“But if you’re alone, there will be no one to calm your nerves,” Queen Yvette said now, her handsome face riddled with uncertainty.
“Well, if I feel the sudden need for company before I depart, I’ll convince Tabitha to ride along with me,” Emmaline assured her mother.
The queen’s eyes clouded at the thought of somebody other than herself or the king accompanying the royal bride to her wedding.
“Don’t worry, Mother. The carriage has opaque windows. Nobody will realize she’s there.”
“But when you get in, you’ll be right there for all the world to—
“No, I won’t,” Emmaline said, and took a deep breath. She might as well inform her mother of the other little change she’d made. Papa already knew, and approved. Fenella, of course, disapproved wholeheartedly. “Mother, I instructed them to bring the carriage around to the side entrance rather than in the front. We’ll be out of view of the gates. Nobody will see us getting in.”
“The side entrance?” Queen Yvette’s perfectly arched eyebrows vaulted toward her jeweled tiara. “But Emmaline—”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t want to be a public spectacle any longer than I must, Mother,” Emmaline said firmly.
The queen opened her mouth to speak, but her husband gave her arm a firm squeeze and said, “I’m sure Emmaline will be fine, my dear. Now let’s hurry.”
“Shall I help you lower your veil over your face?” Queen Yvette paused once more in the drawing room doorway to ask.
“No, Tabitha will do that,” Emmaline said quickly. “She’s waiting for me back in the dressing room.”
“All right, then.”
The king and queen exited the room at last.
A few moments later, Emmaline heard cheers erupt in the throng that had gathered outside the palace gates and knew that the white chauffeured Rolls-Royce, with her parents inside, had left for the abbey.
It was time.
She hurried toward the dressing room, where Tabitha—about to prove herself the most loyal, loving friend a princess could ever wish for—was waiting.
Perched on a wooden press platform beside the palace gates, reporter Debi Hanson was checking her reflection in a small compact, making sure none of her bloodred lipstick had smeared on her teeth.
After landing the plumb assignment to cover the royal wedding for the network, Debi had visited New York’s premier cosmetic dentist and raised hell until he squeezed her in for an emergency whitening. After all, this was her chance to shine in the spotlight—and, with any luck, become a front-runner for an upcoming anchor job opening.
Satisfied that her teeth were dazzling, Debi became aware of a helicopter buzzing low over the palace grounds. Resentment stirred. She had no doubt that a fellow journalist was on board, trying to scoop his or her grounded colleagues.
Debi glanced around at the three-ring media circus that stretched from the palace gates to the abbey two miles away. The narrow, ancient cobblestone avenue was jammed with reporters doing live feeds, satellite television trucks, refreshment concessions, vendors hawking royal wedding souvenirs, throngs of well-wishers anxious to catch a glimpse of the bride, even protestors. What they were protesting wasn’t clear from where Debi stood—their posterboard signs were obscured by a cart selling Mylar helium balloons sculpted to look like decidedly bloated versions of Princess Emmaline and Prince Remi.
Her eyes narrowed as her gaze shifted from the garish scene skyward. There were other news choppers up there, but this one seemed particularly low as it hovered over the palace grounds. Was it Debi’s rival New York network, WGSP? If so, that wench of a reporter Naomi Finkelmeyer would never let Debi live it down.
Seething, she shaded her designer sunglasses using her hand as a visor, and peered at the sky. Dammit! The sun was shining too brightly for her to make out a logo on the copter.
Well, if Naomi thought that this was—
Debi frowned.
The helicopter was practically buzzing the stone turrets. Surely the Verdunian officials wouldn’t stand for this.
A sudden roar went up around her as the crowd erupted in cheers.
Debi turned toward the palace entrance, with its towering, prisonlike black iron gates. Had Princess Emmaline emerged? But . . . she couldn’t have. The wedding coach hadn’t even arrived at the front entrance to—
“Noooo!” Debi shrieked in disbelief. Somehow, she had missed it. All of it. The cream-colored carriage was already trundling away from the palace, presumably with the bride already on board.
