King and Kingdom (Royals Book 2)

by Danielle Bourdon

  “Back For More! Prince Dare's Consort Returns.” Wynn glanced up after reading the headline accompanying the photo. “Dare? I thought his name was Sander.”

  “Wynn! Who cares. They recognized me! And I'm not his consort.” Chey snorted and ripped the woolen cap off her head. A few haphazard hairs stuck up here and there.

  “But you kind of are. Or were. Did they have other pictures of you in the paper when you were here before?”

  “I don't know—wait.” Chey remembered the snippets left on her bed by the maid who'd tried to kill her. It dawned on her late, very late, that the tabloids and newspapers must have written several stories on her. The innocent shopping trip with Mattias had been quite a public spectacle. More recently was her trip to Monte Carlo with Sander. Holding hands, staring into each other's eyes. “Yes, I guess they did. It's not like I ran to town every day to check the papers, you know? There's no telling what they printed, or how many pictures there were.”

  “Fix your hair. It looks like a bird tried to make a nest.” Wynn leaned over to swipe strands this way and that. Earlier, after they'd dressed in thick slacks, sweaters and knit scarves, Wynn had french braided Chey's hair.

  “I don't care about my hair right now--”

  “Trust me. If you could see it, you would.” Wynn fixed it as well as she could, then protested when Chey snatched the paper back. “Hey, I wasn't through reading!”

  “You're supposed to be watching the window. I wonder if Sander saw this today.” Chey could only imagine what he must think. Did he know she was here? Would he try and make contact? “Maybe we should have stayed at the hotel. I never thought of using the media to try and lure him to us.”

  “I didn't either. Then again, I didn't realize you were a celebrity here.” Wynn picked up her coffee, propped both elbows on the table, and sipped while watching Chey.

  “I'm not a celebrity.”

  “Apparently those people last night think you are. The ones who paused for pictures and waved all shy and star-struck?”

  Chey snorted. “They weren't star struck.”

  “I'm just saying. I think they were. And for the record, how many Princes read the daily paper? Maybe he hasn't seen it and doesn't know you're here. Even if he does, he wouldn't be expecting you to hang out in a small town like this, where he might or might not show up for coffee and a doughnut.”

  “He has people for that, I'm sure.” Or maybe Sander didn't. Did he? If he'd moved back into the cabin in the woods, he might not receive daily papers. Surely the people at the castle kept track. Whether they mentioned it was another story altogether, and Chey, after another moment or two of consideration, decided they wouldn't tell Sander she was here. Not after wanting her to be gone so bad in the first place.

  “What does the article say?”

  Chey opened the paper, which only consisted of perhaps seven pages total, and skimmed through to the relevant story. She cringed while she read.

  “In a nutshell,” she summarized, “Prince Dare's consort sneaked back into the country—or never left—in a last bid attempt to win his hand.” Chey felt her face flush with embarrassment. “There is a picture of us entering the hotel in Monte Carlo, too. They don't miss anything.”

  “Let me see.” Wynn snatched the paper out of Chey's hands. “No wonder the people here recognize you. He'll be king, right? Of course they're interested in what woman he dates. They probably ran pictures of you two before this, too. While you were back in the states.”

  “Thanks for pointing that out.” Chey picked up her coffee and looked out the window. Seeing the picture made Chey maudlin. They'd looked so happy—had been so happy—then. Now the world had tilted out of control once more and Chey couldn't find familiar footing. It seemed this was happening every few weeks and it kept her off kilter.

  “I think we're doing the right thing. We just have to be patient. He'll show up, don't worry.” Wynn patted Chey's arm, then sat back in her seat, paper in hand, to soak up the news.

  Chey couldn't help but worry. This was such a shot in the dark, a long shot if there ever was one. There had to be a better way to make contact with Sander.

  She just didn't know what it was.

  . . .

