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They didn’t.
She was a princess; was it so wrong to hope for a prince who lived up to her expectations, not some personification of self-indulgence and sloth such as Reginald? The prince’s escapades were well-known. His face had graced covers of People magazine, not to mention that the tabloids loved him. She frowned to herself. Not exactly the prince she’d hoped for.
And this, Amelia thought darkly as she picked her way through a passageway where the shrubs were as tall as trees, giving her a measure of solitude, was what she’d been saving herself for all these years. This was why she’d remained a virgin in a day and age when abstinence and virtue were not so highly prized as they once had been. In some circles, virginity was even viewed with skepticism and no small amount of pity.
She’d done it by choice, and she felt cheated. Royally. Pun intended, she thought, her lips twisting in a self-deprecating smile.
Involved in numerous charities and educational programs throughout Gastonia as well as in matters of state, she was acutely aware of the fact that she hadn’t really lived life to the fullest. Not where it counted, she thought ruefully. She’d traveled the world over and was still sheltered.
How could she love her people, be compassionate, if she’d never experienced real love herself? If she’d never wanted to give of herself until there was nothing left to give?
She wished now that she had been a little freer, a little more resourceful where her own pleasures were concerned. She knew of a great many high-born girls who’d been ingenious when it came to satisfying their curiosity and their appetites.
But that was just it. She’d wanted it to mean something. She hadn’t wanted the experience just to have it. She’d wanted it to be something to remember to the end of her days. And now, what she was going to remember was that horrible rutting animal mounting her. Probably issuing orders to her while he did it.
It made her want to run away. It made her want to have an affair, however brief.
She sighed, shaking her head. She knew better than that. She was the Princess Amelia and no more able to have an affair than pigs could fly. Especially not only days away from her wedding.
Oh, well, maybe she was being too hard on Reginald. Maybe he’d changed. Maybe he had gotten all the wildness out of his system and would be the good, decent husband and ruler she was praying for.
And maybe, just maybe, she thought as she turned around and began to walk back toward the palace, hell would freeze over before her wedding day. The odds, she knew, were more in favor of the latter than the former.
Chapter 2
The soft ticking of the antique clock that had once belonged to her grandmother seemed to fill the spacious bedroom, nestling into the corners and gently stroking the shadows. The sound became more audible with every passing moment.
Amelia couldn’t sleep. Try as she might to will herself into an unconscious state, she couldn’t achieve it. Usually, all she needed to do was close her eyes and, within moments, she would drift off. On those rare occasions when sleep initially eluded her, she’d employ little tricks to render her mind blank, enabling her to fall asleep.
But reading hadn’t helped. She’d gone through five chapters of the book she kept on her nightstand and was now more wide awake than ever. Silently singing the same refrain over and over again in her mind didn’t work, either. Amelia felt frustrated. That self-hypnotic trick had always worked before.
But then, she’d never been in this position before. Never suffered through a night-before-she-was-to-meet-with-the-man-who-was-going-to-take-her-to-the-rest-of-her-life before. Because that was what it was. Carrington was coming to take her to her destiny. A destiny she neither remotely liked nor wanted.
Sitting up, Amelia unconsciously doubled her hands into fists. If she had any courage at all, she’d just turn her back on everything and run away. Go to America and avail herself of all the wondrous opportunities that existed there. America, where no one was a princess.
Except perhaps in the eyes of the man who loved her.
Something else she was never going to find out about, she thought glumly. What it felt like to be loved. Because Reginald certainly didn’t love her. And she didn’t love him, either. Never had. Never would.
Amelia sighed, dragging her hand through the blond hair that came cascading down about her face and pushing it back. No, running away would be the coward’s way out. Cowards turned their backs on responsibilities and did what they wanted to, what was easier, what was more appealing. And above everything else, she had been raised not to be a coward. Meeting her destiny, that was what took courage. And she was going to have to dig deep to find hers.