“Lenny! Are you getting this?” Debi shrieked at her cameraman, who scrambled for the shot as the team of horses clip-clopped their way toward the gate and the street beyond.
“Yeah! We’re going live in three . . . two . . .”
Debi adjusted her sunglasses, took a deep breath, and faced the camera with a smile.
“. . . one!”
“We’re live from Verdunia, where, as you can see, the bride . . .” she hesitated, cleared her throat, and realized she had to admit to her viewers that she—and they—had missed the big moment, “. . . has already boarded the gleaming, horse-drawn white coach fit for a fairy-tale princess. Princess Emmaline is now departing for her long-awaited wedding at the abbey just a short distance away. And let me tell you, the bride is, uh, a vision in white, in a luscious silk organza couture gown designed by Porfirio.”
Debi relaxed a bit, drawing from the information released by the palace in advance. “Of course, Princess Emmaline’s face is obscured by her veil, as is traditional, but we can be sure that she’s smiling somewhere under all those layers of tulle and lace. After all, she’s about to marry her Prince Charming and live happily ever . . .”
Debi trailed off as the roar of the helicopter overhead grew louder. The chopper was much too low, she thought, gazing upward. So low that the wind from the blades was ruffling her carefully coifed hair. Irritated, she tried to smooth it, but her hand became snagged in the sticky, stiffly sprayed nest.
Remembering that she was on camera, she wrenched her fingers free, forced a bright smile, and said, “I’m sorry, we have a little technical difficulty because of that news chopper overhead. Anyway, one might say of the beautiful princess that today is the first day of the rest of her—Lenny, is he landing?” she broke off to ask the cameraman.
He shrugged, his camera panning from the wedding coach to Debi to the suddenly empty sky directly above the palace.
What the . . . ?
Shoving displaced hunks of hair from in front of her eyes, Debi stared at where the chopper had been, puzzled. Why on earth would a news chopper land on the palace grounds just as the bride was leaving the premises?
Belatedly remembering Emmaline, Debi whirled around, just in time to see the carriage, with its tinted window glass, disappear around a corner.
“Ladies and gentlemen, there goes the bride . . .” Debi offered feebly.
And there goes my shot at anchorwoman. Damn that Naomi Finkelmeyer!
“We have about thirty seconds to do this,” Granger shouted at his old friend Yogi, who was at the helicopter’s controls. A former military pilot, Yogi was the one person Granger trusted to accompany him on this mission—and to carry it off without getting caught—or worse.
As the copter, painted with a fictional network logo and disguised as a news chopper, sank toward the ground, Granger scanned the roof of the stone palace, half expecting to see crouched sharpshooters. There were none.
Nor was there any sign of Emmaline.
“I don’t see her,” he called to Yogi as they landed, his heart sinking.
Well, what did you expect?
Hadn’t he known all along, deep down inside, that she wouldn’t go through with it? She might have tried to convince him—and herself—that she was willing to take an enormous risk, but when push came to shove, she—
“There she is!” Yogi pointed.
Granger followed his friend’s gesture and spotted a figure streaking across the p
alace lawn toward the chopper. She was dressed in black from head to toe and carrying a small satchel, like an errant cat burglar rushing from a heist.
For a moment he simply gazed at Princess Emmaline, his jaw hanging in blatant admiration at her sheer guts.
Then he leaped into action, opening the door and reaching out with both arms, beckoning her forward.
She stooped low but didn’t slacken her pace as she neared the copter, ducking to avoid the whirling blades.
Granger darted another glance at the palace.
No sign of security . . . yet. Any second now, he suspected, guards would appear. If the timing was right, the commotion involving the carriage’s departure for the abbey was stalling them. He hoped that would buy the helicopter enough time to get out of there before anyone realized what was happening.
