The Runaway Princess

  She felt his spine stiffen. His body communicated his absolute disbelief right through to hers, and his hands flexed on her knees. As far as she could tell, no one had ever told this man no.

  About time someone did.

  Reaching around his throat, she loosened the fastenings of his cloak and dropped it. He let go of her legs, and if she hadn’t caught herself, she would have dropped, too. Her feet should be tended, it appeared, but he didn’t care about the condition of her backside. She couldn’t walk to Serephina on her backside.

  Carefully she climbed down, moving away from the warmth of him, from the faintly musky scent of a healthy, active man. Then she realized she carried it with her. The intimacy of their journey had marked her with his aroma, and deliberately she sought to create a distance between them, to place formality where familiarity had been. “Thank you for carrying me, Your Highness. You must be tired.”

  This time he agreed in as sarcastic a tone as he could manage. “Yes.”

  “But I thank you nonetheless.” With a flourish, she rang the bell.

  With awesome patience, he picked up his flowing black cloak and draped it over his arm.

  Ignoring him, she looked at the country spread out around them like a map. Off in the distance in every direction rose mountains upon mountains, each taller than the next, snow-covered and forbidding. She observed the line of cliffs they’d followed from the château until, not too far away, the escarpment plunged into the surrounding forest. And right around the convent, the alpine meadow was nothing more than a cleared area, a place where the surrounding forest had been shaved away in a circle.

  “Napoleon’s armies marched through these mountains on their way to conquer Spain.”

  Evangeline looked at Danior. He, too, gazed across the countryside, his black brows drawn into a fierce frown.

  “For a time, he succeeded there, but he never conquered us.”

  Such a thought had never occurred to her. Baminia and Serephina perched together on the spine of the Pyrenees between France and Spain. Of course Napoleon must have coveted them. “Did you fight Nappie?”

  His blue gaze burned her with contempt. “Of course I fought him. Why do you think I left you at that school for so long? According to the prophecy, we cannot be wed until Revealing, but you would have lived in your castles, toured your country, been surrounded by your servants and my advisors. You would have learned your royal duties and I would have supervised the final stages of your training.”

  “Oh, the poor girl,” Evangeline exclaimed from the heart. “You would have crushed her like a bug.”

  “I would have treated her—you!—with all the respect due a queen of Bamphina.”

  For a moment, confusion held her in its grasp. “Wha . . . Bamphina?”

  “When the crystal case is opened and we reunite the two lands, we shall rename our one new country. That will help end the strife forever.”

  “Bamphina?” Now she understood. A combination of Baminia and Serephina. Irritation prickled her skin. “That’s a stupid name. Sereminia sounds better.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  She took a breath to fight him, then realized she was being ridiculous. She wasn’t Ethelinda of Serephina. It didn’t matter to her what they called their piddling country.

  He watched her expectantly, waiting for her to object. She folded her lips firmly, and she could have sworn he sagged with disappointment.

  Damn the man. Did he enjoy their confrontations?

  Ringing the bell again, he said, “I wish they would hurry. You’ll be safe inside.”

  Safe? Oh, yes, they’d be safe. Evangeline looked up at the convent. It rose straight from the door, gray piled on gray stone in endless, monotonous repetition. On this front side there were no windows, no way for an intruder to enter except through the short, narrow door bound in iron. As if any self-respecting intruder would try to make it up that circuitous trail. The path alone was an ample deterrent to an army. If she was going to escape from this place, it would have to be with help from the nuns.

  Leona had always said Evangeline could talk her way into next week. This was her chance to prove it.

  The iron hinges creaked as an elderly nun opened the narrow door. A white wimple surrounded her broad, wrinkled face, and she smiled as she offered the traditional Baminian greeting. “My home is your home. My life is your life. Come in and take comfort.”

  Leona had drilled her on Baminian manners, and Evangeline stammered, “Blessings be on your house.”

  “Not the princess, eh?” Danior muttered as he placed his hand on the top of her head and pressed and pushed at the same time, guiding her through the low, narrow passage as firmly as if he knew she’d been thinking of escape. “We are pilgrims seeking shelter,” he said, and ducked to enter.

