The Runaway Princess (2 page)

She couldn't bear the suspense, and, taking a deep breath, she whipped open the door.

The corridor was empty. No one was there. No one had followed her.

Feeling prodigiously silly, she closed herself in once more and fit the key to the lock. The tumblers inside rattled with a satisfying sound, and she relaxed for the first time since she'd seen that awful man.

She had misread his attention. She had no experience with men, so how could she know if he was interested in a mild flirtation or a torrid affair? Removing her stole, she tossed it on the bed. Or worse, if he was interested in asking where she had bought the stole so he could buy one for his wife.

Her cheeks burned as she thought of how he must have chuckled when she had fled the dining room. Her stomach rumbled as she thought of the savory lamb she had left steaming on the table. The food at this resort had fed an appetite long dulled by soggy Cornish pasties and overcooked brussels sprouts. Now, for that reason, and for others, she regretted her flight from the dining room.

She groped for her handbag. It did not hang on her arm. In her witless haste, she'd left it in the dining chamber, and, like everything else she wore, it was expensive. She couldn't abandon it or even one of the belongings she'd bought and treasured with all the sybaritism of her starved soul. No, she would have to get the purse back.

Whatever made her think she could pull off this deception?

Ruefully, she looked around the bedchamber lit by the soft flame of beeswax candles. She had been placed in what had formerly been the master's suite, and it was beautiful. Deep-grained walnut paneled the walls. The scent of roses perfumed the air. The enormous, comfortable bed was hung with brocade velvet curtains. A matching burgundy velvet counterpane covered the mattress. The frame rested on a dais that every night made her feel like a princess as she drifted off to sleep.

She loved this room, but no amount of pretending could make it hers. It was time she admitted the truth. She was a fraud—and a thief.

Kneeling beside the bed, she groped at the ropes that supported the mattress until she found the carpetbag. She felt the lump it created in the mattress every night as she drifted off to sleep, and she exalted in it, for this carpetbag contained the key to her independence.

Gripping the handles, she wiggled the bag free and dragged it forth. Opening it, she removed the bound sheaves of pound notes, laid them out on the carpet, and counted them.

Three thousand pounds. In less than a month, she had spent half of her ill-gotten inheritance.

Covering her face with her hand, she fought the hard, cold truth, and lost. She knew she had to go back. Back to dreary England, with its fogs and its long winters, before Leona's legacy had been entirely wasted chasing a dream of adventure and romance.

There remained enough money to open a bookshop in the farthest distant corner from East Little
Teignmouth. She probably knew more about books than any woman in all of Britain, and she could make a success of it. Yet . . . yet . . . she lifted her head and stared drearily at the sculpted wall. Was she going to live and die after such a brief and bitter taste of pleasure?

The knock made her jump, and she stared at the door with dismay.

“Mademoiselle, it is Henri.”

The maître d's mellow tones only slightly eased her consternation.

“I have your handbag.”

“Yes.” Urgently, she picked up the wadded bills and stuffed them in the carpetbag. “Just a minute.” She shoved it under the bed. Standing, she smoothed her skirt and resumed her dignity, then walked to the door. Some lingering caution made her say, “Henri?”

“You also dropped your gloves,” he said.

“Thank you.” She opened the door. “You are the best—”

But it wasn't Henri whose shoulders blocked the light from the corridor. It was the man from the dining room, who offered her bag and her gloves on his outstretched hands. It was the man from the dining room whose cobalt eyes glowed with triumph and who gave a mocking bow. “Your Royal Highness,” he said in Baminian, “how long did you think you could escape me?”

Fear took a stranglehold on Evangeline's throat.
Who was this man? How did he know she spoke Baminian? And why, oh God, why had she left the safety of England?

She tried to slam the door, but a huge, booted foot stuck in the threshold. The stranger grunted as the heavy wood struck his knee, but when she leaned with all her weight, he pushed inexorably inward.

“Henri!” she cried. It had been Henri's voice she'd heard; where was he?

“No, princess. None of that.” Again the stranger spoke in Baminian. “There'll be no rescue from those quarters.” He had the door completely open now.

She craned her neck to scan the corridor behind him and saw the maître d'hôtel's form sandwiched between two other men, feet pedaling the air as they lifted him off the ground.

The stranger took in her wide-eyed bewilderment, then crushed her hopes and illusions with one
pithy phrase. “I bribed him. If you listen closely, you can hear the jingle in his pocket.”

“What happened to wrestling bears for me?” she cried after Henri.

Henri tried to turn, but the men beside him would not allow it, and before she could scream again, the stranger stepped inside, crowding her backward, exuding a large, dark, angry, bearlike aura.

