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Royal Weddings: The Reluctant Princess / Princess Dottie / The Royal MacAllister
Lucy Gordon
Christine Rimmer
Joan Elliott Pickart
The Reluctant Princess by Christine Rimmer Elli Thorson, displaced princess, was surprised at the sight of the handsome man in her apartment. Hauk FitzWyborn, the king’s right-hand man, said he’d come by order of her father, the king – to bring Elli home by any means possible. And the idea of a journey with this ‘warrior’ was strangely appealing…Princess Dottie by Lucy Gordon Prince Randolph would do anything to save his precious country. He’d given up the throne, tracked down a long lost heiress and transformed her from a street-smart waitress into royalty. No sacrifice was too great…except maybe falling in love with the haughty sovereign he’d helped create!The Royal MacAllister by Joan Elliott Pickart Duty demanded Alice MacAllister attend a two-week wedding party. There, Alice met handsome, irreverent royal Brent Bardow. For two short weeks they could laugh, love and ignore the future. But Alice couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to be this magnificent man’s royal bride…
ROYAL WEDDINGS
The Reluctant Princess
CHRISTINE RIMMER
Princess Dottie
LUCY GORDON
The Royal MacAllister
JOAN ELLIOTT PICKART
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
The Reluctant Princess
CHRISTINE RIMMER
CHRISTINE RIMMER
came to her profession the long way around. Before settling down to write about the magic of romance, she’d been an actress, a sales assistant, a caretaker, a model, a phone sales representative, a teacher, a waitress, a playwright and an office manager. She insists she never had a problem keeping a job – she was merely gaining “life experience” for her future as a novelist. Christine is grateful not only for the joy she finds in writing, but for what waits when the day’s work is through: a man she loves, who loves her right back, and the privilege of watching their children grow and change day to day. She lives with her family in Oklahoma, USA.
This one’s for you, Susan Mallery, because you
are not only a fabulous writer and most terrific
friend, you can also plot circles around the best
of them and you know when to give encouragement
and when to come out with the gentle
reminder that passion is everything.
Chapter One
A Viking was the last thing Elli Thorson expected to find in her living room on that sunny afternoon in early May.
At a few minutes after five that day, Elli parked her little silver BMW in her space behind her building and got her two bags of groceries out of the trunk. She’d had the checker bag her purchases in paper because she was short on paper bags. Possibly, if she’d gone ahead and taken plastic, everything would have turned out differently.
With plastic, she would have been carrying the bags low, by the handles. There’d have been nothing in the way of her vision. She’d have seen the Viking before she shut the door to the landing with both of them on the same side of it. Maybe, with the door standing open, there would have been at least a chance of escaping him.
When she got up the stairs to her apartment, she was carrying the bags high in her arms, with her purse looped over her left elbow and her key ready in her right hand. Maybe if she hadn’t been ready with the key—if she’d set the bags down, dug around in her purse, and opened the door before picking the bags up again…
But she didn’t set the bags down. She had her key ready. And on such small choices, the course of a life can depend.
Elli braced the right-hand bag against the door. That freed her hand just enough to work the top lock. Then, by bending her knees and twisting sideways a fraction, she was able to slip the key into the bottom lock and get it open, too. She pushed the door inward, juggling the bags back to where she had a firm grip on them from underneath.
Her apartment had a small entry area—a square of floor, really—between the living room and the kitchen. Elli spun over the threshold. A quick nudge of her heel as she turned to the right and the door swung shut and latched. Her cute little butcher-block kitchen table was right there. She slid the bags onto it.
“Ta-da!” With a flourish, she dropped her keys and purse beside the bags and spun back toward the living area.
That was when she saw him.
He stood in her living room. A man dressed all in black—black slacks, black boots, muscle-hugging black T-shirt. He was blond and scarred and stone-faced—and big. Very, very big.
Elli was no midget herself. She stood five-eleven in bare feet. But this man topped her by several inches. And all of him was broad and hard and thick with muscle. The sheer size of him was scary, even if he hadn’t been standing right there in the middle of her living room, uninvited, unexpected and unwelcome in the extreme.
The sight of him so shocked her that she jumped back and let out a shriek.
The man, gazing so calmly at her through piercing gray-blue eyes, fisted a hand and laid it on his chest, right over his heart. “Princess Elli, I bring greetings from your father, King Osrik of Gullandria.” His voice was deep and sonorous, his tone grave.
