The Runaway Princess (12 page)

Unless she did something, something dramatic, she was going to die.

She didn't want to die cold, thirsty, and hungry, and most especially not if it made that heartless bastard happy. And for the first time since she'd been forced to flee the burning château, she wasn't addressing her wrath toward Danior.

“Build up the fire. Give the royal party an easy target.” Dominic roamed the encampment, blending with the darkness yet drawing the eye with his dynamic energy. He spoke to his men, laid a carelessly kind hand on Brat's head. Everyone smiled as he walked past; they adored him, but Evangeline leaned against the pole and hated him with her gaze. Inevitably, he noticed. His eyes crinkled in that offensive smile, and he strolled over and sketched a humble bow. “Are our headquarters all you could wish?”

She ought to be polite. She ought to debase herself in hopes of mercy. But she didn't believe he had
any, so she snapped, “Your headquarters are fine. Your hospitality suffers.”

He placed his hand over his heart. “You have crushed me to the bone. What do you desire, Your Highness? A truffle, perhaps? Marzipan? A carafe of fine wine?”

“Water.” Her tongue felt swollen in her mouth. “I'd like a drink of water.”

He dropped his toady's mask. “Why should we bother?”

“It won't advance your cause if I die miserable.”

His eyebrows twitched together, and he examined her as if something didn't add up. “You're no fragile flower.” He tapped his leg with his fingers. “All right. You can have your water.”

As he turned away, she said, “And bread. And stew.”

He looked back. “Greedy.”

“Hungry.”

And cold. She watched as he spoke to one of the bodyguards. He didn't get an argument, but the rebel did no more than walk close and toss her his boda bag. Her numb fingers fumbled and dropped it. Shorty lounged by the fire, and he laughed as she snatched it up and poured the thin stream of water down her throat.

She didn't really expect food, too, but when she looked up, Brat stood offering her a steaming bowl.

“There's no spoon, Your Highness.” Brat gave the title the same sneering intonation as her leader had.

A chunk of bread floated atop the broth, and as Evangeline grabbed the wooden bowl she said, “I'll use the bread.”

Brat looked startled, but Evangeline knew how to make do. Those worthy people who endowed English orphanages seldom saw the need to coddle the children with unnecessary implements.

The warmth of the earthenware bowl seeped into her frozen hands, and she whispered, “I would use the palm of my hand if I had to.”

Tearing off a chunk of bread, she dragged it through the stew and brought up something brown and something white, and greedily consumed them. Rabbit and turnip, slightly scorched, totally unflavored, boiled in water. She had read much fancier recipes in Mrs. Buxton's personal collection of Cornish recipes in East Little Teignmouth, but Evangeline didn't really care. The plump Mrs. Buxton had never had occasion to realize how hunger added spice to a stew. Right now, Evangeline would have eaten anything.

The food put new heart in her, and she scanned the camp again. A good number of the men had bedded down, although they weren't asleep. They spoke in low tones to each other, the habit of furtiveness well established.

The fire burned too far away for her to reach, and she desperately needed to get closer. That Dominic had granted her wish for food and drink boded well for her. If she could get him to bestow a last wish for a doomed woman, perhaps she wouldn't be doomed after all.

Or perhaps she would; she planned a desperate endeavor about which she had no practical experience.

The decision came too soon. Before she had finished half the stew, she heard a bird call and saw
every person in the rough enclosure pause. Dominic smiled that cruel smile and started toward the stones. “They have him.”

“Wait!” Evangeline called. “Before you go—can I get closer to the fire?”

Turning, he placed his fists on his hips. “Untie you? You'll run.”

“How can I? Your men are here.” She gestured around her. “You said yourself I'm not as stupid as I look.”

Shorty stood and took a step toward her. “Let her freeze. It'll be warm enough where she's going.”

Frantic, Evangeline yelled, “I want to be warm. Let me get closer to the fire.”

Dominic hesitated.

“Shut up.” Shorty took another step.

Evangeline couldn't shut up. Her chance was walking away. “Come on, Dominic, don't be such a bastard.”

There was a clatter, an audible gasp, and when Evangeline glanced around she saw Brat horrified, Shorty triumphant, everyone waiting.

Dominic strode back. He grabbed her by the back of her hair and half lifted her. “I take back what I said. You
are
stupid.”

Pain brought tears to her eyes, and she whimpered. “And cold. Please . . .”

“Kill her,” Shorty chanted. “Kill her, kill her.”

Dominic opened his fist and let her fall. Drawing his dagger, he lifted it above her, and for one terrified moment Evangeline looked death in the face.

With a downward slash, he cut the rope holding her to the pole. “I'll kill her when she's served her
purpose,” he snarled at Shorty, and stalked out, leaving a tremulous silence. Men trailed after him, then Brat, until only Shorty and a small contingent remained.

