By now, the pub was buzzing. The atmosphere changing.
“The princess . . .”
“Where?”
“There . . . .”
“Pretty . . . looks like one of us . . .”
Maybe that was her advantage. She was one of them.
“Are you her?” A young woman with purple hair and a lip ring stepped forward. “The princess?”
“I am, yes.”
“Please, we just came in for dinner.” Tanner tried to block the woman. “Go back to your table.”
“Wait, Tanner. It’s all right.” Reggie offered the woman her hand. “What’s your name?”
“Jayel Carmichael. I work around the corner at Gilden’s.”
Other patrons started to gather around. Nigel’s low “Keep clear . . . don’t press in too close” went completely ignored.
Reggie drew a mental path to the door if need be, but she saw or felt no threat here.
“What do you think of Hessenberg having a princess, Jayel?”
“Why not, I say. A royal family can do a country a lot of good. Especially a small duchy like us.”
“The governor thinks differently,” came a strong voice behind Reggie.
“Yeah, that blooming governor can get over hisself. He wants to be the one in charge.”
Voices in the pub rose, rumbled, and blended.
“That’s what I say.”
“Well, what of it?” This from a female patron. “He’s a fine man who’s served and loved his country—”
“Was Princess Alice really your grandmother?” Another soft voice interrupted the woman.
“—and knows our culture and laws. I trust the governor.”
“Yes, my great-grandmother was Princess Alice.” Reggie rose up on her toes. “And I do agree with the woman saying the governor has served this country. He does know the laws and culture.”
“So what are you doing here, getting in the blooming way?”
“See there now,”—Jayel stood on a chair, patting down the noise with her hands—“she saved us from being a province to Brighton for the rest of our lives. That’s what she’s doing here.”
“Did you know your great-grammy?” another asked.
“I did.” Reggie turned, trying to line up voices with faces. “She died when I was twelve.”
“She’s real, just like us,” Jayel said with a campaign trail tone. “Got family and hurts, I suspect.”
“Here now, what’s all of this?” A booming voice parted the crowd. “I come for some grub and here’s the princess clogging up the works.”
Keeton Lombard III. “Hello, Mr. Lombard.” Reggie smiled at the older man.
“Your Majesty.” He removed his cap as he bowed. “At your service.” The lines around his eyes appeared deeper than when she met him, but there was a light and vigor in his eyes. “Move aside, chaps, let the princess have a seat.” He reached for a chair behind a man at another table. “You don’t mind, Pembrook, do you?”
“Please, Keeton. Let Mr. Pembrook eat his dinner.”
“Listen to her. Let me have my tea in peace, Lombard.” Mr. Pembrook glared up at her. “I for one agree with the governor. The time for royals has passed.”
Rumblings from the crowd rolled forward.
“Royals are a bother. Drain on state finances—”
“Drain? They provide finances. Tourism and—”
“Tourism?” The man laughed, swearing. “The people have to pay rent to the crown on the very grounds the tourists walk. Tourism? Malarkey!”
“We can make reforms.” Tanner finally joined the conversation. “In the land holdings, how the crown’s property is managed.”
“How about giving it back to the earls who lost their land with the blasted entail?”
“Agreed. We don’t need aristocracy. We’re all equal here, and we have a chance for a fresh start with a fresh government.”
The crowd stirred. Voices of dissension fired between the pub patrons.
“I think having a princess is fabulous.” Jayel pumped her arms as if it might help her emotionally charged argument. “She’s good for us. She comes straight from Prince Francis, the Grand Duke. That should mean something.”
“Here’s what I want to know.” An older man, dressed in a fine-weave suit and a neatly tied tie, appeared between the shoulders of two women. “How are you, an American, going to help us find our identity again? Help us rediscover who we are?”
“Tobias,” Keeton addressed him. “Give the girl some room. She just found out she is a long-lost princess herself.”
“I–I don’t know,” Reggie said. “We can learn together.”
