Rescuing the Royal Runaway Bride

by Ally Blake

  “Did they, now?” Will asked, with something akin to humour edging his voice. A catch. An aside. Like an inside joke. Or was she imagining it? “The Tower Room sounds just perfect? Thank you.”

  A beat slunk by, followed by another, after which Sadie realised Will was waiting for her. As this was the point at which she was meant to give her details. And her money.

  She lifted herself a little higher, high enough she could mutter near Will’s ear, “I don’t exactly have my wallet on me right now.”

  “In your other dress?” he muttered back.

  “Uh-huh.”

  His hand slid between them, grazing her belly through his tracksuit top. She gasped, her breath shooting past his ear.

  He turned to stone. “Sadie,” he said, his voice seeming even lower than normal.

  “Mmm-hmm?”

  “Wallet’s in my back pocket,” he said.

  “Right. Sorry.”

  Sadie rocked back onto her heels, giving Will room. When he slid a shiny black card from inside, Sadie wasn’t exactly trying to catch his name...not really. But catch it she did.

  Dr William Darcy.

  Dr Darcy, eh? Doctor of what? William suited him more than Will. Will was a friendly name. Will Darcy—

  It was Sadie’s turn to turn to stone.

  Surely Mr Tall Dark and Grouchy wasn’t the Will Darcy—schoolfriend of Hugo’s from his murky boarding-school days and the only person Hugo had insisted they invite to their wedding back when the plan had been to keep it small?

  Her gaze danced over the back of the man’s head and neck, as if hoping for clues. But alas his collar gave nothing away.

  All the while, Will’s finger pressed down hard on the card and stopped its counter-slide. “Dare I ask what might the room rate be at this late date?”

  The girl looked at Will, looked at his shiny card, then with a bright smile quoted an exorbitant nightly price more suited to a famous Fifth Avenue penthouse than a crumbling old village building. “Blame the wedding.”

  “Oh, I do,” Will grumbled as he slowly lifted his finger from the card.

  And Sadie felt the ground tip out from under her.

  It was him. It had to be.

  It was him and he knew. He knew who she was, he knew what she’d done. It all made sense! His coolness towards her, his insistence she go with him, the fact he was being so obliging, despite the fact he ought to have been fretting about getting to the wedding late.

  The cad had been lying to her about who he was the entire time!

  Okay, fine. She was lying too. But her reasons were life and death. Or near enough. In the olden days she would have been stoned for the move she’d pulled.

  His motivation could not possibly be so clean.

  “Lovely,” said the girl after swiping and checking Will’s card. “All set. Here are your keys.”

  What was that? Keys? Plural? Hang on a second. Sadie opened her mouth to let the girl know she only needed one, but Will had already picked them up.

  “I’m Janine,” said the girl as she came around the desk. “If you need anything, anything at all, I’m your girl. Until then, head up both sets of stairs; your door is the last on the right. I trust you’ll find it wonderfully comfortable. The Tower Room also has its own fireplace. Fur rugs throughout. Super-comfortable sofas. And the most gorgeous bed you will ever see. There’s no TV, of course, because it’s our honeymoon suite.”

  Of course it is, thought Sadie, right at the moment Will said the exact same words.

  A bubble of crazed laughter escaped her throat, though it sounded more like a whimper.

  “Have a lovely stay, Dr Darcy and...friend.”

  “Thank you, Janine,” he said, tapping his forehead in a two-finger salute and earning himself another sigh.

  Then he turned to face Sadie. “Ready?”

  Sadie gave him the same salute.

  When his mouth twitched, that dimple showed for one brief second. Sadie ducked her chin and took off for the stairs.

  * * *

  The Tower Room was as advertised.

  Exposed brick walls covered in romantic prints by Waterhouse and Rossetti. Polished wood floors gleamed in the fading light of day. Soft couches looked as if you’d fall in and never want to get out. A fireplace big enough to sleep in.

  It was charming, inviting and terribly romantic.

  Only then did she see the bed.

  For there it was, perched on a slightly raised platform at the end of the room. Soft, cream-coloured blankets covered the mattress. Pretty gold gauze trailed from a canopy, falling into pools on the floor at each corner while fake ivy twisted around its beams and posts.

  It looked like something a fairy-tale princess would sleep in.

  Panic welling within her once more, Sadie looked for an out. Stumbling to one side of the room, which from the outside mirrored a classic castle keep, she pushed open the French windows and stepped onto the tiny, round balcony.

  Gripping the cold metal, she gulped in great lungs full of crisp, late autumn air, hoping not to be sick all over Will’s clothes.

  When she finally got her stomach under control she opened her eyes.

  Janine was right. The view was breathtaking.

  The village lay before her, all warm, tumbling brick and thatched roofs. Early lamplight laced together rambling cobbled paths. Flower pots, green corners and naked-branched trees were scattered prettily about.

  And then she looked up.

  The glorious jagged mountains that surrounded their landlocked little corner of the world thrust up into the sky. And right smack dab in the middle of the view, like a gem in the centre of a ring, sat the Palace of Vallemont.

