind the murders of these people . . . Well. Let’s just say I had a lot more than permanent exile on Perpetua to worry about. She could cut me off completely, like she did Caroline.

  Or she could cut me down permanently, like Christian.

  I stuffed the remainder of my sandwich in my mouth and started toward my door. “I’m going to the library,” I said.

  “Again?” Lucy wrung her hands. “This isn’t normal.”

  “I love the library. And I can’t go anywhere else,” I pointed out. “Not until everyone forgets about me and Christian.”

  I wasn’t allowed outside the palace gates. All of my public appearances had been canceled and/or reassigned to Sophie. Needless to say, I had heard through the grapevine that my little sister was not thrilled.

  I had pulled the door open when Lucy decided to get serious. “But what about Her Majesty?”

  “If my grandmother wants to see me, she can walk her butt down to the library.”

  The palace library was actually a series of rooms, interconnected in a line along the North Wing. Three hundred years ago, they were assembly rooms for politicians and courtiers and aides. Factions would camp out in their designated chamber until the King could disperse them or negotiate compromises that would please the majority. In the late 1800s, they were remodeled into an extensive library under Queen Wilhelmena, who allowed scholars and artists free entry. Public access to the palace was restricted considerably during World War I—after Franz Ferdinand was shot, the monarchies of Europe grew understandably more concerned with their safety—but the thousands of books remained.

  And it was in these that I had been losing myself for the past week.

  The history of my country had always fascinated me. Now it was my lifeline. Every tiny detail, every small fact I absorbed, as if these collections of paper and leather and thread were going to tell me how the hell I would get out of the situation I was in.

  My nose was buried in A Nautical History of the Driedish Coast, from 1615–1824 when the wide doors of the library opened and the current queen of the land strode in.

  So this was where our confrontation would take place. It seemed appropriate that I would accuse her of criminal acts here, where only history would witness it.

  I stood, more to prepare myself than out of respect. And then my stoic, proud, regal grandmother burst into tears.

  This I had not prepared for.

  Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined Big Gran sobbing, approaching me with outstretched arms. “Thea, my child,” she moaned as she embraced me.

  I was stunned into silence. When was the last time she had clutched me so? It must have been more than a decade ago. Since primary school at least.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” she said when she let me go and patted my cheek with her cool, violet-scented hand. “Such a tragedy. Poor Christian. His family . . .” Her voice drifted off as she removed a linen handkerchief from her sleeve. “I would like to call someone, but Lucy wasn’t sure who would have been closest to him.”

  “He had a brother,” I heard myself saying. “But he’s gone, too.” As far as I knew.

  “What do you need? What can we do?” Perhaps it was the suggestion of the royal “we,” but I felt my defenses lock into place again.

  “Drop the act, Grandmother.” I took three steps back and crossed my arms. “I know you’re involved in this.”

  She was a better actress than I’d realized. If I hadn’t learned about all her secrets, I might have been fooled by her shocked face, her bleak eyes.

  “I know about Magdalena Energy,” I said.

  The Queen of Drieden inhaled a sharp, full breath and her eyes cut into me like the talons of an eagle. But all she said was, “I see.”

  And in that moment, I had never been so afraid of my own grandmother. In my mind, I saw the pieces click into place. How she had grown a secret fortune, locked it away, and when Christian’s firm became the key to discovery, ruthlessly eliminated everyone who could reveal her scheme.

  I had to take action to ensure I wasn’t the next victim. “Other people know.”

  “Really.”

  “If something happens to me, they’ll publicize it.”

  “Who?”

  I thought quickly. Who would give Queen Aurelia pause? “Pierre Anders,” I replied.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I knew it.”

  “You did?”

  “Why else would he move now for the vote against the monarchy? He had to have something that he could take to the people and to Parliament.” She turned and stooped over a nearby chair, her hand across her mouth, thinking. “What are we going to do to stop him?”

  This “we” wasn’t a rhetorical, royal “we.” She was asking me what she and I were going to do to stop Anders from disclosing a secret I wasn’t sure he knew.

  And if she had been murdering her political enemies, I’d just put Pierre Anders on the chopping block.

  “We’re not doing anything to Anders.”

  Gran’s ice-blue eyes lifted to give me a chilly glare. “Think about this carefully, Theodora. Magdalena isn’t just mine. It’s yours.”

  I coughed. “What are you talking about? I had no idea about the company or your billions.”

  “Did you think the money was for me?” She laughed softly. “Oh, darling. It was quite apparent from the moment I took the throne that the world was changing. That land, that oil, belonged to our family.”

  I must not have looked convinced, because she continued. “What will you have, what will your family have, after Anders gets his way? Magdalena is our insurance policy.”

  “You stole from Drieden.”

  She shook her head, stubbornly. “I won’t just let him destroy our birthright.”

  Her words were seductive, but the thought of Christian’s lifeless body prompted me to fight back. “There are more important things.”

  Gran lifted a dramatic arm at the books that surrounded us. “More important than a history, a culture? A way of life?”

  “Yes!” I cried out. “Human lives are more important than our culture! Christian’s life was more important than all of Magdalena’s holdings!” I lifted the closest book and slammed it across the room. “Why did you do it? If you cared so much about our family dynasty, then why did you risk it all and form Magdalena?”

  “I was ensuring the future of your family. It was ins
urance, not risk.”

  Maybe I could understand her reasons forty years ago. “I just don’t think it’s worth murdering people over,” I said, heartbroken.

  Gran frowned and straightened her posture. “Murder? Who was murdered?”

  “Christian,” I choked out. “To keep him quiet about Magdalena . . .” My voice faded to nothing as I watched genuine shock blossom across her face.

  “Who would do such a thing?” she demanded, her voice shaky with outrage.

  I knew my grandmother was skilled at many things. She was a canny queen, an experienced politician, a skillful manipulator of the family. But looking at her now, I knew, deep down in my bones, that she had nothing to do with Christian’s death.

  Facts, as Nick had shown me, were useless. All I had now was instinct. And a whole lot of history to uncover.

  thirty-four

  SOPHIE SET THE CHOCOLATE CAKE and vodka in front of me. “Austrian chocolate and Russian vodka,” she said. “It seems appropriate, given the circumstances.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Heartbreak. Loss. Devastation,” she said, as if that explained it. “Austria . . .” She let that dangle out there, a strange carrot. Her hands went in the air. “Oh my God, you really are upset. You didn’t even start lecturing me on King Vladimir or Empress Alexandra of Salzburg.”

  I shook my head at her. Those people never actually existed, but I appreciated her trying to cheer me up with a faux historical topic of conversation. “Thank you. The cake looks delicious.”

  My sister served two neat triangles and dug in. “How are you doing, really?” she asked with her mouth full. “The news was so shocking. I couldn’t believe it. Suicide. That explains everything, doesn’t it?”

  I pulled my feet from under me and stared at my sister in shock. Christian’s death explained everything? For me it only raised a hundred more questions. “How do you mean?”

  She made a gesture with her fork. “Well, he was obviously unbalanced. Makes everything much clearer. I mean, the leaving-you-at-the-altar bit. Who would do that? A crazy depressive, that’s who,” she said, answering her own question. After another bite, she continued, “And that’s why I’m still so pissed off at Caroline.”