The Runaway Princess Read Free

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 LittleTeignmouth. 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.
    â€œMademoiselle, it is Henri.”
    The maître d’s mellow tones only slightly eased her consternation.
    â€œI have your handbag.”
    â€œYes.” 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?”
    â€œYou also dropped your gloves,” he said.
    â€œThank 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?”

Two
    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.
    â€œHenri!” she cried. It had been Henri’s voice she’d heard; where was he?
    â€œNo, 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 onepithy phrase. “I bribed him. If you listen closely, you can hear the jingle in his pocket.”
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œNo, princess.” He