Laughter rippled around the group. She winced. She did sound a bit Sesame Street.
“We’re doing all we can to bring out archives, Mr. . . .” Tanner offered his hand but the man didn’t take it.
“Horowitz. Tobias Horowitz. Archives don’t answer my question. Can the princess help us find our identity,”—he patted his hand over his heart—“who we are in here? Or will Seamus Fitzsimmons be the better one?”
“What do you mean, find our identity?” Tanner released the button on his jacket and loosened his tie. His blue eyes sparked and a red hue covered the high contours of his cheeks. Reggie loved it when his passion tinged his face. The creeping hue was a sure sign he was engaged in the moment. She noticed it when he met her at the airport when she came home, kissing her before he even said hello.
“How is this young bird—” Tobias glanced at Reggie. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
“—going to resurrect what it means to be a Hessen? Remind us of our days of old? Of our pride. Of our history. Of how our parents and grandparents felt.”
“Identity?” Pembrook said. “Horowitz, have you lost your blooming mind? What about our economy?”
And so the room debated—her side, his side, their side, all sides. Even the waitstaff and the barkeepers leaned in to have a say. A tightness in Reggie’s chest twisted around her heart, her lungs, and for a moment she had to work to breathe. See, this was why she hated politics. Everyone had a side and valid reasons for what they believed and why.
Then the first note of a song fluttered across her heart. She tipped her head to one side, trying to listen. Two more notes fluttered past. An old song, from deep in her mind. Three notes played across her mind.
Where had she heard it before? Her first day here? On the radio?
She felt a soft, invisible drop on her head. The same oily sensation she felt in the chapel when she took the Oath of the Throne.
It was as if the Lord was saying, “I’m here. Ask me.”
Okay, what do I do? What do I say?
The melody began to flow, faster until she heard the entire song. Gram’s song. Of course. She used to sing it to her when she was a girl, afraid of the night. Closing her eyes, she pictured herself on Gram’s lap, leaning against her breast, weaving her little fingers through Gram’s soft, weathered ones.
Da-da-da-dum . . . Reggie searched for the lyrics that went with the melody.
She waved at the barkeeper. “Can we turn down the TV?”
“Ian, cut it!” Gemma called across the bar, making a slicing motion at her throat. “Miss, are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m trying to remember something.” She could almost see the words as the melody drifted in and about her heart, her mind.
La-da-da. Moonlight, sunshine, waves upon the shore, all for the homeland, pick up your oar.
Reggie lifted her head and sang out. “Moonlight, sunshine, waves upon the shore . . .”
A rough, gravelly voice joined hers, and when she looked around, Keeton wedged in next to her, his hand on her shoulder. “All for the homeland, pick up your oar.” His rich bass rose and fell with the melody. They sang together, “Man and woman, boy and girl, we’re all meeting down on the Hessen shores.”
She peered at the hovering patrons, urging them to join in, but they stared back with s
tunned expressions. Pembrook’s and Horowitz’s eyes were slick with tears as Reggie and Keeton finished the song.
“La, la, la, la we’re going to the shore. La, la, la, la to dance once more. No more worries, no more cares, we’ll sleep in peace tonight under stars so fair.”
“I say, laddies,” Mr. Horowitz said, clearing the emotion from his voice. “I’ve not heard this song since me own granny rocked me to sleep.”
“I’ve never heard it.” Jayel still stood in the chair, hands on her hips. “Sing it again.”
Mr. Horowitz came around the table, shoving folks aside to join Reggie. “It’s an old Hessenberg evening song called ‘Sleep Tonight.’ He held out his hand to her. “Join me, Your Majesty?” And he stepped up on a free chair.
She took his hand and stood on the chair next to his. When she lowered her hand, Horowitz still held on.
She smiled, her heart overflowing.
If the EU court decided she had to go, fine. But she’d have this moment with these Fence & Anchor patrons forever, when she helped restore some piece of their past, their culture, to their hearts.
“Here we go now.” Mr. Horowitz counted the beat with a conductor’s expertise.
