Crowned: Gowns & Crowns, Book 4

by Jennifer Chance

  He shook his head. “It’s not the plane I’m looking for, it’s…” he sighed. “When I remember something, truly remember it, it’s not simply enough for me to conjure up an image in my mind, an image I think or hope might have happened. The pain doesn’t come unless I’m physically in touch with the place where the memory happened, or physically see something that sparks the memory. That’s what I’m hoping for here.”

  Fran didn’t like the sound of that. “You’re hoping you see something that triggers an anguished memory?”

  He nodded, as if he wasn’t consigning himself to a grueling test. “I’m counting on it. With the memories I’ve had so far, there’s been no connection. But this place—if I’m right, it’s the last place I was in Garronia before ending up in the sea. It’s possible that walking these steps will be the bridge I need to remembering more about what happened that night…or at least to explaining why I can’t recall more about my family or my work.” He sighed. “There’s a block I’m throwing up, and I don’t know why.” He jerked a thumb to the airstrip. “The answers might be there.”

  “But what if you collapse out there?” Fran asked, searching his face. He didn’t seem distressed, though he should be, this close to such a potentially impactful revelation.

  He shook his head. “I won’t,” he said. “I feel that I have to see this for myself, but I don’t feel the pressure I expected to. I feel excitement. Anticipation. It’s different.”

  “I don’t have a phone for you or any way to contact you if something goes wrong, though.”

  “Nothing’s going to go wrong.” Ari turned to her, and Fran’s heart kicked hard at the look in his eyes. Since she’d met him he’d regarded her with need, affection, camaraderie, and simple laughter. But the expression on his face now was definitely different. It was one of hope.

  “I’ll be careful, Francesca,” he said. “I know I can’t keep asking for your help, but this one thing—if you could do this, distract the security guard until I have a chance to stride among the planes, in the last place I know for certain I was… I think it could change everything.”

  She sighed, then squinted at the squat building. “So what is it you want me to do?”

  Ryker watched Francesca all the way until she disappeared into the building, then he immediately moved to the structure’s far side, taking the corner at an ambling walk. Francesca’s role was simple. She’d taken a cab to the municipal airport, not the international one, and had gotten out and trotted up the drive before realizing that she was at the wrong place entirely. If the guard would be so kind as to call her a new cab, she would be so grateful…and if he could talk to her a little about what he did, she adored Garronia and all its people, and this little airstrip was so cute, and…

  In the end, she’d agreed it was a reasonable plan.

  Ryker knew it was more than reasonable. Francesca’s beauty would bowl over the grouchiest of security guards, and her sweet manner and quiet speech would make her seem every inch the lady, despite her simple garb. By the time the cab pulled up, he’d be back on the street as well, ready to hop in a cab and speed back to the center of the city.

  Now that he was alone and walking through the airstrip though, he wasn’t so sure. There were maybe about a half-dozen planes parked here, each in its own clearly marked section. The big plane with the royal crest stood at the far edge of the field, but there was plenty to look at while he walked.

  To look at and churn through.

  He hadn’t been entirely honest with Francesca—in fact he hadn’t been honest at all. The pain rioting through his mind was enough to make his eyes water, and it got worse the closer he stalked to the royal plane. There were purple flowers growing wild at the edge of the airstrip, definitely more of the borage blooms, as familiar to him as the back of his hand. He knew that, without question, he’d made this same walk hundreds—even thousands of times before. Sometimes alone, sometimes with others. Laughing, talking, joking—always joking. His heart had been light in this place, too light almost. It didn’t seem like he’d come here to work, as he’d thought.

  But who came to an airstrip for pleasure?

  He gritted his teeth, nearly stumbling as another flash of pain seared through him. He passed a man on his right who climbed out of the cockpit of his craft. Not a mechanic but a pilot, Ryker could see at a glance. The man glanced up and offered a half wave before checking the motion, his expression confused.

