The Royal Wedding Collection

by Rachel Hauck

  Loud. The throng was so loud. She couldn’t think. Or breathe. Her pulsing adrenaline was beginning to wane, and her legs had become like soft rubber. She felt weak and helpless to keep from eventually falling headlong onto the ground.

  Someone smashed into her from behind. Stumbling, tripping, she grabbed at air, searching for something, someone to hold on to. But there was nothing. Tanner.

  A broad, strong hand caught hers, snatching her to her feet. Reggie inhaled the fragrance of flour and vanilla instead of Tanner’s scent of rustic floral and spices.

  “Hang on to me, miss. You fall, you’ll never get up.” A young man, dressed in white, with a chocolate-stained apron wrapped around his narrow body, anchored her against him.

  She tried to work her legs. Weak, so weak. Next to her a woman stumbled and went down.

  “Help her . . .” Reggie leaned away from the man. “We . . . have to . . .”

  “Keep running. If we stop, we’ll be lost.” The baker manhandled someone crossing in front of them, a foghorn in his hand. “Looks like we’re heading to the park.”

  The park grass muffled the stampede and, for the first time, Reggie heard the shrill call of police whistles. There was another explosion, and the rioters ducked with a collective awe, smoke billowing over them. Then they rose up and resumed the shouting and running and general frothing of the soul.

  The baker tripped but Reggie steadied him. “Come on, we’re in this together.”

  SWAT teams with shields and helmets were now running with the riot, surging through people. Flares rocketed, piercing the coming night with fire. Voices rose in a cacophony of spiking and heated sounds with no one message piercing through.

  The baker paused with a pinched expression. “I can’t find a way out.”

  Reggie glanced back, into the dark face of the mounting riot, her heart a tight fist in her chest. A scream billowed between her ribs and Reggie felt certain that in the next breath, she’d begin flailing, slamming her fists into guts and faces.

  Anything to get out of here.

  A princess is defined not by her title alone but by how she lives her life.

  Another push from behind. A foot smashed down on hers.

  Do something, Reggie. Lord, peace! We need your peace.

  Sing the song.

  The idea hit fast, almost desperate, then settled in her mind.

  A smoke bomb exploded in the middle of the park, polluting the air, stinging Reggie’s lungs.

  But instead of diffusing the rioters, the tactic only infused them with energy.

  Sing the song.

  Reggie spotted a park bench and cut a path through the crowd, dragging the baker along with her, Gram’s melody louder and louder in her soul. “Help me up.”

  “Stand on the bench? Are you out of your mind, miss?”

  “Probably.” Trembling with the ebb and flow of adrenaline, Reggie pressed her hand on his shoulder and launched up onto the bench, facing the riot gathering in the park.

  This was crazy. How were they going to hear her? One weak, thin voice against the noise?

  Sing the song.

  Then, drawing a deep breath, remembering her choir teacher’s admonition to sing from her diaphragm, she sang with her very last breath of courage.

  “Moonlight, sunshine, waves against . . . upon . . . the shore . . .”

  Her voice warbled, but in her ears, the riot frenzy shifted down a notch.

  “La, la, la, la we’re going to the shore.

  “La, la, la, la to dance once more.

  “No more worries, no more cares.

  “We’ll sleep in peace tonight under the stars so fair.”

  If the craziness ebbed at all, it flowed again the moment she stopped singing. So Reggie took a breath and began again. In faith.

  “Moonlight, sunshine, waves upon the shore . . .”

  TWENTY-NINE

  At Wettin Manor, Tanner charged through the second-floor corridors toward Seamus’s office, his shirt collar and coat sleeve stained with blood.

  “Tanner—” The governor’s aide, Brogan, chased after him. “He’s in a meeting.”

  But Tanner kept stride, shoving through the governor’s heavy, carved door. “If anything happens to her . . .” He pointed at Seamus, walking around the board table where several of his staff sat, tapping on their e-tablets. “I will hold you personally responsible.”

  “My good man,”—Seamus stood—“what happened to your face?”

  “This is your doing . . . this riot.” Tanner pointed to the dark window. “She’s out there in it.”