“Moonlight, sunshine, waves upon the shore . . .”
When the song ended, pub patrons erupted with cheers. Keeton Lombard immediately started another round, teaching it to the younger Hessens.
Reggie felt a light hand on her leg. Tanner. “How am I doing?”
He pressed his hand to his chest. “Stealing every heart in this room.”
The pub patrons were about to go another round with the evening song when the pub doors burst open, a mob surging inside, a blend of workers in uniforms, men and women in suits, and policemen trying to control the chaos.
“The EU has delivered their ruling. They sided with the princess and the entail. We’ll be an autocracy in five days with the stroke of her royal pen.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
From the peace of an evening song to mob-riot pandemonium in the span of one breath.
The news of the ruling hit the pub like a tidal wave, exploding over them, knocking them back, then flowing out of the pub with such force, taking the patrons with it. The court’s ruling touched the festering debate in the Hessen people. Even those with no previous opinion were suddenly rabid and vocal.
For Tanner, panic. He’d lost Regina. One moment, he was standing by her, his hand resting gently on her leg. The next, he was pinned against a booth, unable to move. And he could no longer see her in the melee.
“Regina!”
The wave knocked him forward and sucked him out of the pub into the streets, and he was running with the stampede. He didn’t have eyes on Nigel or Jace either, and he prayed one of them had the princess.
“Regina!” The noise shoved his call back to his lips.
He searched for her red head among the crowd, the hot, sticky air pocketing between the rioters, making it hard to breathe. Then he saw her burnished tresses not far ahead.
Calling for her over and over, he jammed, cut, shoved, and pushed his way forward. When he reached her, he cupped his hand on her shoulder. “This way. Come with me.”
The woman screamed, spinning round, jack-hammering Tanner with her fist, dragging a sharp ring across the top of his eye.
“Get off of me.”
Falling back, Tanner pressed his hand to his face, a slithering pain shooting from his eye to the back of his head. He buckled forward, reaching blindly for something, anything, to grab on to. But his feet were caught . . . stumbling . . . tripping.
Floating white orbs flashed and popped in his eye. Finally, his palm landed flat against a streetlamp and he pulled himself upright.
The street noise was deafening. The voices, the horns, the shouts. When he heard an explosion, his heart nearly stopped.
He had to find Regina.
Warm blood oozed down his cheek. He yanked his handkerchief from his breast pocket and pressed it to his wound. A breeze freshened the air from the stench of terror, the sweat and smoke swirling around him. He jumped onto the base of a lamppost.
Lord, help me find her. Not for me. For her. For Hessenberg. Please. Keep her safe.
If he were Regina, where would he go? Think, think . . . Peace began to whisper through his thoughts.
To the car? No, she’d not be able to push against the riot, which was moving with tidal force toward the park.
Melinda House was between here and the park, as was St. John’s and Loudermilk’s Bakery. Places she knew.
Still clinging to the lamppost, Tanner yanked his phone from his pocket, trying to dial Nigel while the mob slammed against his legs and back.
But the security officer didn’t answer. He tried Jace to no avail, then Clarence, who also did not answer.
Tanner left a harried message for Clarence to rouse the entire security team and search for the princess among the rioters, throughout the downtown to the bay to the edges of the city.
Then, jumping down from the lamppost, he ran along the edge of the riot, weaving in and out of the fray, making his way toward St. John’s.
He launched up the portico steps two at a time and burst into the church foyer.
“Regina!”
Through the nave doors and down the thick, carpeted aisle, his footsteps like muffled thunder.
“Regina!” His voice boomeranged around the arched, trumpeted rafters.
At the altar, he stopped running, stopped flitting and panicking, stooping forward with his hands on his knees, filling his lungs. A small drop of blood dotted his shoe.
“Come on, Lord, come on.” The pressure of his prayer intensified the pain around his eye and sent a burning sear over his scalp. “Please . . .”