Evangeline drew a quivering breath. She watched the humiliated Shorty out of the corner of her eye. She scooted toward the fire.

When she was close enough that the warmth struck her on the face and she could see the glowing bed of blue coals, she drew from her bosom the heavy leather pouch she'd filched from Shorty.

And threw it into the flames.

Grinning with obnoxious delight, Dominic slapped
Danior with an open palm. The small, vicious circle of revolutionaries laughed, but Danior didn't care. Laughter meant nothing; survival was all that counted.

“I give you the respect, my prince, due your noble House of Leon.” Dominic slapped him again.

Danior's hand flashed out and caught Dominic's wrist. “Where's the princess?”

Dominic looked at his captive wrist. “You're so strong, Danior.” He snapped his wrist free. “But I'm stronger.”

“No one's beat you tonight.” Rafaello stood at Danior's right side, Victor at his left.

“It's not going to happen, either.” Dominic jerked his thumb toward the crest. “She's eating stew and warming herself by the fire. I'm doing you a favor by killing you, Danior. She's a bit of a handful—”

A flash lit the night skies, and the percussion rumbled the ground beneath their feet.

As one, the pack of rebels turned uphill, their features illuminated by the grand flare. Other, smaller explosions followed.

“What the hell?” Dominic stepped away, then swung back to Danior and pointed an accusing finger. “It's that princess of yours!”

“Ethelinda?” Evangeline had been in that explosion? A high scream rent the air, piercing Danior with its anguish. “By God, if you've killed her—”

“Brat.” Dominic broke into a run.

Without a thought to the mob, Danior followed on Dominic's heels, running across the dark barrenness. Behind him, he could hear men panting as they ran. Near the looming cliff, weathered rock cracked as it threatened to rupture. Dominic increased his speed. Danior kept pace. Stones defined the shadowy path they trod. Dust swirled in the air. Dominic's steady stream of cursing led him over the shattered pieces of an overturned boulder. They rounded the corner. The faint starlight allowed Danior to see nothing but a tangle of forms, inert or slowly moving within an oblong of stone. There was no fire, only a few flame-lit splinters burning randomly around the site.

Was Evangeline dead?

No, the rebels had kept her alive to try her. She had to be alive.

“Ethelinda!” he shouted. Men shoved him from behind, Dominic's men, streaming into the campsite, exclaiming and cursing. He raised his hands to his mouth and yelled through his cupped fingers. “Evangeline?”

Someone grabbed him by the arm and squeezed. “Quiet.”

Her
voice, hoarse, weary, and desperate-sounding. Her scent, wrapping him around, close as his cloak. Her scent, spice and citrus and some indefinable fragrance undeniably hers. He would know it anywhere by the tug she induced on his senses.

Elation jolted him. He grabbed her, felt her fine bones beneath his hands, enveloped her in a hug. “Ethelinda.” Then, without reflection, he pushed her away and shook her. “Don't you ever scare me like that again.”

She coughed and struggled in his grasp. “We have to go.”

Immediately he contained that peculiar euphoria, subdued that abrupt surge of fury. What was he thinking? Of course they must go.

He looked around, trying to locate Victor and Rafaello. He could recognize nothing in the darkness and confusion. It was a man shrieking in a high tone, his declaration of pain mixed with searing invective toward Evangeline. A few people moaned; more cursed and called.

Soon someone, probably Dominic, would light a torch. Danior had to get Evangeline away.

At his right side, Rafaello said softly, “We're here, master.”

Danior relaxed infinitesimally. Thank God for Rafaello and his ability to see like a cat in the dark. “Does one of you have the supplies?”

“I do.” Rafaello sounded completely self-satisfied.

Then someone lunged at the princess. Some black material enveloped her head. She struggled and gave a muffled shriek. Danior grabbed for her attacker, but she was set free as suddenly as she was seized.

“Her Highness had a glowing cinder in her hair,” said Victor in a low voice.

“I thought I'd got them all.” She sounded shaken, more fearful than Danior had realized. “Are there any more on my back?”

Danior twisted her around. “None.”

“Fire flew everywhere. I rolled in the dirt to douse it.” She drew an audible, quivering breath. “Please, can we just—”

Danior hoisted her off her feet and onto the stone that blocked their path. “Stay there.” He leaped over and presented his back. “Climb on.”

Without a moment's hesitation, she slid her arms around his neck and hooked her legs around his waist, and they were off.

Danior almost laughed at the elegance of their escape. Everyone had run inside the camp, trying to discover what had happened, who'd been hurt, if their meager possessions had survived. He and the princess, Victor and Rafaello, raced outside without interference, and if that shout he heard as they cleared the boulders was Dominic ordering a search for them, it didn't matter. The rebels weren't in position, the darkness that had worked to their advantage now worked for Danior, and he had no intention of stopping until they were far, far away.

He had his princess; by Santa Leopolda, let no one try to take her away.

