A Thoroughly Modern Princess

by Wendy Markham

  Granger had gone out—where, she had no idea. She had been in the tiny, windowless bathroom, throwing up, when he left. He had called out something, but it was muffled by the closed door and the ever-present street sounds, and she hadn’t bothered to ask him to repeat it. She didn’t care where he was going, grateful to have some time alone to collect her thoughts.

  Alone, that was, except for the dogs. Though Newman still persisted in sniffing her crotch from time to time, he seemed to be getting used to Emmaline’s presence. Kramer, too. And she was actually getting used to them, too—though their dog breath was enough to make her gag whenever they exhaled in the vicinity of her nose.

  She had decided against calling Papa just yet. For one thing, there was no telephone in the apartment. And Granger had discovered earlier that his grandfather had rendered his cellular phone useless by curtailing service.

  For another thing, Emmaline wasn’t so certain that Papa would be willing to support her here in New York after all. He might demand that she return to Verdunia to face the disgraceful consequences.

  She hugged her stomach as she sat there on the floor, cradling the tiny life within.

  “I have to get you out of here,” she whispered to the baby. “I have to get us both someplace where we can be comfortable, and safe, and . . . and happy.”

  But where?

  If she couldn’t go back to her family in Verdunia . . .

  And she couldn’t stay here with Granger . . .

  Where else was there?

  Who else was there?

  She longed to call somebody who would know what she should do. She yearned for her father’s protective wisdom, for her mother’s sympathetic ear, for Genevieve’s well-padded shoulder and for Tabitha’s sound advice. She even longed for impetuous, irreverent Josephine, who would surely find some humor in Emmaline’s dismal plight.

  And yes, for solid, stolid Remi, who at least had a strong sense of propriety, not to mention the financial means to support her.

  Unlike the disinherited, down-and-out, devil-may-care Granger Lockwood.

  Footsteps promptly sounded outside the door, and a key turned in the lock. As though he had been summoned by her disparaging thoughts, Granger stepped into the studio, laden with shopping bags.

  “I’m back,” he announced, as Newman and Kramer greeted him exuberantly.

  “You don’t say.”

  She couldn’t help noticing that, try as she might, she couldn’t deny that he was infinitely appealing. At least in the physical sense. Far more appealing—five o’clock shadow, rumpled New York Yankee logo T-shirt and all—than solid, stolid Prince Remi would ever be. At least, to her.

  “Are you all right?” Affectionately patting Kramer’s head, he peered down at her.

  “Would you please stop asking me that?”

  “By all means. I’ll add it to my mental list of your complaints. Let’s see . . . I should stop saying the word ‘pregnant.’ I should stop blessing you. I should stop inquiring about your well-being. Is there anything else I should stop?”

  “Yes. Please stop . . . just stop being so . . .”

  “So what?” He plopped his plastic shopping bags on the floor and closed the door with a kick of his white Nike sneaker.

  “So . . .” She searched, frustrated, and settled for “So American.”

  “Sure.” He looked amused and asked, in flawless French, “What would you like me to be?”

  She harnessed a smile that threatened to burst forth and disrupt her steely glare. “Not French,” she told him.

  “But I’m fluent.”

  She shrugged, to show him that she wasn’t impressed. She was fluent, too. In more languages than French and English. All part of breeding for a future monarch.

  “Oh, come on,” Granger said lightly, striking a ridiculous pose. “Picture me in a beret, with the Eiffel Tower in the background and a crusty baguette tucked under my arm.”

  She refused to give way to humor. “You don’t look French.”

  He switched to well-versed Spanish, asking, “Is this better? I could wear a sombrero and make us a pot of chili. Have you ever had chili?”

  “Never. And I’ve no desire to try it,” she said primly. In English. Her English, not flat American English.

  “How about McDonald’s? Ever had McDonald’s? Burgers, fries, shakes . . .”

  “I had a burger once.”

  “At McDonald’s?”

  “No. At a pub. In London.”

  He made a face. “That’s not the same thing. Just like the London tube and the New York subway aren’t the same thing. Here. See for yourself.” He rustled his bags and produced a paper sack, thrusting it at her.

  “What’s this?”

  “Lunch,” he said, looking pleased with himself.

  She opened the bag to look inside, and a delectable aroma wafted out. To her dismay, she found herself salivating.

  The last thing she wanted to do was give him the slightest satisfaction right now, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. She was famished.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Try a fry.”

  She reached into the paper bag and took out a french fry.

  Newman materialized, nosing his way in with a hungry sniff.

  “Get over here, Newman,” Granger said. “This is for you. You, too, Kramer.”

  As Granger dumped a couple of cans of dog food into plastic bowls, Emmaline gobbled down the french fry. And then another. And then two. And then five, all at once.

  “They’re better with ketchup,” Granger informed her, sitting beside her and opening another paper bag. “Here.” He passed her several red and white packets.

  “Try the Big Mac,” he urged.

  She was already biting into the burger, and was immediately certain that it was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted.

