Princess Charming Read online

  Table of Contents

  Princess Charming

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  About Beth Pattillo

  Princess Charming

  by

  Beth Pattillo

  Bell Bridge Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Bell Bridge Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-308-5

  Print ISBN: ISBN- 978-1-61194-284-2

  Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 2003 by Beth Pattillo

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  A mass market edition of this book was published by Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc. in 2003

  We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.

  Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.

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  Cover design: Debra Dixon

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo credits:

  Woman (manipulated) © Vasiliy Koval | Dreamstime.com

  Filigree element © Jaguarwoman Designs

  :Mcpq:01:

  Dedication

  For Randy, with love

  and

  For Jenny Bent, with thanks

  Prologue

  Once upon a time . . .

  Santadorra, 1803

  NICK ST. GERMAIN dug his fingers into a crevice in the rocky ledge. Beside him, his mother and sister huddled against the cold stone. He refused to give in to the tears that threatened as he searched for his mother’s face in the darkness. The thick black night of the Pyrenees shadowed all but the outline of her form. His little sister, Josephine, sniffled in the crook of his mother’s arm. Jo was only four, eight years younger than he, and still a baby. Too young to understand why they had fled the palace and now clung to an unforgiving wall of slate beneath the mountain’s towering pines.

  In the midst of the darkness, he felt his mother’s hand on his shoulder. Her fingers trembled where they rested against his coat. “Your father thinks us headed for the northern coast of Spain. He cannot help if he does not know we’ve turned westward.” Nick could hear the indecision in her whispered words. He had pleaded with her for the last hour to let him return to the palace for help, but his mother had wavered, unsure of the safest course.

  “I can bring the guards, Maman. They will have defeated the rebels by now. I will fly, fast as the wind.” The sounds of pursuit grew louder, the rustlings giving way to the clop of horses’ hooves against the hard-packed earthen trail below. Nick shivered. “You and Jo must hide in the caves until I return.”

  His mother’s hand left his shoulder and moved upward to cup his chin. Tears stung his eyes as he fought for control. At that moment, the clouds parted, and a moonbeam penetrated the gloom. He could see her now, Her Serene Highness, Queen Eleanor, her blond hair gleaming almost silver in the moonlight, her expression fierce.

  “Without the royal family, Nicholas, our people have no hope. They will fall into the hands of that tyrant, Napoleon. Santadorra is merely a stepping stone to Spain.”

  Bile rose in Nick’s throat. “‘Twas the peasants, not Napoleon, who revolted. Let the rabble suffer the consequences.”

  “Nay!” His mother lifted his chin higher. “This was no people’s rebellion. This night’s work can be laid at the doorstep of the French provocateurs. Santadorrans will come to know that soon enough. They will need their king.”

  Nick choked back a sob at the mention of his father and shook his head, freeing himself from her touch. “The people have chosen their fate, just as Father chose to stay and fight. I care only for you and Jo.”

  Pinpoints of light appeared below, and sabres rattled mere yards away. Nick could hear the methodical thwack, thwack as the men began to search the undergrowth below the ledge. Jo whimpered again. Fear coursed through him; the hairs of his neck stood on end.

  The look in his mother’s eyes frightened him further, a look of love and longing and despair that scared him more than the soldiers below. “Oh, Nicholas.” Her words were thick with grief. “You are indeed our only hope.”

  A cry rose from their pursuers, as if the men were hounds who had caught the scent of the fox. “Jo and I will find a hiding place in the caves. Run, Nicholas. By all that is holy, run.”

  His mother’s hands were pushing him, and he found himself on his feet. His legs must have had some will of their own. Without stopping to kiss his mother or sister, he shot off as fast as he could. The ground was a carpet of slick, wet leaves, but still he ran, stumbling to stay upright and grasping tree limbs and thick gorse bushes as he scrambled up the side of the mountain. His heart pounded in his chest. He would cross the ridge and then race down the valley on the other side. From there, he could follow the road, if he was careful and the other French patrols had made camp. How long? An hour? Perhaps two? He could do it, if he tried very, very hard.

  And then he heard the screams. A high-pitched one: his sister. The other a low moan. His foot slipped, and he went down in the thick loam of the forest floor.

  Oh, God, he must go back. He scrambled to his feet and began to slide downward on the slick covering of decaying leaves and loose stone.

  A shot rang out. And then another, followed by shouts of triumph. Nick felt his blood turn to ice.

  The cold, unforgiving darkness of the mountain closed around him like a thick, wet cape, and the Crown Prince of Santadorra knew he had failed, and that he was alone—except for the marauding French soldiers not a hundred yards below.

  Chapter One

  London, 1819

  NICHOLAS ST. GERMAIN paused from his labors, leaned against the handle of the gardening hoe, and eyed the obese blond pug stalking him as a lion would an antelope.

  “If you’re going to savage me, Wellington, do it now. It will save me having to weed the rhododendrons.”