With a jubilant cry that was audible despite the roar of the engine, Emmaline flung herself into Granger’s arms. “I really did it!”
“You really did!” He lifted her effortlessly into the chopper, struck by a sudden sense of how surreal it all was—the garish carnival scene at the front of the palace, and the runaway princess bride quite literally sneaking out the back door, with Granger as her still stunned and most unlikely savior. He’d have pinched himself if his hands weren’t busy thrusting Emmaline into the seat beside him and fastening her safety belt.
“She’s in!” he bellowed at Yogi, who nodded and promptly lifted the helicopter off the ground.
Granger glanced at Emmaline as they rose over the treeline. Her head was turned, and she was staring out the opposite window, very still. Was she having sudden second thoughts? Well, it was too late to back out now.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She didn’t seem to hear him above the engine’s roar. Or maybe she was too upset to reply.
He hesitated, then touched her arm.
She turned toward him.
The expression on her face spoke volumes.
She was radiant. Her green eyes sparkled, and her cheeks were rosy beneath her wedding-heavy makeup. Strands of dark hair had tumbled from the pile on her head, in the most becoming state of dishevelment he had ever witnessed.
Still panting from her exhilarating rush to freedom, she flashed him a big smile and a thumbs-up.
Granger grinned and turned toward his own window, his heart quickening its pace and his brain rushing to keep up.
What now? he wondered. He had been so caught up in hatching the daring rescue plot, so busy planning the details, that he hadn’t allowed himself to think beyond this victorious moment.
All he knew was that Emmaline didn’t want to marry Prince Remi after all—and that she had turned to him, of all people, to help her escape.
Why?
Because he was rich, and connected—and foolhardy—enough to help her pull it off?
Or because nobody would ever think to look for her in the States?
Or because . . .
Well, maybe because she had realized she had feelings for him?
He felt her grasp on his arm and turned toward her.
“Look,” she called, and gestured toward the window.
They were high above the castle now. But he could see, even from here, that several flea-sized figures emerged from the back of the building, waving their arms and looking up in bewilderment. The belated palace security detail, no doubt.
“They think we’re a news chopper,” Granger told Emmaline. “We’re disguised as one.”
He noticed that she was wearing a pair of massive diamond earrings that looked utterly out of place with her plain black sleeveless turtleneck tucked into a pair of black stretch pants. “Nobody would ever dream that you’re on board, Emmaline. After all, you were just in the carriage, leaving for your wedding.”
“Precisely.” She grinned, looking for all the world like a sticky-mouthed little girl who had just convinced her gullible mother that she really did drop the first piece of candy into the storm drain and would need another.
“And what will happen when the wedding coach arrives at the abbey with only poor Tabitha inside?” he couldn’t resist asking.
“There’s no telling,” Emmaline said, almost gleefully. “By then, of course, she’ll be wearing her regular clothes again, with a heap of discarded gown and veil on the seat beside her. She’ll say what I’ve instructed her to—that she turned her back for a moment, and I vanished.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” he pointed out. “A person doesn’t just vanish from a closed carriage riding through crowded streets.”
Emmaline shrugged, as though she couldn’t be bothered by that tedious detail.
“Besides,” he pressed, “won’t they figure out that only the bride boarded the carriage back at the palace? The whole thing must have been captured by a zillion cameras.”
“But it wasn’t!” Clearly quite pleased with herself, Emmaline said, “I changed the plan so that I was to board the coach at the side entrance, out of view. Wasn’t that terribly clever of me?”
“But . . . somebody must have been watching, even at the side door.”
“Just some of the household staff,” Emmaline said with a dismissive wave of her manicured hand.
“Won’t they—?”
She shrugged again. “By the time anybody pieces any of it together, we’ll be halfway across the Atlantic. I left a note for Papa, apologizing and explaining that I’m safe and sound, and telling him and Mother not to worry.”
Granger made a face, as though that was unlikely, and asked, “What about Tabitha?”