Frowning, Amelia kicked off the covers, slid her slippers on and got off the wide, king-size bed. Because the nights in Gastonia were still cool, even though this was April, she slipped on her dressing gown, covering the very short nightgown that she favored. Tying it securely at her waist, she decided that she desperately needed to get some air.
More than that, she needed to walk around her garden, even though she’d just been there hours earlier. The time for walks in her beloved garden would soon be behind her, but right now, she was still the Princess of Gastonia, not yet the Queen of Silvershire. And this was still her home.
No, Amelia corrected herself as she slipped quietly down the back stairs, holding to the shadows and taking care not to run into anyone, this would always be her home. Nothing would ever change that.
Of the two countries, Silvershire was the bigger, more powerful, more impressive one. But it was Gastonia that was the more charming of the two. And it was decidedly not as backward as she knew Prince Reginald undoubtedly thought it was.
The strides the kingdom had taken were all due to her father. Oh, the country still had its charming seaside shops and internationally famous restaurants, as well as its grand hotels and the casinos that always drew in tourists by the droves. But Gastonia had also become an important industrial country producing, among other things, the very expensive, very alluring and highly reliable Gaston, an automobile reminiscent of yesterday’s romantic vehicles, with cutting-edge technology beneath the hood that had been perfected by one of their own engineers.
Her father was indirectly responsible for the Gaston as well as for the country’s modernization. It was he who had raised the caliber of education within Gastonia, funding programs, bringing in men of letters and science to teach at Roman University, the institution that bore his name. Students no longer left the country in pursuit of higher degrees, they attained them here, in Gastonia. And then went on to give back what they had learned.
Amelia wondered if Gastonia’s advancements were an allure for Reginald. Heaven knew the prince wasn’t the type of man to be herded into an arranged marriage without feeling he was getting something out of the bargain. He probably saw his personal bank account swelling if and when he thought of the marriage at all.
The Gaston was currently all the rage in Europe. Granted, her father did not believe in the government owning the companies within its borders and to his credit, neither did Silvershire’s King Weston, but she had an uneasy feeling that her future husband was not nearly so noble. He might want to change that, might want to put the money from the car company’s coffers into his own pockets.
Bypassing the main hallway, Amelia pressed her lips together. It was going to be up to her to make sure that Reginald became noble. Or, at the very least, it would be up to her to ameliorate whatever black thoughts the prince might have about raping her countrymen and helping himself to the profits that were being made. Her heart felt heavy in her chest.
Opening the terrace doors, she slipped outside and hurried down the steps. Only when she reached the garden with its tall shrubs standing like silent, dark green sentries did she slow down.
She still felt as if she were running from something, because, in effect, she was, although she knew that in reality, there was no running away from what had to be.
As she began to walk the grounds, she waited for a sense of peace to embrace her. She waited in vain. Peace continued to elude her.
What were the chances that all this was merely a bad dream? That she’d wake up an ordinary person who’d just experienced an epic nightmare? Or, at the very least, that Reginald had changed his mind about marrying her, or, better still, had gotten lost forever while on some safari deep in the heart of the African jungle?
Amelia’s generous mouth curved in a mocking smile. She was really beginning to sound like a desperate loon. Her fate was sealed, she might as well accept it.
She glanced back toward the palace. How had she managed to get this far from the terrace so quickly? Maybe it was time to—
Amelia stopped.
She could have sworn she’d heard something. A noise. Footsteps. Holding very still, her breath lodged in her chest, she cocked her head and listened intently.
And heard the noise again.
There was someone out here.
Her father had left that evening on business, so it wasn’t him that she heard. The king had told her that he wouldn’t be back until morning. When her father had left, he’d assured her that he would return well before Lord Carrington was scheduled to arrive at Gastonia’s only airport.
It was a little after midnight and she felt it safe to assume that everyone who worked in the palace had retired to their own lives for the remainder of the night. Who did that leave?
She stiffened. There it was again. Rustling. Someone brushing against the shrubs that were directly on the other side of the ones she was facing. She was sure of it.
