The Prince’s Bride (Part 1)

by J. J. McAvoy

  “Don’t call me that in public,” I muttered when a little witch—not an insult, but an actual little girl dressed up as a witch—glanced at us upon hearing ‘Your Highness.’ I just offered her a smile, and she backed away, hiding behind her mother’s legs, which in return caused her mother to look at me. She smiled and nodded to me, putting her hand on her daughter’s head.

  Iskandar turned his back to them to speak to me. “Your—sir, you still have glasses and a hat on inside the building. They are very suspicious here, especially within airports.”

  “You’re the one who told me to put on the hat and the damn glasses.”

  “Only to get on and off the plane, sir. But now, you should just wait until it’s your turn to meet the customs officer. Go on. The line is moving.”

  “This is ridiculous,” I grumbled, stepping up again behind baby Satan. “I swear Arthur is just trying to torture me. If he is going to force me to come here, the very least he could have done was allow me to come as myself.”

  “That would alert the press, Your—sir. And then you would be here on an official diplomatic mission, which would force you to stay in Washington DC and not Washington state.”

  I wasn’t in the mood for his practicality, but then again, that was why Arty chose Iskandar instead of my choice of guard. Iskandar was only three years older than me, but I swear he had the soul of a sixty-year-old baron...and the hair of one, too. He was always uptight, stiff, and practical and a stickler for rules, order, and the monarchy. That was a trait most who came out of the academy shared, but even among his peers, he was given the nickname, Iskandar the Rock. He was dull and would not be moved unless it was by a force stronger than him. That force being those of higher rank. Unfortunately, my brother outranked me, which meant, whatever Arty ordered of Iskandar was of greater importance than whatever I wanted.

  “How much did my brother tell you?” I asked, stepping forward in line again.

  “Everything.”

  I turned back to him. “Everything?”

  He nodded. “He said he did not wish to do so, but should you forget your duty, someone would need to remind you what was at stake since he would not be beside you to do so.”

  I cracked my jaw to the side. “My brother has gotten very good at politely insulting me.”

  “You are up next, sir. Here’s your passport. Please answer their questions as we practiced,” he directed, stretching out his hand to give me my unofficial passport. My name here was Edgar DeLacour.

  Handing him my glasses and hat before taking it, I turned back just as the guard called me forward.

  “What is the purpose of your visit?” The man behind the glass asked, bored, as I slid my passport through his little reader.

  “A woman,” I answered.

  His eyebrow raised, and he looked at me. “A woman?”

  “It’s a very long story, sir. But what can I do? I’m a romantic.”

  “How long do you intend to stay?” The officer shook his head and looked down at my passport again.

  “Until the woman agrees to marry me, or my family disowns me. Either way, it shouldn’t be longer than two months. I’ll be home by Christmas.”

  He stared at me for a moment before his next question. “Are you bringing anything into the United States?”

  “Just my achy-breaky heart.”

  The woman in the booth next to him snorted.

  The officer frowned. “Does that fit in a suitcase, sir?”

  “With all my clothes? I doubt it.”

  He looked me up and down, annoyed, before stamping the first page of my passport. “I pity whoever this woman is.”

  “Why? I’m a very good catch,” I replied, taking back the passport.

  “Good luck.” The other woman smiled at me.

  “Thank you. I’ll need it.”

  “Keep moving, Casanova,” the officer said, waving me through.

  Nodding, I turned back to see Iskandar. Anyone else would think he was emotionless, but I knew him well enough to see the slight annoyance in his eyes.

  “Friend of yours?” I heard the officer ask.

  “My boss’s son,” Iskandar replied.

  “Tough job.”

  Wow, so everyone was out to insult me today. I walked ahead, hoping to enjoy my few minutes of relative privacy. However, the moment I reached the baggage claim, I saw a familiar freckle-faced, blond-haired palace guard already carrying my luggage. He stepped up to me and nodded. “Welcome, Your Highness.”

