The Runaway Princess (28 page)

The scent of gunpowder drifted on the breeze, but not one assassin was left standing.

Which was fine with Evangeline. Turning toward Danior, she commanded, “Lie down
now
.”

He was trying to crawl from under the table, and he was shouting, “Catch the assassins. Take them to the?”

He caught his breath as she jerked him back and down by his neckline. “Don't get up.” She placed herself between him and the crowd. They were in isolation, if she could ignore the thousands of people still shouting, still fighting, still craning their necks to see beneath their table.

She reached for the broach on his cloak. The lion stared at her reproachfully through one ruby eye. Half of him was blown away.

Danior took her suddenly shaking hands in his. “I'm all right.”

She struggled against his grip. “There's blood.”

“The broach shattered. I've got nicks all over me, and”—he shrugged in discomfort—“I think the shot must have creased my collarbone. But I need a bandage, not a coffin.”

“Let me see.” She whispered because her voice had vanished, because her world was in tumult, because he was handsome, royal and healthy, and because she was a nobody once more.

Feet thumped across the platform, and Pascale knelt to look under the table. “Your Highnesses!”

“Keep everyone back,” Danior commanded. “And find some linens. The princess wishes to bandage my wound.”

Pascale thumped his breast in acquiescence, shouted for assistance, then took up his post to warn off any intruders.

Danior found the gash in the velvet surcoat and ripped the antique costume off his shoulder. The wound was worse than he said; probably the lead ball had chipped his collarbone, and she would wager he suffered a lot of pain. But he didn't seem concerned; he was watching her with the same intent scrutiny he'd shown across the dining chamber at Château Fortuné.

“Evangeline . . .”

“Why didn't you tell me?” A tear dripped off her cheek and splattered his chest. People could see them, yet she didn't care. “All this time you knew I wasn't the princess—”

“I didn't know until last night.”

“You let me pretend . . .”

“It wasn't pretense.”

“When were you going to announce it? Before Revealing? Before the wedding? Tonight—”

Gently, he wiped the tears off her face. “Evangeline, there's a royal mark on me and one on Ethelinda, the emblems of our houses. You saw mine last night.”

She at once knew to what he referred. “The lion.”

“On my arse.” He was inviting her to smile.

She didn't.

“And last night,” he said, “I saw you didn't have one.”

Her mind leapt back to the moment when he'd knelt behind her, and that long, profound silence. And again to the moment when Dominic had released her to laugh with crazy glee.

“Your Highnesses, here's your linen.” Without really looking at them, Pascale handed her a ball of strips he'd found heaven knows where. He stood again, planting his feet, warning off intruders.

She didn't want to touch Danior; of all the nightmares she had feared, this one she had never imagined. That he would have known she was an impostor and let her masquerade as the princess anyway.

Blood still oozed from his wound, so she made a pad with strips of the linen. “What are you doing? Using me until you find the real princess?” She pressed the wadding hard against his collarbone. “Sit up.”

He grunted when he tried, and fell back.

Gritting her teeth, she wrapped her arm around him and helped him up.

Funny, no matter how much she thought she must hate him, he still felt like home to her. When he sat up, she thought she saw an invitation in his gaze. She almost leaned into him for the kiss she thought of as hers. But that was just habit.

She turned her attention to unwrapping more strips.

“We've been making love in the dark, and hurrying through the light.” He spoke softly, keeping what was between them private.

“So now you know I'm common.” She put his hand to the pad. “Hold this.”

“Common is the last thing I would call you.”

To hold the bandage in place, she had to slip her hand into his surcoat. She had to make contact with his bare flesh. The flesh that last night had been pressed against hers, sharing her ecstasy and his soul.

Illusion.

To hesitate to touch him would reveal how much he had hurt her, and already the defiant orphan was gathering her defenses.

But he wouldn't let her hide behind them. In a warm, soft voice, he said, “You're brave, you're handsome, you're valiant, you're ingenious, and you know everything a princess needs to know.”

She pressed the first band of linen under his fingers and started to wind. “But you don't want to marry me.”

“I'm
going
to marry you.”

