Cordina's Royal Family Collection

by Nora Roberts

“Yeah, yeah, well you can forget driving my truck, kid.” Since he knew her well enough now to be sure she’d nag and push for the next hour, he decided to save time and aggravation and just go. “I’ll drive—but you do the grocery thing.”

  When he simply stood, frowning, she angled her head. “If you’re trying to remember where you put your keys, they’re in the ignition of your precious truck, where you left them.”

  “I knew that,” he muttered and started out. “Are we going or not?”

  As pleased as if she’d been offered a night on the town, she hurried after him. “Is there a department store? I could use some—”

  “Hold it.” He stopped short at the back door so that she bumped solidly into him. “No, there’s not, and don’t get the idea we’re going on some spree. You want lemons, we’ll get some damn lemons, but you’re not dragging me off on some girl safari looking for shoes and earrings and God knows.”

  She had a small—and perfectly harmless—weakness for earrings. Her mouth moved into something perilously close to a pout. “I merely want some eye cream.”

  He tugged her sunglasses down her nose, gave her eyes a hard look. “They’re fine.”

  She rolled them at his back as he continued toward the truck, but she decided not to push the issue. Until they were in town. Now, it was better to distract him.

  “I wonder,” she began as she hitched herself into the cab of the truck, “if you could tell me how radio-carbon dating works.”

  “You want a workshop—”

  “Yes, yes, take a course. But just a thumbnail explanation. I do better with the transcribing if I have a picture in my head.”

  His sigh was long-suffering as the truck bumped along the lane toward the main road. “Carbon’s in the atmosphere. You got trillions of atoms of carbon to every one atom of radioactive Carbon 14. Plants absorb Carbon 14, animals absorb it by—”

  “Eating the plants,” she finished, pleased with herself.

  He shot her a look. “And other animals. Absorbed, it starts to disintegrate. It gets replenished from the atmosphere or from food. Until whatever’s absorbed, it dies. Anyway, in a plant or an animal it gives off about fifteen disintegration rays every minute, and they can be detected by a Geiger counter. The rest is just math. The dead source loses radioactivity at a rate … Why am I talking to myself?”

  “What?” She dragged her attention back. “I’m sorry. It’s just so beautiful. I missed so much in the storm. It’s so green and gorgeous. A bit like Ireland, really, with all those hills.”

  She caught the glint that could only be sun flashing off water. “And a lake, all the lovely trees. It’s all so still and quiet.”

  “That’s why most people live in this part of Vermont. We don’t like crowds and noise. You want those, you don’t come to the NEK, you go west to Lake Champlain.”

  “The NEK?”

  “Northeast Kingdom.”

  The name made her smile. So, she thought, she’d slipped away from a principality for a time, and landed in a kingdom. “Have you always lived here?”

  “Off and on.”

  She gave a little cry of delight as they approached a covered bridge. “Oh, it’s charming!”

  “It gets you over the stream,” Del said, but her pleasure was infectious. Sometimes he forgot to look around, to take satisfaction in the pretty piece of the world where he often made his home.

  They rattled over the bridge toward the white church spires that rose over the trees. She thought it was like a book, some brilliant and deeply American story. The green roll of hills, the white churches and tidy houses with their tidy lawns. And the town itself was laid out as neatly as a game board with straight streets, a small park and weathered brick buildings tucked in with faded clapboard.

  She wanted to stroll those streets, wander the shops, watch the people as they went about their day. Perhaps have lunch in one of the little restaurants. Or better, she thought, stroll about with an ice-cream cone.

  Del pulled into a parking lot. “Grocery store,” he informed her as he dragged out his wallet. He pushed several bills into her hand. “Get what you need. I’ll go check on your car. You’ve got thirty minutes.”

  “Oh, but couldn’t we—”

  “And get some cookies or something,” he added along with a meaningful shove.

  Eyes narrowed behind her shaded glasses, she climbed down, then stood with her hands oh her hips as he pulled out of the lot again. The man was a complete blockhead. Ordering her, pushing her, cutting her off before she completed a sentence. She’d never been treated so rudely, so carelessly in her life.