  Then Ryker was past him and the man grunted something he couldn’t hear, and turned back to his plane.

  There was no additional pain in his recognition of that man, if in fact he knew him. He wasn’t the problem here.

  So what was?

  Ryker blew out a long breath as he reached the royal plane. He stared hard at the insignia on its tail, its loops and swirls tugging at his memory. He’d been almost sure he was a pilot for the royal family, but now that he was here, even that certainty was wavering. His sight was beginning to flag with the intensity of his headache, but no one had challenged him as he crossed the field. He glanced back to the squat security station, and his blood ran cold.

  Another plane stood there that he hadn’t seen at first, smaller than the royal craft. It was every bit as luxurious as the royal plane though. Sleek and light, it was painted bright white with a similar insignia on its tail to that of the Garronia royal family. Similar, but not quite the same.

  “Who are you?” he muttered, as he staggered onward, certain that he needed to reach the royal plane. This second plane wasn’t the goal, wasn’t the problem. His answers were tied up with the royal insignia—an insignia he was sure he knew…one that was so close to the surface of his mind, so close.

  Ryker finally made it to the plane on wobbly legs, his hand reaching out to stabilize himself against the wheel well.

  The moment he touched the smooth metal of the plane, however, lightning seemed to crack in his mind—and he went down amidst a cacophony of screams.

  Chapter Eleven

  Fran was staring out the window as the security guard droned on—the cab called and Ari’s plan working neatly—when she saw Ari drop to his knees.

  He sprawled over the wheel of the farthest plane, the aircraft with the mark of the royal family, and her heart practically exploded to three times its normal size. She was about to blow her cover sky high when Ari staggered upright again, wheeling away from the plane. She counted three long moments until he was past the view of the window, then she beamed at the building attendant. He was expounding on the importance of air flight to Garronia’s economy, practicing his English on her, and according to the large digital clock on the wall, she waited another two full minutes until she broke in.

  “You’ve taught me so much in such a short time!” she gushed, mentally projecting the amount of time it would take Ari to get from the plan to the road, assuming he was running straight. “I’m sorry to have interrupted you, and yet sorrier that I couldn’t see that the airport wasn’t the right one.”

  He beamed at her. “It is no problem at all, Miss. You will catch your flight?”

  “Oh, I’m sure I will. That shouldn’t be a problem,” she said breezily. Ari had to be nearly clear, even staggering the way he’d been when she’d last seen him. “I am meeting friends—they have my bags. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to shop a bit more.”

  “Ah, yes,” the attendant said, his grin knowing. “I have three daughters. Shopping, it is very important.”

  She thanked him again profusely, and said she’d return if the cab didn’t arrive immediately, but it took another full minute to convince the man that she really and truly needed some fresh air.

  By the time she got out of the building, Ari was nowhere to be found. Fran started up the road, walking fast, and within about a minute a taxi crested a small rise ahead of her. She flagged it down and practically leaped the back seat, speaking fast.

  “You speak English? Yes? Did you see a man on the road, probably staggering, maybe l
ooking drunk? Holding his head like this?”

  The cabbie’s eyes widened as she demonstrated, and he nodded several times. “He did not hurt you?” he asked, instantly outraged.

  “No! No, he’s my friend, he’s very sick, not drunk. I have to help him, get him back to our hotel. Where did you see him—?”

  The taxi driver frowned at her. “I thought you had to go to the airport?”

  Anger snapped hard in Fran’s gut, but she flashed the man her most desperate smile. “I couldn’t very well tell the security guard that I’d lost my boyfriend, could I? He would have thought I was crazy. But—could you help me? Please?”

  Whether she truly sounded as frantic as she felt, the taxi driver shrugged and wheeled the car around, heading back up the road. By the time they surged over the small hill again, Fran was almost in the front seat herself, leaning forward.

  “There! That man, there. Oh my God, that’s him.”

  “You sure he’s not drunk?” the driver said skeptically, but he slowed the car.