  “Much like the other Baminian pilgrim we welcomed earlier.” The nun sounded amused.

  “Is he well?”

  “Very healthy,” the nun answered.

  Danior relaxed infinitesimally, and Evangeline realized he worried about his bodyguards.

  He pulled the door shut with a thump that echoed through the dark and stony reaches of the lower floor.

  The abrupt cessation of morning’s light, the sense of being trapped and enclosed made her chest feel tight, her lungs struggle for air.

  Apparently Danior noticed, for he said roughly, “It’s a large chamber. Your eyes will adjust.”

  Squinting, Evangeline realized Danior was right. While this entry boasted no windows, other doors opened off it, and feeble morning light came from them. The convent’s stone well rose from the center of the worn board floor. The kitchen, too, was down here, for from that lighted opening came the buzz of conversation and the scent of baking cherry pies.

  Evangeline’s mouth started watering.

  In her soothing voice, the nun said, “I am Soeur Constanza. You may hang your cloak on the hook. Then follow me and we will find your friend.” She turned and led the way into a stairwell.

  Once again Danior laid his hand on the small of Evangeline’s back and pushed her in front of him, and when she looked up the five stories of stone steps spiraling into one of the towers, she found herself glad he walked behind her. Arrow slits allowed in the only light. There was no handrail, no concession to the frailty of human balance, and the steps, worn by generations of holy women, tilted every which way. This old castle was hard and cold, a remnant of the Dark Ages.

  Danior, Evangeline thought sourly, would have been right at home in the Dark Ages.

  Speaking just in her ear, he said, “Remember, the nuns don’t know we are the prince and princess, and the less who realize the truth, the better.”

  She stopped and jerked her head around to stare at him. “I’m not telling them I’m a princess. I don’t lie to nuns!”

  He grunted and pushed her, and she followed the sweep of Soeur Constanza’s black habit up the stairs.

  On the first landing, the nun opened the door and led them into a community dining room filled with long, polished tables and benches, and occupied only by one man.

  Victor stood, and for fully a minute Evangeline thought it was out of respect for a lady. Then reality caught up with her, and she realized his homage honored his prince a his princess.

  “You’re hungry and weary,” Soeur Constanza said. “I will bring breakfast.”

  “Very good.” Danior’s black brows twitched as if he were amused. “Breakfast will be much welcomed by my cranky companion.”

  The Dark Ages? No, Danior would be at home during the reign of the barbarians. “Visigoth,” Evangeline snapped.

  “Careful. You’ll hurt my feelings.” Danior swaggered toward his man.

  She dragged wearily to the table. She’d slept perhaps an hour in the last twenty-four, and that on his back. She was so tired she thought she heard singing, choirs of heavenly angels. Slumping onto the bench Danior pulled out for her, she leaned her elbows on the long, polished wood table. Yes, she hear
d singing . . .

  “The sisters are at Mass,” Victor was saying.

  Not heavenly choirs, then. Nuns singing the praises of God.

  “No word from Rafaello?” Danior pressed down on Victor’s shoulder.

  Sinking back onto the bench, Victor assured him, “Rafaello’ll be fine. He’s got cat’s eyes, that one. He can see in the dark.”

  “Yes . . .” Danior sounded thoughtful as he seated himself. “What about you? Did they pick up your trail? Were you followed?”

  Victor grinned, a smirking display of white teeth. “Until I lost them.”

  “What about the nuns?”

  “Most of them haven’t seen me, and Soeur Constanza says no one has visited the shrine in weeks.”

  “What shrine?” Evangeline asked.

  Danior fixed her with all the brooding intensity of his gaze. “Don’t play the fool. I’m in no mood.”

  She straightened up and brooded right back at him. “By which I can assume the princess would have known about the shrine?”

  Staring at her as if she had grown a second head, Victor asked, “Is Her Royal Highness pretending to be someone else?”

  “I am not pretending.”

  Victor laughed out loud. “Serephinians are all liars.”