  It was beyond her comprehension why she enjoyed it.

  Regardless, she’d be damned if she wouldn’t see something of the town before he hauled her back to the cave for another week. Squaring her shoulders, she headed off to explore.

  The pristine and practical New England village didn’t run to pawnshops, but she did find a lovely jewelry store with a fine selection of estate pieces. And the earrings were tempting. Still, she controlled herself and earmarked the shop as a possibility for selling her watch should it become necessary.

  She wandered into a drugstore. Though the choices of eye cream didn’t include her usual brand, she settled for what she could get. She also picked up some very nice scented candles, a few bags of potpourri.

  An antique store proved a treasure trove. It pained her to have to pass up the crystal-and-silver inkwell. It would’ve made a lovely gift for her uncle Alex—but was beyond her current budget unless she risked the credit card.

  Still, she found some interesting old bottles for a reasonable price, and snapped them up. They’d be perfect for wildflowers and twigs, and would perk up the cabin considerably.

  The clerk was a woman about Camilla’s age, with dark blond hair worn in a sleek ponytail and sharp blue eyes that had noted her customer lingering over the inkwell. She smiled as she wrapped the bottles in protective paper.

  “That inkwell’s nineteenth century. It’s a nice piece for a collector—at a good price.”

  “Yes, it’s lovely. You have a very nice shop.”

  “We take a lot of pride in it. Visiting the area?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you’re staying at one of the registered B&B’s, we offer a ten percent discount on purchases over a hundred dollars.”

  “Oh, well. No … no, I’m not.” She glanced back to the desk where the inkwell was displayed. Her uncle’s birthday was only three months away. “I wonder, would you take a small deposit to hold it for me?”

  The clerk considered, giving Camilla a careful measure. “You could put twenty down. I’ll hold it for you for two weeks.”

  “Thanks.” Camilla took the bill from her dwindling supply.

  “No problem.” The clerk began to write out a receipt for the deposit. “Your name?”

  “My … Breen.”

  “I’ll put a hold tag on it for you, Miss Breen. You can come in anytime within the next two weeks with the balance.”

  Camilla fingered her watch, and a glance at it widened her eyes. “I’m late. Delaney’s going to be furious.”

  “Delaney? Caine?”

  “Yes. I was supposed to meet him five minutes ago.” Camilla gathered her bags and rushed toward the door.

  “Miss! Wait!” The clerk bolted after her. “Your receipt.”

  “Oh, sorry. He’s just so easily annoyed.”

  “Yes, I know.” The woman’s eyes danced with a combination of laughter and curiosity. “We went out once or twice.”

  “Oh. I’m not sure if I should congratulate you or offer my sympathies.” So she offered a smile. “I’m working for him, temporarily.”

  “In the cabin? Then I’ll offer you my sympathies. Tell him Sarah Lattimer sends her best.”

  “I will. I have to run or I’ll be hiking back to the cabin.”

  You got that right, Sarah mused as she watched Camilla dash away. Del wasn’t a man known for his patience. Stil
l, she sighed a little, remembering how she’d nearly convinced herself she could change him—tame him—when she’d been twenty.

  She shook her head at the idea as she walked back to put the hold tag on the inkwell. She wished the pretty redhead plenty of luck. Funny, she thought now, the woman had looked familiar somehow. Like a movie star or celebrity or something.

  Sarah shrugged. It would nag at her until she figured out just who Del’s new assistant resembled. But she’d get it eventually.

  * * *

  Juggling bags, Camilla made it to the parking lot at a full run. She grimaced when she spotted the truck, then just wrenched open the door and shoved her purchases inside. “Have to pick up a few things,” she said gaily. “I’ll just be another minute.”

  Before he could open his mouth—to snarl, she was sure—she was rushing inside the market.

  Snagging a cart, she set off toward produce at a smart pace. But the process of selecting fresh fruits and vegetables simply could not be rushed. She bagged lemons, delicately squeezed tomatoes, pursed her lips over the endive.