  “He’s not—his head, he gets terrible migraines. Headaches.” She resisted the urge to pound her own head with her hand, and instead pulled out a thick wad of euros. “I have enough money to get us back to the city—our hotel—and a big tip for you if you’ll wait while I get him in the car? You don’t have to help. I know he seems out of it.”

  “Bah! Of course I will help.” The man’s mood shifted, either because of the money or because the entire country of Garronia really was full of chivalrous men, and he cruised slowly to where Ari sat hunched over. Fran was out of the car almost before it stopped, but she caught herself immediately. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to move slowly, carefully toward Ari.

  “Ryker?” she said, and Ari groaned, shaking his head in confusion.

  “Honey, we need to go now,” she continued. “I have a cab for us, and we can get you something for your headache.”

  Ari blurted a string of words in Garronois, and the taxi driver stiffened. “He says the bastard tried to kill him.”

  “He did! Well.” Fran’s smile grew a little strained. “He’s in a great deal of pain, I think.”

  The man snorted and she tried again. “Honey, can you hear me? It’s Francesca. Could we—I’m coming up to you now to help you. I’m here to help.”

  She took the final step and, swallowing, laid a hand on Ari’s shoulder, her entire body poised for flight. To her shock and relief, he didn’t lash out, but peered up at her, his entire face haggard. “Help?” he rasped in English, and she didn’t hesitate. There was no recognition in his eyes, but no fight either.

  “Help—yes.” She slid his arm over her shoulder and looked at the driver. “Can you try to explain? Normally his English is very good.”

  The man hastened up to her and drew Ari’s other arm around his neck as well, and together the two of them muscled him toward the cab. He was bigger than she remembered him, but that was what dead weight would do to a body. She’d dragged more than a few drunks across the floor of Bert’s Bar & Grill, so she knew from experience.

  When they were almost to the taxi, Ari finally found his feet, and half stumbled the rest of the way into the back seat as Fran held the door as far open as it would go. As soon as she slammed it behind him, she raced around to the other side. “I swear, if he gets sick or does any damage to your vehicle, I’ll pay you three times the fare. I am so grateful—”

  “Enough, enough!” the man was half-laughing now as he slid behind the wheel, though Ari lolled back crazily in his seat and sagged against the far window. “I will get you where you need to go. He is lucky enough to have you by his side, eh?”

  Whether Ari heard the man’s words or simply was responding to her nearness, he reached out and grabbed one of Francesca’s hands. His own hand was on fire and she brought it to her face, laying the back of it along her cheek as she braced his forearm against her. She gave the cabbie the address of their small hotel, and as the night drew down they bounced back through the streets of the city, Ari continuing to mutter in Garronois.

  What was she going to do if he had somehow forgotten how to speak English? She didn’t have a phone or even a Garronois phrase book—that was back at the royal palace.

  The palace. Fran closed her eyes, willing the nightmare to end. Here she was supposed to be helping Ari, protecting him in some small way or at the very least doing no harm as he struggled through his recovery. And she’d pushed him all the way to a collapse! She should have known the airfield was a bad idea, no matter how much he’d lobbied for it. She should have known he would go too far, have some sort of psychic break. She’d been thinking too much as a layperson and not as a soon-to-be counselor, and she should have known better!

  They rode in relative silence the rest of the way to the hotel, and by the time they reached their tiny street, Ari appeared to be asleep.

  The cabbie regarded her dubiously as she counted out the bills. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?” he asked, and Ari stirred.

  “I’ll be fine,” Fran said with a confidence she didn’t feel. She popped the back door, flooding the cab with light. “Thank you—truly. For all you’ve done. And for simply being there when I needed you.” She forced herself to stay cheerful. “You don’t know how much that means to me, in a foreign country.”

  The cabbie was no longer focusing on her, and she glanced over at Ari, who was now fully awake, his eyes clear and lucid, his face unnaturally pale beneath the cab’s dome. The driver’s face was screwed up in confusion, and dread pooled in her gut.