  Two days passed. Two days where Wynn continued to fall in love with Latvala, and Chey searched for Sander. They hit up the other small town along the coast between Kalev and the castle, spending more than half the day discovering its wharf, shops and beauty. Each day that passed left Chey more worried than the one before it, to the point that she started having trouble falling asleep at night. Acutely aware of the passage of time, and how little of it they had left, she began to think they weren't taking the right approach to finding Sander. Wandering small towns in the hope he might show up for coffee was just too risky by itself.

  They needed another plan.

  Back in the same cafe where they'd discovered the newspaper article, the girls sipped coffee and contemplated the day. It was early, earlier than any morning they'd risen so far, and the weather report poring out of a static-screened television in the corner promised snow by nightfall. Not knowing how long they would be out, the girls had donned thick pants in wool, boots with heavy tread, and coats to go over knit sweaters that kept the cold from their skin. Chey wore another beanie cap over her french braid and gloves on her hands.

  “I think tomorrow, we have to try another tactic,” Chey finally said.

  “Like what? We haven't come up with another plan besides my hair-brained one with the fake baby.” Wynn watched faces out the window.

  “Maybe it's time to just drive up to the gates and flat out ask to see him. Let them all know I'm here if they don't already.” The mere thought made Chey's stomach flutter with nerves.

  “Where do you think that'll get you? I mean, I'm all for it, you know. If nothing else is working, and we're running low on time, then I think we have to pull out all the stops and going straight to the lion's den is definitely pulling out a stop.”

  “I'm sure they'll turn me away. Unless Sander gets wind. If I'm really lucky, someone will call him and he'll be intrigued enough to make them let me in, at least to plead my case. I think that's farfetched, but still.” Chey couldn't decide what she thought the guards would do. Every few minutes, she changed her mind dependent on what knowledge Sander had of her visit to Latvala. He was either still angry and didn't want to see her, or his temper had cooled and he would at least hear her out.

  “Okay, tomorrow then. We'll just drive straight to them and see what happens. All they can say is no, in the end, which leaves us back where we started.”

  “Right.” Chey reached up to adjust the edge of her cap.

  “That guy is hot,” Wynn said, muttering against the rim of her coffee mug.

  “What guy?” Chey glanced through the cafe. There was a table of fishermen in the far corner, none of them looking this way and none of them really fitting the description of 'hot'. They appeared tired, as if just off a three day shift.

  “No, no, that guy.” Wynn reached over to gently turn Chey's head by the chin toward the window. Toward the vision of a man with broad shoulders in a palomino coat and weathered jeans. Tall, over six-feet, he stood talking jovially with a man and woman who wore welcoming smiles and bobbed their heads in agreement to whatever the other man said.

  Even though Chey could only see a sliver of his profile, she would have known Sander anywhere. The shape of him, the way the top half of his sandy blonde hair had been pulled back into the familiar tail. His easy going rapport with the couple suggested he was just another man, coming or going from work.

  No Prince here, no Heir to the throne. He was the same as you and you and you.

  Although Chey had heard him talk about walking among the people, seeing it was another thing entirely. Even Mattias did not command the jocular charisma that Sander seemed to bleed from every pore. That couple knew exactly who he was, and he knew they knew, but he displayed no fear in their presence, no wariness tha
t someone might pull a gun and end him. These were not his enemies.

  “Isn't he hot? Man, he can light my fire anytim--”

  “That's him,” Chey said, cutting Wynn off.

  “Him who? You mean that's Sander?” Shock laced Wynn's question. She snapped a look at Chey, mug hitting the table with a thud and a light splash of coffee.

  “Yes. I told you. He's just...” Chey had no good words. When Sander clapped the man on the back and stepped past the couple, it galvanized Chey into motion.

  It was now or never. If she missed this opportunity, she might not get another.

  “C'mon, hurry. We have to catch him before he leaves.” Bustling into the cream colored coat she'd stripped off when they sat down, Chey jerked the lapels together and stood up.

  Wynn was right on her heels.

  “I can't believe we found him,” Wynn said, following Chey to the door.

  “Honestly? I can't either. My stomach is in knots,” Chey admitted. She pushed outside. Sander was striding along the walk in front of the shops, raising a hand here or there to greet this person or another.