  The supermarket was such a novelty for her, she lingered longer than she intended over fresh seafood, over the baked items. She liked the colors, the scents, the textures. The big bold signs announcing specials, and truly horrible canned music numbers playing over the loud speaker, interrupted only by voices calling for price checks and cleanups.

  She shivered in frozen foods, deciding the chances of talking Del into an ice-cream cone now were nil. So she bought the makings for them. Delighted with the variety of choices, she loaded the cart, then wheeled it to checkout.

  If she were a housewife, she thought, she would do this every week. It probably wouldn’t be nearly as much fun. Just another obligation, she thought, and that was a shame.

  She came back to reality with a thud when she moved up in line and saw her own face staring out from the cover of a tabloid.

  PRINCESS CAMILLA’S HEARTBREAK

  Why, they had her in grieving seclusion, Camilla saw with growing irritation. Over an aborted romance with a French actor. One she’d never even met! Imbéciles! Menteurs! What right did they have to tell lies about her personal life? Wasn’t it enough to report every move she made, to use their telephoto lenses to snap pictures of her night and day?

  She started to reach for the paper, for the sheer pleasure of ripping it to pieces.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?” Del demanded.

  She jumped like a thief, and instinctively whirled around to block the paper with her body. Fury, which she’d considered a healthy reaction, became a sick trembling in her stomach.

  If she was unmasked here, now, it would all be over. People would crowd around her, gawking. The media would be on her scent like hounds on a rabbit.

  “I’m … waiting in line to pay.”

  “What is all this stuff?”

  “Food.” She worked up a smile as a cold sweat slid down her back.

  “For what army?”

  She glanced at the cart, winced. “I may have gotten a little carried away. I can put some of it back. Why don’t you go outside and—”

  “Just get through the damn line.” He stepped forward, and certain he’d see the tabloid, she dug in her heels.

  “Don’t push me again.”

  “I’m not pushing you, I’m pushing the stupid cart.”

  When he moved past the newspaper rack without a glance, Camilla nearly went limp.

  “Hey, Del, didn’t expect to see you back in here so soon.” The cashier began ringing up the things Del began pulling out of the cart and dumping on the conveyer belt.

  “Neither did I.”

  The woman, a plump brunette whose name tag identified her as Joyce, winked at Camilla. “Don’t let him scare you, honey. Bark’s worse than his bite.”

  “Not so far,” Camilla muttered, but was relieved that he was at the wrong angle now to see the grainy photograph of her. Still, she put her sunglasses back on before turning her face toward the cashier. “But he doesn’t scare me.”

  “Glad to hear it. This one’s always needed a woman with plenty of spine and sass to stand up to him. Nice to see you finally found one, Del.”

  “She just works for me.”

  “Uh-huh.” Joyce winked at Camilla again. “You hear from your mom lately?”

  “Couple weeks back. She’s fine.”

  “You tell her I said hi—and that I’m keeping my eye on her boy.” She rang up the total and had Camilla wincing again.

  “I think I might need a little more money.”

  “Damn expensive lemons.” Resigned, Del took what he’d given her, added more bills.

  She helped him load the bags into the truck, then sat with her hands folded in her lap. She’d overreacted to the tabloid, she told herself. Still her initial spurt of anger had been liberating. Regardless, she’d recovered well, and a lot more quickly than she might have done just a week or two before.

  That meant she was stronger, steadier. Didn’t that serve to prove she was doing the right thing?

  Now it was time to put that issue away again, and deal with the moment.

  “I’m sorry I took so long, but I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to want to see something of the town.”

  “Your car should be ready tomorrow. Maybe the next day seeing as Carl’s claiming to be backed-up and overworked. Next time you want to play tourist, do it on your own time.”

  “Be sure I will. Sarah Lattimer at the antique store said to give you her best. I wonder that anyone so well-spoken and courteous could have ever gone out with you.”

