by Kimber Swan
The Unknown Royal Heir
Kimber Swan
Copyright © 2014 Kimber Swan
All rights reserved.
ISBN:0991647106
ISBN-13:978-0991647101
DEDICATION
To my knight in shining armor.
CONTENTS
Prologue
Part 1 The Meeting
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part 2 Journey to a Kingdom
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Part 3 From Commoner to Princess
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Part 4 The Queen
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
Prologue
The threats are becoming too much. I told Edward I couldn’t do this anymore. He has been a dear friend and supporter of Michael and me for as long as I’ve known the both of them. We met back in Oxford senior year. The back and forth from Scotland to Farquadt is too much. Demanding I hide who I am from everyone is the final straw. I can’t pretend I am nothing to Michael. He is my world, my heart, my soul.
But it’s also no longer about us, but more importantly about Freya. Freya is my greatest accomplishment and gift to Michael. She represents what Michael and I had before he chose his country over love. Edward has kept my secret, her existence, from Michael. Edward did not agree with my decision to hide it from Michael, but he understood the fears of a new mother. Edward’s wife similar fears when their son was born.
Daniel, Edward’s son, is the sweetest six-year-old boy on earth, the perfect match for Freya. He is the one blessing in this whole mess. The way he watches her every move, fascinated by her. When she swings her chubby baby arms out, he tries to grasp her hand. The other day Daniel was singing to Freya and holding her hand. She fell asleep still clutching that hand. He talks to her and I can see how she listens to him. When the time comes, she will be safe with him.
Freya’s marking was as symbolic as her ancestors’ ceremonies were despite her father’s absence. The mark will tell the country who she is. No matter how barbaric it was, it needed to be done. Michael will never forgive me for hiding her conception or birth. I’m surprised he or his enemies never caught on I was pregnant. But then again how could they. I was banned from the country early in the pregnancy. I was snuck me in every chance Michael and Edward could get.
Michael and I were selfish to think our love could overcome the intricacies and plots found in the royal household. It’s no longer the two of us and I must think about Freya now. I only hope that one day Michael and Freya will understand why I left.
The birth of Michael’s children would make them targets, but Freya’s birth alone placed the biggest target on her back. What mother in her right mind wants that for their child? She will be prepared to follow in her ancestors’ steps if she decides to return one day. I will ensure she follows all customs and norms she must to claim what is rightfully hers.
Edward thinks he is returning me to Scotland, but I have made other plans. I hope that when and if Freya returns, it will be less dangerous for her. That somehow God above would intervene on her behalf. I am leaving my heart and identity here with Michael. The woman he loved no longer exists. Our love is done before it really began. I’ll mourn the death of it as if he died.
Part 1
The Meeting
Chapter One
It is a beautiful, clear June night in the heart New York City. You can barely make out a few shining stars. The Waldorf Astoria is the place where dreams are made. We are standing inside it living the biggest dreams of all and perpetrating an even bigger lie. The doors to the Grand Ballroom are magnificent in size and carvings. They tell a story of times long ago. People frolicking on nights like this, enjoying life. I can’t help but wonder why we aren’t frolicking this perfect night away.
The debate with Dante, my best friend, about whether setting foot through these doors is a good idea or not A beautiful, cloudless night in the heart New York City without the earlier smog is surprising. The city is immersed in a heat wave. The smells and sounds of Manhattan surround me like a blanket. At this time of night, you might not expect vehicles’ exhaust, food vendor carts, vendors shouting trying to sell their wares and music from street entertainers in any other city, but this Manhattan, the city that never sleeps.
The Waldorf Astoria is a place where dreams are made. We are standing outside it’s glass entrance overhang dressed to the nines. I tip my head back and follow the line of the building up until I can’t see it any longer, marveling in its height. Ornate, copper-framed, revolving doors move effortlessly as guests enter and exit the building. Dante and I are perpetrating the biggest lie, but living an even bigger dream.
The grandness of the lobby is overwhelming. Dante quickly tugs me along, not wanting to spend too much time out here in the open. He stops in front of our destination- the doors to the Grand Ballroom. A high society event for some non-for-profit organization is going on behind these doors and we don’t belong here. We come from a rent controlled area of the city where the rent is less than what it cost for these tickets.
A shiver courses through me. I know my life is about to be affected in the most drastic way when the ominous golden doors swing open. Someone is going to find out I am not who I say I am. We weren’t invited. These people don’t even know we exist. We slipped through the doors without being noticed.
The tickets appeared out of thin air, like a wish had been granted. During a shift at the diner two nights ago, a group of patrons dropped the tickets and never realized they were gone. They weren’t much older than Dante and me. I have no doubt that they were coming from a party of some type because no one noticed the hundred-dollar tip, which happened to be more than the actual bill, or the surprise they left behind.