  “You know,” he said, sliding his glance back to her. “He looks very familiar, now that I can see his face.”

  Ari’s rich voice filled the back of the cab. “I have that kind of face,” he said in perfect English, and Fran almost sagged in relief. Then he pushed open his own door and stepped into the night.

  Ryker stretched his neck as he held the door for Francesca, allowing her a few more moments to soothe away the cabbie’s questions. He couldn’t remember how he got in the cab, let alone all the way home, but he felt like he’d run a marathon.

  Francesca joined him on the sidewalk and pushed the cab door closed, then they both stood in silence for a long moment as the taxi pulled away. He sensed her concern, and he cursed himself for his clumsiness. He didn’t know what he’d done to upset her, but he suspected it had something to do with the unremembered cab ride.

  “Should we go upstairs?” she asked cautiously, and he considered that, then glanced down the street. The night life was starting to stir in the city, and he could not bear to be cooped up. Not when he’d already missed so much, and not when so much anxiety tightened his gut, refusing to let him be.

  “Would you wait for me there?” he asked, pointing at a corner café with tables, some of which were already filled. “I’d like to change clothes to match you, but I don’t want to have you—”

  “No,” Francesca said, her vehemence startling him. “I left you alone once tonight, I’ll not do it again. If you want to change I understand that,” she gestured to his tool belt, now sagging from his waist. “But I won’t leave you.”

  Her tone was fierce, and Ryker found he didn’t want to argue with her. He couldn’t ask her what he’d done, not yet, but he had no desire to cause her any more pain.

  Instead he nodded. “Then if you would escort me upstairs and wait while I change?” he asked, offering his arm.

  She took it, but her manner was too fraught for his liking, and they didn’t speak as they mounted the stairs to their room and stepped inside the bedchamber. The shower was down the hallway, and he grabbed both clothes and supplies before Francesca could come up with a reason for him not to bathe. At least she didn’t insist on standing with him in a public shower, for all that sounded enticing.

  As water sluiced over him, Ryker took stock of his mind again, as he’d tried to do since coming back to his senses first at the side of the airstrip, then in the cab. There was a chunk of time he could no
t account for, from the moment he’d left Francesca and rounded the metal security building to the moment he’d awakened at the side of the road. Intellectually, he knew he’d gone to the airport to walk the strip and see the planes. He’d dressed as a mechanic to fit in, though he’d known he’d have no planes there.

  And yet, he did have a plane there. He’d flown it.

  A piece of memory slid into place, weighing down everything beneath it, like a house of cards about to fall. The plane—it was the one with the Garronia royal seal on it. That’s what he’d flown. His earlier suspicion had to be true…he was a pilot for the royal family. He could not picture them, but perhaps if he saw their photos, met them—perhaps then he would gain some clarity.

  It shouldn’t be that difficult to find images of what had to be the most famous family in the city. Yet another reason to go out tonight with Francesca.

  Francesca. He stepped out of the shower and picked up his razor, soaping his skin and drawing the blade over his beard with quick, sure strokes. He’d lived for too long as a ragged prisoner and now—it felt like it was time to be someone else. Perhaps the someone he really was? That he didn’t know. But certainly someone who shaved.

  By the time he re-entered the room, it was full dark, but Francesca sat at the window without even a lit candle to see by. She started as he opened the door.

  “Oh!” she said. “I—I didn’t want anyone to know we were here. In case there were watchers.”

  His heart twisted a little, and he held out his hand to her. “If there are watchers,” he said, “let them watch.”

  She laughed, but it was a sad sound as she stood and crossed to him. “You’re hungry?”

  “Ravenous. And I need the fresh air while you tell me what we experienced over the past hour.”

  Her surprise kept her silent for the short walk downstairs, but it wasn’t until they got to the lobby that she truly looked at him. Her dismay was barely a flash, quickly banked, but he seized on it. “You prefer me bearded?”