How could the man sound as arrogant and sure of himself as he had on the first night of their meeting? How could he make it sound as if he'd said these words forever? “You will not mix your noble blood with a commoner's.” She slid her hand under his armpit, around his back, over his shoulder, and the impact of his skin against her fingers jolted her as much as she feared. “You said too many times for me not to believe that.”

“I talk too much.”

Yes, and she liked to hear him talk. That was the trouble. She liked everything about him.

“Wrap me as tightly as you can,” he instructed. “Don't worry about hurting me. Think of what a jackass I've been.”

Surprise brought her gaze to his, and his expression brought blood rushing to her cheeks. If there hadn't been ten thousand eyes watching them, assassins to sentence and heroes to commend, and a Revealing to perform, they would have been in bed. “I like that,” she said. “A jackass.”

“You're my prophecy come true. Remember?
The prince shall embrace his greatest fear and make it his own.
You're my greatest fear. Evangeline, if I had to, I would give up the kingdom to keep you.”

She barely exhaled the word. “Oh.”

“But I don't have to.”

Troubled, she finished wrapping him and tied the linen in a knot. “So where's the princess?”

“After we had . . . finished last night, I sent one of my most trusted men out to make discreet inquiries. Obviously”—he touched her chin—“I have been chasing after the wrong princess. Evangeline, I'm going to marry you today.”

“Why?”

He leaned close to her ear. His breath touched as he whispered, “I love you, Evangeline Scoffield of East Little Teignmouth, Cornwall. I will always love you.”

“I hate to interrupt this touching spectacle, High
nesses.”

At the sound of Victor's gruff voice, Danior gripped Evangeline as if he would throw her down and buffer her with his body again.

“This is very poignant.” Victor knelt beside the table and peered beneath. “But the throng's getting restless, the archbishop can't be persuaded to come back out of the cathedral, and I'm bleeding all over the stage.”

Pascale joined him. “Aye, Your Highnesses, begging your permission, but it's safe to come out now and the rumor that you're dying is swiftly spreading.”

Danior relaxed. His clutch on Evangeline loosened as he took in Victor's battered countenance. Offering his hand, he asked, “Where have you been, my brother?”

Victor kissed it reverently, but his tone was anything but. “Chasing your other brother all over Plaisance trying to keep him from killing Her
Highness. A thankless endeavor, may I say, what with having to wipe meat turnover off my face.”

“If you'd told me you were trying to help—” Evangeline said indignantly as Danior gave her a push toward the sunshine.

“Would you have believed me?” Victor helped her to her feet, bringing a full-bodied cheer from the crowd.

She straightened her gown. “No.”

Victor knelt beside Danior. “You've got yourself a smart one, Your Highness.”

“That I do.” Danior scooted forward to face Victor. “Damn, man, you're not supposed to lead with your face.”

Victor hadn't been jesting about the blood. One eye was swollen shut, his nose was broken, his ear looked as if it had been half-ripped off. “Hard to fight Rafaello,” he mumbled. “He knows my style.”

“Why didn't
you
betray me?”

“If I decided to kill my own damned brother, I'll have a better reason than money.” Victor's mouth curled in disdain. “You don't kill a king because you want a new robin's egg blue lining to your cloak.”

Evangeline blushed as she remembered her early admiration of Rafaello. She had liked him better than Danior. She had thought he should be the prince because he was more handsome, refined, and benevolent. Her gaze sought him out among the prisoners. He wasn't handsome anymore, with his tooth broken and his lips swollen like two eels. His elegance had been destroyed along with his costume. And his benevolence hid a rotten core.

Big, bold, stubborn, too sure of himself, blunt to a fault, right too often for comfort—Danior was more than a prince. He was a man of integrity. The man she adored.

The man who loved her.

“Did you capture Dominic?” Danior asked.

Pascale shook his head. “No sign of him.”

“Free, he'll try to incite a riot, and that brother of mine has a persuasive way about him.”

“See if he's been spotted.” Victor ruthlessly took charge, and Pascale rushed off to obey.

“Help me up, Victor, my collarbone's broken.”

Evangeline started for Danior, but he shook his head. “A broken bone is a small charge for a kingdom—and a queen.”

She watched as Victor wrapped his arms around Danior's waist. Danior rose slowly, grimacing. The throng saw the blood on him and quieted. Then, when he stood, they screamed their approval. Victor stepped away. Stepping closer, she saw that Danior's complexion was pasty.