I was clearing the table when I found the tickets lying neatly on the seat. I rushed to the door to see if I could find them, but no one was around. Dante came rushing out, assuming they left without paying the bill. When I explained to Dante what happened, he grabbed the tickets inspecting them closely. He jumped around excitedly. I didn’t know what they were until he calmed down enough to explain.
That’s how Daphne Michels- me, orphaned girl, is at one of the most important social functions of the season, wearing a vintage gown found at a second-hand clothing store. However, if you looked at me, you would think I was born for this. Dante spent hours making sure the street appearance I usually donned was gone, making me look like royalty.
I never knew my father and no other family came forward to claim me when I entered the foster system after my mother’s death. She died when I was six from a drug overdose. My birth certificate never listed a father’s name. Most of it was blank. The only thing I have from my father is a weird birthmark on my right shoulder. A mark I have always hidden. The only reason I know it is from him i
s because my mother told me so. I never bothered to ask more about it or him. When I was older, I thought if my mother did not want his name on my birth certificate, there must have been a reason.
Dante’s slight tug on my arm brings draws my attention from my internal thoughts. I glance around at the overwhelming splendor beyond the doors. The colossal room is softly lit by thousands of candles. The tables with their starched, white tablecloths, fine china, and too much silverware to count, are laden with huge centerpieces of white and red roses each with tapered candles. The painted mural on the walls remind me of the classic art work displayed in museums. Long cocktail tables hold a wooden row boat of some sort, two chefs preparing food and other food stations. A harpist is currently strumming a beautiful piece next to the orchestra.
I look up at Dante in awe of our surroundings. He is the best friend a girl could ask for. Dante and I met in the last foster home I visited. He glances down at me smiling. Despite how comfortable I am with him, I have never felt more out of place in my life then I do in this moment. We don’t belong here. These people live a different life than we live. They are rich, powerful and a class unto their own. The women dressed in designer gowns and the men in tuxedos cost more than Dante and I make in a year.
Dante leans down reading my thoughts, murmuring in my ear, “Everything will be fine. No one will care if they find out.” He kisses my forehead. “Let’s do this, darling.”
I giggle at the way he pronounces “darling.” He wraps my arm in the crook of his elbow and leads us further into the room. We have come far in our twenty-one years. Our bond formed the night we barely escaped Mrs. Johnson’s house. The hairs on my arms stand on end as I remember that night.
Mrs. Johnson took foster kids in as a main source of income and relied heavily on it to survive. The funny thing was though, her foster kids never saw the money. She barely had enough food on the table for all of us. Our clothes were old and torn, but her biological sons, Scott and Richard, had everything they ever wanted.
I was sixteen when Dante arrived and had been there a year by then. Dante was shy, withdrawn and too skinny. He had amazing, sad, green eyes that captured me immediately. I knew he was someone that needed protection from Scott and Richard. They would torment the new kids. After what they did to me, I couldn’t allow that to happen to anyone else.
I walked in on Scott and Richard beating Dante one day. He wasn’t fighting back. They never saw me coming. I pulled Scott off Dante first, kneeing him in the groin. In the time it took Richard to turn and attack me, Dante spurred into action. It was like a switch flipped on. He was quick to gain the upper hand, knocking Richard out cold.
When Mrs. Johnson came home later that night smelling of beer and smoke, Scott and Richard lied to her. She tried forcing Dante down the dark, damp basement, a place all the foster kids tried to avoid because we could be left down there for days with no food or toilet, only a bucket in the corner. I pushed her before she had the chance. She tripped and fell on her backside, sputtering.
I grabbed Dante by the arm, fleeing with only the clothes on our backs. Scott and Richard tried following us, but we lost them at the supermarket. When we could, we found the nearest phone booth and made an anonymous call to the police, mentioning how Social Services should get to the house. It was from that moment on we became inseparable.
I have never wanted more from life than to be able to afford a roof over my head. However, being here opens my eyes to how the other half lives. Dante escorts me to the dance floor, but stops to pick up two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter. He pulls my arm, turning me towards him to make a toast.
“To us. We’ve finally arrived. Fate, that wonderful Goddess,” he says worshipfully, “has seen fit to bring us here tonight. Let’s make tonight special, making Fate’s interference worthwhile.”
Clinking glasses, he downs his and I sip mine at a leisurely pace. Dante tends to be the partier, having fun, but not to excess. He doesn’t want to be anything like his father. I, on the other hand, don’t care for the stuff anymore since Dante rescued me one night.
“Do you want to dance?” I question, rapidly blinking my eyes.
“Thought you’d never ask.” He formally bows over my hand. “Let’s show these people how we dance.”