She had no experience with any of those qualities, but she knew she didn't appreciate them. The panic that had driven her to her bedchamber swept her up, and she darted around him. His hand shot out and grasped her wrist, swinging her around, and she barely stopped before she smacked the door frame. She glanced at him; the large, dark, and angry had grown to mammoth proportions.

But she hadn't studied ancient Chinese texts for nothing. If she could just gain control of her fear, think, and
remember
. . . she took a breath. She assessed the situation. He stood at a right angle to her, his arm outstretched, the joint of his elbow vulnerable and fair game.

Yet even though he was bigger, stronger, and willing to use his strength against her, she found herself unable to ruthlessly do the same. At least, not without a warning. “Get your hand off of me,” she said in French, and with a fair imitation of calm.

“No, princess.” He sounded very sure of himself, and as his grip tightened, her delicate glove escaped from his other hand.

Evangeline followed its descent with wide eyes. It landed on the toe of his black boot, an incongruous decoration on that serviceable leather. Then,
slowly, her gaze traveled up his long legs, clad in black trousers. Up his torso, with its black jacket over a snowy white shirt. To his face.

No kindness softened the carved features. No flaw gave humanity to his godlike looks. He appeared to be an element of nature: inhuman, dangerous, harsh. Perhaps even . . . insane?

She had to do this.

Grabbing his wrist, she twisted. His fingers involuntarily opened, and she continued twisting until she stood next to him, his arm tucked, pale side up, beneath hers.

Dumbfounded, she stared at the sight of her smaller, paler hand in command of his. The Chinese were right. The hamation maneuver worked. It really worked!

“They didn't teach you
that
in your convent school,” he said. “Tell me where—”

Jolted from her incredulity by his imperious tones, she slammed his elbow against her arm, hoping to force the joint backward.

His other hand shoved her forehead, knocking her off-balance. His knee was underneath her as she fell, and she landed on the floor, still clinging to his wrist. Seizing her under the armpit, he dragged her back and in, slamming the door behind him.

Letting go as quickly as she could, she stumbled to her feet.

His scowl permeated his voice, now deeper. His fists pressed against his waist, and her other glove rested beneath his careless boot “I'd like to know where you've been to learn all that. If you hadn't hesitated . . .”

If she hadn't hesitated, she'd be free.

But she didn't say so. This man was, after all, mad, and Henri corrupt, and she was a paltry orphan whose disappearance and possible murder would never be noticed . . . but the next time she used one of those Oriental holds, and it worked, she couldn't pause to be astonished afterward. She had to follow up her advantage.

When she remained still, the stranger relaxed slightly and looked her over as if he were a banker who'd been forced to foreclose on a hovel and found his new possession quite unprepossessing.

Fine. So she wasn't a beauty. The London dressmaker had clucked in disapproval at her coltish arms and legs, and the London hairdresser had cut her long brown hair, complaining of a distressing lack of curl. Her odd-colored eyes were faintly slanted, a heritage that would always be a mystery, and her chin tended to jut aggressively.

Only her skin had passed her personal test of nobility. Her pale complexion had seldom seen the sun during her years with Leona. But no sooner had she stepped foot out of that shadowy library and into the daylight than she'd developed a faint flush of color. Not one of her bonnets had provided enough protection, and she would not—would not—stay indoors and miss her grand adventure.

So she might not be an enchantress, but she also wasn't this stranger's property, so he had no call to sneer like that. “Who are you?” she asked, this time in English.

His mouth, firm, full-lipped, and surrounded by a faint black beard, twisted in disgust. “You're
playing a game.” He spoke English, too, only slightly accented.

“No . . .” Well, yes. The game of staying alive.

“You'll come back with me, whether you like it or not.”

“Back?” Where?

More importantly, did that mean she would get to leave her room, walk with him to the main door, and scream for help? “How soon can we go?”

Something about her haste seemed to alert him. His eyes narrowed, and his long black lashes tangled together at the corners.

Not fair.

“Princess. You do realize the importance of your participation in this ceremony.”

Humor him.
“Of course.”

“The foolish letter you sent could never be accepted. You know that.”

“It couldn't?”

“Santa Leopolda forgive you!” He stepped forward until he stood too close, and she smelled the faint scent of tobacco. He'd smoked his cheroot before he'd come after her, a predator too sure of his prey. “Would you deny our people their prosperity? The fate of two kingdoms rests on the fulfillment of the prophecy.”

He
towered
over her, and she had little experience with towering men. Actually, she had little experience with men at all. None had bothered to visit an eccentric, female scholar like Leona. And Leona spoke of men as they seemed in her youth. Perhaps it was a somewhat idealized notion. According to Leona, the men she had known were
primitive, given to sweeping a woman away for the excitement of her mind and the pleasure of her body.

Well, Evangeline's instincts shouted Run! and she was ready to try another one of the Chinese moves when something the stranger had said stopped her. “The prophecy? You mean the prophecy of Baminia and Serephina?”