  “Mind your manners,” Danior warned.

  Victor nodded to her, a quick, insincere bow of apology.

  “She says she’s Evangeline Scoffield of East Little Teignmouth, Cornwall,” Danior said, proving he had been paying at least a little attention to what she said. “That’s in England,” he added for the sake of his goggle-eyed bodyguard.

  “Cornwall? Why would anyone even want to pretend to be from there?” Victor imbued the word with a skeptical aversion.

  Evangeline’s hackles rose. “East Little Teignmouth is a pleasant village.” Not always, with its narrow streets that funneled the ocean winds, the long winters filled with the crash of waves, and the narrow-minded lawyer who clutched her money close to his chest and mouthed on about the seven-year waiting period. But this man had no right to scorn East Little Teignmouth.

  “You should be ashamed,” Danior said, and she cast Victor a triumphant glance. He sobered immediately, but Danior was looking at her. “You deny your heritage. You deny your parents.”

  She should once again proclaim her identity, but he was so intense, and she was so tired. “Serephina and Baminia seem to have trouble with revolutionaries.”

  “They wouldn’t, except for”—Danior hesitated, his mouth a grim line—“well, your father, at least, was a good man.”

  Obviously, Leona hadn’t told her everything about the region’s history. “What do you mean by that?”

  “He means the only good Serephinian is a dead Serephinian,” Victor said with stinging distaste, “especially when it comes to women, and your family in particular. Your Highness.”

  “I’ll not tell you again, Victor.” Danior slashed the air with his hand. “Mind your manners. Repeating old sayings can do nothing but harm, and doesn’t change the prophecies. Now here comes Soeur Constanza with our breakfast. Evangeline”—he caught her gaze—“no more deliberately artless questions.”

  Evangeline’s mouth dropped open.

  “And don’t appeal for help. I will silence you.” Scorn laced his implacable warning.

  “Deliberately artless?” She sat up straight. “Do you think you can just insult me without a qualm? My lineage may not be as exalted as yours, but you have no cause to scorn me.”

  “Indeed not, Evangeline.” Danior accepted a bowl from Soeur Constanza. “We both have our familial embarrassments.” He placed it in front of her.

  His admission made her want to probe deeper, but as she took a breath, she smelled barley and—she sniffed—yes, cinnamon.

  Danior handed her a spoon, then he poured thick, rich cream over the steaming cereal. Wordless with bliss, she lifted a spoonful to her mouth. Closing her eyes, she savored the first taste. The nutty flavor of the barley promised satisfaction, and she perceived just a hint of . . . she opened her eyes. “Is that roasted apple?” she asked Soeur Constanza as the nun removed Victor’s bowl.

  Soeur Constanza nodded. “You have a discerning palate.”

  Victor, a barbarian in his own right, snorted.

  A bell sounded below, and Soeur Constanza started toward the stairwell at a trot.

  When the nun was out of earshot, Danior leaned intently toward Evangeline. “If you go back to the Two Kingdoms to reign as my queen, you’ll eat whatever you wish.”

  Evangeline paused, the filled spoon halfway to her mouth. Visions of roast pork, crusty and crackling, of fresh oranges, peeled for her delectation, of piping hot cups of tea laced with real white sugar beckoned and swayed with demonic temptation.

  She exorcised the tempting fantasies, and answered calmly, “Then I’d be fat, and I wager you would not like me like that.” She took her bite.

  To her surprise, his gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips, then to her bosom. “I wager I would.”

  She choked on the barley. Danior stood and, grasping her arms, lifted them over her head. “Say something.”

  “Pig,” she gasped—and found her airway unclogged and her heart thudding in her chest. Danior seemed to have an exorbitant appreciation of her bosom.

  At the clatter of boots on the stairway, he looked around, and when Rafaello appeared in the arched doorway, he walked toward him with every evidence of pleasure. “Good man.” He grasped Rafaello’s hand and shook it warmly. “Did you have any trouble?”

  “There were a few more rebels than I cared for,” Rafaello admitted. “But I handled them.”