The twinkle in his eye tells me he is up to no good. As the music starts, he looks up at me through his shaggy blonde hair and beautiful long lashes. The fun begins with a twirl out to the dance floor. We move in synchronized patterns that force the other dancers to make room for us. Our smooth steps are flawless from years of practice.
I passed through a phase of wanting to ballroom dance after watching Beauty and the Beast. We could never afford the lessons. Dante would buy bootleg copies of ballroom dancing DVDs. Our living room was the perfect place for practicing at the time because it lacked any furniture. Our neighbors would bang on the floor and ceilings for hours when we practiced, but we didn’t care.
“I forgot how much fun it is to dance with you.” I say in his ear as a crowd forms, watching us. “You missed your calling.”
“I know, right.” His cocky remark makes me smile. “Being gay helps. I swear it is in my genes.”
“All those DVDs had nothing to do with it, huh?” I mock.
“Bitch.” He smiles, wagging his eyebrows. “It’s the partner that’s the key element to this dance.”
The dance floor occupants thin to only a few couples waltzing, trying to keep up with us.
“We cleared the dance floor again.” I point out, sighing. “Don’t look but we’re the youngest ones out here.”
He looks around smiling when his eye catches something or someone.
“I see some handsome men here. Let’s play.”
I sigh, knowing his next words.
“Whoever gets the first telephone number wins. The loser has to do the laundry for the week.”
I feel him shake with suppressed laughter.
“You’re on.”
He knows I will never approach any one here. But there is also no way he will ever hit on a guy in a place like this either. He must be sure about the guy first before he makes a move.
Dante steps away as the dance comes to an end. Our hands are still connected when the music changes to a tango, our favorite dance. Dante snaps me back towards him, molding me against him. His hand firmly on my butt. He dips me low. We look like two lovers who have shared things most people don’t have the chance to. About mid dance Dante dips me low again, this time my arms fall behind my head. I notice we have an admirer who seems fixated on us.
“We have an admirer.” I tell Dante when he lifts me back up.
My arms loop around his neck. He drags me across the floor, his hand gliding over my body in an outwardly sexual way. We turn and move in the other direction.
“I see.” He hums. “I hope he likes what he sees. I wouldn’t mind getting to know him. But, chances are he’s looking at you sweetheart and sadly, not me.” He looks down at me smiling. “I can’t blame him. You look like a princess.”
“Thank you. I could say the same for you. My dashing prince.”
“You know I am anything but. If I could, I would dress you like this all the time. You were made to be dressed in fine clothes.” He looks at me with appreciation before twirling me again. “Part of your birthmark is showing.”
“Nothing we can do about it now.” I say, not caring in the least how ugly it looks in that moment.
The song ends shortly thereafter leaving me a thirsty, sweaty mess. My feet hurt from these ridiculously high heels Dante made me get. People are applauding our little performance as Dante escort me off the floor. We nod gracefully passing them on the way to the bar.
“I need a seat.” I comment tiptoeing slowly behind him.
Dante steers me towards an empty chair.
“Here. Sit. I’ll get us some drinks.” He pulls out the chair. “The regular?”
I nod.
A waiter passes by with finger
food laden trays that smell delicious. I grab two, inhaling the first debating the second. Dante returns with a sparkling water and Stoli Vanilla. He sees the second and opens his mouth. I feed it to him, smiling at the face he makes.
“Hmm.”
He grabs two crackers loaded with black dots as another waiter passes by.
“What is it?” I question, looking at the black dots.
“Caviar.” He says handing me one.
“Oh.” I take his offering. “Here goes nothing.”
I close my eyes taking a small bit, not sure what to expect. There are little bursts of sea water in my mouth as I chew. Not fishy at all and not what I thought it would be like.
“Different. Not bad.”
“Hmm. It’s delicious. I think I may have found my new favorite food.” Dante remarks.
“Too bad we can’t afford it.” I chuckle at the pout he throws my way.
“Debbie Downer.” He smiles, joking. “Well, we just have to catch a rich man.”
Flippantly, I say, “Gold digger.”
He swats my arm and chuckles back at me. “Hussy.”
Playing shocked, I knock his shoulder with mine. He feigns injury, drawing the attention of nearby guests. We do this all the time, trying to see who can shock the other the quickest. He usually wins. I still haven’t been able to retaliate against the last one. I needed tampons and he had an intimate conversation about womanly products with the stock boy at the supermarket, who I happen to be crushing on then.
Embarrassed by the attention, I lean in whispering, “I think we’re making a spectacle of ourselves. Again.”
At that moment, the guy who was watching us advances in our direction. Saying he was tall dark and handsome seems cliché, but absolutely fitting. When he speaks, his voice is accented, deep and like silk gliding over my skin.
“May I have this dance?” He inquires with an outstretched hand.