Princess In Denim Read online

  "What then?"

  "Nothing. William..."

  "Yes?"

  "Would it be all right if I laid my head on your shoulder?"

  "Of course."

  His neck was warm from the sun, his shirt as soft as chamois. A week ago she'd been a plain American nobody, and this week she was cradled by a hunk of a king who wanted to help people by building a health care facility on top of a hill.

  She couldn't help wondering whether it was possible for him to be as interested in her as he was in his people. She wanted him to be, but given the circumstances into which she'd been thrown— royal princess where the boy next door was a grown-up monarch—she'd be wise to keep rein on her emotions and see if they could be friends first.

  Not that that sounded nearly as interesting as what she was feeling at the moment.

  * * *

  It was just as King Albert had feared. William hated to admit it, but Moira's father might be right. He had said Moira could be in danger if she came home, and William had promised to protect her.

  He would not go back on that promise.

  She was warm and cozy in the circle of his arms, and silent enough to give him time to think. Had she adjusted her own girth because she was meek and did not want to trouble anyone, or because, as he now suspected, a measure of American independence had rubbed off on her? After all, she had not lain on the ground and wept. She had not winced when he felt for broken bones. She had not begged for a well-sprung carriage to carry her home, or for the immediate presence of a physician.

  He could like this new side of Moira, too. As long as she did not try to forestall what he knew was best for their countries.

  He guided his stallion past the stable, to the castle entrance where Emma waited.

  She greeted them with concern. "Your Highness?"

  "We had a little mishap," William answered for her. He turned over his reins to his groom, slid backward over his horse's hindquarters, then stood beside Moira's knees and reached up for her.

  Her eyes were clear and bright, showing no pain, no anger. She rested her hands on his shoulders, slid off the saddle and allowed him to take her weight. Reluctantly he let her slide down in front of him, when he would have preferred to drag her up against his chest and feel her against him again, face-to-face this time. When her feet touched the ground, he held her for another moment to be sure she was steady, but she had no difficulty and did not even pretend to lean on him.

  Good, she was fine. Now he was free to find out who was responsible for her "accident."

  "Are you all right?" Emma asked her.

  "Yes, I just took a little tumble."

  "You?" Emma visibly composed herself. "I'll see you to your quarters, then, Your Highness. Just to be certain."

  Moira turned and looked up at William with a warm, soft gaze that told him that maybe, in spite of the dangerous accident, he had made inroads toward a friendship with her. An important step.

  When he found the man who had nearly put an end to all this, he would not only punish him, he would make him wish for a quick death.

  "Thank you, Your Majesty."

  He had liked it ever so much better when she called him by his name. But of course she was not free to do so at the moment.

  "You were very kind to let me ride back with you."

  Every so often, she got formal like that. He really preferred the other side of her, the American one that bubbled over with expressions he could not take literally but wanted to hear more of. And he was quite pleased that she had lost some of the shyness she had exhibited with him on the plane.

  "It was my pleasure." If she only knew. "Your father has invited me for lunch, so I will see you in a little while."

  He watched carefully as she took her first steps away from him, to make sure she was not hurt more than she would let on, that she did not stumble and fall. But she really did appear to be all right. Her limp was slight.

  It could have been much worse. She could have been killed.

  He turned on everyone present and snapped, "Come to the stables and bring everyone who was anywhere near that mare."

  It took only minutes; there was no one else for them to go roust out. The groomsman swore the girth had been perfect when he saddled her.

  A man-at-arms from Castle Ennsway stepped forward. "Except for a minute, she was never out of my sight, Your Majesty."

  "You deserted your post?" William demanded.

  At His Majesty's tone, the man blanched. "Her Highness's own assistant secretary asked me for assistance, Your Majesty. I thought—"

  "You thought?"

  "But, Your Majesty—"

  William turned abruptly to his man-at-arms. "Throw him in the dungeon."

  * * *

  Chloe had a one-o'clock lunch date with King Albert.

  "What would you like to wear?" Angela asked.

  "Oh, I don't know. I usually just..." No, she couldn't say she usually just stood in her cramped bedroom and stared into her dark, minuscule closet until the right clothes struck her. Or that she rooted through the hamper for her least dirty tank top. "I usually just pick a color."

  "Like blue?"

  "Mmm, maybe." She headed for the shower, thinking maybe red would be a nice color today; it would give her courage. When she returned, wrapped in a towel as big as a sheet, she found a blue dress laid out on the bed.

  "Is this all right, Your Highness?" Angela asked.

  Well, what did it matter, really? Maybe Angela knew that King Albert's favorite color was blue or something. Maybe she was trying, in her own way, to present Chloe in the best light. "Sure."

  "I will get you something else."

  "This is fine."

  "But, you are—" Angela pointed to her own eyebrows "Frowning?"

  "It's fine, really."

  Angela rushed toward the closet, calling over her shoulder in an eager tone, "I will bring you every color until you like."

  Chloe sighed; she really didn't mean to cause more work for anyone. "Red, Angela."