  Pink ceremonial flags flapped in the breeze, all across the rooftops, heralding the big occasion. And then, as if someone had simply been waiting for her to watch, the flag atop the highest tower slid slowly down the flagpole.

  If the raising of the flag signified glory, honour, rejoicing, the lowering was a sign of a death in the family, a tragedy in the country, a moment of great national sorrow.

  The news was out.

  Soon everybody would know she had run.

  Talk about breathtaking.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SADIE BACKED SLOWLY into the room, feeling as if her insides had been scooped out.

  When she’d come home from New York she’d felt like such a disappointment. She’d let down everyone who’d rooted for her. Having to tell the story of her withered dream over and over again had been an out-of-body experience.

  This was way worse. Millions of people she’d never met would be reeling with dismay.

  Sadie was not used to being disliked. In fact, her likeability was the cornerstone of her identity.

  Her story was well-known all across Vallemont, she having been born literally on the road to the palace.

  Her father—a less than exemplary model of manhood who had been dragging his pregnant girlfriend across the country to avoid debt collectors—had taken one look at newborn Sadie and fled. Luckily, the wife of the reigning Sovereign Prince—Hugo’s Aunt Marguerite—had been driving past when she found them, huddled on a patch of grass. The Princess had famously taken them in and given Sadie’s mother a job as a palace maid, allowing Sadie to grow up as a palace child. Sadie had been a firm favourite ever since.

  The very thought of all that hatred coming her way drained the blood from her extremities until she could no longer feel her toes.

  Someone cleared their throat.

  Sadie’s focus shifted until she saw her reluctant rescuer, the living embodiment of unfavourable judgment, standing in the centre of the room holding his bags.

  The only person she could possibly turn to, the only person she could lean on, ask for advice, was looking at her with all the warmth of a shadow. H
is dark energy added layers to her discomfort, making her feel edgy. Awkward. Hyper-aware.

  Okay, she thought. This situation seems overwhelming, impossible even. But all you can expect yourself to do is handle one thing at a time. Starting with the thing right in front of you.

  Dr Will Darcy.

  He was the right age to have gone to school with Hugo. That elevated level of self-confidence was certainly comparable. Though where Hugo oozed sophistication and class as if he’d been dipped in them at birth, Will had the personality of a wounded bear: gruff, unpredictable. Dangerous.

  She nibbled on one of her remaining fake nails.

  In the end it didn’t matter. What mattered was thanking him and sending him on his way.

  She moved to the small table behind the couch and grabbed some La Tulipe stationery and a pen. “Will. Thank you. So much. Truly. You’ve gone above and beyond. If you leave your contact details I’ll know where to send the money to pay you back. Petrol, car cleaning, laundry, the hotel bill. Whatever expenses you’ve incurred.”

  He slowly shook his head. “Not necessary.”

  Sadie flapped the stationery his way. “But it is. Necessary. I don’t like being beholden to anybody.”

  “Really.”

  Wow. Passive-aggressive, much? Sadie’s shoulders snapped together, annoyance rising in her belly. He really didn’t like her and wasn’t even trying to hide it. Well, he was no prince either. Sadie held back the desire to tell him so. Barely. Years of practice at being nice coming to the fore.

  “Okay, then. I officially relieve you of your knight-in-shining-armour duties.” Sadie waved her fingers as if she were sprinkling fairy dust in his general direction.

  Will’s expression changed. It was a miniscule shift. Barely akin to an intake of breath. But she felt it. Like a ripple of energy beneath the gruff exterior. Game on.

  He hefted the smaller bag onto the couch. Then he nudged his muddy shoes off his feet in the way men did—using the toes to shove them past the heels. He picked them up, dropped them at the door, then padded into the small kitchenette.

  “I’m thirsty. You?” he asked.

  With an exaggerated yawn, she said, “I am exhausted though. I think the first thing I’ll do after you have your drink and go is take a nice long nap.”

  Will took his time filling a glass with water from the tap. Then he turned, leaning against the bench. His voice a rumble across the room. “I’m not going anywhere just yet.”

  A strange little flicker of heat leapt in her belly before she smacked it down. That wasn’t what he meant. Even if it was, now was not the time, or place...

  The corner of his mouth lifted, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. It was unnerving. He was unnerving. She’d been so sure he didn’t like her. But maybe she had it all backwards and—

  Then he said, “My tracksuit. I’d like it back.”

  Right. Of course! He was waiting to get his clothes back. What was wrong with her?

  She was a mess, that was what was wrong. Scared, disoriented and emotionally wrecked. Not at all herself. She felt a small amount of relief at the realisation that that was why every little thing Will did—his every look, every word, every dig—was getting under her skin.

  She managed a laugh. “Right. Sorry! What a goof. I’ll just...find an alternative. Get you your clothes and then you can be on your way.”

  He took another sip of water and gave her nothing in response.

  She spun around. Near the bed was a pair of doors. Behind one was a bathroom. Ooh, how lovely! A bath the size of a small car. That would go a long way to getting her back on track. But first... Voilà! A closet! With a pair of fluffy pink robes with rose-gold stitching and matching slippers, no less. Viva Vallemont!

  She turned around. Will had moved to the lounge room and was sitting on the couch, looking right at home.

