“Yes. That sounds like a good idea.” She brushed at the medieval veil that covered her hair, and crinkled her forehead beneath the narrow blue band of ribbon that held it in place. “Danior, is a wedding legal if they don’t use the right names?”
Sitting back, he examined his guileless bride. She wore the glorious silver wedding dress worn by the original queen over a thousand years ago, the queen’s sky-blue gossamer veil, and matching embroidered silk slippers. A patina of age had dulled the materials, the queen had been a smaller woman, yet Evangeline wore the costume as if it had been created for her. Not even her fear could dull the glow his lovemaking had imparted, and he smiled at her until she, too, recalled the night, the exchange of passion, his constant demands, her loving response.
“Stop that.” She glanced around at the people who waited at a discreet distance for her to finish her meal. “They already know we spent the night together. There’s no reason to enumerate the fine points.”
“I didn’t say a word.”
“You’re obvious.”
“Only to you.” He adjusted the fur trim around her neckline, which he thought too low. “Every archbishop and priest in the Kingdoms petitioned to officiate at our wedding, and I granted every request. Our union will be thoroughly blessed in the eyes of God, and since He knows everything about us, including our true names, I believe our marriage will be most official.” He didn’t wait for her reply, but stood and extended his hand. “If you’re sure that’s all you can eat, then we should go now. Our people are waiting.”
She put her hand in his waiting palm. “Danior, I have to tell you—”
Hastily cutting her off, he pulled her to her feet. “Tell me after tonight.” He summoned their armed guard. “Have you noticed Rafaello and Victor are not with us?”
So both Victor and Rafaello were traitors.
Evangeline could only remember the cocky smile on Victor’s face when he’d called her like a dog on the street. She looked at Danior, dressed like a medieval prince in the velvets and furs of a king dead almost one thousand years with a sword at his side, and wished she didn’t have to tell him a truth that would so hurt him. “I saw them. Victor and Rafaello, I saw them in the city.”
To the unobservant eye, Danior remained untouched by the news. But Evangeline saw him pause for just a moment, saw his eyes half-close as he absorbed the blow.
Then, as calmly as if she had told him the weather, he accepted the heavy cloak with its massive train from the majordomo. As he wrapped it around her shoulders, he asked, “Where? Do you know what street?”
“At Honest Gaylord’s bakery. Victor tried to catch me, but I escaped him . . .” Into the convent garden, where you awaited.
“So they are lurking in the city. I suspected . . . that is, we had heard it was true.” Danior looked grim as he turned away to speak to the four massive bodyguards who surrounded them, none of whom looked anything like Danior.
All of Danior’s brothers had betrayed him.
Returning to her, he confessed, “Don’t fret. We have these good men to protect us, and Pascale to lead them”—the shortest man bowed to her when he heard his name—“as well as the royal guard and a great many men in plain garb who will mingle with the crowd. You will be safe.”
“Victor and Rafaello won’t be shooting at me.” For they didn’t share the same father.
“They might.”
Only if they miss you.
So now she had something else to worry about. Victor and Rafaello, Revealing, the wedding, the real princess, Danior discovering the truth . . . if Evangeline could just get through this day without divine retribution for her sins, she swore she would be the best queen the world had ever seen.
If she could just get through this day . . .
Danior fastened his cape with a massive gold brooch in the same shape and design as his tattoo. It comforted Evangeline; time and use had worn away the fine details of the mane and created a snub nose, but the roaring lion remained fearsome, its ruby eyes sparklingly alive.
Taking her by the hand, Danior led her from the palace, and when they stepped out into the sunlight, the force of the cheering almost blew her off her feet. She waved and tripped when her train wrapped around a corner of the stone balustrade.
Danior used her clumsiness as an excuse to wrap his arm around her waist, and the crowd yelled their approval.
She took no comfort in that. The crowd didn’t realize the truth. A real princess wouldn’t have tried to fall on her nose. As the people pelted them with flowers, Evangeline sniffled and said, “Danior, I have to tell you something.”