  “The princess?” Seamus scoffed. “Are you admitting you lost the princess in the riot? I daresay, this will not make the king happy.”

  Tanner lunged at Seamus but caught himself before grabbing the man by the collar. “I meant what I said. If anything happens to her . . .”

  “Tanner, need I remind you to whom you are speaking? Where are your loyalties, my boy?”

  Their gazes locked, man against man, will against will. “Need I remind you of your failed plan to steal the country from Regina?”

  “No need. The authority canon will do my bidding.”

  Tanner had enough. As he turned to go, he addressed the men at the table. “This is what you want? A country ruled by this man who’s manipulating the law for his own gain? Look at the lot of you. It’s Friday night at seven o’clock, chaps. There’s a riot in the middle of the city. Go home to your wives and children.” He shot Seamus a look. “Don’t lose your souls to another man’s selfish ambition.”

  Gathering himself, still fuming, Tanner made his way to his office, lightly touching his healing cut, checking his phone for news updates.

  Louis met him outside his office. “We’ve got the entire security team looking for her. And the king is in your office along with the archbishop.”

  “Fan-blooming-tastic.” Tanner exhaled, steadying his nerves. He’d have to face this music sooner or later. “Your Majesty,” he said as he entered his office. “I’m terribly sorry—”

  “Tanner, any word?” The king wore jeans and a pullover, clearly not intending to work on a Friday night. “Your face . . . are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Tanner went to his window and peered out. Regina, where are you? “No word on the princess.” He looked toward the park, but his view was obscured by buildings and the coming night. Lord, I have to trust you for her safety.

  “She strikes me as a resourceful, brave woman, Tanner,” Dad said.

  “She is.” He glanced at his father. “But she’s in a riot. Not a Festivus parade.” He turned to the window again. “Do you remember an old Hessen evening song?”

  “Hmm, not sure,” Dad said. “Your grandmother used to sing an old song.”

  “See here, Burkhardt.” Seamus burst into Tanner’s office. “Oh, Your Majesty, begging your pardon, I didn’t know you’d arrived.” He clipped his pipe between his teeth and settled his feathers.

  “Seamus.” Nathaniel, ever calm, full of diplomacy.

  But Tanner remained focused on the song. He must remember the song. Humming part of the melody, he tried to piece the lyrics with the melody. “Something . . . moonlight, sunlight, waves upon the shore . . .” He tapped the beat in the air with his finger.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know it,” Nathaniel said.

  “Regina sang it in the pub tonight, and I tell you, it captured the people. Their hearts. Sour old men battled tears.” Tanner felt more than words swelling in his heart. He felt the warm power of love. He pressed his sleeve to his wound, catching the last ooze of blood. “There was a man in the pub, Tobias Horowitz, who asked Regina, ‘Who will help us find our identity?’ Then out of the blue she sings an old Hessenberg song the last three generations have forgotten.”

  He turned to his dad, then to the king, and last to Seamus. “Don’t you see? She carries Princess Alice and the duke within her. Does she know how we celebrate our Thanksgiving? Or Festivus? No, but she carries
within her our very essence. I daresay she is our essence.”

  “Pardon the interruption, but you must see this.” Louis shuffled the piles of paper on Tanner’s desk for the telly remote. The riot in the park filled the screen. An on-site reporter said, “It’s believed the princess, Her Royal Highness Princess Regina, is among the riot crowd . . .”

  Tanner’s pulse drummed thick in his ears, searching for her as cameramen moved through the crowd.

  “. . . and we’ve a report of singing.”

  There were several quick-changing camera shots, then Regina popped onto the screen, standing on a stone bench, her red hair blowing across her eyes.

  “Louis,”—Tanner tapped his assistant on the arm—“raise the volume.”

  The image shimmied as the cameraman jostled through the crowd for a closer angle.

  Eyes closed, voice loud and clear, Regina sang the evening song with passion and heart.

  On his left stood the king. On his right, his father. Even Seamus had taken a step toward the telly, captured by Regina and her song.