  “You are not to call him that in public, Wolfgang. Sir or Mr. DeLacour is fine,” Iskandar stated, already behind me, giving me back my hat and sunglasses. “Is everything prepared?”

  They spoke amongst themselves as if I weren’t here. I felt a similar sense of entrapment come over me. It was like being a puppet, with no control of where you go, how you got there, or what was to happen to you while you were there. You just went. You just did as you were told, and part of me truly wanted to say screw it. Run for the doors. Or at the very least do something...freeing. But as soon as the thought came to mind, the memory of my father yesterday took over.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes?” I focused back on them.

  “We are ready to depart if you are,” Iskandar said, stepping to the side for me to walk past.

  “I am. But where are we going? I believe my brother might have told you more than he has told me,” I said as we all headed out. “What time is it?”

  “It is six in the evening, Pacific Daylight Time. Ersovia is nine hours ahead of Seattle. Would you like me to adjust your watch?” Iskandar asked, outstretching his hand for it.

  “I can manage on my own for that, at least,” I replied, taking off the watch as we exited the terminal only to blasted by frigid air. It went through me instantly. Luckily, or by precision planning on the part of my brother and Iskandar, a large, black Range Rover was already parked and waiting for us. Wolfgang held open the door for me, and the first thing I did was look for the heating vent.

  “Hello.”

  My head whipped toward the voice of a brown-skinned woman—dressed in pink with light-colored eyes and short, blonde hair—staring at me.

  “Jesus Christ!” I panicked, shifting away.

  She laughed at me. “Sorry, did I frighten you?”

  “Who are you?”

  She stared at me with furrowed eyebrows, and I realized I was still speaking in Ersovian and not English. “Sorry, you are going to have to repeat that.”

  “I think you are in the wrong car,” I said this time.

  “Aww, that accent is to die for,” she replied instead.

  “Sir,” Iskandar spoke as he entered the passenger side of the car, and a driver I didn’t recognize took the steering wheel. “This is Wilhelmina Wyntor-Smith. Ms. Odette Wyntor’s mother.”

  I glanced at the very young-looking woman beside me. How in the world did she have a daughter who was older than me? It was only by staring at her that I noticed the similar features from what I had seen in the photograph of her daughter.

  “Thank you for meeting us, ma’am,” Iskandar said to her.

  My mind took a moment—luckily, it was just a moment—to register. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am—”

  “I know who you are, obviously,” she stated but took my hand and shook it anyway. “And now you know who I am, so we can skip the hellos and get right down to business.”

  Everyone said Americans were forward, and she definitely didn’t seem to want to break that stereotype.

  “Forgive me, but I have not been informed much about this deal. In fact, they only told me of it recently—”

  “What a coincidence. I only just told Odette, too. However, she is being stubborn and completely refused. She didn’t even want to consider it, so we’re going to need to work together.”

  “Wait.” I paused. “She refused? Outright?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “You told her who I was?”

  “Tha
t you are a prince. Her exact words were ‘Good for him. I don’t care.’ She’s very stubborn. But she gets that from me, so I can’t really be mad at her for it.” She snickered.

  I sat back in the seat. I had never been rejected by proxy before. Had I ever been rejected before?

  “So she doesn’t want this marriage, either?” So, it wouldn’t be my fault if it doesn’t work. Hope filled me until Iskandar’s annoying self decided to cough as if to remind me—clearly remind me—none of that mattered.

  “Don’t take it personally. Odette says she doesn’t want to get married to anyone.” She frowned, almost as if she were aggravated by her own daughter’s wishes.

  “I know why I am here,” I replied seriously, sitting up. “It is for your money. Correction, your daughter’s money. She most likely knows that, too. It would be reasonable for her not to want to get married. Why would you force her?”

  “I’m going to ignore the fact that you think you know my daughter better than me and tell you. First, in order to get her money, she must get married. Secondly, I’m forcing her because I know what she needs.” That sounded like a very unhealthy way to parent a child.

