Someday My Prince

by Christina Dodd

  She loved this palace of hers. Her crusading ancestors had planted the original sandstone castle into the rocky soil. Succeeding generations had grafted on wings of pale, copper-streaked marble and towers of granite and tile. Now the whole edifice grew like a gnarled and protective tree above the ancient city of Omnia. Garden terraces descended in floral steps down the cliff, each blushing with pleasure in daylight, each steeped in fragrance at night. The lights of Omnia glowed, and faintly Laurentia could hear the sounds of celebration as the inhabitants took a day from the rigors of fishing and trading to rejoice on her birthday. God bless them; she knew many of the merchants and shopkeepers personally. She knew the farmers and vintners of the countryside, too, and the harvesters who lived deep in the Pyrenees, growing that rarest of herbs in their well-tended fields. These people were the ones who kept her kingdom alive. The common folk never knew that every day she and her father balanced on the tightrope of statesmanship to allow them their ways of life.

  Automatically her gaze traveled to the far end of the bay. The border of Pollardine began at the sea and nestled against Bertinierre all the way into the Pyrenees. The countries had once been allies. Now ... they were not.

  She heard doors opening around the far corner, and the music from the ballroom spilled out. Perhaps it was getting warm inside, or perhaps lovers sought the darkness, there to perform the rituals of courtship. She had no way of knowing what occurred in those brief moments, yet she’d observed the woman’s feline smile of satisfaction, the man’s concentration on his mate. It would be pleasant, Laurentia thought, if any man ever concentrated on her instead of on her kingdom.

  She wished—quite fervently—that such a man would come forward. The door behind her opened. For one moment, she thought her prayer had been answered. She felt a small thrill go through her body. Then her wits rescued her, and she realized she had simply been found, as was inevitable. Found by Weltrude, by one of the suitors, by her worried father. Turning, she faced the lone man silhouetted against the glass doors.

  “Your Highness?” A faint, foreign twang accented his voice, and he wore a uniform. No, a livery. The royal livery.

  Puzzled, she studied him. She had never met him. “Yes?”

  Steadily, he walked toward her, a beefy man whose bulk strained his jacket and smelled of sweat. His beefy hands reached out for her; she tried to sidestep as she sputtered, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Without a word, he grabbed her around the waist and hefted her onto his shoulder.

  Chapter Two

  Laurentia hung there, immobilized by shock. A man, a stranger, a servant had laid hands on her! It wasn’t until he put his foot on the balustrade and prepared to leap into the garden that she gave a shriek and grabbed for his hair.

  His musty wig came off in her hands. She shrieked again and thumped him on the spine. That knocked him off balance, more than she expected, and he rocked backward, flailing his arms. Emboldened by her success, she thumped again and threw herself sideways.

  She flew through the air and hit the marble floor, cracking her elbow, knocking the breath out of her. The thug fell on top of her. Something—someone— landed on top of them both.

  The someone knocked the hulking knave off her. Released from the crushing weight, she gasped for breath, strained to hear through the ringing in her ears. In the distance, yet far too close, she heard the crack of bone against flesh. Feet pounded along the terrace; stupidly, all she could think was that she couldn’t be caught with her clothes rumpled and her dignity compromised. Sitting up, she swayed as she glanced around.

  It was her attacker and her rescuer whose footsteps she heard. The two men raced along the terrace, away from the ballroom, going deeper into the shadows. The one in the lead leaped over the balustrade. The second started to follow, then drew back. The land dropped away there, and only a desperate man would dare the leap.

  “Coward,” she muttered. That was unfair, but her ribs ached and her elbow hurt and she was the princess and she didn’t have to be fair. Not when she had just been attacked by some smelly beast and only one of her loyal subjects or supposedly eager suitors had come to her aid.

  Her rescuer limped back toward her—oh, fine, he was injured and required compassion when she had none to spend. He was another broad-shouldered fellow, although not as tall as the villain. As he crossed through the squares of light coming from the windows, then entered the shadows between, he seemed more phantom than man. She strained to behold his face, but could see only dark hair, lightened by a streak of white at each temple, eyes deep-set above a craggy nose, and lips pressed tightly together.

  He wore a dark frock coat, a black silk neckcloth, and black trousers over black boots. Obviously, he had no imagination when it came to color, but he wore a gentleman’s outfit. Thank God for that.

  When he came within speaking distance, the gentleman demanded, in a tone quite unlike any she normally heard, “What the hell was that about?”

  Astonished, indignant, and in pain, she stammered, “Who ... what... How dare you?”

  “Was he a suitor scorned?”

  “I never saw him before!”

  “Then next time a stranger grabs you and slams you over his shoulder, you squeal like a stuck pig.”

  Clutching her elbow, she staggered to her feet. “I yelled!”

  “I barely heard you.” He stood directly in front of her, taller than he had at first appeared, beetle-browed, his eyes dark hollows, his face marked with a deep-shadowed scar that ran from chin to temple. “And I was just behind those pots.”

  Tall and luxuriant, the potted plants clustered against the wall, and she looked at them, then looked back at him. He spoke with a Sereminian accent. He walked with a limp. He was a stranger. Suspicion stirred in her. “What were you doing there?”