“If you fall down in a faint,” she warned, “it will ruin the whole effect.”

“Standing after being shot is always the hard part.” He waved his arm at his people. “And I'm leaning against the table.”

“This is nothing,” Victor spoke over the chants of the ecstatic crowd. “You should have seen the time we were hiding in the trees to ambush Nappie's troops. I told Danior he was too big, and sure enough, that French sergeant spotted His Highness and shot him. Danior hit the ground bleeding like a pig—”

“Dear heavens.” Evangeline's stomach turned, and she swayed.

Victor surveyed her pale face thoughtfully. “Your princess has got an awful weak stomach—but then she is Serephinian.”

“Mind your manners,” Danior warned one more time.

Taking her hand, Victor kissed it, and in a voice that traveled no further than their little group, said, “Still, you're royal to your fingertips and I'll serve you as my queen, Miss Evangeline Scoffield of East Little Teignmouth, Cornwall.”

He knew. Victor knew the truth, but Evangeline never doubted him. He'd never betray her secret to anyone.

To Danior, he said, “I'll have the assassins sent to the dungeons.”

“Get the names of the heroes.” Danior's color had returned, and he gestured toward the cathedral. “I'll honor them at the wedding feast tonight.”

As if nothing untoward had happened, the ceremony started again. The throng quieted, the fanfare played, and reassured about his safety, the archbishop started out from the cathedral. Perhaps the crystal case trembled in his hands, but he approached with dignity and grandeur and placed the blessed heirloom on the table.

Evangeline stared at it. She'd heard about it. She'd seen a sketch of it in one of Leona's books. But she never dreamed she would be able to see the scepters and crowns so clearly through the quartz-like stone. She could see no seam, no way to open
the case; it appeared that nature, not saint, had placed the jewels inside.

Yet as the archbishop intoned a sermon about this exalted endeavor, Danior slipped his hand into the pouch at his belt and drew out—“A pry bar?” she whispered. “You're going to open the crystal case with that puny pry bar?”

“It should work,” he said. “It better work.”

Eyeing the glazing on the crystal case, she had to agree. She wasn't the princess, so even if Santa Leopolda had put it under a spell, the magic would fail. This lowly pry bar was their only hope.

The archbishop ended his homily.

Danior solemnly took Evangeline's hand and led her to the table. In a clear voice, he spoke the words written so long ago for this very occasion. “Separate have been our countries, separate have been our lives, yet today with the opening of the crystal case we, Danior of the House of Leon and Evangeline of the House of Chartrier, shall fulfill the prophecy.”

A slight murmur rippled through the crowd as they heard the princess's new name.

Danior nudged her. “Your turn.”

Leona had drilled her on this ritual, but for one terrifying moment, Evangeline's mind went blank.

The archbishop looked at her anxiously.

Danior murmured, “We shall unite . . .

And the words came. In a clear, strong voice she didn't recognize as her own, she proclaimed, “We shall unite Baminia and Serephina for all eternity. We shall join in marriage until the ends of our lives, and peace and prosperity shall reign forever.”

Danior touched her cheek briefly. “You're good at this. But I knew you would be. Stand here.” He placed her in front of the case with her back to the gathering, took his place beside her, and with one hand stuck the pry bar in what looked like a tiny chip on the side.

“That doesn't look like a latch to me,” she said apprehensively. “It looks like what happened when the Leons dropped the case out of the towers.”

Danior ignored her. “Raise your hand high so everyone can see it,” he instructed, wiggling the pry bar. “Now place it on the crystal case, right over here. Now I'll do the same”—his warm hand covered her cold fingers as they rested close to the side—“and the case will pop open.”

Nothing happened.

Uneasiness rippled through the onlookers.

“Maybe I'm doing it wrong.”

With slowly rising terror, Evangeline said, “Maybe it's really magic.”

He twisted the pry bar the other way.

The people stirred and murmured.

Danior pulled the pry bar away as the archbishop craned his neck to see what they were doing. With a queasy smile, the exalted priest suggested, “Your Highnesses, perhaps if you placed your hands on a different spot.”