  “The old evening song,” Dad whispered. “I’ve not heard that since my grandmother was alive.”

  “Nor I,” Seamus muttered.

  “Louis, which end of the park? Can you tell?” Tanner backed toward the door.

  “East end. Off Market.”

  Down the manor stairs, Tanner burst into the night and ran the ten city blocks to the park, expecting to run into a wall of warm, frenzied bodies. Instead he found a thin, quiet, dissipating crowd.

  “Regina!” He raced against the light, crossing Market Avenue, toward the park. “Regina!”

  Tanner jumped up on the bench, scanning the park grounds as the rioters headed home. Surely she wasn’t still here.

  He jumped off the bench. Where could she be? His cell phone rang as he tripped over empty Starbucks coffee cups. It was Jarvis.

  “Is she there with you?” Tanner said.

  “No, we saw her on the telly. Is she all right?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t find her.”

  “You can’t find her? How did you lose the princess?”

  There was a riot, for pity’s sake. “Never mind, Jarvis. If she arrives at the palace, please call me.” Tanner rang off and dashed across Market Avenue, then turned onto Gilden, running past the eponymous department store toward Loudermilk’s Bakery.

  Through the front glass, he caught sight of a woman with full, red hair and nearly tripped over his own feet trying to get through the bakery door. “Regina!”

  The woman turned round and his heart failed.

  “Sorry.” He backed away. “I thought you were someone else. My apologies. I’m just looking for—”

  “The princess?” A lanky chap dressed in white and tied up in an oversized apron came from behind the counter. “Who might you be?”

  “Tanner Burkhardt, Minister of Culture. Friend of the princess.”

  “She was brilliant in the park, was she not?”

  “Then you saw her?”

  “Saw her? I escorted her. Didn’t know she was the princess when I saved her from stumbling under the rioters’ feet, but sure enough, that’s who she was. Once the riot died out, we came back here. I gave her a whole box of cinnamon puffs.”

  Tanner grabbed the man’s arms. “Where is she now?”

  “I’m not sure. She simply said she had to go.”

  “You don’t know where?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “Thank you, mate.” Tanner dashed out of Loudermilk’s, skipped left, no, right, then turning in a circle. The church. Aim for St. John’s.

  He slowed his pace and gathered his wind and allowed the baker’s news to set in. She was all right. She was all right. Thanks be to the Almighty.

  As he made his way to the church, his heart told him this was no longer about finding a princess, but the one his heart loved.

  He’d left his comfort zones for her, given his heart. He wasn’t going to give up finding her—the beautiful Regina with sun-kissed hair and radiant blue eyes.

  He took the church steps toward the center doors two at a time, and inside yanked on the sanctuary door. Locked.

  No, no . . . He tugged on the next door, and the next, hammering the last with his fist.

  “Regina!”

  The door on the far end swung open, and a man dressed in priest’s robes appeared.

  “Can I help you, Tanner? Is everything all right, son?”

  “Bishop, sir. Have you seen Regina?”

  “The princess? Yes . . .” He tapped his hand over his heart, and his piercing eyes were vibrant and radiant. “I’ve not heard that evening song in decades.”

  “Yes, it’s . . . a . . . wonderful . . . song.” Tanner locked his gaze with the holy man’s and the anxiety in his chest began to fade, being replaced by a fiery presence. “Do I know you?”

  “You do.” The bishop leveled his gaze straight at Tanner. “We met years ago.”

  “At my father’s church? Or parsonage?”

  “In my Father’s house.”

  Tanner’s heart burned and pulsed. His thoughts went silent. And in an instant, he felt as if a decade’s worth of guilt and shame had crumbled at his feet.

  “Forgive me, I’ve been away too long.” The words came from a depth he did not know, but they washed him, cleansed him.

  “And now you’ve returned.” The bishop smiled. “I see you’ve been wounded.”

  Tanner touched the cut above his eye. “Yes, the riot.” The bishop’s simple, gentle voice somehow spurred tears in Tanner’s eyes and pinned him where he stood. For a long moment, he just breathed, the weight on his soul feeling lighter and lighter.

