Cordinas Crown Jewel (3 page)

He’d insisted she call every day. She’d been firm on offering a once-a-week check-in. And her mother—as always the balance—had negotiated between the two for every three days.

She loved them so much. Loved what they were to her, to each other. What they were to the world. But it was so much to live up to. And, she knew, they would be appalled that she felt so strongly she had to live up to anything, anyone, but herself.

Other snags were more practical than emotional. It had struck her the first time she’d checked into a motel—and what an experience that had been—that she couldn’t risk using a credit card. If any clever clerk tagged the name Camilla MacGee and realized who she was, with one call to the local papers she would be—as her brother Dorian would say—busted.

As a result, her cash was dwindling quickly. Pride, stubbornness and sheer annoyance at her own lack of foresight prevented her from asking her parents to front her the means to continue with her journey.

It would, after all, negate one of the purposes. A few precious weeks of total independence.

She wondered how one went about pawning an item. Her watch was worth several thousand dollars. That
would be more than enough to see her through. Perhaps she’d look into it at her next stop.

But for now it was glorious to simply drive. She’d headed north and west from Washington, and had enjoyed exploring parts of West Virginia and Pennsylvania.

She’d eaten in fast-food restaurants, slept in lumpy beds in highway motels. She’d strolled the streets of small towns and larger cities, had been jostled rudely in crowds. And once had been ignored, then snapped at by a convenience store clerk when she’d stopped for a soft drink.

It had been marvelous.

No one—absolutely no one—had taken her picture.

When she’d wandered through a little park in upstate New York, she’d seen two old men playing chess. She stopped to watch, and found herself being drawn in to their discussion of world politics. It had been both fascinating and delightful.

She’d loved watching summer burst over New England. It was all so different from her homes in Cordina and Virginia. It was all so … liberating to simply drift where no one knew her, where no one expected anything of her, or caught her between the crosshairs of a camera lens.

She found herself doing something she did only with family, and the most intimate of friends. Relaxing.

Each night, for her own pleasure, she recounted the day’s events and her observations in a journal.

Very tired now, but pleasantly so
, she’d written last.
Tomorrow I’ll cross into Vermont. From there I must decide whether to continue east to the coast, or turn. America is so big. None of the books, the lessons, none of the trips I’ve taken with family or on official business had really shown me the size, the diversity, the extraordinary beauty of the country itself or the people in it.

I’m half American, have always found pride in that part of my heritage. Oddly, the longer I’m on my own here, the more foreign I feel. I have, I see, neglected this part of my blood. But no more.

I’m in a small motel off the interstate, in the Adirondack Mountains. They are spectacular. I can’t apply the same description to my room. It’s clean, but very cramped. Amenities run to a cake of soap
the size of a U.S. quarter and two towels rough as sandpaper. But there’s a soft drink machine just outside my door should I want one.

I’d love a good glass of wine, but my budget doesn’t run to such luxuries just now.

I called home this evening. Mama and Daddy are in Virginia at the farm, as are Kristian and Dorian. I miss them, the comfort and reliability they represent. But I’m so happy I’m finding out who I am and that I can be alone.

I believe I’m fairly self-sufficient, and more daring than I’d imagined. I have a good eye for detail, an excellent sense of direction and am easier in my own company than I thought I might be.

I have no idea what any of this means in the grand scheme, but it’s all very nice to know.

Perhaps, if the bottom drops out of the princess market, I could get work as a trail guide.

*  *  *

She adored Vermont. She loved the high green mountains, the many lakes, the winding rivers. Rather than cut through toward Maine, or turn west, back into New York State, she took a rambling route through the state, leaving the interstate for roads through tidy New England towns, through forest and farmland.

She forgot about trying to sell her watch and put off scouting out a motel. She had the windows open to the warm summer air, the radio up, and munched on the fast-food fries in the bag tucked in her lap.

It didn’t concern her when the sky clouded over. It added such an interesting light to the tall trees lining the road, and gave the air blowing in her windows a faint electric edge.

