The Runaway Princess

by Christina Dodd

  Then, from inside the main room, he faintly heard male voices.

  She heard them, too, for she stilled like a cornered creature.

  Danior freed himself from her clutch. He moved toward the hatch and crouched there, knife in hand, ready to ambush anyone who tried to enter.

  Nothing happened. The voices got louder and more numerous. Danior couldn’t make out the words. He couldn’t identify the speakers. But apparently the village guards must have been numerous enough that the revolutionaries dared do nothing but eat and drink. And the hatch’s camouflage worked. No one came close.

  By the time Danior relaxed enough to ease the cramps in his legs, evening had fallen. He could see the rim of light around the hatch; the fire had been stoked, and from the sound of the ever-increasing merriment, the cask of ale had been tapped.

  Danior stood, shaking the kinks out of his knees. His head brushed the ceiling, but he thought Evangeline would appreciate the sensation of space.

  “Evangeline.” He reached down to stroke her, but she was gone. “Evangeline?” For one mad moment, he could only think she had taken flight.

  Then reality returned. She had nowhere to go and no way to get there. He searched, calling her name in soothing, hushed whispers. He found the knapsack where he had dropped it. He found the cloak wadded into a ball. Finally, he found her, curled up, her back against a cask, barely breathing, chilled, unmoving.

  “Evangeline,” he murmured, “there’s room in here. You can stand up.” He tried to lift her to her feet, but she might have been a stone frozen in a sheet of ice. She reacted not at all. He knelt beside her. “Evangeline, it’s Danior. You know that.” He wrapped his arms around her, warming her with his heat. “You know I won’t allow anything to hurt you.”

  A crash sounded in the hut, and raised male voices brayed a laugh.

  Evangeline flinched, and Danior was relieved. Relieved for any indication she was aware of her surroundings. Rubbing his hands up and down her arms, he kissed her cheek. He kissed her mouth. He hugged her as tightly as he could. “Evangeline, we’re safe here. There’s even some light. Look toward the hatch. You can see—”

  She lunged at it. He caught her and she clawed at him, whimpering. Her struggles grew greater as he tried to contain them, and her distress grew louder. If he didn’t stop her somehow, they would be discovered.

  He put his hand over her mouth to muffle the sounds. “Dearling. Dealing, please don’t do this. I love you, but—”

  And she lunged at him. Grasping his hair, she slammed him against the stacked bags of grain. They tilted. He tumbled back on them, trying to descend as quietly as possible. She fell on him.

  Or leapt on him, he couldn’t tell. Dust flew as he seized her, sure she would try to run for the hatch.

  Instead she grabbed the edges of his shirt so violently that the stitches popped.

  Uncomprehending, he caught her wrists—and she kissed his chest.

  “Evangeline?”

  “Please,” she whispered. “Distract me. Take me away.”

  She found his male nipple, nestled among the curling hair, licked it, kissed it, and set her teeth to it.

  He lurched in pain, amazement, and confusion. “Evangeline, we have to be quiet. We can’t . . . there are men out there. Men who want to kill us.”

  “I’ll be quiet, I promise, but listen.”

  He did listen. The revolutionaries were singing a traditional drinking song, and somewhere in the background, two men were brawling.

  “They can’t hear us.”

  “No, but I have to be ready in case—”

  “They can’t hear us,” she repeated. “They don’t know we’re here. We’ll be quiet. And I don’t care about them. I only care about the dark.” A shudder racked her, a shudder he felt through her frame and into his. “I’m not afraid with you.”

  Damn. The dark, the danger, the noise of the rebels’ celebration . . .

  Evangeline’s breath on his skin, her desperation, the urgency of her body rocking against his . . .

  For some reason, for all the reasons, he wanted her, and he wanted her now. This minute. Without preliminaries, without touching. He just wanted to place her below him and enter her and have his way, with no thought to tenderness.

  He took a huge breath. He was a beast.

  He had to think of Evangeline.