  “Smoking.”

  She smelled it on him, that faint scent of tobacco so like that which clung to her father. Although she knew it foolish, the odor lessened her misgivings. “I’ll call the guard and send them after that scoundrel.”

  “Scoundrel.” The stranger laughed softly. “You are a lady. But don’t bother sending anyone after him. He’s long gone.”

  She knew it was true. The scoundrel—and what was wrong with that word, anyway?—had leaped into the wildest part of the garden, just where the cultured plants gave way to natural scrub. The guard would do her no good.

  So rather than doing what she knew very well she should, she let the stranger place his hand on the small of her back and turn her toward the light.

  But he only examined her features impersonally, and in a kinder tone asked, “Are you hurt?”

  “Just bruised.”

  He clasped her wrist and slowly stretched out her injured arm. “It’s not broken.”

  “I don’t suppose so.”

  He grinned, a slash of white teeth against a half-glimpsed face. “You’d recognize if it was. A broken elbow lets you know it’s there.” Efficiently, he unfastened the buttons on her elbow-length glove and stripped it away, then ran his bare fingers firmly over the bones in her lower arm, then lightly over the pit of her elbow.

  Goose bumps rose on her skin at the touch. He didn’t wear gloves, she noted absently. His naked skin touched hers. “What kind of injury are you looking for?”

  “Not an injury. I just thought I would enjoy caressing that baby-soft skin.”

  She jerked her wrist away.

  He laughed, obviously amused by her indignation and probably lying about wanting to caress her.

  Damn him.

  She snatched her glove back and pulled it on, and found she had trouble thrusting her fingers into each proper cavity. They trembled, as did her voice. “I don’t know why anyone would ... that is, what he was...”

  “Aren’t you the princess?”

  Her heart gave an irregular thump. Wariness returned in a rush, and she took one edgy step away. “Yes.”

  “Then I’d have to say it was a kidnapping attempt.�
��

  She stared at the stranger blankly, straining to see through the darkness at the possessor of that inscrutable voice. “That’s absurd!”

  “Hardly. You’re the only heir to a quite wealthy little kingdom. I imagine your father would pay a fortune to have you back. I’m only surprised no one’s tried before.”

  He made her feel naive. “We’re at peace here—”

  “One bad apple, and all that. But he did get away, and if he’s desperate enough, he might try again. Or there might be more than one of them. Consider hiring a bodyguard.”

  Who did the man think he was? How dare he give her advice? “Who are you?”

  “Dominic of Baminia—except they changed the name, it’s Sereminia now, and everyone calls me ‘Dom.’ ” He strolled to the tall potted plant and dug his cigar out of the soil where he’d tossed it. “I’m one of your suitors.”

  She was shaken, but she hadn’t lost her wits. “You were not presented.”

  “There’s no cozening you, is there?” The cigar still smoldered, and he knocked the dirt off and placed the end in his mouth. Lifting his head, he puffed until the end glowed red, then looked down at her. Smoke eased from between his lips as he said, “I didn’t get here in time.”

  He was rude, he was crude—not to mention late— and he spoke so offhandedly, every hackle rose. So she mentioned it. “If you want to court a princess, it seems worthwhile to cultivate punctuality.”

  “Punctuality.” He mocked her patrician accent. “Actually, I didn’t see the sense of it. You’re not going to marry me.”

  She wasn’t, of course, but it annoyed her that he was so sure. “And why not?”

  “I am the brother of the king of Sereminia.”

  Startled, she searched her memory. The brother of the king of Sereminia? Did he have a brother? But why would this man tell such an easily detected lie?

  In fact, would this man lie at all? On the contrary, he seemed honest. Suspiciously honest. “Well,” she said cautiously, wondering if he knew the truth, not wanting to give anything away, “that’s not a bad connection. We share our northwest border with Sereminia—”

  “I’m the bastard brother.”

  “Of course.” Of course. That explained so much. It explained why he didn’t seem to know the secret Bertinerre and Sereminia shared. And this gentleman, for such she must call him, must be sensitive about his illegitimate status, else he would have come and taken his chances with the rest of the suitors. “There are other bastards here.”

  “They don’t stand a chance, either.” Crossing to the wide marble railing, he sat on it. “Do they?”

  He wouldn’t get such an admission out of her. “As much of a chance as any.”

  “Ah, then you’ve made your choice.” The lights from the French doors didn’t quite reach him as he stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. “Who’s the lucky leg-shackle?”

  She didn’t have to stay out here with this cynical brute. She should go in and report the incident to her father. But she found herself several steps closer, still trying to get a good look at Dominic of Sereminia, although why she didn’t know. She shouldn’t care if she ever spoke to him again. “I haven’t picked anyone.”

  He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “I watched you dance with all those jackasses.”

  Had it been his gaze that created a chill?

  “I would say it was that fellow ... Who is he? ... The tall one with the pompous streak wide as the sea.”

  She caught her breath on a chuckle. He’d hooked Francis precisely!

  “Yes, I’ve got it!” Dom said. “Little Lord Francis de Radcote.”

