The Runaway Princess Read Free Page A

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!
    â€œThey 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’replaying a game.” He spoke English, too, only slightly accented.
    â€œNo . . .” Well, yes. The game of staying alive.
    â€œYou’ll come back with me, whether you like it or not.”
    â€œBack?” 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.
    â€œPrincess. You do realize the importance of your participation in this ceremony.”
    Humor him. “Of