He sneezed and assisted her into an open carriage for their ride to the cathedral, then climbed in beside her. “You’re allergic to flowers, too.”
“No, I—”
The coachman’s whip whistled as he snapped it with flare. The high-spirited horses pranced and whinnied, and they started with a lurch. The bodyguards, one at each corner of the carriage, walked as the royal carriage wielded its slow and steady way through Plaisance. People lined the streets, waving and shouting, some so overcome they wept with joy. No one seemed to notice Evangeline was the wrong princess, and although she searched the crowds, she saw no elegant, haloed woman who might be true royalty.
At Cathedral Square, a wooden platform had been built against the stone wall not far from the doors. An ancient escutcheon uniting the emblems of the Chartrier and Leon families hung above it. Purple velvet drapes provided a colorful backdrop for an oak table, stained with age, that stood center stage. Two chairs of great age and dignity rested on either side of the table, and when Evangeline saw them, she thought, “For the dignitaries.” Then she thought, “No, for me.”
The carriage stopped at the steps. Danior dismounted, and when he nudged the footman aside and helped Evangeline down himself, the rejoicing reached epidemic proportions. Evangeline tried to tell herself the crowd wouldn’t cheer if they knew the truth, but their delight was contagious, and she beamed.
While the footman carefully assisted with her train, Danior murmured, “The last time we were here, my feet had so outgrown my body, I fell up the steps.”
“You did that?”
“It’s a royal prerogative.” He kissed her hand so passionately and grinned at her so wickedly that a new round of revelry broke out.
Together they mounted the steps, and waved until Evangeline’s arm hurt. The bodyguards took their places at the four sides of the platform. And Evangeline searched again for Princess Ethelinda. Again, she saw people she recognized. The Blanca villagers stood in a clump, waving back at her with Lauri holding Memaw so she could see. Honest Gaylord stood with his thumbs hooked into his embroidered suspenders, talking to his neighbor with a smirk on his broad face.
And a great number of nuns, representatives from probably every convent in the Two Kingdoms, made their way through the crowd toward the front. Soeur Constan.za led the entire group toward the front, speaking to the onlookers in such a manner they immediately moved aside. In the center walked Marie Theresia, who caught Evangeline’s eye and smiled at her with grave satisfaction before turning her attention back to assisting an old nun—a very old nun by the look of her stooped shoulders.
Looking at that old nun, for one moment Evangeline was flung back in time, to England, where she saw an old, narrow, bony face, knowing eyes, a veined hand turning a book page—
The trumpets blew the fanfare. Evangeline jerked her attention to the great cathedral doors, where the archbishop stood with the wide, flat crystal case in both hands. The clear, carved stone collected the sun like a giant diamond, scattering light in fragments across the square. The crowd hushed, and Evangeline developed an uncomfortable lump in her throat. She didn’t know why, only seeing the crystal case, knowing its long history and having a chance to help the Two Kingdoms filled her with awe.
How could Princess Ethelinda give up her chance to do this? Where was she? Why wasn’t she here?
Evangeline loo
ked around, desperately seeking the unknown girl; sure that only foul play could keep her from her destiny. Evangeline almost called out to stop the proceedings; she gripped Danior’s arm to demand his attention—and in the crowd, she caught the glint of sun off of gunmetal.
She reacted instinctively, throwing herself at Danior, sending him stumbling aside.
A single shot whizzed past her ear.
Danior took her down, crowded her under the table, used his body as a shield. People screamed. More shots rang out. Evangeline fought him, shouted, “No!” He shoved her further back, pushing her toward the back of the platform to the cathedral wall.
Frantic, she grabbed him by his collar. “Danior, listen. You have to let me protect you. I’m not really the princess.”