  Her amusement died. “Is that the gossip?”

  “Part of the gossip, certainly not all of the gossip. Speculation ran rampant with every swain who took you in his arms.” He tilted his head back and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Especially among the debutantes. They’re not crazy about you, you know.”

  He jumped from subject to subject, telling her things no one else would dream of mentioning. “Who isn’t?”

  “All the young ladies who line the long walls and cluster around the ivory-framed mirrors. The sooner you’re married, the happier this year’s crop of maidens will be.” He tapped the cigar on the edge of the railing. “They don’t like playing cat’s-paw to a woman of your advanced years.”

  Her head swam oddly, as if she’d been underwater and out of air for too long. “I suppose not.”

  “Although you’re holding up well for a woman of twenty-five. Quite pretty, actually. Is your hair really that color?”

  “You are a boor!” she exclaimed, but again she found herself swallowing a laugh.

  “It’s not, then. I had wondered.”

  Recovering her wits, she said, “You have to admit, it is natural-looking.” And the chignon felt rather loose after her tumble.

  “Not really. Not many women really have hair of ebony and skin white as snow, as the old fairy tale says. Lemon juice on the complexion?”

  He was right about that, at least. “I find it helps bleach out the freckles.”

  He nodded. “It’s good to be a man.”

  “I have always thought that must be true.” She poked at the hairpins holding her coiffure in position. A few had been lost in her fall. But Weltrude instructed that not a hair on the princess’s head should ever be out of place, so what matter a few hairpins more or less? Her classic style would not fail. It dared not, or it would answer to Weltrude. “Men have all the advantages. They get to scratch where it itches, stride about in clomping boots, and let loose with any body function they see fit.”

  “Most important, we have these ... inappropriate reactions to ladies even when we know they dye their hair.”

  Her hands froze, her eyes widened. Confused, her mind in turmoil, she stared forward, into the hallway lit by candelabras, her eyes aching with the strain of never blinking. Did he mean what she thought he meant? In his careless, unrefined way, was he calling her attractive?

  “If I promise not to belch too loudly, may I see you into supper?”

  Slowly, she lowered her arms. What was she doing out here in the dark, chatting with a man to whom she’d never been properly introduced? Weltrude would have apoplexy. “That doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

  “Little Lord Francis wouldn’t like it.” From the corners of her eyes, she saw Dom nod sagely. “Of course. I just thought you might be grateful. I did grapple with that brute and chase him off.” He rubbed his hip as if it ached.

  Irresistibly, amusement rose in her again. Just when she thought herself mad to allow herself this freedom with a self-proclaimed rogue, he disarmed her with an offer to be seen with her in public. Then he ruthlessly used his injury and her obligation to get his way. “You’re good,” she said admiringly. “Very good. But why should I take you into dinner with me when there are so many other men who arrive on time, don’t skulk behind plants, and are willing to take their chances as my suitor?”

  He was silent so long that she turned to look up at him. He was staring at the glowing red end of his cigar, then he smiled. “Let’s face it, Princess. This is probably your last chance at courtship. You might as well make the most of it, and why not? You can play the lads against each other, tease and flirt, enjoy yourself as any woman does when she makes a multitude of men desire her. You can do as you like with me at your side, for I’m not a prince or a even a legitimate commoner, just a buffer against honest courtship.”

  Vaguely offended, she said, “You have a lovely opinion of my character!”

  He shrugged. “I can’t imagine this princess duty is any fun, so you might as well kick up your heels. Besides”—he looked down at her, and for the first time she recognized the gleam of the predator in his eyes—“you need a bodyguard, and that’s what I am. Your own personal mercenary sent to guard you from the wicked world.”

  Chapter Three

  If she were smart, Laurentia knew she would turn and flee ba
ck to the ballroom. But this man was right about one thing. Being a princess wasn’t all fun, and conversation with Dominic of Sereminia exercised a mind numbed by ceremony and protocol.

  Moreover, she needed to know about him. For the safety of her kingdom, of course. “Mr....”

  “Dom,” he said. “Just Dom.”

  “Dom.” She tried the name and found she could utter it easily. Odd how exchanging a few quips with a man gave her a sense of familiarity. “You’re a mercenary?”

  “There aren’t many positions for a bastard brother of the king. I have to earn a living somehow.”

  A mercenary. A man who fought on any side with the lucre to pay him. That explained the swift action toward her attacker, the scar, the limp, the knowledge of broken bones ... the cynicism. The almost visible aura of danger that surrounded him.

  “Are you shocked, little princess?” Laughter curled in his voice once more, and he towered a head above her as they sat.

  But she never allowed a man to imagine such physical domination made him superior to her. At least... not for long. “Not at all,” she said with what she considered admirable aplomb. “I was just wondering—if you’re my bodyguard, who’s going to save me from you?”

  “You’re a clever girl. You’ll save yourself.”

  “I’m not a girl at all.” She’d ceased being a girl the day she married her first husband. “I’m a woman.”

  “A woman at the ripe old age of twenty-five.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. Could the man be a bigger wretch? “I’m clever enough to know if a man like you decided to kidnap me, or harm me, you’d get the job done before I could defend myself.”