Royal Escape: The Complete Series

by Peak, Renna

  “Yeah, well not soon enough.” I sniff and swipe at my face with the handkerchief. My initial shock and pain is twisting into anger. “All he had to do was take his head out of his ass! He loves me and I love him. The only thing keeping us apart is his stupid stubbornness!” The taillights have finally disappeared into the night, and part of my heart with them. “What does he expect me to do—wait around for him forever? I came here for him!”

  “As I told you before, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need,” Caspar says. He pats me gently on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you back inside. Unless you have somewhere else you plan to go tonight?”

  I don’t. So I let him lead me back up the stairs, still dabbing at my eyes with his handkerchief. When we reach the door, I stop and let myself glance back at the road, half expecting to see the lights of the car coming back toward the manor, but there’s only darkness.

  “Come on, Clara,” Caspar says gently. “Can I interest you in a nightcap, perhaps? Some brandy or something?”

  “I’ll take some of the strongest liquor you have,” I tell him.

  His smile is warm and only slightly pitying. “I think that can be arranged.”

  He leads me through the long hallways, through a wing of the manor I haven’t explored yet.

  “My mother retires early when my father is away,” he tells me. “So my brothers and I often retreat to the study in the evenings.”

  He swings open a large, heavy-looking wooden door, revealing a spacious, well-lit room. Three of the walls are lined with bookshelves, while the fourth is encompassed by floor-to-ceiling windows and a set of French doors leading out onto a balcony. The room features plenty of plush leather furniture that actually manages to look ornate and comfortable at the same time, but the larger part of the room is taken up by games—there’s a long pool table at one end of the room, plus a couple of dartboards and a chess table.

  Benedict and Xavier are already here, standing at what appears to be a large liquor cabinet wedged between bookcases on the nearest wall.

  “Pour us a couple more,” Caspar announces as we enter. To me, he adds, “Do you have a taste for anything in particular?”

  “As long as it’s strong, I don’t care.”

  “I know just the thing,” Benedict says, grabbing another glass. He grabs a bottle of caramel-colored liquor and fills the glass a third of the way. Then he splashes just a bit of water on top.

  “My favorite single-malt Scotch,” he tells me, offering me the glass. “Not too smoky, and a touch sweet. Don’t drink it too fast.”

  I eye the dark golden liquid. Scotch was always Adam’s drink, but I never tried it myself. Closing my eyes, I take a long, slow sip.

  It’s actually better than I expected. And it only burns a little as it slides down my throat. Encouraged, I take another sip, but Benedict touches my arm.

  “I mean it,” he says. “Be careful with that stuff. It’s stronger than it tastes.”

  “I’ll go slow,” I promise him, even though I want to do the exact opposite right now. I just want to drink until I forget about this hole in my chest.

  “I know,” Caspar says. “Why don’t we play a game of snooker? Or would you prefer darts, Clara?”

  I’ll play anything that takes my mind off Nick. But I only have a vague idea of what snooker is.

  “Darts,” I say. “If that’s okay with everyone else.”

  “Darts it is,” Benedict says. “I’ll warn you, though—Caspar cheats.”

  “I don’t cheat,” his brother insists. “I’m not even sure how one could cheat at darts.”

  “You cheat,” Xavier agrees. “But you won’t tonight.”

  Caspar shakes his head, smiling crookedly at his brothers. As they head over to the dartboard, I glance down at my nearly empty glass and quickly top it off before hurrying after them.

  For the next hour, we take turns throwing. I start off fairly terrible—despite the brothers’ insistence that I’m good—but my skill seems to increase as the night goes on. Somehow getting drunk actually makes me better, and I’m not the only one who notices.

  “Watch out,” Benedict says. “I think Clara might be trying to hustle us. Good thing we didn’t place any bets on this.”

  “Stop distracting me,” I tell him, giving him a hard shove in the stomach. “Don’t talk while I’m trying to throw!” Returning my gaze to the dartboard in front of me, I squint. Then close one eye. My vision started getting fuzzy two drinks ago, but I’m still making some pretty good shots. Once the board stops rocking from side to side, I take a deep breath and throw. My dart ends up only about an inch from the bullseye.