  “He doesn't act like any Prince I've ever seen. I wouldn't have recognized him as the man in the newspaper shot of you two at that fancy shindig.” Wynn, with her shorter legs, had to walk faster to keep up with Chey.

  “I know. I never guessed who he was either, when I first met him.” Chey stared at the center of Sander's back. What was she going to say? Should she tap him on the back? Call his name?

  He solved the problem of how to approach when he suddenly stopped walking and slanted his chin toward his shoulder, then finished the glance and looked behind him. His jaw was lined with a thin, golden layer of stubble, eyes as vivid blue as they'd ever been.

  Chey's heart flipped over. She stopped walking, too, arrested by the direct slice of his stare. Wynn pulled up short at her side.

  For a long second, Chey and Sander merely stared at each other. There was still enough distance between them to make a casual greeting awkward. Wynn nudged Chey's elbow with her own.

  It motivated Chey to close the gap with small, hesitant steps. Her breath plumed white past her lips, indicative of the falling temperature.

  “Sander,” she finally said, when the words untangled themselves from her throat. “I've come all this way to talk to you. I hope you'll give me a few minutes to explain.”

  His eyes never left her face. Chey thought he would turn back and continue on, leaving her standing in her own dust. She couldn't tell if he was happy to see her, or relieved—or annoyed. He hid his emotions well.

  Much to her amazement, he faced her with his whole body. There was still something wary in the set of his shoulders and the way he regarded her as she walked up within a few feet of his position.

  “I wasn't aware there was anything left to explain,” he said, accent deep and clipped, voice cool and indifferent.

  Wynn hustled up just then and stuck her gloved hand out. “Hi, I'm Chey's best friend, Wynn. I came with her all the way from Seattle. You must be Sander.”

  Chey could have killed Wynn. But Sander didn't disappoint. He turned his incisive gaze on her, clasped her outstretched hand in one of his own, and shook firmly.

  “Wynn, my pleasure to meet you. Chey didn't tell me she was returning to Latvala.” Sander released Wynn's hand and pushed his own back into his coat pocket.

  “I know. It was a last minute kind of thing. Nice to meet you, too.” Wynn ramped up a smile, then gestured over her shoulder with a thumb. “Actually, I forgot our newspapers back at the cafe.” Wynn followed through with a turn and broke into a little jog the opposite direction.

  Relieved, Chey looked up at Sander to find him watching her again. “I think we have a lot left to say. Or I do, anyway. If you'll listen. That night at the--”

  An explosion rocked the day, coming from somewhere behind the line of shops near the water. Before Chey knew what happened, she found herself on the ground, Sander sprawled atop her.

  This was a familiar scenario.

  Instantly his expression was sharp and assessing, eyes darting up and down the street. Chey heard screams in the distance and saw people running from the shops, from trucks and other vehicles, toward the wharf.

  “Get inside and stay inside,” Sander said in a gruff voice. He got to his feet in a swift motion, bringing her with him.

  “But, Sander, wait--” Chey's protests fell on deaf ears. Sander was already running in the same direction as everyone else, cutting through a narrow alley between buildings for the docks.

  Chey disregarded his instruction and took off after him. Smoke curled through the air and the screams intensified. There had been some sort of horrible accident. She smelled gas, too, and burning rubber.

  “Chey! What was that?” Wynn was not far behind her, running for all she was worth.

  “I don't know!” Chey didn't need to look back to know that Wynn would keep up. Cutting down the alley, she was in time to see Sander bolt across a paved road and onto a wide dock. Beyond him, flames. Black smoke. People fleeing in all directions.

  Emerging from the alley, Chey came upon a scene of horror.

  A barge had impacted another boat, pushing it half onto the wharf and into a small seafood shanty that had collapsed and exploded. Men and women trapped on the barge, the damaged boat and beneath fiery debris from the shanty screamed for help. Sander shucked his coat on the run and threw it down over a man on fire, using his hands to roll him along a part of the wharf that wasn't burning.

  Wynn bumped into Chey with a startled gasp of shock, one hand flying to cover her mouth.

