The Runaway Princess (19 page)

Standing, he took her hand and pulled her erect. “So I have tested you in every way I could.”

“Tested me.” Awkwardly, she moved her feet in the boots.

Keeping her close with his palm against her waist, he broke the tidings to her as gently as he could. “Your Highness, you know the secrets only the princess knows.”

She watched him with fascination and horror. “What secrets? What do you mean?”

“It's public knowledge throughout the Two Kingdoms that the royal seals were lost when the land split in two. In her fury and anguish at the destruction of her beloved country, the people say, Santa Leopolda lost the seals and they will never be found again.”

“That's not what Leona told me!”

“Leona, as you call her, was right. The seal rings are impossible to see, hidden under the scepters. But only the chosen of the royal family know that.”

“Perhaps it's not as big a secret as you think,” she said belligerently.

“But you quoted the prophecy correctly.”

“Everybody knows the prophecy.”

“Everybody
thinks
they know the prophecy,” he corrected. “Yet it is only in the Book of Santa Leopolda that it is written that
anyone
who opens the case has the right to be crowned king or queen and reunite the Two Kingdoms.”

Her brow crinkled in a stirring imitation of confusion. “
The Book of Santa Leopolda
? I don't remember hearing about
The Book of Santa Leopolda
.”

“
The Book of Santa Leopolda
is locked in the vault of the Chartrier stronghold, and that vault wasn't even found until twelve years ago.”

“Twelve years ago? Isn't that the last time? . . .”

“The last time you and I met, little Ethelinda.”

She moaned slightly and touched her forehead.

“I remember that the two of us were left alone to examine the book. I remember peering over your shoulder as you read the prophecy aloud. Not the prophecy as everyone believed it to be, but as it really was, written in Santa Leopolda's own crabbed, spidery handwriting.”

“It's been read since then!”

“The pages disintegrated as we turned them.”

“Magic?”

“Age.”

She stepped sideways, away from him. “Why should I believe you?”

Relentlessly, he followed. “Shall we discuss the story about the Leons dropping the crystal case from the tower?”

“Surely everyone knows about that.”

“For six hundred years, that's been a tale repeated among the Chartrier family—a tale repeated to only a few, because everyone knew someday Revealing would arrive, and for our people's peace of mind, all trace of conflict between our families should be eradicated.”

“Leona told me . . .” she faltered.

“Ah, yes. Your benefactor, Leona, whose name is so much like Leopolda's.”

“I didn't make her up! I'm Evangeline Scoffield of East Little Teignmouth, Cornwall, and I tell you—”

“Three things.” Thrusting three upraised fingers in her face, he said, “Three pieces of information you knew that were secretly passed, generation by generation, through the royal families. After such proof, do you dare imagine you can convince me you aren't Ethelinda Marcellina Felicia Evangeline Desirée, crown princess of Serephina?”

Her Serephinian eyes widened. “Dear heavens, she even has my name?”

Exasperated by this unwarranted, constant, prodigious obstinacy, he wheeled away from her. He kicked dirt on the fire until it smothered and died.

He'd proved she was the princess by her knowledge. He'd made love to her with magnificent restraint. He'd even gone against his own principles and told her he loved her.

What did the woman want?

He nudged the hot stones away with the toe of his boot.

What did it take to convince her she should gladly proclaim her true identity?

He selected one of the branches as a broom. Then enlightenment burst on him.

What did Evangeline
fear?

She still stood in the same spot, shoulders hunched, lower lip stuck out.

“Did your Leona tell you how to open the case?” he demanded.

Mutely, she shook her head.

“Not with
magic
, I promise you. Do you remember where the case is kept?”

Bristling, she said, “You don't need to be insulting. It's in the cathedral under eternal armed guard.”

“I've studied that case from every angle. Once I even laid hands on it. Along the edge, there's a catch in the crystal, so slight as to be invisible to the eye. But that is the lock, I'm sure of it. I had a tool made that fits in the slot, and I will open it.”

She didn't look reassured, as he had hoped. She looked anxious.

“If you're worried that we won't be able to open the case, if you think the people will turn on us, if that's why you're denying your identity, let me swear this to you on my mother's grave. Together we will open the case, and together we will be king and queen.”

Hours later, on the banks of a tiny spring set in the
midst of a hoary pine forest, Evangeline realized that she had to escape this man, and she had to do it as soon as possible.

“Stand here.” Danior took her by the arm and placed her so she stood on one damp, mossy bank. “Now put your other foot here.” He pointed at the other side.

“As you wish.” She straddled the trickling rivulet.

He stepped in behind her, one giant foot on either side, wrapped his arms around her waist, and brought her close. His big voice rumbled in her ear as he announced, “These are the eternal headwaters of the River Plaisance. Together we stand with one foot in Baminia and one foot in Serephina.”

“Oh.” She was sinking—into the mud, into the lies, into the fantasy of living the rest of her life as Danior's wife. If she didn't get away from him soon, Evangeline Scoffield of East Little Teignmouth, Cornwall, was going to disappear
without a trace, and Queen Evangeline would take her place.