  “So close!” Caspar says, raising his glass. “I think that calls for some celebration!”

  “Another drink!” I exclaim, raising my empty glass.

  “I’ll get this one,” Benedict says, grabbing the glass from my hand. We’ve been trading off who plays bartender. “What will you have this time?”

  “Surprise me,” I tell him with a smile.

  As he takes his brothers’ orders and wanders over to the liquor cabinet with the empty glasses, I lean against the edge of the pool table—or snooker table, or whatever it is—taking a quick breather.

  Xavier pushes up his sleeves and grabs the darts, taking his turn at the board. Caspar walks over and leans against the table beside me.

  “How are you doing?” he asks quietly.

  “Great!” My voice is much louder than his, but I don’t care. “How do you think I’m doing? I’m kicking your asses at darts!”

  He chuckles, but I’d swear his blue eyes hold a hint of concern. It’s hard to tell, though, when they keep going in and out of focus.

  “Maybe we should slow down on the drinks,” he says softly.

  “Why? Because I’m getting better and you’re getting worse?” I grin. “I think you’re just upset that I’m going to beat you.”

  “That’s not my concern,” he says. “I’m more worried about what our dear cousin might do if you end up with alcohol poisoning on our watch.”

  “Alcohol poisoning? Bah!” I give him a shove on the shoulder, though he doesn’t even budge. “And you shouldn’t care what Nick thinks. I don’t care what Nick thinks, and I’m the one who’s in love with him.”

  At that moment, Benedict returns with the full glasses of liquor. I grab mine and turn to Caspar.

  “I can have all the drinks I want,” I tell him. “And Nick doesn’t get to say a damn thing about it. Fuck Nick.” I tip my head back and drink my whole glass down in a single gulp.

  Honestly, I thought they’d be impressed by my drinking skills—chugging down that much Scotch in one go is harder than it looks—but when I lower my glass, even Benedict looks concerned. Damn it—when did they start caring about being responsible?

  “I can make my own choices,” I tell them. I slam my glass down on the nearest table. “Whose turn is it? Or are you chumps too scared to keep playing?”

  Xavier rubs the back of his neck, and Benedict glances at Caspar, who just shakes his head.

  “Maybe it’s time to stop,” Caspar says, stepping toward me. “It’s late.”

  “You’re all a bunch of chickens,” I tell them. “You’re just afraid to lose to a girl.”

  “And you’re about to fall over,” Caspar tells me. “Come on, Clara. Doesn’t your bed sound good right about now?”

  It’s not until he says it that I notice how tired I am, how heavy my head feels. And honestly, my pillow does sound pretty good at the moment.

  “This isn’t over,” I tell them. “We’re finishing this game tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” Caspar says, slipping an arm around my waist and guiding me toward the door. “We’ll pick up right where we left off.”

  He guides me down the hallway, his arm a steady presence at my waist. I think about pushing him off—What would Nick say if he saw us like this?—but then I remember that I’m not supposed to care about what Nick thinks anymor
e. Besides, I’m not sure I could hold myself upright if he lets go.

  It’s only then, stumbling through the hallways, that I begin to realize how drunk I am. I mean, I knew the alcohol was getting to my head, but now I’m struggling just to put one foot in front of the other.

  “Are you all right?” Caspar asks me.

  “I’m fine,” I say, right before tripping on my long skirt. How the heck do fancy royal women wear these things all the damn time?

  Caspar catches me before I face-plant on the carpet. “We’re almost there. Do you need me to carry you?”

  “No, I can make it.” The only person I want carrying me is Nick. And Nick’s not here.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. God, I miss Nick so much. It’s only been a couple of hours, and already I feel so lost. Why did he run away from me? What could I have done differently to make him stay? What am I going to do now?

  I have no idea how to answer any of those questions. I’m completely directionless.

