Romancing The Crown: Drew and Samira: Her Lord Protector. Carla Cassidy
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blithely fertile women who didn’t deserve the precious gifts they were given, the innocence, the love….
She cleared her throat and tried to make her voice hard. ‘‘He won’t be a prince. He’ll be a bastard.’’
‘‘A royal bastard. The only male child in direct line for the throne.’’ Ursula tossed her hair back impatiently. ‘‘Trust me, sweetie, I know how these people think. They’ll be so delighted this baby exists they’ll pamper him, pet him, give him everything a bitty baby could want…and they’ll give us what we want, too.’’ She leaned forward again, her voice low, her eyes shining. ‘‘I’ll be the baby’s aunt, so of course I’ll live there with him. In the palace. But you know me, sweetie. I don’t know beans about babies. I’ll need you to take care of him. What do you say, Gretchen? Would you like to be a royal nanny?’’
Gretchen’s heart began to pound. All those months ago, when she and Ursula had first started scheming, she’d been distracted by the thought of wealth and famous connections. Now an even greater reason to go along with Ursula struck her. She wouldn’t have to hand this baby over to some other woman. The idea made her dizzy, almost sick with yearning. ‘‘You never told me how you’re going to convince the king and queen of Montebello to even talk with you, much less persuade them we’ve got their grandchild.’’
Ursula smirked. ‘‘I’ve got connections.’’
Some man, no doubt. Gretchen reached for her lighter.
‘‘Oh, please don’t. Smoking causes wrinkles.’’
‘‘Causes worse things than wrinkles.’’ Not that there was much worse than wrinkles in Ursula’s world. Maybe cellulite. She flicked the lighter and held the flame to the tip of her cigarette, inhaling deeply. ‘‘All right. I’ll do it.’’
‘‘Oh, I knew I could count on you!’’ Ursula was all but quivering with excitement. ‘‘I’ll get Jessie out to the ranch, but then I’ll have to leave. I’ll have to go to Montebello to set things up.’’
‘‘Fine. I’ll need some money up front.’’
‘‘You don’t trust me?’’
Not for a minute. ‘‘I won’t be able to work for a while, will I? I’ll have to lie low with the baby until you call me.’’ With the baby. That sounded good.
It sounded wonderful.
Ursula leaned back in her chair. ‘‘You know how strapped for cash I am right now. I wouldn’t be in this stupid town if I weren’t so broke.’’
‘‘Broke. Huh! You don’t know the meaning of the word. Sell some of the jewelry your back-stabbing ex-manager gave you. If there’s as much money in this deal as you say, you can buy more and better.’’
‘‘I already sold the diamonds Derek gave me.’’ Her mouth drooped. ‘‘I hated that, but the ticket to Montebello will be expensive.’’
‘‘Those diamonds were worth a lot more than the price of a plane ticket. And if you need more…’’ She grabbed Ursula’s hand and held it up. ‘‘This ring you’ve been flashing around has to be worth—Hey, isn’t this your sister’s ring? The one you’re always bitching about because your grandma left it to her, instead of you?’’
‘‘Oh, you noticed.’’ Ursula’s giggle was light and girlish. She wiggled her fingers. The ring was unusual, possibly unique, with a ruby and a pearl nestled together in an ornate golden bed. ‘‘I don’t think my dear sister Jessie will miss it, do you? Not where she’s going.’’
Chapter 1
Flames. Orange-hot, sucking the air from her chest, shouting smoke at the sky. Flames, drawing her skin hot and tight over the rapture within, the coiled secret at the bottom of her soul. Flames, calling her.
She fought. Wordlessly she fought, for she was deeply asleep, dwelling in a part of herself sundered from language and reason. But even here she knew the danger. And the draw. Unwilling, afraid, she resisted—yet when fire called, she answered, pulled from safety and darkness into a scene from hell.
Fire crackled merrily over the bones of its prey, a tumbled wreck she saw as dark angles and masses. There were people, too—she saw them as movement, their outlines blurred by possibilities. And there were bodies. They were dark and still and horribly clear.
She shuddered. Along with horror came the stirring of thought, still wordless but gathering focus. What she saw hadn’t happened yet. When fire skipped her willy-nilly across time’s boundaries, the living always appeared only as blurred, mobiles shapes, each person a small tornado of decisions awhirl with possible fates.
The dead carried no such freight. They lay quiet and dark, their final shapes fixed.
So there was time still. Not much, not when the vision was this clear, the pull of the fire this strong. But it hadn’t happened yet, so there was a chance that it wouldn’t. She had to think, had to remember what was needed in that other world, the waking world where reality was an orderly march of place and time, cause and effect.
Place and time…where was she? What was the fire eating?
She struggled, fighting the draw of the fire, the great, terrible beauty that called her to dance—fighting the part of her that quivered and yearned and wept with need for the flames. The need to call the fire to her. This time she won the battle, pulling more of reason and the other world into the vision.
She was standing in a smoke-black oven. Air stank in her nostrils and burned her lungs, a poison bath brewed of burning plastic and other man-made materials. People were screaming, crying, though she couldn’t see them. A siren wailed in the distance, drawing nearer. And in front of her, the fire. She felt it, heard it, though she could see nothing.
She turned away. There would be no answers nearer the fire, and much danger. When she moved, the fire dragged at her, so that she moved slowly, feeling as if the air itself was reluctant to let her pass. Her movement wasn’t quite like walking. Though she saw the floor, she didn’t feel it beneath her feet.
The floor. Yes, she could see it now—the smoke wasn’t as thick. A tile floor, vaguely institutional.
Think, she commanded herself. A store? Or, dear God, a hospital?
A shape loomed up out of the darkness, gasping—a person, blurred by smoke and possibilities. He or she stumbled past, going the wrong way. Toward the fire. Instinctively she reached out, trying to grab the other. Her hand passed through a barely seen shoulder. A shock of feeling shuddered through her—his feelings. Terror, shrill and desperate. Pain. The sobbing need for air.
Then he was gone. Gone, heading for death, and she had no way of stopping him.
It hasn’t happened yet, she reminded herself, and pushed on.
Light ahead. Not the red glow of fire, but a thinning of smoke that allowed something like normal vision. A long, low shape with other shapes on it…she moved closer. Suitcases! Suitcases on a conveyor belt—baggage claim.
The airport. Dear God. Where had the fire started? Swiftly she aligned her knowledge of the airport’s layout with the other sense, the one that knew where the fire was—but in turning her attention to the fire, she opened to it again.
Flames, orange-glow-heat-life, loving, eating, devouring, freeing—flames dancing there, dancing here, inside her—Shaken, she pulled back, but the call was so strong. Like a lover, fire entranced, compelled—come, come dance, taste my richness, join. Join. A rhythmic compulsion, heat of blood and beat of heart matching the wild cadence of flames, drawing her closer, drawing—
Terrified, she yanked her attention away from the fire. And stood once more in swirling smoke, lungs straining, desperate for air, desperately tired. And bereft.
She was no longer