  “She was young and stupid at the time.”

  “How fortunate for her that she matured and wised-up.”

  “You got that right.” He caught her soft chuckle. “What’s so funny?”

  “It’s hard to insult you when you agree with me.” It was hard to brood about a silly photograph in a trashy newspaper when he was so much more interesting. “I like you.”

  “That makes you young and stupid, doesn’t it?”

  She grinned, then amused at both of them leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Apparently.”

  Chapter 6

  I’m having the most wonderful time. It wasn’t the plan to stay in one place so long, or to do one thing for any length of time. But it’s such a beautiful place, and such an exciting thing to do.

  Archaeology is truly fascinating. So much more interesting and layered to me than the history I enjoyed and was taught in school, or the sociology classes I took. More fascinating, I find, than anything I’ve studied or explored.

  Who, where and why? How people lived, married, raised their children, treated their elderly. What they ate, how they cooked it. Their ceremonies and rituals. Oh, so much more. And all of it, society after society, tribe by tribe speaks, doesn’t it, to our own?

  He knows so much, and so much of what he knows is almost casual to him, in the way a true scholar can be. Not that knowledge itself is casual to him. He seeks it every day. He wants to know.

  I find that passion admirable, enviable. And I find it alluring.

  I’m attracted to his mind, to all those complex angles. Working with—all right, for—him is hard and demanding, sometimes physically exhausting. Despite his injuries, the man has astounding stamina. It’s impressive the way he can lose himself, hours at a go, in his work.

  It’s also an absolute thrill for me to do so as well. I’ve studied bone fragments that are centuries old. Sealed, of course, in plastic.

  I wonder how they might feel in my hands. If anyone had told me I’d actually want to handle human bones, even two weeks ago, I’d have thought them mad.

  How I wish I could go to the dig—or wet archaeological site—and actually see the work being done there. Though Delaney paints a very clear picture when he speaks of it, it’s not the same as seeing it for myself.

  This is something I want to see, and do, for myself. I intend to look into classes, and what Delane
y somewhat disdainfully refers to as knap-ins (a kind of camping session on sites for amateurs and students) when I’m home again.

  I believe I’ve found an avocation that could become a vocation.

  On a personal level, he’s not as annoyed by me as he pretends to me. At least not half the time. It’s odd and very educational to have someone treat me as he would anyone else—without that filter of manners and respect demanded by rank. Not that I appreciate rudeness, of course, but once you get to know the man, you can see beneath the rough exterior.

  He’s a genius. And though courtesy is never out of place, the brilliant among us are often less polished.

  I find him so attractive. In my life I’ve never been so physically drawn to a man. It’s exciting on one level, terribly frustrating on another. I was raised in a loving family, one which taught me that sex is not a game, but a joy—and a responsibility—to be shared with someone you care for. Someone you respect, and who affords you those same emotions. My position in the world adds another, complex and cautious layer, to that basic belief. I cannot risk taking a lover casually.

  But I want him for a lover. I want to know what it’s like to have that fire inside him burn through me. I want to know if mine can match it.

  The tabloid in the supermarket reminded me of what I’d nearly let myself forget. What it’s like to be watched, constantly. Pursued for an image on newsprint. Speculated about. The fatigue of that, the unease, the discomfort. Gauging how I feel now against how I felt the night I left Washington, I understand I was very close to breaking down in some way. I can look back and remember that hunted feeling, feel the nerves that had begun to dance, always, so very close to the surface.

  Much of that is my own fault, I see now, for not giving myself more personal time to—well, decompress, I suppose—since Grandpère died, and everything else.

  I’m doing so now, and none too soon.

  My time here is, well, out of time, I suppose. I feel it’s been well spent. I feel—perhaps renewed is an exaggeration. Refreshed then, and more energized than I have felt in so many months.

  Before I leave and take up my duties again, I’ll learn all I can about the science of archaeology. Enough that I might, in some way, pursue it myself. I’ll learn all I can about Camilla MacGee—separate from Camilla de Cordina.