The Runaway Princess (7 page)

Evangeline stiffened on his back as she gazed up at
the convent silhouetted against the sky, and Danior experienced a surge of satisfaction. In the short time since he'd plucked her from Château Fortuné, he'd formed a favorable opinion of her intelligence, and he knew Evangeline must see the impossibility of escape from this place.

Evangeline. A foolish name for a foolish girl, and Danior could scarcely believe that the princess—his little princess Ethelinda—had forced him to accede to her wishes and call her by that ridiculous moniker.

But his princess had changed. She had grown tall, with an aura of dignity that bespoke her noble heritage. She had acquired a lively tongue, a defiant attitude, and some rather unusual skills. And she had grown wily.

So he would call her Evangeline. It was, after all, a common name in Serephina, and it could not be an accident that she had picked one of the many family names given at her christening. If she preferred
Evangeline, that was fine, and he was willing to call her that as long as she behaved herself.

Which, from what he had seen of her, was unlikely.

When Rafaello had brought him the rumor of a wealthy mystery woman at Château Fortuné, he had gone to the resort expecting to retrieve little Ethelinda without incident. He'd planned to scold her, to humor her, and to have her humbly agree she was being unreasonable in denying her destiny. Instead he'd seen across the crowded dining room an Amazon: full-breasted, round-hipped, wary-eyed.

He'd lifted his glass to her, aware of several things. That he'd been too long without a woman. That beneath his fashionable, restrained clothing lurked a barbarian and a descendent of barbarians. And that this woman, with her sherry brown eyes and fluttering eyelashes, was his. Totally, completely his.

His body had surged in anticipation. Stupid, really, when he'd known he had to wed the girl and be stuck with her for the rest of his life, but there it was, an inexplicable excitement.

Miss Evangeline Scoffield of East Little Teignmouth, indeed.

Some might say he should have patience with her prevarications, reading them as the panicked fluttering of a woman innocent of the ways of men.

He
said she should be used to the thought of wedding him—they'd been betrothed since the day she was born. And any forbearance he might have felt was washed away by his rampaging determination to be king.

He would be king. King of Serephina and Baminia, united after a thousand years of acrimony. And this little princess and her loss of nerve would not stop him.

That was why he had brought her to the convent of Santa Leopolda. The towering precipice would protect them from attack, yes. It would also assure him that Ethelinda—no, Evangeline—remained in his custody, and her dowry, the country of Serephina, would be his.

“Let me down,” she said. “You need to rest.”

“I will. When we're up there.” With a jerk of his head, he indicated the convent above.

“You are a stubborn man,” she exclaimed, as vexed as he had heard her.

“That is a wise thing to remember,” he answered, gratified. At the same time he examined the open space around the base of the convent cliffs. Trees had been stripped away to provide a defense against marauders, and when they left the forest, they would be exposed. If he could get them through this one peril, they would be safe—until they once more left on their journey to Plaisance.

But he had learned to confront one danger at a time.

He scrutinized the tree line. He listened to the carefree calls of the birds. He looked for unusual shadows among the boulders at the base of the cliff. It was safe. As safe as possible. “Hang on,” he muttered.

Realizing his intention, she struggled. “No. Let me run!”

“Where?” he asked grimly. Gripping her, he sped away from the protection of the trees and
toward the narrow path that led to the entrance to the convent.

Evangeline clung, her legs and arms wrapped around him tightly, riding him like a horse, lessening the impact of his step. His breath came hard, his arms and back ached, but he did what he had to do. It was a lesson he'd learned well.

A future king always did what he had to do.

Gaining the lowest reaches of the path, he continued more cautiously. The rebels might be hiding behind one of the stony bends.

“You can't carry me up that path. It's too steep!” Evangeline protested.

“Sh.” As he reached the first bend, he turned and surveyed the meadow. No one raced after them. Above them, he could hear nothing, and on the ground he saw only one set of footprints. Victor's.