Since there was no sound of soft laughter or lowered voices exchanging endearments, Amelia knew that whoever she heard couldn’t be any of the palace’s younger employees sneaking a moment to share the grounds with someone special.
It had to be an intruder.
A chill ran down her back. How had he gotten past the palace security?
Her heart began to hammer quickly. Her father would have ordered her to hurry back to the palace before whoever had managed to get on the grounds saw her.
But her father had also been the one to see to it that she had extensive training in self-defense, telling her that in the end, all one had was oneself to rely on. She wasn’t going to turn tail and run. This was her home, damn it, and no one was going to make her fearful while she was here.
With a rush of adrenaline, Amelia charged around the shrubs, uttering something akin to a war cry that had been designed by her trainer to help empower her and increase her adrenaline while intimidating whoever was on the receiving end.
The man who turned around to see her coming at him a second before she tackled him was tall. His muscular frame was clothed entirely in black. Like a burglar.
She’d meant to knock him down, to, at the very least, knock the wind out of him. And she succeeded.
Partially.
What she hadn’t counted on was that at the last moment, the man in black would grab her wrist. When he went down, he took her with him.
The air drained out of her lungs as she was yanked down. Her head made contact with his chin. She wasn’t sure who got the worst of it.
Within moments of her hastily devised attack, Amelia found herself sprawled out on top of the intruder, stars swirling through her head, her face a mere three inches away from his. If that.
If the intruder was surprised or dazed, it was for less than a heartbeat. And since hers was beating in a tempo that made “The Flight of the Bumblebee” sound like a tune being played in slow motion, the registry of the intruder’s emotion came and went in something less than could be calibrated by any earthly means.
And then she heard the laugh. Deep, rich, full and completely all-encompassing. A laugh that drenched whoever heard it with liquid waves of warmth. A laugh out of her past.
Amelia blinked. She stared down at the face of the man beneath her. A man who might or might not be an intruder but who definitely was having a reaction, not to what had just transpired, but to what was happening this very moment. The very intimate contact of their bodies.
The ends of her robe were spread out on either side like the giant wings of a bird and the scrap of silk beneath seemed not to be there at all. Every inch of his rocklike body was imprinted against hers. And she was achingly aware of it.
Gastonia’s cool night breeze faded instantly, all but fried in the face of the heat that was traveling up and down her body like white lightning, desperately searching for a target.
“Russell.” Her voice sounded hoarse to her ears.
The smile that slipped along his lips was positively wicked. He made no effort to move or rectify the situation. “At your service, princess.”
As if somewhere someone had magically snapped their fingers, Amelia scrambled to her feet, vainly trying to regain her composure. Not an easy feat when her entire body felt as if it were vibrating like a tuning fork struck against a goblet filled to the brim with subtly aged red wine.
She tugged the ends of her robe together. Her insides were still trembling, but she noticed thankfully that her hands were steady enough.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
Russell rose to his feet in a fluid motion she envied. “Apparently being knocked off my feet by a blazing ball of fire.” He casually brushed himself off. Humor never left his lips. And his eyes never left hers.
The trembling had stopped. But she couldn’t get her body to stop tingling. This was like old times, she thought. Except that instead of a water balloon, she’d been hit by Russell. Sort of.
She was a woman now, not a child. Forming coherent words should not be an insurmountable effort for her.
Taking a breath, Amelia managed to restore a measure of dignity to the moment. “I mean, you weren’t due until tomorrow.”
How had he managed to sneak into the country? Just how lax was security at the airport? She made a mental note to speak to her father.
Her father.
Her eyes widened as she remembered. “My father had a ceremony all in place to greet you at the airport.”
If the information was meant to evoke remorse from the tall man before her, it failed. He gave her his trademark lopsided smile. The same one that had made her adolescent heart secretly flutter.
“Which is why,” he told her, “I came in early this evening.”
She knew what Reginald thought of Gastonia and the crown. Did his chief political advisor and cohort share that view? Her eyes narrowed as a wave of protectiveness passed over her. “To humiliate my father?”
He made no effort at denial. He thought her intelligent enough to know that none was needed. “To avoid attention.”