  “Did they follow you here?”

  Rafaello frowned. “Never!”

  “I didn’t doubt you,” Danior said. “Sit down and eat. The good sister will bring you food to break your fast.”

  The men sat together, a cluster of virility. Soeur Constanza brought Rafaello a wooden bowl, Danior took up his silver spoon, and as they ate they spoke in lowered voices, leaving her in virtual isolation to finish her barley. She did so efficiently, scraping the bowl clean.

  Soeur Constanza must have been watching, for as they all finished, she whisked the simple bowls away. “If you gentlemen would come with me, I will show you to the guest quarters.”

  “What about . . . Miss Scoffield?” Danior grinned at her, clearly convinced he had found a use for her alias.

  He thought he was so diverting.

  “The ladies stay among us, separate from the gentlemen. Miss Scoffield will be given a chamber suitable for a pilgrim.”

  “Do you have one with a lock?” Danior asked.

  Evangeline shot to her feet. “You’re a madman!”

  Even the serene Soeur Constanza looked shocked. “A lock?”

  “She’ll try to escape if she’s not locked in.”

  Soeur Constanza looked from one to the other. “I . . . we don’t have locks. We’re a convent!”

  “You must have one somewhere.” Danior sounded revoltingly rational. “This was a castle once. There must be a dungeon.”

  “Long filled in.” Soeur Constanza quivered with indignation.

  “He’s mad,” Evangeline said to her. Danior ignored both Soeur Constanza’s consternation and Evangeline’s aside. “A storage room?”

  “It’s on the level below with the kitchen, and filled with garden tools and broken furniture. You can’t ask a gentlewoman to stay there.”

  He had that flinty look Evangeline had seen him wear in her bedchamber the night before. “I’m not asking her to.”

  The autocrat was back, and she was so very, very tired. Did they have to resume their struggle now?

  “This is most irregular, sir, and quite impossible.” Soeur Constanza fluttered like a plump pigeon facing a wolf. “I’m afraid I’ll have to report this to the Reverend Mother herself.”

  “You do that. In the meantime, I’ll take Miss Scoffield down to the storage room.”

&nb
sp; Ten

  Evangeline tried to sidestep him, but he caught her arm. Mostly by accident, she trod on the top of his foot.

  He seemed to suspect she deliberately provoked him, for the veins on his forehead stood out, he opened his mouth to shout—then with a look at Soeur Constanza, he shut it. In English, he said, “I’ll not forget this.” He marched Evangeline toward the stairwell.

  “What are you going to do, Your Highness?” she taunted. “Starve me? Abduct me? Lock me in a storage room?”

  He turned his head. He looked down at her and smiled.

  Her breath caught in her throat, and blood rushed to places it had no business being. Whatever he was thinking, it wasn’t torture.

  “Maybe we should get married here and now,” he said.

  Picking up her feet, she kept pace and rapidly recited, “According to legend, the prince and princess must be married on the day of Revealing.”

  His smile deepened. “I wonder how would Miss Evangeline Scoffield of East Little Teignmouth, England, know such an obscure myth?”

  She scowled at him. “Study. Long hours of study.”

  The stairs seemed steeper going down than going up, and once at the bottom they had several doors to choose from.

  “Not the kitchen,” Danior murmured, “although you would be happiest there. Here, I think.” He walked her toward the door in the deepest shadow of the entry hall, and, sure enough, light leaked through a keyhole.

  “There’s no key,” she pointed out triumphantly.

  “So I see.” He smiled again, that smile that meant he would enjoy taking a bite out of her. “Well, if it can’t be found, you’ll have to sleep with me.”

  “I will not!” Except she hadn’t got her way about much since she’d met him, and she wouldn’t wager a single shilling on winning this—not even if any of her shillings had survived the fire.

  He ignored her spurt of defiance with the contempt it deserved, turned the latch, and pushed the door open. A window spilled sunshine into the good-sized room, filled with a conglomerate of tools, broken furniture, and dust. Lots of dust. He had found his storage room filled with everything a convent could need or had ever needed.