Princess (49 page)

Darius held out one arm, turning toward them all. “My family,” he said, unable to contain his smile, “we have an announcement. . . .”

The celebration had just begun.

HISTORICAL NOTE

On July 31, 1798, Horatio Nelson burned the French fleet in the Bay of Abukir. As a consequence, Napoleon was never able to catch up to British sea power. The lack of a strong fleet posed a continual problem for Napoleon, marking a limit to how far he could extend his power, no matter how victorious his armies were on land.

It seemed an easy enough stretch to imagine for this story’s purposes that Napoleon would seek to ally himself with any country that had a strong navy, especially a country neighboring his native Corsica. Those of you who have read
The
Pirate Prince
may remember how King Lazar of Ascencion came into power with an excellent navy already under his command!

Another aspect of extrapolating this plot from historical facts was that Napoleon’s life was constantly being threatened. My research revealed he even employed body doubles in order to confuse those who wanted him dead. The threat of assassination was an annoying problem for him, but it was the Great Conspiracy that made him really angry. A lone gunman here and there was one matter, but this handful of would-be assassins, he discovered, had been sponsored financially by the British government. Napoleon was so outraged, he vowed to invade England and bring it to its knees. However, his lack of a strong fleet continued to pose a problem. My sources revealed he even considered using hot-air balloons to transport his troops across the English Channel! Instead, he muscled Spain into an alliance and took control of what remained of the once Great Armada. But before he dared launch his invasion, he needed to get rid of his old nemesis, the indomitable Nelson.

Meanwhile, William Pitt was orchestrating the Third Coalition, an alliance of countries uniting to stand against Napoleon, including England, Russia, Austria, and Naples.

Two other pertinent historical facts I used to tie into this story were the mysterious circumstances behind Czar Alexander’s succession to the throne after his mad father’s murder, and Napoleon’s ambition to wed his siblings as well as his stepson to authentic royalty in order to legitimize his growing empire. Eugène Beauharnais, incidentally, ended up marrying a Bavarian princess in 1806. In fact, after Napoleon received the Iron Crown of Lombardy in Milan (there was no assassination attempt there, by the way—pure fiction) he returned to Paris, leaving Eugène in charge as viceroy, though he was barely twenty-five. Eugène is still remembered in Lombardy as an enlightened and benevolent ruler.

Perhaps I owe Princess Pauline Bonaparte Borghese a bit of an apology, but after studying her and learning how she relished her reputation as a femme fatale, I can’t help but think she’d have gotten a kick out of her role as Darius’s unwitting rescuer.

As for Ascencion itself, you won’t find it on any map—it is strictly a kingdom of the imagination. However, I based its topography, climate, and many aspects of its folkways on a blend of those of Corsica and Sicily.

Finally, I learned from the letters of the poet Percy Shelley that the two favored suicide poisons of the day were prussic acid and essential oil of bitter almonds. However, both of these are liquids, and for plot purposes, I needed to equip Darius with a powder. Thus I used arsenic, though this compound did not really become the poison of choice until a decade or so later. I hope the reader will forgive this and other liberties I have taken with history, keeping in mind that in works of the imagination, all else is secondary to the story. At least that’s my opinion!

Thank you for visiting the mythical kingdom of Ascencion with me. I hope you will return again when the royal rogue Prince Rafael, disowned by King Lazar for his rakehell ways, seizes one last chance to prove himself worthy of the crown in King Lazar’s absence.

Naturally, the moment he comes to power, all hell breaks loose on Ascencion.

The power-mongering courtiers challenge him, the people still think him a rake and resist his authority, and a drought jeopardizes the island’s crops. But when a mysterious Robin Hood figure begins leading raids on royal carriages, his headaches have just begun. Because to the defiant and impoverished young Lady Daniela Chiaramonte, Rafael di Fiore is anything but
Prince Charming
.

See you there!

Best wishes,

Gaelen

If you loved

PRINCESS

by Gaelen Foley

Turn the page for a sneak peek
of this exciting historical romance!

PRINCE CHARMING

Available in bookstores everywhere.

CHAPTER ONE

Ascencion, 1816

There was a stretch of the King’s Road, up from the port, where the moonlight seemed to dim, where a coach’s blazing lanterns seemed to shrink down to flickering rushlights in the swallowing gloom. Here, even veteran coachmen felt their knees turn to jelly and were wise to whip their teams faster and reach for their guns.

As the heavy-wheeled wagon rolled slowly toward that cursed bend, the grizzled old farmer slapped the reins halfheartedly over Ned’s swayed back, but the old draft horse could go no faster, especially not uphill. The docile beast plodded along, his huge, long-feathered hoofs sinking deeply into the clouding, red dust.

The farmer glanced warily up at the high, wooded embankments, but it was too dark to see much. The silence was eerie. Scowling at his own flighty nerves, he reminded himself that the Masked Rider did not attack poor, simple folk like him. No, indeed, the Masked Rider preyed only on the rich, useless aristocrats and their wild, rakehell sons, the type who snapped their fine fingers at right and wrong and ran headlong into whatever wickedness took their fancy.

A man couldn’t let his maiden daughter out of his sight these days, the old farmer thought gruffly. He looked up quickly at some noise overhead, but it was only the hot, dry breeze like a dragon’s breath, rattling the parched leaves.