Sighting off the North Star, he started downhill toward the cover of the trees. “We'll take the direct route to Baminia. With luck, we'll cross the border by daybreak.”

Victor and Rafaello trotted at his heels, working to keep up with his huge strides while maintaining the silence years of stealthy combat had taught them.

Evangeline clung to him. The high, dry air hurt his lungs, and the strain of carrying her quickly made itself known, but he never slowed until they reached the tree line.

Then he lessened his pace and paid more attention to where he put his feet. The stunted trees of the higher elevations soon gave way to the lush coniferous cover, rich with scent. He cast a learned gaze at the round of moon hovering just above the horizon. It rose earlier this night than last and in two nights would be full, but the trees would shield them from hostile eyes while the light helped him pick a trail through the forest—a forest he knew well from his time fighting the French. From this point a dozen ways led into Baminia and Serephina, and the rebels had no idea which way they would go.

Still he pressed on. Those explosions had been a gift to help them escape. He had no intention of wasting such a boon.

Yet Dominic's accusation returned to haunt Danior.
It's that princess of yours
, he'd said. But she couldn't have . . . could she?

Off in the distance, they heard a faint rumble.

“What is that?” she asked.

“A waterfall,” Danior replied. “Jean Falls, one of the biggest.”

“Jean Falls,” she said wistfully. “It sounds beautiful.”

Using the cover of its noise, Victor said, “I want to know what caused those blasts.”

“Oh, I did that, I threw a sack of musket cartridges on the fire.”

Evangeline spoke so matter-of-factly that it took Danior a minute to react. “A sack of musket cartridges,” he repeated.

Rafaello hustled closer, creating a careless disquiet of snapping branches and sliding pine needles. “Your Highness, where did you get a sack of cartridges?”

“And how large was it?” Victor challenged her with his tone.

“I suppose a sack is too big a word.” She sounded thoughtful. “It was more of a . . . you know . . . one of those little leather bags men carry their powder in.”

“A cartridge pouch,” Danior clarified.

“Yes. I saw it hanging on Shorty's belt when I kicked him between the legs. When he fell, I knelt beside him. I pretended I was sorry—men always believe women must be sorry, regardless of how much they deserve the boot—and I stole it from him while I was apologizing.”

Shock quivered in Rafaello's tone. “With all due respect, Your Highness, I didn't know a lady of your cultured antecedents knew how to kick a man.”

“Yeah, much less where.” Victor seemed considerably less horrified than his compatriot. “Restrain me from ever getting too close to
your
mule kick.”

“When you think about it,” she said, “it was ironic that I blew up their camp with their own gunpowder.”

Danior wavered between being appalled and proud. How could he explain this sheltered girl's
talent for survival? The nuns were supposed to have taught her
needlepoint
. “Do you sew?” he asked.

“Of course!” she said, insulted.

Danior wished her answer comforted him more.

“Really, we could expect nothing less than an explosion from this princess.” Victor kept his voice down, but his sarcasm could not be tamed. “If she's going to climb out a convent window and down the side of a cliff to get away from you, master, I suspect a little gunpowder in the fire is all in a day's labor. She claims she's not the princess. Perhaps she's telling the truth.”

“Yes!” Evangeline almost leaped off Danior's back.

“No.” Danior kept a good grip on Evangeline and a tight rein on his fury, but he coldly noted Victor's opinion, and more important, that he felt secure enough to voice it. “I don't make mistakes. You, my princess, wrote a letter claiming you weren't called to be my wife and fulfill the prophecy, but you were sure good things would come to me.” The thought of her missive and its naively cheerful tone, made him want to take fate by the throat and force it to do his bidding.

From the day he was born, he had been fated to be the prince to reunite Baminia and Serephina. Every day he had taken pride in his destiny. Nothing could stop him. Reunite the two countries he would, regardless of rebels, his father, the princess's mother, and the princess herself. Even fate. “When we questioned your teachers, they said you seemed troubled in your spirit before you disappeared. And so I should hope, for you left the school at Viella taking your dowry.”

“But I told you how I got my money.”

“Oh yes,” he said caustically. “You inherited it from the old lady you worked for.”

She shifted uncomfortably on his back, and he could feel her heart begin to pound in her chest. “Y . . . yes.”

“Little girls who are raised in a boarding school by nuns are notoriously inept when telling lies. They stammer and generally act as guilty as a thief.”

She jumped. She literally jumped, her body convulsing with remorse. “I didn't steal the money!”

“It was your dowry, to be spent preparing for the wedding, not on an adventure so dangerous it's put all our lives at stake!”

Her hands tightened on his shoulders; her thighs tightened on his hips. “
I
didn't choose this adventure,
you
chased me into it, so don't try to put the blame on
me
. And the money wasn't a dowry. I wasn't lying. Leona left it to me, only . . . only I . . . well, she didn't exactly die.”