  “The princess is not here but she’s fine, Tanner. Do not worry. Do not worry.” The bishop turned to go inside. “When you find her, give her my regards.”

  “Yes, sir, I will.” The arching, hardwood door clicked closed as Tanner realized he never got the bishop’s name. “Sir, wait a minute.” Tanner hammered the thick door with his fist. “From whom should I give her regards?” He jerked on the handle, but the door would not budge. Locked. Impossible. How could the bishop have disappeared so quickly behind a locked door? “Hello?”

  But the bishop did not return.

  Tanner skipped down the steps with a final look over his shoulder at the chapel. He raised his fingers to the cut to find it’d stopped bleeding.

  As Tanner turned down the dark, quiet avenue, heading for the Fence & Anchor, his spirit rumbled, quite certain that he’d just now encountered the Divine.

  She could’ve been trampled. Wounded. Killed. Maybe even kidnapped. But she’d stepped out in faith and sung a song. And in Daddy’s vernacular, “God backed her up.”

  The taxi had let Reggie out at the palace, and now she stood at the iron gate pressing buttons. What was the security number Tanner dictated to her? “It’s me, let me in,” she hollered into the speaker, hoping someone inside would answer.

  Or come outside and see her standing there with her face between the iron bars.

  “Hey, Jarvis. Chef. Serena. It’s me, Reg. Your Majesty. The princess.”

  Her voice wobbled. Her body shivered. What had she done? It wasn’t until she’d left the bakery with a box of fresh puffs that she realized she’d faced a raging mob fueled by fury against her and started singing. She could’ve been dragged through the streets. Hung from a tree. Tarred and feathered.

  Somewhere along the way she’d lost her phone so she couldn’t call Tanner. Didn’t know his number by heart yet. Then she spied and hailed a passing cab, telling the driver up front that she didn’t have any money but would compensate him later.

  The kind, older man assured her money was not on his mind today. He’d been giving free rides since the riot suddenly ended.

  “Were you in that blooming mess?” he’d asked.

  In it? She was part of the cause. “Unfortunately.”

  He’d peered at her through his rearview mirror. �
��You’re not from around here. You sound American. From the South, maybe.”

  “Sure enough.” Reggie slid down against the seat. Where was Tanner? Did he survive the stampede? Nigel and Jace? What of old Keeton Lombard and Tobias Horowitz?

  “Where to, miss?”

  “Meadowbluff Palace.”

  The driver glanced at her again via the rearview mirror. Regina was grateful for the Plexiglas barrier.

  “Welcome to Hessenberg, Your Majesty.”

  “Bit of a rough start, don’t you think?”

  He laughed and nodded. “Bunch of hullabaloo. It’ll blow over.”

  So that’s how she came to stand on the other side of the earth-to-heaven wrought iron gate guarding Meadowbluff Palace.

  “Jarvis? Serena?” She mashed down on the Call button. “Anyone?” She stepped back to wave at the surveillance camera. “Yo in there, it’s me. Can I come in?”

  The gate clicked and slowly—very slowly—eased open. Jarvis’s frantic voice came from the box. “Your Majesty, you’re safe. Thank the Lord.”

  “You ain’t kidding.” She squeezed through the gate and started up the long drive to the palace, exercising the panic and anxiety from her body. From her mind and soul.

  Jarvis met her halfway down the drive with a flashlight and all but hugged her. “Your Majesty.” His eyes misted. “I was so worried.”

  She fell against the older man, resting her head on his shoulder. His tone, his glistening gaze reminded her of Daddy. “It all happened so fast.”

  The last of her tension broke and she sobbed.

  “There, there, miss.” Jarvis stiffly patted her back. “It’s all over now.”

  “Jarvis?”

  “Yes, miss?”

  “If you’re going to be in my life,”—she sniffed, gripping her puffs bag a bit tighter—“you’re going to have to do better than this.”

  “But I’m staff. Propriety and all, you know.”

  “Y–you’re also . . . one of my only friends.”

  It took a moment, but his arms encircled her. “You’re home, safe and sound. The evening song was lovely. So very lovely.”