It was then, when he called her Princess Elli, that she realized he was, in reality, a Viking and not some buff burglar she’d just caught in the act. He was a Viking because that was what they were, essentially—the people of Gullandria.
Gullandria. Though Elli had been born there, the place had always seemed to her like something from a fairy tale, a barely remembered bedtime story told to her by her mother.
But Gullandria was real enough. It was an island shaped roughly like a heart that could be found between the Shetlands and Norway, in the Norwegian Sea—a tiny pocket of the world where the ways of the legendary Norsemen still held sway.
Elli’s mother, Ingrid Freyasdahl, had been eighteen when she married Osrik Thorson, who shortly thereafter became king of that land. Five years later, Ingrid left the king forever, taking her tiny triplet daughters and returning to California where she’d been born and raised. It had been a big scandal at the time—and now and then the old story still cropped up in tabloid magazines. In those magazines, her mother was always referred to as the Runaway Gullandrian Queen.
Elli’s heart was beating way too fast. So what if her father had sent this man? She had no memory of her father. She knew only what her mother had told her and what she’d read in those occasional absurd scandal-sheet exposés. Osrik Thorson seemed no more real to her than the mythical-sounding country where he ruled.
She demanded, “How did you get in here?”
The intruder opened his fist and extended his massive hand, palm out, in a salute. Tattooed in the heart of that hand was a gold-and-blue lightning bolt. “Hauk FitzWyborn, the king’s warrior, bloodsworn to your father, His Majesty, King Osrik of the House of Thor. I am at your service, Princess.”
She resisted the urge to shrink back from that giant hand and boldly taunted, “Was that my question? I don’t think that was my question.”
The huge man looked somewhat pained. “It seemed wiser, Your Highness, to be waiting for you inside.”
“Wiser than knocking on my door like any normal, civilized human being?”
In answer to that, she got a fractional nod of his big blond head.
“Here in America, what you did is called breaking and entering. What’s wise about that?”
This time the fractional move was a shrug.
Elli’s mind raced. She felt threatened, boxed in—and at the same time determined that this oversize interloper would not see her fear.
She looked at him sideways. “You said you were at my service.”
“I am bloodsworn to your father. That means I serve you, as well.”
“Great. To serve me best, you can get out of my apartment.”
He had those bulging, tendon-ridged arms crossed over that enormous chest and he didn’t look as if he was going anywhere. He said, “Your father wishes your presence at court. He wishes to see you, to speak with you. He has…important matters to discuss with you.”
This was all so insulting. Elli felt her cheeks burning. “My father has made zero effort over the years to get in touch with me. What is so important that I have to drop everything and rush to see him now?”
“Allow me to take you to him. His Majesty will explain all.”
“Listen. Listen very carefully.” Elli employed the same patient, firm tone she often used on stubborn five-year-olds in her class of kindergartners. “I want you to return to Gullandria. When you get there, you can tell my father that if he suddenly just has to speak with me, he can pick up the phone and call me. Once he’s told me what’s going on, I’ll decide whether I’m willing to go see him or not.”
The Viking’s frown deepened. Evidently, he found the disparity between her wishes and his orders vaguely troubling. But not troubling enough to get him to give up and go. “You will pack now, Princess,” he intoned. “Necessities only. All your needs will be provided for at Isenhalla.”
Isenhalla. Ice hall. The silver-slate palace of Gullandrian kings….
Truly, truly weird. A Viking in her living room. A Viking who thought he was taking her to her father’s palace. “I guess you haven’t been listening. I said, I am going nowhere with you and you are trespassing. I want you to leave.”
“You will pack now, please.” Those flinty eyes seemed to see right through her and that amazingly square jaw looked set in granite.
Elli repeated, more strongly than the first time, “I said, I want you to leave.”
“And once you are packed, I will do as you say. We will leave together.”
There was a silence—a loaded one. She glared at him and he stared, unblinking, back at her. From outside, she heard ordinary, everyday sounds: birds singing, the honk of a horn, a leaf blower starting up, a siren somewhere far off in the distance.
Those sounds had the strangest effect on her. They made her want to burst into tears. Though they were right outside her door, those sounds, all at once, seemed lost to her.
