HIS TO PRINCESS: a modern fairytale romance
Loving World, Les Iles de la Victoire
Theodora Taylor
Bianca Pierce
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Theodora Taylor
Also by Bianca Pierce
Copyright © 2017 by Theodora Taylor and Bianca Pierce
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Chapter 1
So I guess it’s official. I’m now a scullery maid, Talia thinks as she walks across a rickety bridge worn smooth as driftwood by Indian Ocean waters.
From law school student to glorified janitor. Her parents would be so proud. Not. Which is why she still hasn’t told them. About that, or her decision not to use the return ticket they bought her. The one that’s supposed to fly her back to the States for the start of the fall semester of her last year of law school at Columbia.
Still, Talia feels light and carefree as she walks towards the castle she’s decided to continue care-taking in place of her dearly departed grandmother…and away from any chance of making that flight back to the States. Sure her Connecticut lawyer parents would not be impressed by her current career choice. And anyone with a background in psychology would probably label this as some sort of identity crisis.
But seriously, how many of her New York friends can actually say they’ve worked as a scullery maid? Like, an honest-to-God scullery maid in a real castle? Not a one, Talia suspects as she continues towards an island way smaller than the one she just left on the other side of the bridge.
And yeah, sure, it’s technically an abandoned castle…
Talia shades her eyes with her free hand to more clearly see the old stone structure in the distance, towering over tangles of overgrown palms and climbing orchids. It’s the first time she'll work on the castle’s interior, and just looking at the job in front of her is enough to offset her worries about what her parents might think.
Today, the red scarves tied to the bridge’s railing are all blowing in one direction. She shifts her bucket of cleaning supplies, and drags her fingertips across them, imagining her grandmother tying each one to the railing. Papy says she tied on a scarf every tropical summer, to keep track of the many years she’d spent taking care of the old castle. More than Talia's lifetime.
Once she’s on the tiny island, her flip-flops scuff on the reddish, clay-like dirt. She approaches the castle’s main gate, a ten-foot wall of wrought iron curly-cues, and takes out an oversized skeleton key.
The castle was built when the surrounding ocean was a wild west of pirates, slave traders, explorers, and merchants. And it’s heavily fortified. A village of artisans and servants once lived behind the twenty-foot stone walls. Walls that were capable of defending the castle, and helping it fight off enemies with walks, towers, and covered turrets from which cannons could be fired at marauding invaders. Or so her Lonely Planet guide says. She hasn’t explored it much yet.
In fact, in the last few weeks since she first started coming here, there’s been more than enough work for her to do on the grounds without opening the main door to the dark, quiet building. Until today, she’s been more like a groundskeeper…feeding stray chickens, and performing the world’s biggest detangling job on the castle’s jungle of a garden.
But today, she’s finally going inside. And she’s going to scullery maid the crap out of this place.
If my friends could see me now, she sings to herself as she jiggles the key in the big iron gate.
To be honest, she’s been putting this part of the job off. The ancient dwelling, more or less forgotten by the family who owns it, has been cared for by one individual for the last thirty years: her grandmother. Which meant she was the only person who’d set foot inside the abandoned castle for a very long time.
In fact, Papy and his friends don’t even call the castle by its local name, Old Vick, an anglicized diminutive of its French name, Vieux Victoire. Instead, they fondly refer to it as “Rosy’s Chateau,” as if it belonged to her grandmother rather than the royal family who’d abandoned it to reside on the mainland.
Talia hesitates in front of the main gate. The thought of entering the castle proper makes her feel like she’s doing something wrong, like she’s about to invade Mamy’s space. And there’s also the inevitable sadness she experiences when she stops to think about the reason she’s here at the castle instead of Mamy.
According to Papy, Talia’s grandmother never missed a day of work, and never let anyone help her, not even him. She came to the castle five days a week for thirty years, even though no one from the royal family ever came by for so much as a visit. As long as the monthly funds transfer was made into her meager bank account, Mamy did her work, even when it became difficult for her towards the end. Maybe too difficult.
She’d come down with pneumonia a few months ago, gone to sleep one night, and never woke up. Probably an undiagnosed heart condition overlooked by the island’s only—and overworked—doctor, her mother decided with a sniff. “I told her she and Papa should come live with us in Connecticut, but she never listened.”
With a few tears welling up in her eyes, Talia shoves open the heavy gate with her shoulder, slamming it up against the stone wall on the other side. She scoops up her things and walks through, admiring the fine work she’s done outside, sweeping up debris, scrubbing off bird droppings, and pulling out the tenacious weeds that grew so damn fast in the tropical climate. The stone steps leading to the main terrace need another sweep, but compared to how things looked when she first showed up, the place is truly pride-worthy.