“Absolutely.” Danior nodded at him. “Thank you for your guidance, Father. Santa Leopolda no doubt meant for us to put our hands in the center.”

“She's not the real princess,” a voice yelled.

Dominic. Evangeline recognized his voice and swung around, searching the throng. There he was,
close to the stage, off to the left, grinning at her with obnoxious delight.

No one laid hands on him.

If the crystal case had opened, they would have shut him up, but the miracle hadn't happened. He spoke to their fears.

“Why didn't it open?”

“Maybe he's right.”

Evangeline heard the muttering, saw heads shaking. “Danior, if this doesn't work . . .”

Danior's mouth set in grim lines. “It'll work.”

Evangeline remembered the underfed peasants she'd seen wandering the streets of Plaisance. “But Dominic's inciting them. They'll rip us to shreds.”

“I'll get it open.”

With gestures, Victor directed his men toward Dominic, but the crowd moved restlessly, blocking them. The Blanca villagers jostled their grumbling neighbors. Honest Gaylord had disappeared, and Fair Abbé had taken his place. The nuns split into two groups. One moved toward the stairs. The other moved toward Dominic as the muttering became louder.

Once again, Evangeline raised her hand, and the muttering died, leaving a silence of awesome proportions. Turning back to the case, she placed her hand on it. Danior placed his hand flat on hers. He inserted the narrow pry bar and turned it—and the metal rod twisted in two.

Voices took up Dominic's chant. “Impostors!” “Seize them!”

Danior dropped the parts and laid his hand on his sword hilt. As coolly as if they did not face a
horrible death, he said, “My men have instructions to clear a path to the cathedral. Follow Pascale and I'll hold off the mob.”

Tasting her fear, she shook her head. This wasn't supposed to happen. Danior was wounded. He had said he was sure he could open the case, so why had he made plans to save her?

“She's not the real princess,” Dominic shouted again, vile laughter in his voice. “She's even got a different name. She's a fraud. This is all a fraud.”

Evangeline smelled their sense of betrayal as the crowd answered his rallying call. “He's right.” “We're doomed.” “They're not royal.” “Kill them!”

“Go.” Danior pushed her toward the cathedral.

“Wait!” a woman's voice rang out above the rest.

Evangeline turned toward the steps.

“Wait.” Marie Theresia could be heard across the square as she assisted the old nun onto the stage. The tumult died in little bits as she announced, “We've forgotten the last and most important of Santa Leopolda's instructions. I will convey God's blessing on this holy moment.”

“What a pile,” Dominic shouted contemptuously.

But the young postulant commanded attention, and people listened. Leaving the old nun, Marie Theresia approached the table, where the crystal case remained stubbornly closed.

“God's blessing,” the archbishop said in tones of surprise. “But I should do that.”

“You hold the case.” Totally at ease, Marie Theresia handed it to him and pushed him toward the edge of the stage.

“Please.” She gestured to Evangeline.

Evangeline, startled and dumbfounded, stepped to the front. The people were watching, faces turned up in mingled suspicion and expectation. They could see everything now, and why not? Evangeline and Danior had nothing to hide, only a desperate hope that God would take pity on them.

The archbishop held out the crystal case. Evangeline placed her hand on it.

“Danior.” Danior, Marie Theresia called him. Not Your Highness, but Danior.

He watched Marie Theresia with a curl of a smile about his mouth. He stepped behind Evangeline so that he stood at her back, then for the third time, he laid his hand on top of hers. Taking her place at their right, the little postulant lowered her head in prayer. Then, pulling up her sleeve in a workmanlike manner, she laid her hand on top of theirs.

Fire shot through Evangeline's hand.

With an incandescent flash, the crystal case sprang open.

Evangeline jumped back into Danior's arms. He cradled her as, joyous at their release, the jewels flashed in the sunlight.

When the archbishop would have dropped the case, Marie Theresia reached out and steadied him. “It's all right,” she said to the shaking cleric. “Everything's all right now. Take it to the table.”

A detonation of gladness shattered the moment of silent awe. The people who in desperation had almost turned against their prince and princess now embraced them. Hats flew into the air, flowers
pelted the stage, children clung to their fathers' shoulders as their daddies danced.

In the midst of the celebration, Dominic screamed, “No, that's not right. She's not the princess!”