  “Your daughter is not a child. If she says she doesn’t want to get married—”

  “What my daughter says and what my daughter truly means are often two different things.” Her tone changed, and her face fell, but she never broke eye contact with me. “She wants to get married. She’s always wanted to get married. But she’s just scared to because of the example her father and I set. Love—to her—is synonymous with pain. When Odette is hurt by something, she abandons it. It is the one childish thing about her. So she’s not going to try to fall in love unless I push her into love. I’m starting with you, someone who desperately needs to make it work. No matter how much she pushes and pulls, your brother convinced me you could do it. If you don’t work out, I will move on to someone else. Maybe someone less high profile, a governor’s son, or something.”

  Bravo.

  In my family, I was the one person who always had the reply, some remark back, but I had no idea what to say to this woman. I had never had a stranger speak to me this way...like I was of no real importance, and just a means to an end for her own plans—actually, that might have been exactly it.

  “Oh, by the way, did you happen to bring a costume?” she asked, scrolling through her phone.

  “No. I don’t wear costumes.”

  “So, Prince Charming it is then.” She grinned, showing me the outfit online.

  Was I not speaking English? “I. Do. Not. Wear. Costumes.”

  “You are a prince, correct?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Are you charming?”

  I knew what she was doing. So I didn’t answer.

  “See, it’s not a costume. It’s just you then.”

  What had my brother gotten me into?

  Chapter 6

  “Damn, look at that cleavage!” Augusta’s voice all but bounced off my walls since I had her on speakerphone.

  “Shut up,” I said, trying to adjust the top of the dress. Giving up, I picked up the phone. It was only then that I saw her red wig and the red, heart-shaped mark on her face. “Augusta, you do know that the Queen of Hearts is a villain, not a hero. Right?”

  “She’s just misunderstood.” She grinned, and her collar ruffled. “Besides, if everyone is a hero, how am I going to stand out? I bet you there is going to be at least one other Cinderella there. You’ll look better, but still. How did you get your curls like that?”

  “Thanks, and I’ll send you the video I copied it from.” I laughed, lifting my phone. “You look beautiful as always. It’s very fitting actually, considering all the heartbreaks you keep causing.”

  She rolled her eyes hard. “Just following your footsteps, big sis.”

  “Thanks, but I think you’re way past me.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Oh, we never got to talk about Dad’s will. It’s crazy, isn’t it?”

  “Crazy is an understatement. Do you know my mom is trying to get me to marry for the money?”

  “Really? You aren’t going to, are you?”

  “Not if I can help it. What did your mom say about it?” I asked, carefully pinning the crown into my hair.

  “What do you think she said?”

  I sighed. “What is wrong with them? They want the money so badly that they’re willing to just throw men at us?”

  “They’re ridiculous. Don’t let them pressure you. There is no reason to get married. I’m sure there is a loophole somewhere. If we both stand firm, I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”

  “I hope so. Oh, just wait until I tell you who my mom is trying to set me up with,” I started to say when my alarm on the side of my wall flashed, telling me the front doors had opened. “Hold on, Augusta. I think she’s here.”

  “Where are you staying right now? The lake or the penthouse?” she asked as I grabbed my bag and moved to the door.

  “I came back to the penthouse. It doesn’t make any sense to leave the city just to come back to the city. Traffic tonight will be annoying. Hold one second,” I said, opening my door and looking over the top of the stairs. “Mom, is that you?”

  Instead of her voice, I heard someone else, but I didn’t understand what they were saying.

  “Who is that?”

  “I have no idea.” I frowned, stepping more toward the ledge. “Hello? Is someone down there?”

  Only more talking.

  “Yes, someone is down there! Call security.”

  “Relax, it must be the cleaning staff or something,” I said, walking down the stairs.