  Gently, he squeezed her wrists, then let go of them. “Dearling, this isn’t wise . . .”

  She slipped her hands inside his shirt and tore it from top to bottom.

  The noise of the splitting cloth brought him up on his elbows. He grabbed at her again. “Evangeline, please, we shouldn’t—”

  One of her hands slid inside his trousers. The other tugged at the buttons. She kissed his stomach, and for a moment his desire blocked all rational thought.

  For a moment. Until he fought his way back to discipline.

  Fine. She was determined. So they’d do this. Now. But he couldn’t just take her. He would be like his father, a slave to his passions.

  “This isn’t the way.” His voice cracked. “Evangeline, I’ll give you what you want, but we have to be civilized.”

  She breathed heavily, but not from fear now. “Why?”

  “Because.” Because I might hurt you. “Because we’re the prince and princess.”

  “I told you, I am not the princess.” The buttons gave way. “And right now, you are not the prince.” She grasped his erection.

  Pure pleasure shot through him, and he arched his back. She stroked him, up from the base, around the head, down again. She handled his balls as if seeking something . . . the secret of his strength, the heart of his passion.

  She had found it. He swore she had.

  He couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed. Red circles spun in the darkness. His hands tore at the rough sacks below.

  When he grasped a handful of barley, he realized what he’d done. He’d ripped the seams. His bestial passion was too much like destruction. He had to remain the master.

  Half-desperate, he reached for her shoulders and tried to pull her up to him. “Let me touch you. Let me kiss you.”

  “No,” she said softly, gutturally. “Let me.”

  And her mouth, warm and wet and seeking, closed over him.

  Her tongue moved, licking like a cat’s. Her teeth scraped him, ever so lightly. She sucked on him and blasted control away.

  He caught her under the armpits and dragged her up to him, desolate at losing the touch of her mouth, but desperate to be between her legs. He rolled her beneath him, lifting her skirt as he did so. Her thighs wrapped around him, and he found her center, warm and wet. Without preliminaries, he pressed inside her.

  She bit off a cry, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care if he hurt her, he didn’t care if the rebels found them, he didn’t care if the world ended. He only cared about his satisfaction, about plunging into her again and again, about trying to get all the way inside her, into her center, into the place where he would be king. King, not of Baminia, but of Evangeline.

  Her lover. Her lord.

  Her master.

  His hips hammered, he strained and groaned. Her hands slipped in the sweat forming on his shoulders until she dug her nails into his flesh, and that was good, too. She should mark him. Mark him with tooth and claw, make him her own.

  He spread her legs wider, he lifted himself above her, he strained to be inside her—and his seed spurted from him, against her womb, filling her, marking her as she had marked him.

  Forever. He’d marked her forever.

  Slowly, he sank back on top of her. Her trembling arms wrapped him closer; echoes from her orgasm still quivered through her to him.

  He’d done it. He’d lost his restraint, yet bound her to him. She could never escape him now.

  “Evangeline,” he commanded. “Tell me. Tell me again.”

  She knew what he wanted. She slid a languid hand between his shoulder blades, and whispered in his ear. “I
love you, Danior. You’re the only man I will ever love.”

  Twenty-seven

  “Your Highness?” the guard called from the open hatchway.

  Evangeline came out of sleep in a rush, her first thought to flee.

  But Danior wrapped his arm over her and whispered, “Don’t worry. He’s a villager.”

  In a way, that was even worse. To have a man who had seen her yesterday see her again this morning with her hair in a tangle, her dress even more ragged, and . . . well, after last night, she probably glowed with sensual satisfaction. Danior had lost that temperance that normally marked his every deed, and he’d made love to her with vigor and conviction, holding nothing back.

  Making a grab for the cloak that Danior had, at some point in the night, brought to cover her, she pulled the edge over her head, and hoped the guard didn’t come all the way into the hiding place.

  “Yes, Justino?” Danior’s voice was deep and froggy with sleep, and he kept himself between Evangeline and feeble sunlight trickling in from the hut.