  “I didn’t know whether you liked chocolate shakes or vanilla,” he said, looking pleased with himself as he watched her indulge, “so I got you one of each.”

  To Granger’s utter delight—and Emmaline’s utter shock—she actually drank both shakes.

  And in between satisfying slurps through a pair of plastic straws, she ate all the french fries, polished off the entire Big Mac, then worked her way through a cardboard container of something called Chicken McNuggets, which were luscious when dipped into barbecue sauce that came in a small foil-topped packet. For dessert, she had an apple pie out of a paper box, and it was every bit as scrumptious as a slice of the palace chef’s apple pie à la mode served on royal china with a platinum fork. Perhaps even more scrumptious.

  The more she ate, the better she felt.

  And not just physically.

  “Thank you for the food,” she told Granger, who was sipping the last of his own shake through a straw. “It was kind of you.”

  “Well, I’m a kind kind of guy.”

  She smiled. “Where were you, anyway? Besides McDonald’s.”

  “One of those big discount chain stores. There’s one over on Broadway. I’ve never been in a place like that before.”

  “I haven’t, either. What was it like?”

  “I’ll bring you with me when I go back. They have everything. Cereal, sheets, spatulas, candy bars, televisions . . .”

  “Televisions? Did you buy one?”

  “No.” He shot her a look. “Why?”

  She shrugged. “I just thought it might be good to . . . to see if there’s been anything on the news about . . .”

  “About the runaway princess bride?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you just wondered about that now?” he asked incredulously.

  “I’ve been distracted,” she said. “But I thought it might be on the news—”

  “I hate to break it to you, Princess, but you are the news. The only news.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “Of course I want to know!”

  She watched nervously as he
got to his feet, brushed the crumbs off his wrinkled shorts, and walked over to the heap of shopping bags on the floor. He rummaged through them, pulled something out, and handed it to her.

  She gaped at the tabloid newspaper. Beneath the banner, the front page was encompassed by a large photo of Prince Remi, and a single-word headline in enormous bold black type: JILTED?

  “Oh no,” Emmaline murmured.

  “Oh yes. If you don’t mind my asking . . . what did you expect?”

  “I do mind your asking,” she retorted.

  Conscious of Granger’s eyes on her, she flipped to the story on the next page . . . and realized that the coverage didn’t end there. The next five pages of the newspaper were filled with articles about her and Remi, her disappearance, and the curtailed wedding. There were file photos of her and her parents, of the castle and the abbey. There were diagrams, too: her family tree, the Buironese line of succession, a map showing Verdunia and Buiron, one showing the route the royal coach had taken from the palace to the abbey for the wedding.

  Emmaline flipped back to the first page and scanned the article.

  Apparently Papa hadn’t leaked word to the press that she had vanished willingly. There had been no official palace statement to that effect. But speculation was rampant, with this particular reporter noting that there was no evidence of a massive police investigation—at least, not what one would expect if a princess had met with foul play.

  “Poor Remi,” Emmaline said, swallowing hard and gazing at a particularly endearing photo of her former fiancé, wearing a kilt in the Scottish Highlands.

  “Yes, poor Remi. That skirt doesn’t do a thing for his knees, and the plaid makes him look a bit hippy,” Granger said, peering over her shoulder.

  Emmaline glared at him. “That wasn’t what I meant. And it’s a kilt, not a skirt.”

  To his credit, Granger was immediately contrite. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be joking about this.”

  “No, you shouldn’t.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “Sometimes I don’t know what to say, so I go for the laugh. I guess it’s a defense mechanism.”

  His tone was guileless, but she eyed him suspiciously. He really did appear to be genuine. He reached toward her.

  She flinched when he touched her arm, but he left his hand there. To her consternation, the gesture was comforting. It felt right.

  She gazed down at the page. Her parents looked up at her, their faces frozen in grainy black and white regal smiles.

  “Look, it’s going to be okay,” Granger said. “They’ll forget about you in time.”

  “Mother and Papa?” she asked, irritated that he could even assume such a thing.

  “Of course not. I meant the press. Some new scandal will come along and blow you off the front pages and CNN . . .”

  “It’s been on television, too?” she asked, dismayed. She jostled his hand off her arm.

  “You really do live in a protective bubble, don’t you?” He shook his head. “We’re talking round-the-clock, wall-to-wall coverage, Princess. At least, as of this morning. I haven’t seen a television since we left the penthouse.”

  “You were watching television this morning? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “For one thing, you were sleeping. And for another, I wasn’t sure you’d want to see what was going on. You have enough to worry about.”

  She contemplated that, and tossed the paper aside. “I do, don’t I.”

  He nodded.

  She noticed that his hand was on her arm again. His fingers felt warm and reassuring on her bare skin.

  Earlier she had been grateful when he left her alone.

  Now she was grateful that he was there. She needed him. He was all she had—and the only person on earth who knew her secret.

  But for how long?

  “What if they find me?” she asked in a small voice.

  “The press?”

  “Anyone. Everyone. What if they find me?”

  “They won’t,” he promised. “I’ll hide you.”

  “You can’t hide me forever.”

