The Wrong Prince

by C. K. Brooke

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The Wrong Prince. Copyright © 2016 by C.K. Brooke, https://www.facebook.com/ck.brooke.

  Excerpt from The Red Pearl by C.K. Brooke Copyright © 2015 by C.K. Brooke.

  Edited by Denise DeSio. Cover Design by Ampersand Book Covers, https://www.facebook.com/AmpersandBookCovers. Interior Book Design by http://www.breakthroughauthor.com.

  All rights reserved including the right to manufacture in any format, sell, or distribute copies of this book or portions of this book. For information, visit http://www.48fourteen.com.

  Library of Congress Number: 2016943061

  ISBN-13: 978-1-937546-58-8

  ISBN-10: 1-937546-58-6

  For Michele—who else?

  The Wrong Prince

  The Red Pearl

  THE TALE OF JORDINIA

  The Duchess Quest, Book 1

  The Duchess Inheritance, Book 2

  THE BATTLE RAGED. AGAINST THE southern sky, the Llewesian army swung their swords and charged warrior steeds at Tybiria’s knights. The soldiers’ shouts, thick as the milky clouds, smothered the air and competed with the clanking and whirring of swords and arrows.

  Georome Straussen, the younger Prince of Tybiria, catapulted another arrow from his slender bow. The weapon soared a brief distance before lodging in the gut of a gray-clad attacker.

  “Nice work, Your Highness,” panted Sir Kellan from his left.

  Prince Geo concealed a grin, aiming for another Llewesian, and another. He ducked as an enemy arrow darted past his ear. It struck one of his father’s knights behind him. With a muffled cry, the man collapsed onto the grass, already slickened with blood. Geo’s stomach clenched. He hadn’t the time to turn and see who it was. His valiant horse had already advanced several paces farther into the fray, and it was all he could do to avoid the swords and arrows flashing in his face from every direction.

  The prince extended a sturdy arm over his shoulder, reaching into his quiver to discover it exhausted of arrows. His tongue was on the cusp of an oath when a familiar presence rode up to his side, and fired an arrow that only implanted straight into the ground.

  “Dmitri.” Geo mopped his brow. “Pray, may I borrow from your quiver?”

  The Crown Prince turned his helmeted head, foggy spectacles slightly askew. “With pleasure, brother.” Without hesitation, Prince Dmitri extracted a cluster of oaken arrows from his personal quiver and dropped them into Geo’s.

  “Cheers.” Geo bobbed his stout chin. In unison, the royal brothers aimed their identical weapons and released. The arrows glided together until neither knew which was whose. The first landed by the hoof of a spotted horse. The creature whinnied and stumbled back as the second arrow struck its rider precisely in the heart.

  Time slowed as the youthful figure toppled down, improperly-applied armor meeting the ground with a thud. The helmet rolled away, revealing waves of crisp, golden hair, shimmering as it caught a fleck of sunlight through the parting clouds. The Llewesians surrounding him gasped. At once, they lowered their swords, falling to their knees beside him.

  “Prince Weyland,” a Llewesian soldier cried, cupping the boy’s head between his hands. He peered up at his fellows imploringly. “Had any of you knowledge that the prince fought among us today?”

  Somber, the others shook their heads, even as the battle blazed across the field.

  The soldier stood, cradling the limp and bleeding corpse of the thirteen-year-old Prince of Llewes. Tears streaked his weathered cheeks as he bellowed, “Cease, I beg you. Our prince is dead!”

  Geo’s pulse quickened as the sparring about them gradually subsided. Along with his brother, Tybiria’s knights, and the army of Llewes, he gazed at the lifeless form in the enemy soldier’s arms. Everyone seemed equally shocked that the underage lad had snuck into battle, evading detection until the moment of his demise.

  Grimacing, a second Llewesian wrested the arrow from the boy’s chest. He examined it a moment, then raised it overhead. Before all, he displayed a familiar oaken arrow bearing the Straussen family crest, just above the Crown Prince Dmitri’s engraved initials.