Mamy, who’d never so much as stepped a toe off Victoire, would definitely be proud.
Once she’s indoors, the first thing Talia plans to do is open the shutters to air out the rooms that have been shut up for months. After all, aren’t the maids always throwing open windows, and airing out the rooms on Downton Abbey? Plus, it’ll let in some much-needed sunlight, as there’s no electricity—or running water for that matter—out here. Much like Terre d’Or, this place is very much frozen in time. A condition Talia’s almost gotten used to—almost. At least without Wi-Fi she doesn’t have to field any questions from back home about why she hasn’t returned to her big city life as planned.
But one sight stops her cold as soon as she crosses the main threshold.
In the far left corner of the terrace that surrounds the entire ground floor of the residence, one window’s tall wooden shutters have been opened. Not just blown open by the wind, but intentionally opened and pinned back by metal clasps mounted on the wall to keep them from banging.
What the…? Talia drops her bucket and moves closer. She spots a pile of charred wood, tented into what had once been a tidy campfire. The gusts of wind scatter flakes of ash across an otherwise clean-swept terrace. With her outstretched hand, she can feel a faint trace of heat rising from the blackened embers.
Someone is here.
Someone is living in Mamy’s castle!
Talia curses. And not in French like Papy, but like an American city girl who knows better than to go out into the countryside alone. She might not be a native New Yorker, but living in the city for the last seven years has given her a healthy skepticism towards the so-called safety of rural areas. Most city dwellers label rural, isolated places like this beautiful small island, as dangerous. Because out here, nobody can hear you scream. And right now—she lets out a shaky breath—right now, she is feeling the vulnerability of her isolation.
If her friends could see her now. No, seriously. That would be fine with her. Because Talia suddenly does not like the feeling of being in this place, by herself, miles from anyone who could help with an uninvited guest.
This castle is isolated and unmanned. It has no security team, no surveillance system…nothing. Anyone could sneak onto the tiny island, scale the wall, and make themselves right at home. A frightening image suddenly invades her head: a band of pirates lying in wait on an unseen corner of the terrace.
But no… don’t be such a city girl, Talia, she decides, shaking the image of modern day marauders from her head. It’s probably just some local spending the night. She remembers a story Mamy once told her when she and her mother were visiting a few years ago. About nearly being scared to her “good death, now” when she arrived to clean the castle only to find one of their farmer friends running ‘round like a devil ghost.
Apparently, he’d argued with his wife and rowed over from Terre d’Or in his small fishing boat, so his “ungratitude woman” could have a taste of how sad her life would be without him to kick around. Ironic, since he and his wife ended up having their worst fight yet upon his return with Mamy’s hand tight around his collar. But as far as Mamy was concerned, what had started out as a scare had turned into a funny story. Ultimately harmless, Talia reminds herself.
But what if whoever’s camping here this time isn’t harmless? Her hands itch for the mace she used to carry when she lived in New York.
She again recalls her grandmother telling that story. Her Vickee patois accent so thick, Talia’s mom had to translate most of it for her. But Talia could feel the love Mamy had for this castle in her gap-toothed smile, her warm brown eyes, her indignant expression as she told them about kicking “that no good mon” out of her castle.
This is Mamy’s castle.
Talia owes it to her to be brave.
She picks back up her mop and bucket and squares her shoulders. Then she runs just like she’s seen special op forces do in movies—but, you know, with a mop and a bucket of cleaning supplies instead of with a way more useful gun and bullet-proof shield—to the main entrance. No pirates attack her on the terrace, so the squatter must be inside.
She pulls out her old-timey, jailor-sized key ring and finds another skeleton key. The one that looks like a crown encrusted with, possibly, genuine jewels. She jams it in the keyhole.
At first, it won’t budge. But after rattling the door a few times, she manages to turn the key in the lock. The door creaks, echoing like screams through the building, ruining any chance of a stealthy entrance.
“Hello?” she calls out. “Bonjour?”
It’s very dark inside, but she can just make out the high-ceilinged foyer, a sheet-covered chandelier hanging in the middle of it like a dangling cauliflower. There’s a strip of light down the hallway, coming from under a door. That must be the room with the open shutters.
“Hello?” she calls again, venturing further inside. Now that her eyes have adjusted to the dim light, she can see a trail of large footprints imprinted in the dust on the stone floor. They trail from the foyer to the underlit door, but go back out again and then further down the hallway, receding into the blackness.
Okay… okay…
Talia carefully plucks the mop from its bucket, holding it like a baseball bat right above its ropy head as she advances forward. Sure, she’s technically a pacifist, but whoever’s behind the door doesn’t know that.