Danior's tattered shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow, and dark hair grew on his muscled arms and capable hands. “If you follow this brook downstream, it gathers water from a hundred other springs and becomes the river that flows through the city. Our city, Evangeline. Together we can unite this country and make it a place of peace and prosperity.”

Now she understood why he dared halt in his race to avoid Dominic. He wanted to make a point, and he thought this place, ancient and significant, would make that point for him.

He was right. “It flows all the way to Plaisance?”

“All the way.”

Queen Evangeline. And what was wrong with that, really? If the crystal case wasn't magic, as Danior seemed sure, and he could open it, there would be no pea beneath the mattress; no test for the true princess.

Someone
had to fulfill the prophecy to make the people of the newly named Sereminia think destiny had been fulfilled. She'd be doing a good deed, bringing peace to two war-torn countries, for the real princess didn't want the position.

Now
, a voice in her mind mocked. The real princess didn't want the position
now
.

“We'll follow the stream to the village of Blanca.”

“What if Dominic is waiting to ambush us there?”

His hands slid up her rib cage and rested just below her breasts. “Don't be afraid. We'll be cautious, but peasants are faithful to me there.”

“Dominic could cause them trouble.”

“These villagers will fight if they have to, but we'll not overstay our welcome. We'll get a boat and make our way to Plaisance the quickest way possible, so don't fear.”

“I'm not afraid,” she said, not really listening.

Her mind returned to the problem of the missing princess, and she wondered—what about later? What about when the princess had been out in the world and discovered how difficult it was for a woman to survive? Even a woman with money had to worry about propriety and reputation and her own safety. Evangeline had found that out for herself quickly enough.

So what would happen when the princess came back and demanded her position and proved who she was? Then Danior would turn away from Evangeline with disgust.

She couldn't bear his disgust.

“How far is Plaisance?” she asked hoarsely.

Warm and vital, he hugged her closer, holding her with the strength of a hero who treasured his newly conquered territory. “With God's help, we'll be there tomorrow.”

“With God's help,” she echoed.

Her mind babbled on, relentlessly analyzing her predicament.

What if the real princess had met with foul play? Heaven knew that was possible. With Dominic running loose, it was more than possible, it was probable. If Danior looked for the princess, really looked for her, he might find her and rescue her from some dastardly fate.

Then he'd be grateful to Evangeline.

He pressed his hand to her belly. “Before the year is out, we'll have a child. Perhaps we've already made him.”

“Her,” she corrected automatically. “I'll bear only daughters.”

She was crazy to think that, to have this discussion, to care.

“I'd love daughters.” His voice was as sweet and spicy as cream dotted with cinnamon. “At least a dozen of them.”

Shocked by his outrageous response, she said, “No more than three.”

“Eight.”

“Six.”

“Done.” He chuckled, warm and deep in his chest.

A smile curved her lips. Sternly, she told herself to stop, but the man had a way of driving her crazy with his possessiveness and his way of spinning dreams from nothing more than a fragile web of words.

He'd even said he loved her.

Loved her. What a moment that had been. Velvet night and overwhelming passion and his deep voice whispering raggedly, “I love you, Evangeline.”

She'd treasure that moment as long as she lived.

Not that she believed him. No one had ever loved her. Not at the orphanage and not even Leona. Leona . . . Evangeline could barely conceive of it, but Leona had been using her for some purpose of her own. She hadn't told her about the revolution, the one that apparently occurred in 1796 and had
killed both Baminia's and Serephina's rulers. Worse, Leona had told her things—secrets, Danior insisted. How had Leona known them? Why had she done it? Did she know the trouble she would bring on her unsuspecting protégée?

Secrets. Danior said the history Evangeline knew was familiar only to the royal families, and although it would have benefited him to lie, she believed him.

Evangeline believed him because he never lied.

Except about loving her. He would do anything for his people and his kingdom, even compromise his honor to lay claim to the woman he thought held the salvation of his country in her hands. She understood that, and accepted the falsehood, and loved him all the more for his dedication.

It didn't matter . . . it
hardly
mattered that her heart was slowly shattering.

The spring of Plaisance trickled eternally down from the mountains. Baminia and Serephina were nothing but mud beneath her feet, yet the lands existed forever. Only she and Danior were temporary, fragile humans placed here for one reason, to fulfill their destinies.

If only she understood which destiny that was.

Danior whispered homage in her ear, the kind of praise normally reserved for the finest of ladies or the most accomplished of courtesans. “You're so lovely, dearling, so perfect. You challenge me, you satisfy me. I dream of touching you, of readying you, of being inside you.”

Her whole body tightened with the impact of hearing his hunger expressed so bluntly. She ought to be shocked, not melting as his big hands stroked
her from neck to thighs, petting her as if she were a creature who lived for such pleasures. If she weren't careful, she could easily grow accustomed to his touch, purring and stretching like a pampered cat.

Her foot sank into the mud another inch, and her honesty floundered in a morass of greed, longing, and desire.