“Oh, I’ve got plans for her,” Emmaline said with a smile. “As soon as the furor dies down, she’ll be joining us.”
“Us?” he echoed, finding that he liked the sound of it—yet uncertain exactly what it meant. “Then . . . you’re planning on staying in New York for a while?”
She said something he didn’t hear. At least, he didn’t think he had heard it right.
“What was that?” he called. “The motor’s drowning out your voice. It almost sounded like you said . . .”
She raised her voice. “I said, I’m planning on staying forever.”
“Forever?”
Somehow, forever had never entered his mind.
Forever was . . .
Well, it was forever.
How could Princess Emmaline possibly think that she could hide in his apartment forever? The place was more than spacious, but . . .
Well, sooner or later, she’d have to go outside. And it wasn’t exactly as though she would be inconspicuous when she did. After all, a princess couldn’t just disappear into thin air, no matter what she had convinced Tabitha to report when the empty carriage arrived at the abbey.
Didn’t she realize the whole world would be searching for her?
And that even if the hubbub died down eventually, she would still have one of the most famous, recognizable faces in the world?
Granger cleared his throat. “Emmaline, we really have to talk.”
Some emotion he didn’t recognize flickered in her eyes, and then was gone. “You’re right,” she said, her voice raised above the whirring motor. “We do have to talk. But not like this. Not shouting at each other.”
“On the plane back to New York, then,” he suggested.
One of Lockwood Enterprises’ corporate jets was waiting for them in Paris. Grandfather had no idea, of course, and he would be furious when he found out. As far as the old man was concerned, Granger had lost any claim to such perks the moment he resigned. But nobody at the company knew about that yet, and nobody had batted an eye when he made the arrangement for the round-trip overseas flight.
“Oh, I think our talk should wait until we get settled at your place,” Emmaline told him decisively. “There’s quite a bit to discuss.”
Something about her cryptic expression sent an uneasy ripple through him.
Surely Emmaline didn’t think . . .
Well, she had just left one groom at the altar. She cou
ldn’t possibly want another right away . . . could she?
Of course not. You told her she should be marrying for love . . . and she isn’t in love with you, he reminded himself. Nor was he in love with her.
Not that he couldn’t fall in love with a woman like her . . . when and if he was ready for marriage.
But he had just extracted himself from the shackles that had bound him from the day he was born. This was his chance to live life on his terms. He was finally free.
And so was Emmaline, he reminded himself.
He was worrying for nothing. The last thing she would want now was to settle down.
The last thing Prince Remi wanted was to see his bride walking down the aisle toward him. Yet the moment loomed ominously closer with every tick of the large clock on the mantel in the minister’s cavernous study behind the abbey.
Remi was supposed to be enjoying some solitary, contemplative time here before being summoned to the altar. Instead, he had spent the last half hour feeling as though his white bow tie were a noose. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow, and was sure that when the time came to utter his vows, he wouldn’t be able to speak, either.
That, of course, would never do. The entire world was waiting to see him marry the fair Princess Emmaline of Verdunia.
And he wanted to marry her . . .
Rather, he wanted to want to marry her.
He had assumed that the idea would grow on him. Hadn’t Father promised that was what would happen? Wasn’t that why Father had shared with him the story about his own arranged marriage to Mother?
King Thierry had told his son that he hadn’t been in love with Queen Cecile during their engagement—or even on their wedding day thirty-some years ago. But, Father had said, his lukewarm feelings for his bride had gradually flamed into full-blown love.
As for Remi—he seemed to have gone from lukewarm to full-blown cold feet overnight.
It wasn’t that he didn’t find Emmaline lovable. She was beautiful, and intelligent, and charming. In fact, they got along very well, unless they were discussing music or literature, where their tastes differed dramatically. He preferred classical composers and the classics, while Emmaline adored rock music and best-sellers.
A Thoroughly Modern Princess Page 6