  In the next second, Chey bolted forward, aiming for the flailing, small arm of a child buried under a charred slab of wood.

  Every other minor worry and fear evaporated in the face of such disaster.

  All she could think about was reaching the child before it was too late.

  Chapter Eight

  “Grab my hand! Hold on!” Chey kicked at the slab of wood smothering the child. She could hear tiny gasps for breath between screams. That the child was still alive after such trauma was a miracle. She doubled her efforts to get the wood off. Black pieces splintered away from her boot after another kick. Finally, the heavy piece fell away, clattering over the edge of the dock into the water.

  Blonde haired, with big blue eyes, the child—who was no more than five—stared up at Chey in terror. Burns made holes in the thick layers of clothes, blood oozed from a gash in her forehead and soot streaked her otherwise porcelain skin.

  Chey gathered the girl into her arms and wheeled away as a sharp crack sounded under her feet. This section of dock was ready to go. Stumbling, Chey got her balance and ran toward a knot of Latvala citizens setting up a trauma area for victims. People were still streaming in from businesses and nearby homes, bringing blankets, dry clothing, food. It was a concerted effort, with other men and women charging down onto the docks to help save lives.

  Several women took the child from Chey's arms, rattling off what sounded like words of gratitude in their mother tongue. Turning back, Chey took stock: one barge, a trawler and half the dock were on fire, more people were trapped between the boats under heavy pieces of wharf that had snapped like sticks under the weight of the collision. Sander and Wynn were nowhere to be seen. Several people were burned, more were unconscious, and still more floated in the water, flailing and crying. At some point, snow had started to fall, painting the scene in a surreal swirl of flakes and haze.

  She darted between smoking pieces of rubber, around a slab of demolished wood, and down into a crack in the dock. Hopping from one piece to the next, she gripped the sections, thankful for the gloves still on her hands, and slipped closer to the water. Without dipping even one toe in, Chey knew it must be frigid. Those in the water wouldn't last long at all.

  “Hey! Swim over here. Grab this!” She tugged a length of loose pipe free and extended the end toward a struggling swimmer. It wasn't much to hold onto, but other t
han shredded wood, there wasn't anything else to use. All Chey could see was a shock of wet, red hair, red eyebrows and a wealth of freckles. The splashing woman fought her way closer to the dock, hindered by heavy winter clothes. A nondescript coat weighed down her arms while the ragged end of a scarf trailed on the surface. She went under twice, causing Chey to consider actually going in after her. The tenacious survivor resurfaced both times, fighting her way toward the pipe.

  “Good, good, just grab the end and I'll pull you in.” Chey shouted to be heard over the roar of fire somewhere to her left and the din of panicked voices calling out into the day.

  The woman reached for the pipe and missed. Teeth chattering, a gust of breath rushed from between lips beginning to turn blue from the cold. She surged and reached. Missed again.

  “You've almost got it. Come on!” Chey allowed herself to skid another foot closer to the water. At the sharp angle of the collapsed dock, she was on the verge of falling in herself. Clinging as best she could to an edge, she leaned further, the end of the pipe wavering just out of reach of the swimmer. Finally, the woman grabbed hold.

  Chey hauled her in, bracing her feet and using the grip on the dock as leverage. The soggy coat felt like wet carpet, heavy and awkward to maneuver. Chey went hand over hand, grabbing a sleeve, the lapel, whatever she could to bring the woman to safety. Grunting, breath freezing in her lungs, Chey twisted her body to make room. The redhead flopped down, gasping and wheezing.

  “You climb up right here. Take the pipe if you need help,” Chey said. She decided to come behind the woman and push instead of pull. If she lost her grip, the lady might wind up right back in the water again. Chey put all her weight into providing leverage while the woman sought a more level section of dock.

  It was precarious going, with several setbacks, before the woman made it up to a point where waiting men could haul her the rest of the way.

  Slipping on the damp, slick wood, Chey sought a better hold. Her face felt numb, like her hands, which didn't want to grip things with the strength of even five minutes ago.