  “Our visitors. They finally all drank themselves to sleep. I tied them up.”

  “Where are the other guards?” Danior asked.

  “I sent them back out on patrol in case there are rebels lurking in the woods. You should leave as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you,” Danior said gravely. “If you’ll give us a minute, we’ll be out.”

  “Of course, Your Highness.” Justino leaned the hatch half against the hole in the wall, letting in a little light and a trickle of fresh air, but giving them the illusion of privacy.

  Privacy which they did not need, in Evangeline’s opinion.

  But Danior seemed satisfied with the situation. Raising himself on one elbow, he tugged the cloak down and looked her over. She lay on the tumbled sacks of seed and stared back.

  The night had been rough on him, too. His beard had grown out to a black stubble. His hair looked as if rats had nested there. His shirt was torn open, his trousers were unbuttoned, and if his condition were anything to go by, he would never be satisfied no matter what service she performed.

  But for the first time since she’d met him, that intent, inflexible expression of dominion had disappeared. With rebels in the next room, Plaisance to reach, and a crystal case to open, still he looked almost . . . relaxed. At ease.

  And his contentment gave her an unwanted and perplexing thrill.

  With the palm of his hand, he stroked her cheek. “So. What are you thinking this morning?”

  That I am yours; that you are mine. That nothing could ever change that now. “That I can speak seven languages and I can’t say no in any of them.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Did you want to say no?”

  She lifted hers back at him. “No.”

  A faint smile curved his lips, and he looked almost . . . relieved?

  “Did you?” she asked.

  “As I recall, I tried. You would have none of it.”

  The memory of her frantic attack brought heated color to her cheeks. “I was . . . worried.”

  “You were afraid.” His smile disappeared, his face grew austere. “Whoever put you in that closet shall be whipped.”

  “Whoever put me in that closet is far away and long ago.” She would do anything to bring back that smile, even grant him every victory he ever wished for or imagined. “Besides, it doesn’t matter anymore. Anytime I have to face the dark, I’ll think of you and what we did here, and I’ll go willingly.”

  “Only with me, dearling.” Turning her head up to his, he gave her a light kiss. “Only with me.” Rising, he shook like a dog, and loose barley flew through the air. “We fit together well. I want you, and you want me. We make good mates. You can’t deny that.”

  “Of course. Because I love you and you . . . love me.”

  He turned his back to her, but she didn’t need to see his face. Just the way he rubbed his hand over the back of his neck told her everything she needed to know. “Of course I do.”

  She smiled with bittersweet anguish at the tousled head. In a king, it was a good thing not to lie well. In a man, this lack of guile revealed too much.

  He waited guiltily for her to say something else, but when she held her peace, he declared, “We have everything in common—our backgrounds and our breeding. We’ll have the assurance of knowing our children have blue blood running in their veins.”

  “That’s important,” she agreed gravely.

  “Yes.” He buttoned his trousers and tucked in his pathetic shred of a shirt. “I’m able to trace my ancestors back over a thousand years, and so can you. Our nobility is without blemish. Our children’s right to the throne can never be in question.”

  “That’s important, too,” said the orphan from England.

  “It’s the most important reason that we reach Plaisance for our wedding tomorrow.”

  “Yes, the prince and princess must marry.” The prince and the real princess, wherever she was.

  Picking up her socks and boots, he knelt before her and lifted her foot to examine it. “It looks good. How does it feel?”

  “It aches,” she admitted. “A little.”

  “You walked too much yesterday. Today you’ll stay off it.” He laced her into her footwear, then stood and held out his hand.

  She let him pull her to her feet.

  Putting his hands in her hair, he ruffled it, then combed it with his fingers. “The rebels might be watching the river, but we have a chance of eluding them there.” He picked up his rucksack and flung it over his shoulder.

  She tugged at the strap on the rucksack. “Let me take that. It’s not too heavy.”

  Danior hesitated.