If anything, he grew more imposing. “You dare to jest with me?” His hands half lifted, as if he would wring her neck, then he swung away and strode rapidly to the other side of the room, halting by the delicate writing desk.

She started to inch toward the door, but without glancing at her he said, “If you move, I will have to give in to my baser instincts.”

He didn't say what those instincts were; he didn't have to. Her imagination galloped on like a runaway horse.

She stopped.

“I told your regents not to send you abroad,” he said in Baminian. “You should have been kept in Serephina, safe from shallow outsiders.”

She replied in English. “I think there's been a mistake. I am not who you think I am. That is, if who I surmise you think I am is really . . .”

He looked at her, and her voice trailed off.

“You dare deny you are Princess Ethelinda of Serephina?”

If the truth weren't so pathetic, she could almost laugh. “I'm not any of the things Henri or the guests say I am. I'm only Miss Evangeline Scoffield of East Little Teignmouth, Cornwall.”

Her declaration made no dent in his imperious stance, and he dismissed her claim without consideration. “What nonsense.”

She began to feel a little calmer, and, deliberately casual, she leaned down and picked up her lacy stole and long glove. “How long has it been since you've seen your princess?”

“I last saw
you
on the occasion of your tenth birthday, on the day you departed to be schooled in Spain.”

“That's it, then.” She laughed a little, relieved to have the misunderstanding cleared up. “You haven't seen her for . . . how many years?”

“Twelve.”

“There must be some superficial resemblance between us, and I'm flattered you think I'm a princess, but actually I'm a”—her laughter dried up—“nobody.”

“I see. What an embarrassing mistake.” He didn't challenge her, or laugh maniacally, or show any other signs of lunacy, but neither did he bow himself out the door. Instead, he lifted the top of her new secretary and rifled through the assortment of pens. “Could you perhaps clear up a few mysteries?”

“I suppose I could.” What was he looking for?

“How did a nobody like Evangeline Scoffield of East Little Teignmouth, Cornwall, happen to arrive in a spa in the Pyrenees with enough lucre to support herself like—dare I say it—a princess?”

Her jaw dropped in unrefined shock. He didn't believe her. The man still thought her a princess of Serephina. “I'm telling the truth!”

“Did I say you weren't?” he asked smoothly. “I was just curious about the source of your wealth,
which seems to have impressed our little Henri. Or if not Henri, at least his well-lined pocket.” The stranger picked up the ornate penknife and rolled it between his fingers with a peculiar smile.

Evangeline's original distrust returned full force. She'd bought the secretary at a carriage stop on the way to the resort. An old woman had had a stand there, where she sold a variety of unique items, and the wooden box had caught Evangeline's attention. Picking it up, she had run her fingers along the Moorish-looking carvings, and the shrewd merchant had at once seen Evangeline's desire. The old woman had opened the box, taken out the pens, the nubs, the pen tips, the penknife, and displayed them in the sunshine. She had allowed Evangeline to fondle the rich paper, all the while regaling her with an absurd story of the secretary's noble, ancient, and bloody background. Evangeline hadn't believed any of it, of course, but within a few moments, money and secretary had changed hands.

Now this madman held the knife, and Evangeline feared his intentions.

She started to inch toward the door once more, but the stranger's head whipped around and pinned her under his fierce stare.

She halted. With a false smile, she strolled in the other direction. Toward the casement window. “Actually, the money was an inheritance.”

“From one of your relatives?” He was still watching her. “Your grandfather, most likely.”

She skirted around the big bed, tossing her stole and glove on the counterpane, keeping keen eyes on the stranger. “Well, no.”

“Your father? Your mother?”

Remembering the rampant speculation in the dining room, and knowing her own lack of skill at fabrication, she triumphantly produced, “My husband!” Then, to hide her guilty face, she looked out of the glass. Every day since she had arrived, she had admired the view from her bedchamber. It looked out over the garden, and beyond. Now, bathed in moonlight, the lofty mountains rose in a circle of cliff be hind the former castle, protecting it from the worst of winter's winds. If only the former fortress weren't set so high. She could only hope that when she opened the window and climbed out, she didn't break a limb in her fall.

“Ah. You are a widow.”

“Um-hm.” A man walked along one of the garden's winding paths. He stopped and looked up at her, his face shadowed by his hat, and she lifted her hand. With little, desperate motions, she waved at him. Maybe he would help her where the treacherous Henri would not.

“How tragic,” the stranger mused. “Yet you wear no wedding ring.”

The man outside ducked off the path, and she realized no help was forthcoming. In a flurry of motion, she swung open the sash and thrust her foot out. She heard the thunder of footsteps behind her, and the stranger's cry of, “No, you don't!”

She had no time to get out gracefully, so she simply leaned forward and allowed her weight to take her.