  When I trip on my skirt again, Caspar doesn’t quite manage to catch me. I end up on my hands and knees, breath heaving as I fight back sobs.

  Why wasn’t I enough for him? Why wasn’t he willing to fight for me? I tried to fight for him—I literally jumped on his back to try and keep him from leaving. But he still walked away. Leaving me on my own.

  This time, Caspar doesn’t bother asking me if I need help. He just scoops me up off the ground and into his arms. And I can’t even bring myself to argue.

  Nicholas

  The airport in Wintervale is tiny, really only large enough to accommodate the small private plane sitting on the airstrip.

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing here, staring at the jet. My mind has been racing since I left the manor, and I keep thinking I should turn around and go get Clara—bring her with me to wherever it is I’m going to go.

  It’s just like last time…

  My mind doesn’t seem to want to let me forget. But it isn’t like last time, not really. The last time I stood staring at one of my family’s jets like this, I was waiting—and waiting—to go to Barbados, a trip I finally made alone.

  I hear someone behind me, and I nearly jump out of my skin. And I have to admit, my heart skips a beat or two, thinking Clara might have decided to follow me.

  But when I look over, it’s merely one of the stewards. He gives me a shallow bow. “The pilot wanted me to ask if you’d determined a destination, Your Highness. He needs to ready the flight plan.”

  A destination… I suppose “far away from Montovia” isn’t enough of a directive. And I certainly don’t want to find myself alone at a luxury resort in Barbados again, waiting for something that is never going to happen.

  That is precisely the problem. I’ve been waiting—and for what? Something to happen? Someone to happen? I’ve spent the past two years about as miserable as a man can be, punishing myself for something that was never my fault.

  And what am I doing now?

  Clara was not supposed to happen. I was going to live alone—miserable, perhaps, but alone—on my ranch forever. I’ve promised myself so many times that I would never fall in love again—never allow myself to be happy—because it all falls apart eventually.

  What has transpired between Clara and me is no different. We might be happy for a time—it might even be a welcome reprieve for us both to enjoy the other—but it will only end in misery. She’ll return to her betrothed and I’ll be alone, waiting to run away with her to some tropical destination, and she’ll never arrive. I’ll decide to go there alone and wait for her until I read the news of her nuptials. And I’ll drink alone in my room until my sister comes to fetch me with news of some family drama that requires my assistance.

  This is not the life I want to live. Not anymore.

  But I have no idea how to convince Clara of that. Or if she even wants to hear it. And I have no guarantee that she won’t ultimately choose the man she left.

  “Your Highness,” the steward interrupts my thoughts. “There is no guarantee that we’ll be able to leave tonight if we don’t have a flight plan.”

  I don’t hear anything he says after “there is no guarantee.” Of course, there is no guarantee with anything in life. I’m just not sure I can survive another experience like the last one. I’m still not convinced it’s worth it.

  But then I think of Clara—the way her hair always smells of flowers, the way it glistens in the sunlight. The way she always seems to find the joy in everything she does—even in the most miserable of things. How she’s never, never given up on me, no matter how badly I’ve treated her.

  I can only hope she hasn’t given up on me this time, that I haven’t pushed her too far.

  Though I have no idea if she’ll come with me, I turn to the steward. “I’ve not yet decided. Tell the pilot I’ll be returning with a guest.” And with that, I turn on my heel and walk back through the small airport.

  It takes far too long to return to the manor, at least it feels that way. I have no idea what I’ll say to Clara. Perhaps I should just explain everything to her—that I was frightened of my feelings for her, afraid to allow her to get too close to me for fear she’d leave. I’m not sure if I can tell her exactly what happened, but maybe she’ll understand.

  I would stop and purchase her flowers, but it is far too late in the evening for any of the small shops in the town of Wintervale to be open. It’s close to midnight by the time I reach the manor, and I can only pray that Clara is still awake.

  The staff politely bow when I return, as though they were expecting it all along. And while the manor is small compared to my family’s palace, it is still enormous. I find myself almost running to the guest wing. I’m still not sure how this is going to go—I’m still not truly sure this is the right thing to do—but I need to see her again. I need to tell her I love her, remind myself of why it might be worth it to let the past go.