Rigorously, she thrust herself away from him, and in her haste she stepped right in the middle of the stream and staggered across the moss.

His hand shot out and righted her, and as the water sloshed over the top of her boots, she exclaimed, “It's cold!”

Stupid comment, but somehow she had imagined the heat from the upper springs had worked its way down here. Heaven knew she had been warm enough these last few moments.

“Yes, it's cold.” He still held her, his gaze watching her profile while she pretended not to notice. “Did you get wet?”

“Yes.” She lifted her foot and shook it.

“You've walked enough today anyway, and you shouldn't walk with wet feet. I shall have to carry you again.”

She didn't want him to. She didn't want to touch him; it was like touching temptation incarnate. But she needed to escape him, and she didn't make the mistake of underestimating him. For any plan of hers to succeed, she needed to be rested and he needed to be exhausted. “Yes, you can carry me. But first let me wash my face.”

His fingers reluctantly slid away from her as she knelt on the bank. She dipped her hands into the icy
water and splashed it on her face, hoping the cold would help slap some sense into her.

He knelt beside her and splashed his face also, and, cupping his hands, he drank.

She imitated him, and when she'd drunk enough, she lifted her head to find him waiting. He caught her chin between his fingers and turned her wet face to his, and kissed her.

This kiss she now recognized as Danior's. He transmitted strength, courage, and passion with the touch of his lips, with the taste of his mouth. He gave so much, yet she sensed the rein he kept on himself, as if he feared to give
too
much. He challenged her with his reserve, and some unreliable part of herself urged her to stay with him, to fight her way past his restraint and experience the full depth of his fire.

Stupid girl.

She tried to pull away again, but this time he held her face inches from his. “It's appropriate,” he said, “that the future king and queen of Bamphina—”

“Sereminia,” she insisted.

“—
Bamphina
should wash and drink and kiss at the source of the River Plaisance. It's a baptism of our souls.”

She whimpered slightly and shoved against his shoulders, but she had as much chance of pushing him as she had of drinking the spring dry.

“Look at me.
Look
at me.”

Unwilling, yet unable to deny the command of his voice, she looked. The sapphire of his eyes blazed with possessiveness. The black of his hair called to be combed by her fingers. His hard-hewn
features carried a nobility, not of refinement but of duty accepted and fulfilled. This was a man she could depend on to make a vow and keep it for the rest of their lives together.

She couldn't keep it to herself anymore. She had to tell him the greatest secret. The important secret. “I love you.”

A slow, satisfied smile curled his lips. “Yes. Yes, that's what I wanted to hear.”

Not quite the reaction she had imagined.

He stood up, bringing her with him. “We need to hurry,” he said. “We haven't much time, and I still have a—”

Evangeline watched in wonder as color washed up over his cheekbones. “A what?”

“A premonition of trouble.” In one efficient operation he transferred the bag to her and her to his back.

“I thought you didn't believe in magic.”

“It's not magic.” He adjusted her legs. “It's a premonition.”

She wanted to tease him, but he started running down from the heights to the valley. By the time he slowed to a walk, he'd knocked both breath and sauce out of her, and deliberately, she was sure. The man was crafty and could be subtle; she should be grateful for the reminder.

The path became dustier and more worn as they descended, a sure sign that they were at last approaching civilization. The stream widened as other waters joined. Danior leapt over it as he sought the easier way, until the stream became the River Plaisance and there was no longer any way to cross. Then they traveled on the Baminian side.

They approached the ridge above a mountain valley, and he paused at the top where the water tumbled off the cliff. She could hear the mighty roar, feel the ground shake beneath his feet, and a rainbow formed where the sunshine met the mist. Trees lined the banks of the river, and Evangeline caught silver glimpses of it as it wound its way past a hamlet, gleaming white in the sunshine, then out of sight.

He indicated the view. “That's Blanca.”

Fields surrounded the picturesque community beside the widening river. Mountains rose all around it in a great, protective embrace. Blanca appeared to be as peaceful and pastoral as any hamlet in England.

Pride gusted through her. “I want to walk in.”

“I can carry you.”

She might love him, but he could still irritate her more than any man on earth. “I don't care whether you can carry me or not. I care that the people of Blanca might think me frail.” She aimed a kick at his stomach. “Or worse, lazy.”

She had either injected enough authority into her voice or her heel had made contact with a sensitive spot, for Danior grunted and lowered her to the ground. “Is your foot dry?” he asked.

“Dry enough.” She took a few steps. “And scarcely sore at all.” Amazingly enough, it wasn't.

Perhaps Danior protested too much. Absurd though the idea might be, perhaps the old wives' tale was true, and this prince of the ancient Leons did have the healing touch.

She had been much enlightened by the study of science that had swept Europe in the past century,
yet the mystique of magic fascinated her. She didn't believe in it, she supposed. She supposed Danior was right, and that the crystal case would be opened by guile and not enchantment, yet a separate, secret part of her wished for the magic to be true. That same part of her watched for fairies drifting along the sunbeams that shone through the branches and waited for King Arthur to rise from his burial place on Avalon.