Still smarting from Reginald’s high-handed snub, she looked for the insult in Russell’s actions. “Why? Are you ashamed to have to come to bring me back to your prince, Lord Carrington?”
She was being formal. Somehow, he hadn’t expected her to be. He’d expected her, he supposed, to be exactly the way she’d been the last time he’d seen her. Sweet. Unassuming. And open.
But nothing in life, Russell reminded himself, stayed the same. Things changed, they evolved or they died. There didn’t seem to be any other choice.
He saw the way her mouth curved, saw the displeasure when she uttered Reginald’s title. It was obvious that the princess was no happier about the union than Reginald was. And in her case, Russell couldn’t blame her. At least Reginald was getting a beautiful woman. All Amelia was getting, beyond a treaty, was an egotistical, self-indulgent, power-hungry, spoiled brat of a man who seemed too besotted with his womanizing way of life to appreciate even marginally what he was being handed on a silver platter.
“No,” he answered her question quietly, “I’m not ashamed to be the one to bring you back to Silvershire. I just don’t care for any kind of unnecessary fanfare. Unlike the prince, I never really liked being in the spotlight, however briefly.”
The moon was full tonight and its silvery light was caressing the man standing before her. Amelia realized that she’d stopped breathing only when her lungs began to ache. As subtly as she could, she drew in a long breath.
“Then perhaps political advisor shouldn’t have been your first choice of a career, Carrington.”
“It wasn’t. But my father couldn’t see his way clear to his only son being a beachcomber. And I liked it better when you called me Russell. No fanfare,” he reminded her.
“No fanfare,” she repeated with a nod, then forced her mind back on the conversation and not on the fact that somehow, during the years since she had last seen him, Russell had come into the possession of a very muscular-looking body. “Beachcomber,” she echoed. “Do they still have that sort of thing?”
He laughed. The moonlight wove through her hair, turning it the color of pale wheat. He caught himself just before he began to raise his hand to touch it. He’d been sent to bring her back, not to familiarize himself with the packaging. “If I had anything to say about it, they would.”
God help her, she could see him, lying on the beach, wearing the briefest of bathing suits, the tide bringing the waves just up to his toes, gently lapping his tanned skin.
She had to swallow twice to counteract the dryness in her mouth. It was a credit to her breeding and training that she could continue without dropping the thread of the conversation.
“Seriously, if you don’t like the attention, Russell,” she emphasized his name and he nodded with a smile in response, sending her pulse up another notch, “there had to be something else that you could have become.”
He shook his head. He knew better. “Not with my lineage. Besides, someone needs to be there to temper the prince.”
She looked at him for a long moment. There was more to the man than just practical jokes and devastating good looks. Or was he ultimately cut out of the same cloth as Reginald and just bragging?
“And you can do that?”
Russell heard the skepticism in her voice. Not that he blamed her. He had no reputation by choice. Reginald’s was international.
“I have a modest success rate, but in comparison, it’s still better than anyone else’s.” He didn’t want to talk about Reginald. Not tonight. There was more than enough time for that later. He looked at her, thinking about what she had just done. “You thought I was an intruder.”
“Yes, obviously.” As she moved her shoulder, the robe began to slip off. She tugged it back into place, aware that he had looked at the exposed area. That he was still looking. She felt naked. And unashamed at the same time.
“Why didn’t you get someone from security?” Russell asked.
Pride had her lifting her chin defiantly. She wasn’t a helpless little girl anymore. “Because I could handle it myself.”
She hadn’t struck him as being reckless, but tackling him like that hadn’t been the act of a intelligent person. “You’re the princess,” he pointed out. “It doesn’t behoove you to take chances.”
Amelia rolled her eyes. Was he like all the rest of them? Why wouldn’t he be? she challenged silently. He was part of Reginald’s inner circle. “Oh, please, no lectures.” And then she sighed. It was a losing battle. “Or if you feel you simply must, take a number. There are a few people ahead of you.”
“Such as?”