“I know.” He pushed her face down to the floor and held a hand in the middle of her back. He stretched up to knock the table over as a barricade. His hand gripped the edge of the table. But before he could bring it down before them, a barrage of shots rang out. He spun around like a top and fell.
At once he rose again, but he couldn’t hold her now. She came up like a tigress protecting her cub. Blood covered his chest; she almost punched his face to knock him flat, when he caught her fist.
“Stop,” he said. “Listen!”
She paused, but heard nothing but yelling.
No more shooting.
Glancing swiftly around, she saw empty places in the throng, places where each assassin had stood and where country folk and city people alike had jumped them. In the middle of the crowd where she’d seen the first pistol aimed in their direction, a huge fight was in progress. Whoever had fired that shot refused to concede; whoever fought him demanded abject surrender.
The scent of gunpowder drifted on the breeze, but not one assassin was left standing.
Which was fine with Evangeline. Turning toward Danior, she commanded, “Lie down now.”
He was trying to crawl from under the table, and he was shouting, “Catch the assassins. Take them to the?”
He caught his breath as she jerked him back and down by his neckline. “Don’t get up.” She placed herself between him and the crowd. They were in isolation, if she could ignore the thousands of people still shouting, still fighting, still craning their necks to see beneath their table.
She reached for the broach on his cloak. The lion stared at her reproachfully through one ruby eye. Half of him was blown away.
Danior took her suddenly shaking hands in his. “I’m all right.”
She struggled against his grip. “There’s blood.”
“The broach shattered. I’ve got nicks all over me, and”—he shrugged in discomfort—“I think the shot must have creased my collarbone. But I need a bandage, not a coffin.”
“Let me see.” She whispered because her voice had vanished, because her world was in tumult, because he was handsome, royal and healthy, and because she was a nobody once more.
Feet thumped across the platform, and Pascale knelt to look under the table. “Your Highnesses!”
“Keep everyone back,” Danior commanded. “And find some linens. The princess wishes to bandage my wound.”
Pascale thumped his breast in acquiescence, shouted for assistance, then took up his post to warn off any intruders.
Danior found the gash in the velvet surcoat and ripped the antique costume off his shoulder. The wound was worse than he said; probably the lead ball had chipped his collarbone, and she would wager he suffered a lot of pain. But he didn’t seem concerned; he was watching her with the same intent scrutiny he’d shown across the dining chamber at Château Fortuné.
“Evangeline . . .”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” A tear dripped off her cheek and splattered his chest. People could see them, yet she didn’t care. “All this time you knew I wasn’t the princess—”
“I didn’t know until last night.”
“You let me pretend . . .”
“It wasn’t pretense.”
“When were you going to announce it? Before Revealing? Before the wedding? Tonight—”
Gently, he wiped the tears off her face. “Evangeline, there’s a royal mark on me and one on Ethelinda, the emblems of our houses. You saw mine last night.”
She at once knew to what he referred. “The lion.”
“On my arse.” He was inviting her to smile.
She didn’t.
“And last night,” he said, “I saw you didn’t have one.”
Her mind leapt back to the moment when he’d knelt behind her, and that long, profound silence. And again to the moment when Dominic had released her to laugh with crazy glee.
“Your Highnesses, here’s your linen.” Without really looking at them, Pascale handed her a ball of strips he’d found heaven knows where. He stood again, planting his feet, warning off intruders.
She didn’t want to touch Danior; of all the nightmares she had feared, this one she had never imagined. That he would have known she was an impostor and let her masquerade as the princess anyway.
Blood still oozed from his wound, so she made a pad with strips of the linen. “What are you doing? Using me until you find the real princess?” She pressed the wadding hard against his collarbone. “Sit up.”
He grunted when he tried, and fell back.
Gritting her teeth, she wrapped her arm around him and helped him up.
Funny, no matter how much she thought she must hate him, he still felt like home to her. When he sat up, she thought she saw an invitation in his gaze. She almost leaned into him for the kiss she thought of as hers. But that was just habit.