  “Sure I can.”

  “You don’t look very confident,” she observed.

  “Well, it would be a hell of a lot easier to conceal a fugitive princess if I had money.”

  “Everything is easier with money,” she told him.

  “Not everything.”

  She shrugged. “That’s beside the point.”

  “Not really, Emmaline. Haven’t you ever been the least bit curious about what it’s like to live like regular people do?”

  “Of course I’ve been curious. That doesn’t mean I’m eager to actually go out and do it.”

  “Well, I am,” he said. “Do you know what I bought at that store?”

  “Candy bars?” she asked hopefully.

  “No.” He rattled a plastic shopping bag. “I bought this.”

  “What is it?”

  “You don’t know?”

  She shook her head.

  “Do you care to guess?”

  She eyed the mystery object, which was white plastic and consisted of some sort of handle that was stuck inside a circular cylinder with a flat base.

  “I have no idea,” she concluded.

  “Take a guess.”

  “Please stop playing games.”

  “You’re no fun. It’s a toilet brush,” he said triumphantly, tugging the handle to remove it from the cylinder, and revealing that one end consisted of rows of bristles.

  “A toilet brush?”

  “You’ve never seen one before?”

  “Of course I haven’t.”

  “Let me guess. The servants scrubbed the palace toilets and kept the brushes hidden away from your delicate royal eyes.”

  That was essentially the truth, but she resented his tone. “As if you haven’t been surrounded by servants of your own,” she retorted.

  “You’re right. I have been. But not anymore. Now I’m going to clean my own toilet, with this brush and this special cleaner.” He held up a plastic bottle, admiring it. “See how the bottle neck is curved? That’s so that you can squirt it under the rim of the bowl.”

  “How positively revolutionary.” She yawned and rubbed her aching shoulder blades.

  “Are you tired?”

  “A bit. Though I shouldn’t be, considering how much sleep I got yesterday and last night. It must be a symptom of pregnancy.”

  “Well, you can use this to find out if it is,” Granger said, and rattled his bag again. He handed her an oversized paperback book.

  She examined the title. What to Expect When You’re Expecting. Her lips curved into a smile. “Thank you,” she said, looking up at him. “That was sweet of you.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re going to love the other thing I got you.”

  “What is it?” She looked expectantly at his shopping bags.

  “A bed.”

  “A bed?” she echoed. “Where is it?”

  “It’s going to be delivered any second now. I called that 800 Dial-a-Mattress number they’re always advertising on the radio. I always wondered if it was that simple—one phone call, and a mattress shows up at your door. Apparently it is.”

  And apparently he had always wondered a lot of things that she had never given a moment’s consideration. She stared at him, wondering how he could possibly be so enthusiastic about the mundane details of everyday life. Toilet brushes, and food served in paper wrappings, and box springs . . .

  As far as Emmaline was concerned, she would just as soon snap her fingers and magically find herself back in Chimera at the palace, surrounded by luxury and a willing staff of servants whose only mission in life was to cater to her every whim.

  Right now she would give anything for a massage, a cup of hot tea with honey and lemon, and a freshly fluffed pile of down pillows.

  “When did you say that bed was coming?” she asked, rubbing her aching back.

  “Any second now, so be prepared to duck into the ba
throom and hide while the delivery men are here. I should warn you, though—it’s not exactly a bed.”

  Uh-oh. “It’s not? What is it?”

  “Just a mattress and box spring,” he said, to her immense relief. A mattress and box spring, she could handle.

  “And it’s a twin size,” he went on. “I didn’t want to pay extra for full-sized, considering my limited budget. I figured that would be a waste of space, anyway.”

  Her thoughts darted back to yesterday morning, when she had slept in his arms. Yes, all that king-sized bed had certainly been a waste of space. Was he picturing that, too? Was he insinuating that they would spend the night intimately intertwined in his newly purchased twin bed?

  Somewhere inside her, at the core of her belly, something quivered.

  It was too early for the baby to be moving. It must be something else. Some deep-seated, insatiable desire for Granger Lockwood.

  She realized he had spoken.

  “What was that?” she asked, feeling her cheeks grow warm, thankful that he couldn’t read her thoughts.

  “I said, you can have the bed, of course. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  “Oh . . . you don’t have to do that.” Disappointment coursed through her—yet that was a ludicrous reaction, of course.

  How on earth could she be disappointed? What had she expected? Naturally they wouldn’t be sharing a bed. He had made it more than clear that he wasn’t interested in any kind of relationship with her.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said.

  For a moment she was fearful that he had read her mind.

  Then he said gallantly, “I wouldn’t expect you to sleep on the floor in your condition.”

  Oh. Her condition. She had almost forgotten about that, so preoccupied was she with the very act that had caused the condition.

  She glanced down again at the book in her hand.

  What to Expect When You’re Expecting.

  It would undoubtedly address issues like exhaustion, morning sickness, and labor.

  If only it could tell her what to expect from Granger Lockwood in the next seven months.

  Seven

  Late the next morning, Emmaline emerged from the bathroom, queasy and shaken.