  Wellington, who more resembled a wrinkled, overstuffed pillow than the famous general, sniffed with disdain.

  Nick raised his eyebrows. “You took the idiotic notion to dart into the middle of Bond Street. Crispin wagered I could not go twenty-four hours without playing the hero, and, traitor that you are, you proved him right in less than twelve.”

  Wellington growled in umbrage. Nick snorted and lifted the hoe to attack a weed. At least he thought it was a weed. “I should have let you be trampled by Coverley’s grays.” He whacked at the offending stalk, and it broke off just above the ground.

  Wellington barked in indignation.

  “Don’t look innocent, you mongrel.” Nick g
lanced down at his stained smock and rough wool trousers. “Crispin is no doubt peering down on us right now, enjoying the sight of me mucking about in his grandmother’s garden.” He grimaced. “And talking to her dog.”

  Nick looked toward the house and, as expected, caught sight of his friend waving heartily from the drawing room window. When the urge to throw down the hoe and throttle Crispin had passed, Nick wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

  “I’m done with wagers, Wellington. And no more heroism. Ever. It’s devilishly hard on my boots.” He surveyed his ruined hessians with dismay. The cards had not been falling in his favor of late, and his credit was stretched beyond hope of repayment. His father had said he would see him barefoot before he sent him another farthing, and the King of Santadorra’s prediction might soon come to pass.

  Wellington responded to Nick’s declarations by sidling closer, lifting one leg, and relieving himself on the scuffed brown leather.

  “The devil!” Nick cried.

  Wellington shot off down the gravel path, and Nick sprinted after him. The dog veered around a statue of Diana, skirted a small fountain, then leaped through a bed of irises. Nick crashed after him, cringing at the destruction his hessians left in their wake, but he was determined to corner the blasted pug at any cost. Wellington reached the rear wall and skidded to a halt.

  “You’re trapped now, you overbred cur.” Nick stooped to grab the dog, intent on retribution. At that precise moment, the door in the garden wall swung open, and with a thwack, the weathered wood knocked the Crown Prince of Santadorra unconscious.

  “AHH.” NICK winced at the light touch of a hand at his temple, and his stomach lurched. Stars danced behind his closed lids.

  A female voice, light and airy, penetrated the haze of pain enveloping his head. “Drat! I’ve murdered a gardener.”

  Nick wanted to object that he was in too much pain to be dead. The owner of the breathless voice, whoever she was, ran soft fingers through his hair—soft, that is, until they brushed the spot where his skull felt as if it might explode.

  “Ow!” His eyes flew open. His vision was still a bit fuzzy, but his sight was clear enough to register the blue-eyed, blond goddess biting her lip and looking at him as if he were in need of last rites.

  “Who the devil are you?”

  The goddess bristled. “I might ask you the same thing, although I suppose you were hired by Lady Belmont to replace young Whitley, who ran off to sea. What an idiotic notion, putting your head in the way of the door. I could have killed you.”

  Nick groaned. Self-righteous and dangerous. A complication he didn’t need, even if the package included skin like Devonshire cream and pink, bowed lips. Wellington barked in agreement with the chit’s scolding, and Nick winced. “Pipe down, both of you. My head feels as if it’s been run over by a carriage wheel.”

  “And well it should, if you intend to go about colliding it with doors.”

  Nick stared at her. “If I intend? Colliding it with doors?” Was she a lunatic?

  The girl rose, her limbs tensed for flight. She was small, a pocket Venus, the very kind of woman who always brought out his damnable protective tendencies. She was looking anywhere but at him, as if he were of less consequence than Wellington.

  “Fortunately, you seem to have recovered, and I’m expected home. Good day.”

  “Whoa!” He grabbed the much-turned hem of her skirt as she passed. Did she think he would let her trespass so blithely? “One moment, princess.” Princess? What bit of madness had made him utter that endearment, even in mockery? He cleared his throat. “You may leave the same way you entered.” He nodded toward the garden door, expecting the movement to bring sharp pain, but thankfully there was only a dull throb.

  The girl hesitated, and then she glanced toward the door through which she’d come. Nick’s eyes followed her movement. His sight was still a trifle bleary but not blind.

  “Is someone following you?”

  She jumped. “Following me? Certainly not.”

  Nick lumbered to his feet, and to his surprise, the girl grasped his arm to steady him. The warmth of her touch penetrated the rough sleeve of his gardener’s smock. He gained his balance, and she dropped her hold as if his arm was on fire. Their eyes locked, and Nick felt the ground shift beneath his feet. Surely not. Surely it was only his injured head, woozy from the door’s attack. This girl was anathema to him—beautiful and obviously in some sort of danger. The Almighty had seen his vow to Wellington as a challenge and had responded immediately by sending the ultimate temptation.

  Nick, though, would not be so easily undone. He had sworn an oath, even if it was only to the most irritating dog in Christendom, and by Jove, he intended to keep his word.