She turned her attention to unwrapping more strips.
“We’ve been making love in the dark, and hurrying through the light.” He spoke softly, keeping what was between them private.
“So now you know I’m common.” She put his hand to the pad. “Hold this.”
“Common is the last thing I would call you.”
To hold the bandage in place, she had to slip her hand into his surcoat. She had to make contact with his bare flesh. The flesh that last night had been pressed against hers, sharing her ecstasy and his soul.
Illusion.
To hesitate to touch him would reveal how much he had hurt her, and already the defiant orphan was gathering her defenses.
But he wouldn’t let her hide behind them. In a warm, soft voice, he said, “You’re brave, you’re handsome, you’re valiant, you’re ingenious, and you know everything a princess needs to know.”
She pressed the first band of linen under his fingers and started to wind. “But you don’t want to marry me.”
“I’m going to marry you.”
How could the man sound as arrogant and sure of himself as he had on the first night of their meeting? How could he make it sound as if he’d said these words forever? “You will not mix your noble blood with a commoner’s.” She slid her hand under his armpit, around his back, over his shoulder, and the impact of his skin against her fingers jolted her as much as she feared. “You said too many times for me not to believe that.”
“I talk too much.”
Yes, and she liked to hear him talk. That was the trouble. She liked everything about him.
“Wrap me as tightly as you can,” he instructed. “Don’t worry about hurting me. Think of what a jackass I’ve been.”
Surprise brought her gaze to his, and his expression brought blood rushing to her cheeks. If there hadn’t been ten thousand eyes watching them, assassins to sentence and heroes to commend, and a Revealing to perform, they would have been in bed. “I like that,” she said. “A jackass.”
“You’re my prophecy come true. Remember? The prince shall embrace his greatest fear and make it his own. You’re my greatest fear. Evangeline, if I had to, I would give up the kingdom to keep you.”
She barely exhaled the word. “Oh.”
“But I don’t have to.”
Troubled, she finished wrapping him and tied the linen in a knot. “So
where’s the princess?”
“After we had . . . finished last night, I sent one of my most trusted men out to make discreet inquiries. Obviously”—he touched her chin—“I have been chasing after the wrong princess. Evangeline, I’m going to marry you today.”
“Why?”
He leaned close to her ear. His breath touched as he whispered, “I love you, Evangeline Scoffield of East Little Teignmouth, Cornwall. I will always love you.”
Thirty-three
“I hate to interrupt this touching spectacle, Highnesses.”
At the sound of Victor’s gruff voice, Danior gripped Evangeline as if he would throw her down and buffer her with his body again.
“This is very poignant.” Victor knelt beside the table and peered beneath. “But the throng’s getting restless, the archbishop can’t be persuaded to come back out of the cathedral, and I’m bleeding all over the stage.”
Pascale joined him. “Aye, Your Highnesses, begging your permission, but it’s safe to come out now and the rumor that you’re dying is swiftly spreading.”
Danior relaxed. His clutch on Evangeline loosened as he took in Victor’s battered countenance. Offering his hand, he asked, “Where have you been, my brother?”
Victor kissed it reverently, but his tone was anything but. “Chasing your other brother all over Plaisance trying to keep him from killing Her Highness. A thankless endeavor, may I say, what with having to wipe meat turnover off my face.”
“If you’d told me you were trying to help—” Evangeline said indignantly as Danior gave her a push toward the sunshine.
“Would you have believed me?” Victor helped her to her feet, bringing a full-bodied cheer from the crowd.
She straightened her gown. “No.”
Victor knelt beside Danior. “You’ve got yourself a smart one, Your Highness.”
“That I do.” Danior scooted forward to face Victor. “Damn, man, you’re not supposed to lead with your face.”
Victor hadn’t been jesting about the blood. One eye was swollen shut, his nose was broken, his ear looked as if it had been half-ripped off. “Hard to fight Rafaello,” he mumbled. “He knows my style.”
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