  I’m so caught up in my thoughts I only see Caspar when I plow into him as he leaving Clara’s room.

  I lift a brow, my hands curling into fists at my sides.

  His mouth falls open, and he holds his palms up in surrender. “Cousin. It isn’t what you think.”

  Clara

  My pillow feels amazing.

  I turn my face, resting my cheek against the cool fabric, thinking about how good it feels simply to be lying down. The room isn’t spinning anymore. My head is throbbing slightly, but I can almost ignore that when I think about the soft feather pillow beneath me. I’m still a little peeved we didn’t get to finish our game of darts, but I’ll make sure we do tomorrow. If I can ever bring myself to get out of bed again.

  The longer I lie here, though, the more other thoughts begin to creep in. Now that I’m not drinking or darting or otherwise distracting myself, all the feelings I’ve been trying to avoid are bubbling to the surface again.

  Nick is gone. He left me. With my eyes closed, I can still see those taillights disappearing into the night. My stomach heaves, and my eyes burn with the tears I don’t want to cry. I’ve cried enough over him already.

  Why are men such idiots? I roll over and rub at my eyes with the heels of my hands. Why do they insist on being so friggin’ stubborn that they can’t see what’s right in front of them? I laid my heart out for Nick, and he told me he loved me in return. And he still walked away.

  The pounding has picked up in my head. I groan and press my fingers against my temples, trying to drown it all out—the throbbing, the pain, the noise. When I open my eyes, the room begins spinning again, and that just makes everything worse.

  Funny, I think as I snap my eyes closed once more. I’d almost swear I can hear Nick. His Montovian accent was always so thick when he was angry, and right now my stupid drunken imagination wants me to think he’s shouting.

  And it doesn’t stop, no matter how much I tell myself it’s just in my head. My skull keeps pounding, and I finally roll over again and grab the glass of water Caspar left for me on the nightstand.
I drink it down in one gulp, and my mouth still feels like it’s coated in cotton.

  With a groan, I collapse back on the pillows. I’m going to need more than a little water. I need a whole pitcher, and some strong painkillers to boot. Otherwise this pounding and shouting will last all night and I’ll never get to sleep.

  It’s almost impossible to make myself move, but I finally manage it. I struggle up off the bed and start to stumble toward the bathroom. I’m still wearing the long, cumbersome dress I had on earlier—I promised Caspar I could undress myself but promptly forgot to the moment I laid down on the bed—and suddenly all my clothes feel very hot and constraining. Twisting, I manage to undo the dress and then let it fall down to the floor. That leaves me in just my bra and panties, which is infinitely better.

  The world is still spinning when I finally reach the bathroom. I’m too dizzy to find the light switch, so instead I just go straight to the beautiful tiled cabinet and begin hunting around for anything that might clear the pounding in my head. Unfortunately, the shelves are nearly empty. Apparently, the people here at Wintervale don’t fully stock their guests’ medicine supplies.

  That’s okay, I tell myself, clinging to the edge of the sink for support. Some water will do fine. But then I realize I’ve left the glass back on the nightstand, and the thought of stumbling back there in the dark sounds just as daunting as climb Mount Everest. My knees begin to shake, and I let myself sink down to the floor. At least the tiles are cool—cooler even than my pillow—and they make my skin feel good.

  I’ll just sleep here. Maybe after a little nap I’ll have the strength to go get that glass.

  I could swear I’m only on the floor for a moment before I feel someone’s hands on me. Next to the cold tiles, the hands feel almost unbearably hot, and I pull away from them.

  “Leave me alone,” I say. “I’m sleeping.”

  “You shouldn’t sleep on the floor, Clara,” says a familiar voice that fills me up with joy. “Let’s get you back into the bed.”

  “You’re not even supposed to be here,” I tell Nick. If it is Nick. It’s probably just my imagination playing tricks on me again.