Lost…
The word made her think of the brothers she had never known. There had been two of them, Kylan and Valbrand. Kylan had died as a young child. But Valbrand had grown up in Gullandria with their father, the king. Over the years, she and her sisters had talked about what it might be like to meet their surviving brother someday, to get to know him.
But that would never happen now.
Valbrand was dead, too. Like Kylan.
And were her brothers the key to what was happening here? Her father had no sons anymore. And without a son, maybe his thrown-away daughters had value to him now—whether they wanted anything to do with him, or not.
Yes. She supposed that made sense—or it would make sense if she could even be certain that this Viking had been sent by her father in the first place.
Maybe this was a trick. Maybe this man had been sent by an enemy of her father’s. Or maybe he was simply a criminal, as she’d assumed at first. But instead of robbing her apartment, he was here to take her hostage. He’d haul her out of here and hold her prisoner and her mother would be getting a ransom note….
Oh, she didn’t know. How could she know? This was all so confusing.
And whatever the reasons for the Viking in her living room, there could be no more denials. Elli could see it, shining there, in those unwavering pale eyes. Hauk FitzWyborn—who called himself the king’s warrior, who said he was blood-something-or-other to her father—might be at her service, but only if her desires didn’t conflict with whatever orders he’d been given. He intended to take her…somewhere. And wherever that somewhere actually was, he meant to take her today—whether she agreed to go or not.
The bottom line: this was a kidnapping and Elli was the kidnappee.
Oh, what was she thinking—to have stood here and argued with him? She should have hit the door running at the sight of him.
Maybe she could still escape—if she moved fast enough.
She spun for the door.
And she made it. She had the doorknob in her hand.
But she never got a chance to turn it.
With stunning speed for such a big man, he was upon her, wrapping those bulging, scarred arms around her. It was like being engulfed by a warm boulder. She cried out—once. And then a massive hand covered her mouth and nose.
That hand held a soft cloth, a cloth that smelled sharp and bitter.
Drugged. He had drugged her….
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” she heard him whisper.
And the world went black.
Chapter Two
Hauk looked down at the princess in his arms.
She was slim, but not small, with long, graceful bones and surprisingly large, ripe-looking breasts, the kind of breasts that would serve equally to please a man and nourish the children he gave her. Her mouth was full-lipped—and silent, at the moment. Silent and lax.
The compliant one, his lord had called her. And compliant she was—now. The drug had made her so. But Hauk had looked deep into those fjord-blue eyes. He’d seen the steel at the core. If his lord hoped this one might be yielding when conscious, he was in for an unpleasant surprise.
“Bring her to me,” Hauk’s lord had instructed. “Tell her that her father would like to see her, to speak with her. Say that her father has many thingsto say to her and will explain all as soon as he can talk to her. Try to coax her to come with you willingly. My spies tell me that of the three, she is by far the most compliant.”
Hauk had sworn to do as his lord commanded. “And if she should refuse, in the end, to accompany me?”
There had been a silence. A silence that spoke volumes. Finally his lord had said quietly, “Her refusal is not an option. I wish you to bring her. But please. Treat her gently.”
Shaking his head, Hauk carried the woman to the couch against the inner wall. Coaxing was for courtiers, he thought as he carefully laid her down. He tucked a bright-colored pillow beneath her head so her neck would not be strained into an uncomfortable position. Then he slipped off her low-heeled shoes and smoothed her skirt modestly over those pretty knees.
He stood back and stared down at her, considering. The drug would wear off shortly. She would not be pleased when she woke, and she would make her displeasure known. He should disable her now.
But he hated to do it. She looked so sweet and peaceful, lying there.
With some regret, he went for the duffel bag he’d left behind the chair across the room. From it, he took lengths of soft, strong rope and a kerchief-sized gag.
Carefully, he turned the princess on her side, so she was facing the wall.
He was good with knots. It took only a few minutes to bind her wrists behind her, to tie her knees together, and her slim ankles, as well. He ran an extra length of rope down her back, connecting the ropes at wrist and ankle, bending her knees slightly, drawing her feet up and back.
Perhaps the final rope, which would gradually pull tighter with resistance, was overkill. But he couldn’t afford to take any chances. She would be angry when she woke and ready for a fight, ready to do anything in her power to escape. It was his job to see that she had no power. He tied the gag firmly in place, taking care to smooth the softly curling wheat-colored hair out of her face so none of the strands were caught in her eyes or her mouth.
The binding accomplished, he stood back from her again.