  “You might need your hands clear in case of a fight,” she added.

  “You think like a warrior.” He transferred the bag to her and drew his knife, then crawled through the hole on his hands and knees.

  She followed, marveling he’d gotten her through there in the first place last night. How had he done it? She didn’t remember much of that moment beyond a return to the bone-chillng fear she’d experienced in the orphanage—the fear of never being let out, of being buried alive.

  Now she was reborn, sliding out into the light of morning, knowing what she had to do, no longer dogged by fear of the future, because she’d lived more in three days than most women did in their whole lives.

  And that was worth something.

  The man called Justino stood grim-faced, speaking to Danior, gesturing to the revolutionaries who lay passed out and drooling about the floor. Ropes bound their wrists and ankles, and Danior turned each one with his foot, looking into their faces.

  Evangeline knew who he sought. She allowed the knapsack to slide to the floor as she said, “He’s not here.”

  “Hm?” Danior flipped another rebel, who groaned and stirred.

  “Dominic’s not here. If he were, we would have been dragged out and hanged last night.”

  Danior looked at her.

  “Dominic’s smart and he’s ruthless.” She hadn’t been around him long, but that much she knew. “If Dominic had seen us walk into the valley, he would have torn this place apart until he either found us or there were no hiding places left.”

  Danior nodded slowly as he flipped the last man. “You’re right, but I can’t take the chance—”

  Evangeline sucked in her breath.

  “What?” He followed her gaze to the man on the floor. He was awake, red-eyed and vibrant with hatred. “Who is he?”

  She tucked her shaking hands into the folds of her skirt. “I called him ‘Shorty.’”

  “Pasty-faced bitch,” Shorty said. “I remember what you did, and I’m going to get you. You’ll squeal like a pig when I—”

  Danior flipped him back facedown on the dirt floor. When he tried to curse her again, Danior put his foot on the back of his head and ground it into the floor.

  Evangeline flinched. “Don’t.” Not that she felt sorry for Shorty. He was a vile little m
an. But memories of a similar helplessness loomed close, and she couldn’t bear to watch.

  Danior lifted his foot. “As you wish, my princess.” And as Shorty began to bray invective again, he said to Justino, “Take care of him.” Taking her arm, Danior hustled her out the door while Shorty yelled, then fell abruptly silent.

  Evangeline craned around. “He didn’t—”

  “Just a little blow to the head, I’m sure.” Danior led her on the path to the river. “Nothing to be concerned about. Justino wouldn’t want to bloody the hut. Now we have to find a boat.”

  “Will they have one?”

  “They live on the river. Of course they have one. Probably more than one, but they’ll be hidden.”

  Hidden. Of course. It would be too easy if they were in plain sight.

  She caught glimmers of the river through the trees, and heard its ever-increasing murmur as the watercourse wound through the valley, growing broader as it went. Then they reached the bank, and the river spread out before her. Impossible to think this mighty stream started from the tiniest trickle in the mountains, gathered strength so quickly, and now flowed broad and swift on to the city of Plaisance.

  Impossible to think this whole affair had started at an innocent dinner at Château Fortuné, and had swept her along to this moment. To this conclusion.

  Danior beheld the river with an upsurge of pride. This was his land, his river, and—he gazed at Evangeline—his woman.

  They had not a moment to spare. They had to be in Plaisance tonight. Yet he couldn’t resist reaching out to her and pulling her close against his body. She came willingly, and lifted her mouth for his kiss without being told. She kissed him as if she drew strength from his existence, as if her soul would wither without his attentions, and that was how it should be.

  She’d made love with him as no other woman had, denying him his restraint and reveling in his strength. She was more than a princess, a means to a kingdom. She was the embodiment of the new, united land, of Bamphina at its shining best. With her at his side, he could do anything.

  She drew back from the kiss, and put her hands on his cheeks. She looked at his face as if she wished to memorize every feature, every line. And she said, “We have to hurry. Where are the boats?”