This damned drought.
He thought of his shriveled crops and shook his head bitterly. Ever since Good King Lazar fell ill, ’twas as if a sickness lay over all the land. Yes, he thought, the world was unraveling.

As his wagon moved deeper into the wide curve, the farmer felt eyes upon him from the woods. By the Baptist’s head, if the Masked Rider was real, he would catch a glimpse of the bold lad for himself. That would be something to brag about tomorrow at the
taverna
!

Bravely, he lifted his feeble lantern and peered into the woods. He held his breath at the sight of shadowy, black figures among the trees.

One mounted figure slowly lifted a black-clad arm in silent salute. Petrified, the farmer only nodded, his heart in his throat, but when his wagon came out safely on the other side, he laughed aloud in amazement, and the sparkling stars guided him home.

Two hours later, the next traveler on the King’s Road wasn’t so fortunate.

“Looks promising,” Mateo whispered, even as the boy signalled the owl’s call from the distance.

The Masked Rider nodded and gestured the others into position.

Through the moonlight streaked a team of six smart, matched bays, their galloping strides eating up the ground, pulling a well-sprung coach of gleaming black and mahogany.

Down on the road, the liveried coachman laid his whip over the team’s backs and slid his pistol out of his coat, his face sweaty and pale under his top hat.
There’s no such thing as the
Masked Rider. No silly Robin Hood! It’s just another peasant
tale—yes, that’s it.
The driver’s gaze skimmed nervously over the embankments.

Perhaps he should have said something to his passenger, he thought, warned him of the possible danger. Only, the man in the coach scared him worse than the shadowy Masked Rider.

A bead of sweat ran down the driver’s face as the coach continued hurtling up the road.

Dead ahead lay that cursed bend.

Inside the coach, the disgraced prince sat in granite stillness, arms folded over his massive chest. Only his immense silhouette was visible in the coach’s gloom, but the aura of authority around him was palpable, eloquent in the expansive planes of his shoulders and his hard-lined jaw, edged with the faintest flicker of starlight. As he brooded in silence, the space of the coach seemed full to brimming with his leashed, long-nursed anger and cunning, implacable will.

On this, the greatest night of his life, Prince Rafael di Fiore was carefully biding his time. Deep in his thoughts, his harsh gaze fell dead ahead and in his stillness, he was as dangerous as a rogue lion in the shadows, idly flicking its tail, silent, keenly watching.

Just then, the coach hit a rut in the road and bounced violently on its springs. Rafael narrowed his eyes in pain, registering the jolt in his bruised ribs, still sore after the attempt on his life several nights ago in Venice.

He drew breath to yell an imperious rebuke at the driver to have a care, when suddenly he heard shouts outside. A horse whinnied frantically and the coach began to slow. A gunshot ripped through the night.

His gold-green eyes narrowed in the gloom. Instantly alert, he crept forward, smoothly reaching for his pistol. He stole a glance from behind the window’s pulled shade and stared, rather amazed.

Highwaymen? On Ascencion?
Fury flooded him as he stared, incredulous.
So, the reports were indeed true.
Corruption flourishing in the ranks of government, crime on the rise— all signs of the king’s disability. Eyes glinting with anger, he cocked his gun, angry to think that every cutthroat, robber, schemer, scoundrel, and thief had crawled out of the woodwork to take advantage of his father’s weakness.

Could there be any doubt, any better proof than this, that Ascencion needed his strength and vigor, his leadership? he thought. He checked his fob-watch and saw that his soldiers would not be far behind. He had no doubt whatsoever that he could cut the thieves down one by one, but no. Better to take them alive and hang them publicly.

His people thought he did not care for justice, but ridding Ascencion of these outlaws would not only assure the citizens that in spite of his past, he had come to protect them. It would also send a message—striking fear in the hearts of all criminals on the island, high and low—that they should know and be warned that a new regime had come to power.

Yes,
the prince thought darkly.
Make an example of these
bastards.

Meanwhile, on the road, the Masked Rider was shouting at the coachman.

“Halt! Halt!”

Astride a leggy gelding whose true color was obscured by the ashes rubbed into its coat, the Masked Rider urged the horse alongside the galloping team and reached out a black-gauntleted hand for the leader’s traces. The coachman was waving a pistol, but the Masked Rider ignored him—such men never used their weapons.

The thought was barely through the Masked Rider’s mind when the moving coach’s door swung open, a large, male figure leaned out from the inside, and a thunderous crack rent the air with a flash of orange.

The Masked Rider gasped out a cry and jolted forward over the horse’s neck.

“Dan!” Mateo shouted.

The gelding veered away from the coach’s team with a scream, rearing at the smell of the blood spattered on his sooty coat.

“Turn back! Turn back!” Alvi was shouting at the other highwaymen.

“You’re hurt! What should we do?” Mateo bellowed.

“Let’s turn back!” Alvi cried.

“Don’t you dare! Never mind me! Get the loot!” the Masked Rider roared back at him in boyish tones, fighting the horse.

Then the gelding bolted.

“Stop, whoa! You miserable nag!” A stream of oaths she had never learned in convent school followed from Lady Daniela Chiaramonte’s lips as her horse careened through the brake.

All the while her shoulder and arm burned as though she were literally on fire.
He shot me!
she thought, her astonishment equal to her pain. She couldn’t believe it. Certainly in all her adventures, she had never been shot before.