She didn’t particularly mind when rain began to splatter the windshield, though it meant winding up the windows or getting soaked. And when lightning slashed over the sky, she enjoyed the show.

But when the rain began to pound, the wind to howl and those lights in the sky became blinding, she decided it was time to make her way back to the interstate and find shelter.

Ten minutes later, she was cursing herself and struggling to see the road through the curtain of rain the
windshield wipers washed rapidly from side to side.

Her own fault, she thought grimly. She was now driving into the teeth of the storm rather than away from it. And she was afraid in the dark, in the driving rain, she’d missed—or would miss her turn.

She could see nothing but the dark gleam of asphalt, pierced by her own headlights, the thick wall of trees on either side. Thunder blasted, and the wind rocked the car under her.

She considered pulling over waiting it out. But the stubborn streak—the one her brothers loved to tease her about—pushed her on. Just a couple more miles, she told herself. She’d be back on the main road. Then she’d find a motel and be inside, safe and dry, and be able to enjoy the storm.

Something streaked out of the trees and leaped in front of the car. She had an instant to see the deer’s eyes gleam in her headlights, another to jerk the wheel.

The car fishtailed, spun in a complete circle on the slick road, and ended up—with a jolt and an ominous squeal of metal—front-first in a ditch.

For the next few minutes, there was no sound but the hard drum of rain and her own ragged breathing. Then a flash of lightning slapped her clear of shock.

She drew in breath slowly, released it again. Repeating this three times usually served to calm her. But this time that third breath came out with an oath. She slapped the wheel, gritted her teeth, then slammed the car in reverse.

When she hit the gas, her wheels spun and dug their way deeper. She tried rocking the car—forward, reverse, forward, reverse. For every inch she gained, she lost two.

Giving up, muttering insults at herself, she climbed out in the pouring rain to take stock.

She couldn’t see any body damage beyond a scraped fender—but it was dark. Darker yet, she noted, as one of her headlights was smashed. The car was not only half on, half off the road, but the front tires were sunk deep.

Shivering now as the rain soaked through her shirt, she climbed back into the car and dug out her cell phone. She’d need to call a tow truck, and hadn’t a clue how to go about it. But she imagined the operator would be able to connect her.

Camilla turned on the phone, then stared at the display.
No Service.

Perfect, she thought in disgust. Just perfect. I drive into the middle of nowhere because the trees are pretty, sing my way into a vicious summer storm, and end up getting run off the road and into a ditch by an idiotic deer in the one place in the world where there’s no damn mobile phone service.

It appeared the next part of her adventure would be to spend the night, soaking wet, in her car.

After ten minutes, the discomfort sent her back into the rain and around to the trunk for her suitcase.

Next adventure: changing into dry clothes in a car on the side of the road.

As she started to drag the case out, she caught the faint gleam of headlights piercing through the rain. She didn’t hesitate, but rushed back around to the driver’s side, reached in and blasted the horn three times. She slipped, nearly ended up facedown in the ditch, then scrambled back up to the road where she waved her arms frantically.

No white charger had ever looked as magnificent as the battered truck that rumbled up, and eased to a stop beside her. No knight in shining armor had ever looked as heroic as the dark figure who rolled down the window and stared out at her.

She couldn’t see the color of his eyes, or even gauge his age in the poor light and drenching rain. She saw only the vague shape of his face, a tousled head of hair as she ran over.

“I had some trouble,” she began.

“No kidding.”

She saw his eyes now—they were green as glass, and sharply annoyed under dark brows that were knitted together in a scowl. They passed over her as if she were a minor inconvenience—a fact that had her hackles rising even as she straggled to be grateful—and studied the car.

“You should’ve pulled
onto
the shoulder during a storm like this,” he shouted over the wind, “not driven your car off it.”

“That’s certainly helpful advice.” Her tone went frigid, and horribly polite—a skill that had goaded her brothers into dubbing her Princess Prissy.

His eyes flicked back to her with a gleam that might have been humor. Or temper. “I’d very much appreciate it if you’d help me get it back on the road.”