Tanner wiped the blood from around his eye with his coat sleeve as his phone buzzed in his pocket.
“Louis. Louis, please tell me Regina is with you.”
“I was hoping she was with you. Nigel and Jace rang the office. Said she got swept up in the riot and they lost the princess.”
Tanner exhaled, angry, frustrated. “She’s out there, Louis. Alone and exposed.”
“It’s not good, Tanner. There was an explosion. The details are sketchy, but there’s at least two fatalities.”
Tanner dropped to his knees at the altar as he hung up, breaking the last cords of his deal with God, pleading with him for help. Regina needed him.
Above all, Tanner needed him.
The crowd moved whitewater fast, roaring, swollen with the rains of passion. Terrified, Reggie went limp and flowed with the force of the riot, bodies smashing against bodies, and tried to stay on her feet.
If she tripped or stumbled, or landed on the cobblestone street, she’d never get up. She’d be trampled.
Loud. The throng was so loud. She couldn’t think. Or breathe. Her pulsing adrenaline was beginning to wane, and her legs had become like soft rubber. She felt weak and helpless to keep from eventually falling headlong onto the ground.
Someone smashed into her from behind. Stumbling, tripping, she grabbed at air, searching for something, someone to hold on to. But there was nothing. Tanner.
A broad, strong hand caught hers, snatching her to her feet. Reggie inhaled the fragrance of flour and vanilla instead of Tanner’s scent of rustic floral and spices.
“Hang on to me, miss. You fall, you’ll never get up.” A young man, dressed in white, with a chocolate-stained apron wrapped around his narrow body, anchored her against him.
She tried to work her legs. Weak, so weak. Next to her a woman stumbled and went down.
“Help her . . .” Reggie leaned away from the man. “We . . . have to . . .”
“Keep running. If we stop, we’ll be lost.” The baker manhandled someone crossing in front of them, a foghorn in his hand. “Looks like we’re heading to the park.”
The park grass muffled the stampede and, for the first time, Reggie heard the shrill call of police whistles. There was another explosio
n, and the rioters ducked with a collective awe, smoke billowing over them. Then they rose up and resumed the shouting and running and general frothing of the soul.
The baker tripped but Reggie steadied him. “Come on, we’re in this together.”
SWAT teams with shields and helmets were now running with the riot, surging through people. Flares rocketed, piercing the coming night with fire. Voices rose in a cacophony of spiking and heated sounds with no one message piercing through.
The baker paused with a pinched expression. “I can’t find a way out.”
Reggie glanced back, into the dark face of the mounting riot, her heart a tight fist in her chest. A scream billowed between her ribs and Reggie felt certain that in the next breath, she’d begin flailing, slamming her fists into guts and faces.
Anything to get out of here.
A princess is defined not by her title alone but by how she lives her life.
Another push from behind. A foot smashed down on hers.
Do something, Reggie. Lord, peace! We need your peace.
Sing the song.
The idea hit fast, almost desperate, then settled in her mind.
A smoke bomb exploded in the middle of the park, polluting the air, stinging Reggie’s lungs.
But instead of diffusing the rioters, the tactic only infused them with energy.
Sing the song.
Reggie spotted a park bench and cut a path through the crowd, dragging the baker along with her, Gram’s melody louder and louder in her soul. “Help me up.”
“Stand on the bench? Are you out of your mind, miss?”
“Probably.” Trembling with the ebb and flow of adrenaline, Reggie pressed her hand on his shoulder and launched up onto the bench, facing the riot gathering in the park.
This was crazy. How were they going to hear her? One weak, thin voice against the noise?
Sing the song.
Then, drawing a deep breath, remembering her choir teacher’s admonition to sing from her diaphragm, she sang with her very last breath of courage.
“Moonlight, sunshine, waves against . . . upon . . . the shore . . .”
Her voice warbled, but in her ears, the riot frenzy shifted down a notch.
“La, la, la, la we’re going to the shore.
Princess Ever After (Royal Wedding Series) Page 30