  With howls of defeat, the opposing army retreated, waving white flags of surrender. A roar of victory erupted among the Tybirians, and Geo was lost in the crowd as the knights showered cheers and praise upon his elder brother.

  THE MOON WAS BUT A scant crescent, pale against the midnight sky. Luccia Camerlane, daughter of the Baron of Backshore, had deemed it perfect before securing her hood overhead and venturing with stealth to the pavilion on the other side of the lake.

  He awaited her there, as promised. A suggestive grin curved his mouth, and he’d already taken the liberty to unfasten the throat of his blouse. In spite of her intentions that evening, Lucie smirked. Such unabashed presumption. No question what the younger Prince of Tybiria anticipated that night. So he assumed their every encounter would invariably lead him to partake of his pleasure, did he?

  And partake of it, he did. Lucie never did learn how to tell him no. Or rather, she’d never wanted to. As it were, she presently lay perspiring in his arms, like always, her glistening caramel limbs entwined with his. Her amethyst pendant, which she never removed, rested heavy between her breasts, the meager moonlight illuminating its clever angles.

  Geo’s eyes connected with hers. “Lucie,” he whispered, voice dripping with affection. He threaded strong fingers through her golden brown hair. “There’s something I wish to say to you. For some time, I’ve been—”

  “Geo,” Lucie interrupted, heart thudding. Whatever he wanted to tell her would be irrelevant by then, for she was on the verge of breaking both their hearts.

  Truly, Lucie hadn’t meant to make love with him again that evening. She’d only requested the meeting to relay the crushing news. In private, she had fussed and fretted over her predicament, and spent hours rehearsing elaborate explanations to impart to her royal lover. Even so, she knew not how to tell him.

  The softness in the young prince’s eyes, coupled with his expression of mild confusion further pained her. Her breast aching with regret, she extended a hand to stroke his face. “My father has selected a husband for me.”

  His features stiffened. Oh, Geo, she thought mournfully, in the silence that followed.

  At last, he replied dryly, “So, I take it you shan’t be my date to my brother’s engagement party?”

  Lucie sighed. The jest was too ridiculous to qualify with a response.

  He then inquired, more seriously, “And to whom has your hand been promised?”

  Lucie dropped her gaze. In truth, she didn’t know. Her father hadn’t disclosed the identity of her betrothed, and she had known better than to ask. But to admit so to Geo would only complicate matters.

  Lucie was well aware of the prince’s persistent nature. The unyielding young man won for himself anything he desired—including her. Surely, as a virtuous damsel, she would never have dreamed of succumbing to a man’s passions prior to matrimony! But it wasn’t as though a mere baron’s daughter could ever wind up with a prince. Nay, their union would never be permitted.

  Lucie’s mind was fast at work. The only way to ensure that Geo wouldn’t chase after her, creating a scandal and tarnishing both their families’ reputations, was to fabricate a lie. One that would deter the prince from her, permanently. Much as she adored him, and the past nine moons of their affair had been indescribable—but secret—bliss,
the pair knew all along that they could never be. It was time to part ways.

  “He is someone quite close to me,” lied Lucie, extracting herself from his arms.

  Geo reluctantly relinquished her, his brow knit. “Close?” he repeated.

  “In the same manner as you and me,” she mumbled, retying her undergarments. Her cheeks burned to utter such a claim, although it was untrue.

  The man blinked in disbelief. Lucie looked away so as not to behold the shadow of pain expanding across his comely features. She draped her gown overhead as he straightened, his fibrous chest heaving somewhat.

  Detesting herself, Lucie mustered the audacity to continue, digging a deeper trench of sorrow between them. “Look, Geo, it’s been a pleasant romp.” She tossed her long, dark hair out from the collar of her gown, forcing a grin. “But you didn’t actually think all of this meant anything beyond sport, did you?”

  His face hardened. “I suppose not.”

  She inhaled. He was angry—good. Let him believe she’d betrayed him. It would be easier that way, for both of them.