She reaches for the knob, a tremble traveling up her arm as she twists and pushes.
After so much dark, the bright room makes her squint.
“Hello? Is anyone here?” Her hands squeeze tight around the weapon she hopes she won’t have to use.
No answer. She looks around the huge, square room. Sheet-covered furniture and frayed Persian carpets cover the geometric, parquet floors. It could be something out of a haunted house, except the windows let in enough bright, salty air to blast away the shadows. The room seems to be some kind of parlor or sitting room, with a small table probably meant for playing cards or writing letters. There is a place setting on the table. One dirty dish, accompanied by tarnished silverware, and a wine glass. The dish has the royal crest on it, the same one on Les Iles de la Victoire’s national flag.
“Seriously?!?!” she whispers. Because what kind of a squatter makes himself at home with the good china? Indignation flares in her chest—right before her inner city girl points out, one who’s not expecting visitors, that’s who.
Okay, this is stupid. Her New York sensibilities fire back up, overriding whatever bravery Mamy handed down to her through their genetic line. All her determination to kick the squatter out is replaced by the feeling she gets when she watches horror movies featuring dumb high schoolers who try to “figure out” what’s going on, instead of flat out running now, and asking questions later. She wheels back from the table. She needs to go. She needs to run, right now, before—
“Bonjour,” says a voice behind her.
Talia screams.
Chapter 2
Talia’s hand clasps against her mouth, cutting off her own scream.
There’s a figure on the terrace, framed by the open French doors, and silhouetted by the vibrant blue sky behind him. He’s lithe and muscular…her eyes trace the length of his legs, bare except for a pair of tattered shorts that end half way down his thighs, and a trim torso with a slight ‘v’ stemming from a narrow waist to solid shoulders. He’s lean, but not skinny. And much taller than her. He could definitely take her, even with the mop.
Nerp, there definitely wouldn’t be any grabbing of collars and delivering of errant squatters back to Terre d’Or today. Mainly because the stranger’s not wearing a shirt, and also because of the color of his skin. Deeply tanned but not brown, which means he’s almost definitely one of the mainlanders who so rarely make it out to this remote island. He has hair the color of rust, so full and wavy, it puts her in mind of a lion’s mane.
Still, she channels Mamy enough to call out, “This is private property, you need to leave!” Though she’s not even sure the guy speaks English.
He tilts his head and chuckles.
“Eh oui, d’accord. Private property. If this is such private property, what are you doing here?” he asks, moving further into the room.
Talia steps back, and bumps into a sheet-covered arm chair, nearly knocking it over.
“Stop! Don’t come any closer!” she commands, holding up her mop.
He stops. Looks at her. And her mop.
There’s more light on his face now. And she can see he appears far more amused than afraid beneath his red castaway beard—which is so full and unkempt, it goes past his jawbone and hides most of his neck.
Combined with his tattered shorts and wild lion hair, he gives off a transient air that ma
kes Talia shift right back into her wary New Yorker persona as she demands, “Did you leave this mess in here?”
"Oui, and the maid is apparently on holiday,” he grumbles.
Her mouth drops open. Who does he think he is?
“I’m the maid!”
The stranger’s eyes travel from her flip flops to her cotton tank top, then narrow in confusion. “What, no uniform?”
“Ah…” she says, “It kind of didn’t fit. I’m taking over the job from my grandmother who passed. But the point is, I’m responsible for this property, and I can’t allow some no-good freeloader to — “
“Pardon?”
“What?” she asks, just as confused by his look of confusion.
“You can’t allow what? What is this word you called me? Pardon, pretty American girl, but you are now well past my English language skills.”
Another smile flashes beneath the beard, and for some reason Talia has the sudden urge to look at the floor and tuck her hair behind one ear. Okay, maybe she shouldn’t have skipped the flight to New York if being called pretty by a squatter makes her feel all fluttery inside.
“I said freeloader,” she replies, biting her lip. “It’s…someone who takes without giving back.”
“This word you call me is very confusing.” He frowns at her, but not angrily. More like he’s trying to figure her out. “Why do you not say, euh, interloper? Or trespasser?”
Talia sighs and rolls her eyes. “Fine. I can’t allow trespassers to stay on the— “
“Non, explain more of this word to me, freeloader. It is strange, n’est-ce pas?”
“I guess.” She lowers the mop a little, trying to work out the meaning for herself. “It’s like, free…you know free, right? And then load…a load is a bunch of stuff…”
When she glances at him to see if he’s getting all this, he’s smiling again. Amused. “Now hold on!” She raises the mop again. “This isn’t an English lesson! Tell me who you are and how you got here!”
His to Princess Page 1