  At ten after one, in a scarlet skirt and heels, she was jogging along a stone passageway—she could have sworn she'd been through it just five minutes before, but so many of them looked alike—and muttering to herself about making one wrong turn after another. When she finally found her father's suite, she burst through the doorway.

  Everyone turned to face her at her abrupt entrance; William, his smile warm and gentle as he stood next to her father; King Albert, seated at the head of the table with an oxygen tank by his side; Louis nearby, stroking his beard with a hand that bore a long scar across the back. The servants went about their business silently, and William and Louis moved toward their dining chairs.

  Nearly out of breath, Chloe tried to look composed as she apologized courteously. "I'm sorry I'm late, Father."

  King Albert's smile was feeble, but warm nonetheless. "I understand your fall has put you off schedule."

  Sounded good to her, better than I got lost in the home I grew up in. "Yes."

  "You were not injured?"

  "No, Father."

  He nodded, as if he were satisfied with that answer. "Come. Sit."

  A servant stood behind the chair on her father's right, holding it for her. William, next to her, and Louis, across, stood by theirs and waited for her to be seated. She'd heard about such manners, of course; she'd just never come across them herself.

  "I heard your girth broke?" Louis asked.

  "Yes."

  William's reply was curt. "It was cut."

  Louis's eyebrows puckered in great concern. "Cut? But, Moira, who could have cut it? Who knew you were going riding this morning?"

  She shrugged. "Just about anyone, I suppose."

  "Ah," Louis said. "But who knew you would be using that particular girth?"

  Why did these men talk as if it were a conspiracy? "I'm sure the stitching just dry-rotted or something."

  Their meal was set before them, a light stew ladled into bread bowls, served on
china trimmed in gold. No one had to tell her it was real gold.

  Servers continued to circle the table without speaking, pouring white wine into crystal stemware and dishing out hot rolls and cold butter.

  King Albert cleared his throat and gained Chloe's, William's, and Louis's attention. "I am quite tired today."

  The aroma of Chloe's lunch made her mouth water, but she sat still, her hands folded in her lap, waiting until someone else made the first move.

  King Albert spoke slowly. "I had an announcement planned for later, after we dine, but perhaps I should make it now in case—" He coughed a little. "In case I grow too weak."

  "But, Your Majesty—" William began.

  King Albert held up his hand to stop him.

  William persisted. "It can wait until you are stronger."

  "Nonsense, William. Why keep my daughter waiting?" King Albert looked warmly at Chloe and smiled.

  It was her first clue that this had something directly to do with her, that it was something that William wanted to put off, if the shuttered look on his face was any indication. Suddenly lunch didn't smell so wonderful, but all the same, she smiled politely in return.

  With a shaky hand, King Albert lifted his wineglass in a salute to Chloe. "Moira, my daughter, I have missed you these past years. I am delighted to have you home again, to see your beautiful smile, to hear your lovely voice." He paused, whether to catch up on his oxygen or to wait for her response, Chloe wasn't certain.

  "Thank you, Father."

  His eyes glowed for a moment. "Ah, it does my heart good to see you again, to know that you are happy. A father wants his children to be happy, you know."

  Some response seemed to be called for again.

  She nodded a little.

  "That is why," he announced with great pride, "I have arranged for you to marry."

  Without thinking, Chloe jumped to her feet. "Marry? But, Father—" Her protest lost its momentum when the heavy chair, its legs caught on the carpet, wouldn't move out of her way and shoved her forward. Her hands shot out to brace herself, she upended her plate and sent stew splattering all over the white tablecloth, dotting it with broth and chunks of vegetables.

  William tossed his napkin onto the table as he bolted to his feet beside her. "Your Majesty, please."

  Chloe looked up at him, thinking that the anguish on his face must mirror her own. She turned back to King Albert to plead her case.

  See, William doesn't want you to marry me off to some... some... man.

  "You can't do this!" Chloe felt a moment of guilt when her father paled slightly. "I mean, not without my meeting him. I could never marry someone I didn't love," she said weakly, not because she didn't mean it, but because a uniformed nurse had dashed into the room and now hovered near the old man's shoulder.

  King Albert's voice might have been weak, but his intent was firm as he proclaimed, "Moira, it is for your own good. I have already signed the marriage contract."

  "No!"

  "William will make you a fine husband."

  William?

  The same William she'd gone riding with this morning? As friends? She whirled on him, standing inches from her. He was tall and broad and could have sat her back down with little effort, but she was too stunned by the news to be intimidated by his size. "All the time...you knew?"

  He had the good grace to smile sheepishly.

  Very quietly, to be sure she had this absolutely correct, she asked, "When you asked me to go riding with you yesterday, you'd already signed a contract to marry me?"

  "Yes." The slightest of smiles tugged at the corner of his lips, as if he were testing the waters.

  "No!" she roared. She wheeled on her chair and gave it a good cowgirl kick out of her way. He'd known! All the time, he'd known. How dumb could she be? "When?"

  "I approached your father months ago."

  "And when did you sign the papers?"

  "Last week."

  She stood toe-to-toe with him. "I've never met anyone so underhanded, so connivin—"

  "Please, Moira."

  "How archaic could you possibly get?"

