LAURA WRIGHT

      has spent most of her life immersed in the world of acting, singing and competitive ballroom dancing. But when she started writing romance, she knew she’d found the true desire of her heart! Although born and raised in Minneapolis, Laura has also lived in New York City, Milwaukee and Columbus, Ohio. Currently, she is happy to have set down her bags and made Los Angeles her home. And a blissful home it is—one that she shares with her theatrical production manager husband, Daniel, and three spoiled dogs. During those few hours of downtime from her beloved writing, Laura enjoys going to art galleries and movies, cooking for her hubby, walking in the woods, lazing around lakes, puttering in the kitchen and frolicking with her animals. Laura would love to hear from you. You can write to her at P.O. Box 5811 Sherman Oaks, CA 91413 or e-mail her at [email protected].

      To my Dan…

      Contents

      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

      Prologue

      Princess Catherine Olivia Ann Thorne sat pole straight between her father and her aunt Fara at the head table, watching the people of Llandaron eat, drink, dance and be merry. Tonight, missing only the eldest brother, Alex, they celebrated the return of her younger brother Maxim and his wife, Fran, from their month-long honeymoon. The family celebrated the couple’s fantastic news of their pregnancy.

      And they celebrated love.

      Music drifted up from the twelve-piece orchestra, encircling the brightly lit room. Scents of roast lamb and summer heather joined in the dreamy rotation, creating a blithe, warm atmosphere in the ballroom.

      But inside Cathy a cold heaviness dwelled.

      Her gaze moved over her brother and new sister-in-law as they danced, so close, eyes locked, mouths turned up into intimate smiles.

      Anyone could see how desperately in love they were. And it wasn’t that Cathy begrudged them such happiness. Not in the least. She loved her brother with all her heart, and thought the world of Fran. She just wanted to feel a little of that happiness—a little of that love—for herself.

      “Your tour of Eastern Europe has been extended another month, Catherine.”

      Cathy’s stomach clenched at her father’s words. She’d only returned from Australia three days ago, yet her social secretary had her scheduled to leave for Russia at the beginning of next week.

      And now, another month was being tacked on.

      “You look pale, Cathy dear,” Fara remarked, the beautiful old woman’s violet eyes narrowed with concern.

      The big, white-haired bear of a man touched his daughter’s gloved hand. “Are you feeling all right?”

      “Yes, Father.” Actually, no, Father. The mask of composed princess fought the restive, reckless woman who resided deep in Cathy’s heart. Over the last several months something inside her, in her mind and soul and blood, had started to wilt. Frustration built day by day, tour after tour. Granted, she loved the visits, and especially her charity work, but she was exhausted.

      Cathy stood up, dropped her silk napkin beside her untouched plate. “I’m very tired. If you’ll excuse me, Father, Fara.”

      She barely waited for them to nod. With a grace she was born and bred to, she glided out of the room, into the empty hall and up the stairs, her lavender ball gown swishing against her unsteady legs. Months of supervised, heavily guarded travels, dictated protocol, and hounding press made her need for privacy akin to her need for air. The quiet, albeit temporary, sanctuary of her bedroom sounded like heaven.

      But the way to her room was blocked.

      “That mane of amber curls and those wide amethyst eyes.”

      Perched on the landing stood a portly woman, gnarled with age and garbed in a long tank dress of red and purple, ropes of tangerine beads hanging from her neck. Cathy didn’t recognize her.

      “You are every bit as beautiful as I told your mother you’d be, lass.”

      Cathy gripped the banister. “You knew my mother?”

      “Aye. I knew the late queen.” The woman’s thin lips twisted into a cynical smile. “When you were just a speck in your mother’s belly, I asked Her Royal Highness to allow me to read your future. But she refused my gift. Laughed at me, she did.”

      The woman’s anger sat like a spoiled child between them, immobile unless appeased. A strange surge of unease coursed through Cathy. “Who are you?”