They were safe—for the moment. Moving on at a slower rate, he tried to regain his breath and answer Evangeline's most recent protest. “Of course . . . I will carry you. Your shoes . . . have not grown . . . new soles.”

“I'll walk carefully, but listen to you! Your lungs are working like bellows and your arms are trembling from my weight.”

Carefully he regulated his breath and adjusted her weight to a more comfortable position. “I'm fine.”

He wasn't, not really. The sleepless night and strain of carrying her had taken its toll. But it irked him that she should think him such a milksop that he couldn't complete the journey.

More than that, he took an odd pleasure in carrying her on his back.

His own doggedness didn't even make sense. Trudging along as she weighed him down was a constant, meticulous torture—but not because of muscle strain and fatigue. Oh, no. It was that she was open to him in some eccentric, reversed imitation of lovemaking, her arms around his neck, her legs around his hips. Her breasts pressed into his back, the nipples hardening with each chill, then softening as she warmed, like a woman brought to desire, then satisfied. Her spread legs left the feminine softness between them unguarded.

He might have thought it was only him who noticed. He might have thought himself a pervert of the first water. But she couldn't hide her discomfort, or that her own vulnerability embarrassed her.

He had known, because at first she'd tried to hold herself away. That aroused him, and he'd wanted to tell her he knew of a woman's curves, and how all women were made.

A lie, of course. He knew how
other
women were built. Somehow, his body had convinced him that Evangeline was different. Unique.

When she gave up the struggle and relaxed against him, he had been satisfied—and tormented. She trusted him to carry her to sanctuary.

Well and good.

She rested oblivious on his back

He was not some tame bear trained to cart her to safety. He was a wolf, and he wanted nothing so much as to eat her whole.

Only the lack of time and the possibility of ambush saved her from becoming a meal for a hungry man.

That, and his eternal vigil over himself and his baser urges. To take advantage of this woman in such crude circumstances and without control seemed like something his father would do.

His father. Danior clenched his fists. If it weren't for his father and the revolution he had incited, all would be well in his kingdom. Danior could have tracked Evangeline and fetched her back to Plaisance without furtiveness, with the honor she deserved. If she had the chance to see her lands, to realize what this union meant to the people, she wouldn't struggle against her fate. She would embrace it.

They had reached the halfway point in the path when she tried again. “Just let me walk from here.”

“You'll try to escape.” She wouldn't, he knew. She no doubt recognized the futility of such a gesture.

“I'm not stupid.”

“You haven't proved that to me yet, Your Highness.”

“You are
so
cranky.”

So he was. This chivalrous constraint made him cranky. Hell, it had made him furious. Didn't she know who he was? Not a prince, nor a gentleman, but a warrior who had stalked the enemy, who had fought and killed to keep his country free. A warrior who held his woman, limp and quiescent, on his back. His hands supported her by the round globes of her buttocks, and right now, all he could think about was sliding his grip in a little. If he did, he would reach the slit in her pantaloons. He could touch her moistness . . .

“You're sweating,” she complained.

She refused to comprehend the danger she courted. In fact, if he had to pick out one complaint from the ever-lengthening list of What was Wrong with the Princess, it would be that she heedlessly raced to embrace danger. Hitting him, defying him, running from him, enticing him, lying to him . . . she even claimed to be an orphan with no breeding or background. Only another royal could comprehend how he would hate to lower the majesty of the Leon family line by breeding with a commoner.

Everything she did she aimed at him. At him, and at evading the destiny that bound them together.

She would never escape him, on that he was determined.

They reached the end of the path. The door to the convent loomed before them, and he knew he could put her down at last. But he didn't want to seem too eager. And in fact, while he wanted to rest, he hated to allow her to place even the slightest distance between them.

Maneuvering her so she could reach the rope dangling against the solid rock wall, he gasped, “Ring the bell.”

“Not until you put me down.” Evangeline couldn't
believe how stubborn this man was, but it was time he learned she was stubborn, too. “I am not going into a convent clinging like a barnacle to your back.”

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 heard 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.