  "Your father and I think—"

  "I think, too, buddy. My answer is no."

  "But, Moira—"

  "And you can take back your horse!"

  Chapter Five

  I'm a princess. I can do whatever I want.

  William bent down, grasped Chloe's chair with one hand and gently righted it by the table. "Please, Moira, sit down."

  As mad as she was, she remembered how gentle his hands had been on her after she'd fallen. Feeling betrayed, she folded her arms across her chest and held her ground, unsure whether to be madder at King Albert or King William.

  I'm a princess. I can do whatever I want.

  "We will discuss this," he said softly, as if she were a naughty child.

  William won—she was madder at him. All that acting as if he liked her, cared for her. He'd given her a fancy Andalusian mare, for heaven's sake. What was that? A bribe?

  "Calmly, rationally."

  "I'm a princess."

  He grinned. "Yes, I know." He eased the chair in behind her legs until she sat, then scooted both her and the chair up to the table as if she weighed no more than a young child.

  When she looked down, it was clear that the servants had been busy while she was ranting. The soiled tablecloth had been draped and covered with fresh white napkins. A server hovered nearby with another helping, though from the look on his face, he wasn't certain whether to put it anywhere within her reach.

  She had everyone's attention—everyone who mattered. "And as a princess, I can do whatever I want."

  William scooted in beside her and draped his arm along the back of her chair. "Well, in most circumstances."

  She turned and batted his arm away. "This is one of them."

  "No—"

  King Albert interrupted. "The contract is signed. I will hear no more of it."

  "I will not marry this man."

  "You will."

  "Not!"

  Her father cast a rueful smile at William. "I am afraid my daughter—" He coughed, and couldn't stop. The nurse took his pulse, adjusted his oxygen cannula, told him to calm himself, and still he coughed.

  Prince Louis spoke up. "I feel I must voice my concern."

  Oh, great.

  "My sister has grown up in another country and become quite . . . headstrong. I think it would be unfair to expect William to put up with her, Father."

  "Thanks," Chloe muttered. "I think." It was quite a change from the sniping Louis had done yesterday, and she wished she knew him better. Or at least more about his and Moira's relationship.

  King Albert's lips turned gray, and Chloe wouldn't say anything more to upset him. If he'd looked like death warmed over yesterday, he looked halfway in the grave today.

  She rose to her feet, carefully this time. "I can see that my behavior is distressing my father. Excuse me, please."

  On her way out the door, she told the nearest footman to summon Emma. Chloe needed her more than ever, needed her advice before going one-on-one in a royal battle of wits with William.

  * * *

  William felt more alone than he had in a long time. Moira had left the dining room abruptly, King Albert had been wheeled off to his bedchamber by his nurse, and Louis had followed.

  He had known it was too soon to tell Moira, had begged King Albert to wait, but the old man was concerned about his health and did not want to delay.

  There was only one thing William could do now. He had to talk to Moira and explain everything to her, reason with her, convince her that this was in her best interest.

  That decided, he rose to his feet.

  "His Majesty wishes to speak to you, Your Majesty," the nurse announced from the doorway through which she had taken King Albert.

  He strode into the bedchamber to find the old man's eyes closed, Louis bending solicitously over him.

  "He is sleeping now," Lou
is said.

  The nurse frowned. "But he sounded so determined." She checked his pulse and oxygen flow.

  "Yes, well," Louis said, "you can see he is asleep. Perhaps later, William."

  Frustrated by the delay, William grabbed the first servant he found. "Take me to Her Highness's suite at once."

  All the way there, he wondered what he would say, what he could say, to change her mind. He could not promise her love or happiness; he knew only that they must marry. And soon.

  He was standing outside Moira's door, knocking on it when she stormed around the corner at the other end of the passageway. "Moira—"

  She breezed past him and slammed the door in his face, something no one had ever done before. He grinned and made a mental note to thank King Albert for sending his daughter to live in America; she had picked up such . . . charming habits there. He heard other doors within the suite slam, also. She was nothing like the rest of her family, neither spineless nor meek.

  How could I ever have thought so? He would consider himself a lucky man if he could get her to the altar. When he had signed the marriage contract, he had done it for his country. It seemed he was to be rewarded.

  He rapped his knuckles on the wood again. "Moira, open the door." He tested it and found it opened only a fraction; she had blocked it with something, probably a chair.

  A loud crash sounded from within, as if she were tearing the walls down. Literally. "Moira?" He pressed his ear to the door, but instead of her voice, all he heard were a few more heavy thuds, like stones falling. "Moira, answer me! Are you all right?"

  Dear God, let her be all right. He tested the door again, but it still opened only a fraction. And through that gap, he saw a cloud of dust or smoke coming from her bedchamber. / will do better next time. I will keep her safe.

  If she is alive.

  He shoved the door with his shoulder and made no progress. He planted one good, solid kick against it, and heard no more than a small crack. The wood was thick and braced, and it seemed that an eternity passed before his efforts finally crushed the chair she had tipped beneath the knob.

  The double doors to her bedchamber were slightly ajar. Dust poured out through them, and he saw only rubble beyond.