The Secret Princess. Elizabeth Harbison
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both knew the answer: only those unlucky enough to have their home stormed by hostile forces who would as soon kill them as look at them.
“I suppose we’re lucky,” she said, trying to believe it. Commander Maxim’s soldiers had already killed her widowed father, and although Maxim had said he would spare Princess Lily and give her a country home that had been in the family for many years, she knew it would be little more than a house arrest at best, and a setup for murder at worst. No, Lily and her husband and daughter needed to escape before the commander’s coup was complete and the airlines were under his control. “I’m certain the people will not stand for this new regime. Before we know it, we will be free to return.”
His gaze was serious. “You do know we might never return.”
“Yes.” Her father had been very pointed in telling her that, right before he pressed a large diamond ring into her hand and made her promise to leave the country, to flee to safety and sell the ring in order to start a new life.
“But Papa,” she had said, “you can come with us.”
“No, my sweet.” He drew her to him in a strong embrace. “I cannot leave my country. I have lived for my duties to the people and I will die for them, if need be.” He saw her objection before she voiced it, and put a finger to her lips. “No, it is not the same for you. You must be safe. You must keep my granddaughter safe. One day you will return to the throne. In the meantime, you must be sure they cannot find you. They may view the rightful heir to the throne as a threat.” It was as if he’d known he was going to die. Perhaps he had.
Lily returned her attention to her husband. “I’m certain we will return. Right always wins in the end.”
He looked into her eyes and smiled. “So idealistic. Is it any wonder that I love you so much?”
Her eyes burned but she was out of tears. “I love you too, Georg. More than I can say.”
Their daughter, little Princess Amelia, stirred in her cot. In two and a half months, Amelia would turn three. By then, her entire world would be different. She would no longer sleep in the butter-yellow nursery with the soft cotton sheets that had been her mother’s and her grandmother’s before that; she would no longer run into her grandpa’s arms every morning before breakfast; she would no longer have a future planned and destined for her, with assurances of home, food, safety and security.
And she would no longer be a princess.
Chapter One
Amy Scott turned the sign on the door around so Sorry, We’re Closed faced the icy winter landscape outside. Not that many people in Dentytown cared if they were closed this time of year. In the winter months, Blue Yonder Travel Books did most of its business over the Internet rather than from customers in the tiny Maryland town.
“Think it’s going to keep snowing?” Amy’s employee, Mara Hyatt, walked over to the window next to Amy.
“I hope so.” Amy sighed and watched the small snowflakes trailing down from the sky. The snow always gave her a sense of peace.
The wind lifted and blew against the glass window hard enough to make Amy step back in surprise. This was no ordinary snow. Something strange was brewing out there. She could feel it. Almost as if the wind was bringing change of some sort.
“Did you package that order for the safari books?” Amy asked, trying to distract herself from the feeling of premonition.
“Right there.” Mara pointed to a pile of neatly packed and labeled boxes. “You want me to wait for the shipping company?”
Amy waved the notion away. “No, I’ve got some things to do, anyway. Go on. Enjoy the snow. Go sledding.”
“Okay.” Mara gathered her coat and scarf. “Call me if you need me.”
Amy smiled. “Will do.”
The bell on the door trilled as Mara left, and Amy stood there for several moments, shivering. She couldn’t say if it was the cold or the strange apprehension about the storm that did it, but she was glad she had some work to help take her mind off of it. She was nearly finished balancing the books when a strong wind lifted and the lights flickered off.
Amy froze. The only sound was the gentle ting of the bells over the door, swaying in the whispers of wind that pushed through the cracks.
She let out a long breath. It was just a power failure. Dentytown still had the exposed old-fashioned electrical wires that could be downed by a falling tree branch. That was probably exactly what had happened. Feeling somewhat reassured, she opened the drawer in front of her and felt for a matchbook she knew was there. It was from a restaurant she’d visited in New York years ago. She’d just seen it in the drawer this afternoon.
She found the matches, struck one and lit the two aromatherapy candles she had on her desk. The room sprang back to life in the unsteady orange glow. She stood up and tried to stretch the tension out of her limbs.
No sooner did she take a single relieved breath than the bells over the door rang again, this time louder as the door was being opened.
Amy turned as a stranger came in.
He must have been over six feet tall, with midnight-black hair that gleamed eerily by the candlelight. His eyes looked dark, though she couldn’t be sure, and a hint of shadow on his jaw gave him a shadowed look, like a character in a book who could be either good or evil.
Amy swallowed. “I’m sorry, the store is closed.” She felt behind her for the letter opener on the desk.
“I’m not here to shop,” he said, his voice deep and deliberate. He had just a hint of some sort of accent. “I’m looking for someone—”
She thought fast. “Oh, you must be Allen’s hunting buddy. He’s in the back getting his guns together for your trip.” She moved around the desk, hoping the stranger didn’t notice her shaking hands and jelly legs. “I’ll just go get him.” She could go out the back door, she decided. The police station was only two blocks away. Someone would be on duty, and she could bring whoever it was back with her.
She was almost to the door when the man said, “I’m looking for Amy Scott.”
She stopped and turned around. “Why?”
“Are you Amy Scott?”
She glanced at the door, then back at the man, who had not moved since he’d come in. He wasn’t advancing on her. If she needed to, she could almost certainly outrun him, if only because she had several yards’ head start. “Who wants to know?”
He stepped closer. “But you are, of course. Your face…it’s unmistakable.”
She automatically lifted a hand to her cheek. “Have we met?”
“No, I don’t believe we have.” His mouth curved toward a smile but didn’t quite make it. In the flickering candlelight he looked the way she’d always imagined Sir Lancelot—a deeply handsome face, sensuous mouth, intelligent eyes, but a stature that implied such power that he was almost intimidating. Almost.
He moved toward her and gently lowered her hand from her face. “My God, you’re even more beautiful than I’d imagined.”
Her heart hammered in response to his touch, even as her brain told her to back off and be prepared to call the authorities in case this was some crazy guy off the street.
“You tried to imagine what I’d look like?” she heard herself ask.
“All my life.”
Though the door was closed, when the wind lifted again outside, Amy imagined she felt it finger through her hair and tingle down her back. “Why?” she asked, standing her ground by the back door. “Who are you?”
“Forgive me,” he said, smiling the kind of thousand-megawatt smile usually reserved for movie