  Sadie thought of the bath. Her head felt like mush. Her muscles ached. Even her bones were tired. Happy-go-lucky reserves fading like an empty battery, she said, “Give me ten minutes.”

  With that she headed into the bathroom.

  There she stripped off Will’s clothes and took off her chemise.

  Something rubbed against her thigh. The garter. Thankfully the ring was still attached. Hugo’s grandmother’s ring. Not only was it part of the royal collection, and worth more than the building she was standing in, but also it didn’t belong to her any more.

  Not that it ever really had.

  She carefully slid the garter down her leg and over her foot, placing it on the bathroom sink.

  Last came her stockings, mud-covered and torn. Without a shred of remorse she threw them in the bin.

  Then she turned the taps on the gorgeous big bath to as hot as was manageable. She found complimentary bubbles and squeezed until the bottle was empty and watched as the room became misty with steam and the bubbles threatened to topple over the sides.

  And, as water tended to do, it began to unlock and unwind the knotty thoughts, opening the way to the simplest plan for dealing with the problem in front of her—moving Dr Will Darcy on.

  * * *

  Will leant back into the big, soft couch, checked his watch and adjusted the map of his day yet again.

  He hadn’t given up on making the late flight home, even as the afternoon faded, but then evening began to creep in, painting golden tracts of sunlight across the wooden floor.

  It flipped a memory to the front of the pack. A crumbling cottage made of stone; cosy and warm, with a fireplace and rugs on the wooden floor. His parents’ house—his and Clair’s—before his mother and father had died.

  His grandmother had insisted he’d dreamt it. No Darcy would dare live in such a place.

  But something about this place made the memory feel solid. Perhaps it was the surrealism of events. Or the fact he was thinking so much about Clair.

  He rubbed his hands over his face, then reached for his phone, dashing off a quick message to Hugo giving him their location.

  Within seconds a message came back:

  Well done.

  As if he’d known Sadie-wrangling wouldn’t be easy.

  Needing a distraction, Hugo made another call.

  The phone was answered. “Boss man!”

  “Natalie. How are you?”

  “Frantic. Busy. Overworked.”

  “Happy to hear it.”

  Will’s assistant laughed, the jolly sound coming to him from somewhere in the Midwest of the United States.

  Natalie had worked for him going on seven years now, after having been attached to his case by a publicity firm the week his textbook was first published. Finding her tough, keen and pedantic, he’d offered her a permanent position as his assistant and she’d snapped it up. They’d never actually met, working purely online and over the phone which suited him. Less time wasted on personal chit chat that way. She ran his bookings, planned his travel and was the gatekeeper between him and his business manager, clients, institutions, conglomerates and governments the world over.

  “Now,” said Natalie, “Garry is breathing down my neck like a dragon with a blocked nose, wanting to set up a meeting.”

  Will’s business manager. Probably wanting to talk career strategy, aka Slow Down Before You Break Down. He’d heard it before, mostly from whoever he was dating at the time. Perhaps it was time for a new business manager too.

  “When are you coming home?”

  Will knew that by “home” Natalie didn’t mean London. He had an apartment there, as he did in New Mexico, Sweden, Chile and many of the best star-gazing spots in the world, but he was rarely in one place longer than any other. By “When are you coming home?” Natalie meant, when was he getting back to work?

  “What’s coming up?”

  Natalie listed a string of upcoming engagements. Full to bursting. Just
as he liked it.

  Without the onus of family, his work was the sun around which his life revolved. Whether he was looking through a telescope, hooking a crowd of eager-faced college students, putting the hard word on funding to a room filled with industry leaders, chipping away at the whys and wherefores of the universe, he was as engrossed now as he ever had been.

  The rare times he loosened his grip, took a short break, said no to opportunity, he felt his life touching on the ordinary—and with it a creeping sense of futility. Of being indolent and inadequate. Just as his grandmother assured him his parents had been.

  “You’ve also had meeting and speaking requests from a talk show in LA, a finishing school in the south of France, and...this is my favourite.” She rattled off the name of a big-time rapper, who was keen on investing in new digital mirroring technology that Will had funded from day dot. NASA were liking the looks of it and the musician wanted in.

  “Fit them in.”

  Not surprised with his answer, Natalie barrelled on. “And the prime minister would like five minutes next week.”

  Will perked up. “The agenda?”

  He could all but see Natalie’s grin as she said, “The Templeton Grant.”

  Will smacked his hand on his thigh. “Finally! Make the time. Day or night. I’m there.”

  Professor Templeton was the man who had conducted the first lecture Will had ever attended. He had become a mentor over the years until he had passed away a few months before. The long-running grant the professor had directed for the university was in danger of being phased out. Will was determined not to let that happen. He’d petitioned parliament to ask they continue in perpetuity, and to rename it in Templeton’s honour. So far unsuccessfully. The prime minister—a smart man, a good man, a man of science—was his last hope.

  “You bet,” said Natalie. And Will was certain she’d make it work.

  Until then, so long as he was on the first plane out in the morning, he could roll from one commitment to the next like the human tumbleweed that he was.

  “Anything else I can do for you, Boss Man?” Natalie asked.