  However, just as I came around the bend, a man with curly bronze hair, dressed in a white double-breasted jacket with red and gold accents on the shoulder and red dress pants approached. He held a phone in his hand and had an earpiece. I couldn’t tell who he was. He was angrily saying something to whoever was on the other line while tugging on the sash he was wearing.

  My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach as I stared at that costume.

  She wouldn’t. She really wouldn’t. That would make her crazy.

  “Who is that?” Augusta spoke.

  “I’m going to have to call you back,” I replied, ending the call before she could speak.

  Still frozen in place, I could only stare. But I guess I was staring or frozen for too long because he finally looked to his left, and when he saw me, he jumped slightly. We just stood there, staring at each other. I knew that face. She had only just shown me that face. There in my living room, dressed as Prince Charming, was, in fact, a real freaking prince. I watched as he glanced at my whole outfit, and then because he was a man first and prince second, his gaze stopped at my chest for far too long.

  “Mom!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, and he flinched.

  No answer.

  Grabbing the bottom of my dress, I marched down the rest of the stairs, feeling my blood boil over. “Mother! Where are you? I know you’re here.”

  “She said she’d be right back.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at him, willing my brain to stop processing the fact that he could speak English and that he was actually here. Turning away again, I stomped up to the doors, the only doors into the penthouse, and yanked on the handle, but the doorknob wouldn’t open. I pulled again, then one more time.

  “Are you freakin’ kidding?” I screamed, yanking on it like a madwoman until my phone rang. Letting go of the knob and looking to my phone, sure enough, I found the Wicked Witch of the West was calling.

  “Hello—”

  “Wilhelmina Wyntor-Smith, have you lost your mind?”

  “Excuse you! Watch your tone! You’re speaking to your mother!” she yelled back into the phone.

  I stared at my cell in amazement. “So you know you’re my mom! I thought you’d forgotten since you trapped me in here with a stranger! Who does that?”

  “He’s not stranger. He’s—”

  “I don’t
care! I don’t know him, and he’s in my home! He could be a murderer!”

  “I’m not,” his deep voice chimed in behind me.

  “He could be a rapist—”

  “I’m most definitely not,” he spoke again.

  Whipping my head back, I glared at him. However, he just leaned on the couch, watching me carefully. “Hi. Please, do me a favor and shut up while I try to get you out of here. Thank you.”

  He nodded and gave me a thumbs-up.

  “Odette Rochelle Wyntor, I did not raise you to be rude.”

  “No, but apparently you raised me to be insane,” I snapped back. “What happened to everything you said this morning, huh? What happened to not rushing? To planning to strike when I no longer suspected you?”

  “I did.”

  I inhaled and exhaled hard, and I prayed a bit before speaking again. “Mom.” I was really trying to be calm. “Please, come undo whatever you did to the door. This is entrapment. You are currently breaking the law. If you don’t care about my well-being, please remember you are also holding a prince of some nation—”

  “Ersovia.”

  I glanced over to him again. And he pretended to scroll through his phone.

  “You are holding the Prince of Ersovia captive. Do you know how crazy that sentence is? My mother kidnapped a prince!”

  “I didn’t kidnap anyone. He came of his own free will,” she said.

  “Well, not exactly,” he muttered.

  “Either way, Mom”—I groaned, suddenly exhausted—“just come open the door.”

  “Sweetheart, I’ve already called the building manager and staff. There is something wrong with it. They’re working to fix it, so just hold tight. It’s not like you turn back into a maid at midnight.” She had the audacity to joke, and he had the audacity to snicker.

  And I knew she was lying! “Mom, if you do not open the door, Prince Charming will end up like Humpty Dumpty,” I said, glaring at him.

  He glanced up at me, his eyebrow raising.

  “I’ll take that chance, Ms. I-Must-Break-For-Squirrels.” She laughed at me. She freaking laughed at me. “But before you make scrambled eggs out of him, offer him some food. He’s been traveling all morning, and then I dragged him around for his costume.”