  He pulled on his trousers as she stepped back into her slippers. “Well,” she clasped her hands with a nonchalant bow of her head, “goodbye then, Your Highness.”

  Geo frowned. “Congratulations on your betrothal.” His tone was flat.

  Lucie said nothing more to her heart’s sole desire as she left the lakeside pavilion for the final time. Amidst her moonlit tears, the young woman prayed that her cruelty had obliterated his yearning for her, and that the prince would move on, at last.

  “YOU CALL THAT A SALUTE?”

  Dmitri glanced up, as if just noticing his brother’s presence.

  Geo laughed. “Hello in there? That overactive mind of yours wandering again?”

  His elder brother grinned, sapphire eyes alight. “Perhaps. Only I was just contemplating the latest novel by Goudeaux. In it, he crafts a most fascinating verse, comparing an orchard to the parliament of—”

  “Ugh.” Geo ejected an exaggerated groan, twirling his epée. “Spare me the tiresome details, I beg you.”

  “En-garde,” announced Dmitri, flinging down his mask and posing in stance.

  Geo assumed his position. “Ready? Play!” With no further warning, he advanced, heel to toe along the piste, lunging before his brother even knew to retreat. “Touché! Touché!” He cackled as he repeatedly assaulted the man with playful prods of the weapon.

  “Whoa, halt!” cried Dmitri, attempting—and failing—to parry the blade. “Only one touch per bout. You’ve made your point!”

  Geo crouched over, hands on his knees as he shook with continuous laughter.

  Dmitri lifted his mask. Thick blond hair fell just past his ears, and he tucked it back. “I can’t see worth a damn without my spectacles, anyway.” He fished in his pocket for the lenses in question.

  Geo held his smile, though a wisp of discomfort hung unspoken between them. The royal family could blame all they wanted on Dmitri’s shoddy vision, but the fact remained that the Crown Prince was mediocre, at best, in combat. Geo strongly suspected it had more to do with Dmitri’s roaming imagination and frivolous obsession with prose, however, than anything of a physiological nature.

  Both princes knew that Geo was the better athlete. Geo also knew that Dmitri did not resent him for it, either. In fact, the man did naught but admire and encourage his younger brother. But the Crown Prince’s shortcomings were not a matter to be discussed—or even acknowledged—in the Kingdom of Tybiria.

  “I know what distracts you.” Geo removed his mask to expose his own ash brown mop. “It’s the Reveal Banquet on the morrow, isn’t it?”

  Dmitri looked flabbergasted. “It’s tomorrow?”

  Geo sighed. His brother’s thoughts were perpetually elsewhere. Yet how could Dmitri neglect to remember the date of his own engagement celebration? Especially since his elected bride-to-be would be revealed to him, and the rest of the kingdom, for the first time. The man didn’t even know whom he was to wed, and he was idling about in his chamber with books!

  “Time encroaches swiftly.” Dmitri shrugged.

  Geo gaped at him. “You are to marry a complete stranger in a matter of moons, and that is all you have to say?”

  Dmitri didn’t respond, and Geo glanced away. Were it him, he’d be sweating sabers, jittery with anxiety. Of course, being the younger prince, Georome Straussen would not undergo the same ceremony for his own nuptials. Oh, it would still be the talk of the nation, whomever he was to wed someday…but it didn’t hold the same importance as Dmitri’s wife, who would one day become queen.

  With a sore heart, Geo’s mind drifted, yet again, to his last encounter with his former lover, the Baron of Backshore’s beautiful daughter. In the fleeting hours of passion exchanged with her over the course of several moons, Geo had dared to dream that she could become his princess.

  Curse her. He had unveiled his authentic self to her. It had never occurred to him to be unfaithful. Yet when, at last, he’d summoned the courage to attempt to profess his love for her, she’d snubbed him with a callous confession of her longstanding betrayal.