  And yet the part of him that defied his best intentions made the damning questions tumble from his lips. “Have you run away from your employer? See here, if you’re in trouble, I can—” He stopped abruptly. “No,” he heard himself mutter, as if watching the too-familiar scene from a distance. “No. Not—”

  Before he could finish the thought, the garden door swung open, and a pair of burly ruffians stepped through the portal.

  Wellington erupted into a frenzy of barking and made a dive for the boots of the closest intruder. The stocky man gave Wellington a kick that sent the pug flying. The girl cried out and started toward the dog, but Nick grabbed her arm and thrust her behind him. With his other hand, he reached for a scythe propped against the wall. He cursed his own stupidity, for he should have expected this from the moment he’d noticed her eyeing the door.

  “Aw, look, ‘Ector.” The first man smirked, revealing a great quantity of rotten teeth. “She’s gone and found ‘erself a protector.”

  Nick’s shoulders tightened in anticipation of battle. Two against one, and the one’s head still felt as if it had connected with a cricket bat. Behind him, he could feel the tension thrumming through the girl as surely as he could feel his own pulse. The second man, larger than the first but somehow less menacing, cast an uncomfortable glance around the garden as he shifted from one foot to the other.

  “Get on with it, Tully.” Despite his size, the brute ducked his head timidly. “Somebody might ‘appen along.”

  Nick tightened his fingers around the handle of the scythe. “Whoever you are, you are trespassing on Lady Belmont’s property. I suggest you leave.” His voice sounded firm even as he trembled with the effort of holding the unwieldy scythe as he would a rapier.

  “All right, all right.” The stocky man turned toward the door. “C’mon, ‘Ector. ‘E’s too much for the likes of us.” Suddenly, though, the ruffian whirled about and lurched forward, making a grab for the scythe.

  Nick feinted and parried with his awkward weapon, thrusting the blade beneath his attacker’s nose. Behind him, the girl gasped, for he had stopped just short of cutting the man. His attacker grunted in surprise and stepped back.

  “‘Ow’d you learn to fight like a nob?” The ruffian wiped his nose on his filthy sleeve. “C’mon. Put up yer fives, and fight me fair, man to man.”

  Nick looked down at the scythe’s handle and groaned. A crack ran the length of it. Well, at least his luck was consistent. He tossed the scythe to the ground and squared his shoulders. “Man to man it is, then.”

  Behind him, the girl bit back a cry of exasperation. The second ruffian sank down onto a nearby bench. “I’ll just rest meself ‘ere a bit, Tully, until you’re done with poundin’ ‘im to a bloody pulp.”

  The first thug shot his fellow blackguard a disparaging glance. “Demme, ‘Ector, you’d still be hanging at your mother’s teat if she’d let ye. If you’ve not the stomach for a fight, make yerself useful and fetch a rope to tie her. This bloke won’t take long to bash.”

  “Aye, Tully. ‘Tis just what I’ll do.” The squeamish giant looked delighted at the opportunity to escape from the garden, and in a moment, he was gone. Nick breathed a sigh of relief. The ruffian’s arrogance had at least evened the
odds.

  The girl stepped forward and bent to retrieve the scythe, but Nick caught her arm. “No.” Despite his years away from the palace, the word held the imperial authority of a monarch’s command. The girl flushed with fury.

  She shook off his grip. “There’s no need to play the hero.”

  Her words caught him like an uppercut. She looked magnificent in her righteous indignation, despite her obviously laughable belief that she could fend for herself. “Princess,” he drawled, “where have you been all my life?”

  Princess? Princess? If any of the matchmaking mamas that haunted London’s beau monde ever heard him murmur that endearment to their daughters, he’d be wed within a week. Nick’s stomach sank.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a sudden flash of movement. The ruffian had retrieved the scythe and now raised it above his head like an ax.

  “Watch out!” the girl cried, and then she shoved Nick backward into the thug. The contact threw his attacker off balance, and they fell into a heap on the path. Nick felt the air rush from his chest with one quick whoosh. The scythe flew through the air and landed at the girl’s feet, the blade mere inches from the tips of her half boots. Nick, truly afraid for the first time since the men had entered the garden, fought to regain his breath. The first thug, who lay beneath him, roared and shoved Nick aside as he came upright. The fiend spied the scythe at the girl’s feet and lunged forward.

  Just in time, the girl reached down and snatched the handle. The scythe wavered precariously in her grasp, but her expression showed not the slightest tremor. Breathless, Nick could only watch—fascinated, intrigued, furious—as she attempted to brandish the weapon.

  “Well, wot ‘ave we ‘ere?” Blood trickled from the corner of the ruffian’s nose, and his smile was truly evil. “‘Tis me lucky day. I like ‘em young and blond as a guinea.” He turned and spat, and Nick could have sworn he saw a tooth go sailing through the air. The girl shuddered at the vile words, but she held her ground.