“Bet you would.” His voice was deep, rough and just a little weary. “But since I left my super power suit on Krypton, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”

She sent him one long stare. He had a strong face, she could see that now. It was raw boned and shadowed by what seemed to be two or three days’ worth of beard. His mouth was hard and set in stern lines. Professorial lines, she thought. The kind that might just lecture.

She was hardly in the mood.

She fought off a shudder from the chill, fought to maintain her dignity. “There must be something that can be done.”

“Yeah.” His sigh told her he wasn’t too happy about it. “Get in. We’ll go to my place, call for a tow.”

In the car? With him?

Don’t talk to strangers.

Marian’s warning echoed in her ears. Of course, she’d ignored that advice a dozen times over the last week and a half. But get into the car with one, on a deserted road?

Still, if he’d meant her harm, he didn’t need her to get into the car. He could simply climb out, bash her on the head and be done with it.

So, faced with spending hours in her disabled car or taking a chance on him and finding a dry spot and—God willing—hot coffee, she nodded. “My bags are in the trunk,” she told him.

“Fine. Go get them.”

At this, she blinked. Then, when he simply continued to scowl at her, set her teeth.

Shining knight her butt, she fumed as she trudged through the rain to retrieve her bags. He was a rude, miserable, ill-mannered boor.

But if he had a telephone and a coffeepot, she could overlook it.

She heaved her bags in the back then climbed in beside him.

It was then she saw that his right arm was in a sling strapped close to his body. Immediately guilt swamped her.

Naturally he couldn’t help with the car, or her bags, if he was injured. And he was likely impolite due to discomfort. To make up for her hard thoughts, she sent him a brilliant smile.

“Thanks so much for helping me. I was afraid I’d have to spend the night in the car—soaking wet.”

“Wouldn’t be wet if you’d stayed in the car.”

Something wanted to hiss out between her teeth, but she swallowed it. Diplomacy, even when it wasn’t deserved, was part of her training. “True. Still, I appreciate you stopping, Mr….”

“Caine. Delaney Caine.”

“Mr. Caine.” She pushed at her wet hair as he drove through the storm. “I’m Camilla—” She broke off, the briefest of hesitations when she realized she’d been about to say MacGee. The episode had rattled her more than she’d realized. “Breen,” she finished, giving Marian’s last name as her own. “How did you hurt your arm?”

“Look, let’s just ditch the small talk.” He was driving, one handed, through a wailing bitch of a storm, and the woman wanted to chat. Amazing. “We both just want to get out of the rain, and put you back on the road to wherever the hell you’re going.”

Make that ill-mannered swine, she decided. “Very well.” She turned her head and stared out the side window.

One advantage, she decided. The man hadn’t looked at her twice—had barely managed once. She wouldn’t have to worry about him identifying the damsel in distress as a princess.

Oh, he’d looked at her, all right.

It might have been dark, she might have been wet and spitting mad. But that kind of beauty managed to punch through every obstacle.

He’d seen a long, slender, soaked woman in shirt and jeans that had clung to every subtle curve. He’d seen a pale oval face dominated by gold eyes and a wide, mobile mouth and crowned by a sleek cap of hair that was dark fire with rain.

He’d heard a voice that hinted of the South and of France simultaneously. It was a classy, cultured combination that whispered upper crust.

He’d noticed the slight hesitation over her name, and had known she lied. He just didn’t happen to give a damn about that, or any of the rest of it.

She was, at the moment, no more than a nuisance. He wanted to get home. To be alone. To pop some of the medication that would ease the throbbing of his shoulder and ribs. The damp and the rain were killing him.

He had work to do, damn it, and dealing with her was likely to cut a good hour out of his evening schedule.

On top of it all, she’d actually wanted to chatter at him. What was it with people and their constant need to hear voices? Particularly their own.

The one benefit of having to leave the dig in Florida and recover at home was being home. Alone. No amateurs trying to horn in on the site, no students battering him with questions, no press wheedling for an interview.