  A game, as it turned out, was all he had been to her. For sport, she’d said. During which, all the while, she’d been consorting with another. Geo tried to shove the girl as far as possible from his mind. But still, he was plagued by her heartlessness and couldn’t fathom her capability of deceit. And to her own prince, no less! Why, was she unaware that he possessed the authority to revoke her and her father’s standing, even to lock her in prison, should he possess the slightest whim? But she didn’t respect him. He’d merely been her toy.

  And yet…something had been incongruous with Lucie Camerlane’s dismissal of him on that ill-fated evening. While her words had been flippant, those enchanting brown eyes seemed to brim with sorrow. Geo could make no sense of it.

  Presently, his brother rested a hand on his arm. “Now it appears to be your mind that wanders,” he remarked gently.

  Geo clenched his jaw. No one knew about Lucie. And no one would. “Come,” he entreated Dmitri, tossing his epée aside. “Let us go and see what the boys are up to.”

  “MAD AS A HATTER.” SIR Kellan spat onto the soil. “The whole of Halvea shall benefit when the King of Llewes is finally defeated.”

  “Isn’t he, though?” Geo folded sinewy arms, leaning up against the stone wall. “We slew his heir in our last battle. I don’t expect he’ll be provoking us again anytime soon.”

  Sir Roc slowly shook his head, along with the rest of the knights. “We assume the contrary, Your Highness.”

  “Aye,” said Sir Kellan. “Rumor has it, King Ira is plotting his next attack upon our kingdom, and soon.”

  Dmitri’s brow creased above his spectacles. “How soon?”

  They shrugged.

  Ever since the King of Llewes lost his wife to sudden illness, the old man seemed to have become ill in the mind. His ruthless attacks upon Tybiria of late, and his recent, senseless ambition to conquer all of East Halvea, were thoroughly unfounded. His grief had apparently unhinged him.

  Geo frowned, recalling his fellows who had perished in combat against the Llewesians. “Why does he persist?” he demanded. “And why do the other nations permit him to? By all means, the lunatic ought to be locked up.”

  “All we can do is defend our land, sir.” Roc nudged a stone with his boot. “Your father has ruled against any preemptive attacks against Llewes.”

  Geo shook his head in frustration.

  “Well, let’s hope it’s only a rumor.” Dmitri’s voice was somber. “We’ve lost…too much already.” He glanced among the stalwart warriors, from whom several of his and Geo’s closest childhood companions were now noticeably—and evermore—absent.

  “Aye, such rumors have surfaced before,” Geo muttered. “But none have materialized since our last v
ictory. Perhaps King Ira will finally cease his savagery now that his son has been slain.” He clasped Dmitri’s shoulder in support.

  “Perhaps,” said Sir Roc, his tone plainly doubtful.

  “TIME TO GO, MISS CAMERLANE.”

  Lucie glanced up from the vanity, nodding. The maid was gone from the doorframe with a swish of her uniform skirts. Looking back into the round mirror, Lucie scanned past the caramel complexion of her face and neck, until her eyes rested upon the amethyst pendant at her breast.

  With a sigh, she arose from the plush chair. A lilac gown cascaded to her brown ankles, creasing with each movement as she walked to the door. A waste of time, attending the royal Reveal Banquet that night, she thought, annoyed. Why must she exert the effort to doll up and swathe herself in a silken gown, anyway? It wasn’t as though, of the droves of other hopefuls at the ceremony, she’d be chosen as the Crown Prince’s bride-to-be. She was already betrothed, for heaven’s sake.

  “We are obligated to show our support of the royal family,” was all her father had said when the matter was addressed. And Lucie had had no choice but to grumblingly obey.

  Perhaps the year before, she would’ve been full of dreams and delight to attend such an event. But Lucie would never divulge the true reason why she dreaded returning to the castle. She descended the staircase, brushing intimate thoughts of Georome Straussen—his heavy hands on her body, rough mouth hot against hers—from her mind. She begged her cheeks to cease blushing.

  She had first met the prince at the previous autumn’s harvest festival. Lucie was instantly taken. And what girl wouldn’t be? Georome was rugged and olive-skinned, with a vibe of recklessness. And, of course, he was royalty.