His Princess (A Royal Romance) (7 page)

“You do?”

“Yes. Of course we do.”

He sits on the corner of the table and studies me, and I feel my pulse quicken. He has nice lips. I’ve never looked at a man before and said, “He has nice lips,” but he has nice lips. Also hair, really thick hair. I have a weird urge to play with it.

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“You have freckles. I like freckles. You tell me people are equal in your country.”

“Yes.”

I fold my arms over my chest.

He does the same, and I feel like I’m being mocked.

He’s more muscular than I first thought. I can see it under his jacket. He’s well built in that sleek, athletic way of swimmers and models, like he’s built for speed.

“Can you walk up to your president and shake his hand?”

“Sure, why not?”

“The Secret Service will not mind if you walk up to the president. Can you go to his house? Can you knock on his door?”

“Well, no…”

“You would be shot, yes?”

“Well, probably, but the president is important. He has to be protected.”

“I’m not?”

“Do you need protection? My president doesn’t go around chopping off people’s heads with swords. Besides, stop calling him my president. I didn’t vote for him.”

“Which one did you vote for?”

“Um, I didn’t. I don’t vote.”

He frowns, but his lips twitch and he suppresses a laugh. “I see.”

“Democracy is important.”

“Not important enough for you to go to the polls and cast a vote every two years, one day in November.”

I blink a few times. “How do you know when voting day is?”

“I am a foreigner, not a moron. That is the other half of the coin. You assume because you are American that you know everything and because I am Kosztylan I know nothing.”

“You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

He looks at me with a flat expression.

“You also assume we do not have television. Do you really think I do not have HBO? I have streaming. Cable is too expensive and I do not want the home decorating channel.”

I stare at him.

“Are you messing with me?”

His lips twitch and he breaks into a tight-lipped grin. “I find you amusing.”

“Amusing. You find me amusing.”

“Yes. You are too high-strung. I think you spent too long in your camp. You need a man.”

Then I’m standing up, and my hand is stinging, and there is a look of absolute shock on my face. It doesn’t dawn on me that I slapped him full-on in the face until it’s already happened, my hand is throbbing, and there’s a red handprint on his cheek. Wide eyed, he turns to me slowly.

His hand shoots out and he seizes my wrist in an iron grip, so hard it cuts off the circulation in my hand and his knuckles go white. I grab at his fingers, trying to pry them loose.

“You are the ones who stomp around where you do not belong, ignorant of where you step. In my country the law is clear. To strike the blood royal is a capital crime. The penalty is to have the offending limb struck off.”

“S-s-struck off? Like cut off?”

He squeezes harder, somehow, and plucks the knife from the table.

Oh my God.

“No don’t please don’t, I—”

He rams the knife into the table, where it stands, quivering as he releases both it and my wrist.

“You are a woman, and in my house we hold hospitality sacred still, even if the meaning of the word eludes you
enlightened
Americans. I will forgive this indiscretion once.
Once
. Am I clear?”

“Yes,” I squeak, trying to keep my hands at my sides. My wrist is throbbing.

“You will
not
treat me this way in sight of anyone, is that understood?”

“Yes.”

“You will address me respectfully and you will behave yourself.”

“Okay. Uh, my prince.”

“Better.”

I flinch as he takes my arm, holding his palm under my forearm. He looks at my wrist and touches it with the first two fingers of his other hand.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Yes.”

“You hurt me.”

“Oh, you poor boy,” I groan.

He glares at me.

“Perhaps we can forgive each other. Did you think I was going to cut off your hand?”

I nod.

“I would prefer not to. It is a lovely hand. It is my pleasure to meet you, Persephone.”

Then he kisses my fucking hand. Lightly, on the knuckles.

Somehow it doesn’t look completely stupid. I feel a hot flush in my chest and dip into the world’s most awkward curtsy. I think it’s a curtsy.

“You will join me for lunch and hawking this afternoon.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“That wasn’t a request, it was an instruction. Go back to your room now.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t say ‘my prince.’”

I snatch my hand away. “I don’t have a prince.”

I can’t read his expression. I’m not sure if he’s amused or frustrated, maybe both. I turn around, not caring if it’s appropriate to turn my back to him or not, and stomp toward the door. It must be good enough, because his guards open it and escort me, slowly and tediously, back to my room.

The old woman meets me halfway.

“He likes you,” she says, nodding her approval.

I groan.

A
s I sit
on the bed waiting to see what’s going to happen to me next, a pressing question nags at my mind.

What the hell is
hawking
exactly?

I pace the room, working out my ankle. It feels a lot better. I’m tempted to flop on the bed and sleep, but I don’t want to find out what happens to me if I dare to rumple my dress. After pacing a bit I can actually walk, though with a hip-popping limp to my gait. Damn it.

I hobble back out to the balcony and lean my hands on the rail.

Its leader may not be a very nice guy, but this is a beautiful country. I can’t stop thinking that it looks like a storybook place, some idyllic land from a fairy tale. The castle may be grim but the rest of the country is hardly Mordor. Beyond the limits of the city, it’s so
green
.
The fields shimmer in the sunlight, banded with silver from the river that runs north to south and irrigation channels that slice through the green.

I lean on the railing and prop my chin on my hands. If somebody saw me here they’d think I was a princess from a cheesy movie. I feel so goofy in this dress. If it weren’t for the stupid sleeves it would look nice on me, though. I’m pretty slim, more so now that I’ve been living on those MREs.

Whoever called them Meals, Ready to Eat is a damned liar.

My stomach is rumbling, oddly enough. I should have eaten the pomegranate. Bored, I lean over the edge and stare down the mountain slope.

It’s not as sheer as I thought. If I could get down from the balcony without falling…

Right, Penny. You’re going to climb down a steep mountain slope without any gear, in a dress, and make it all the way down without falling. I lean out a little farther and peer down. If I did fall, it would be a long drop followed by a quick stop. I flinch as the image of my body bursting apart as it hits the ground pushes me back from the ledge. A sudden gust yanks at my sleeves and I rub my shoulders.

There’s a knock at the door, but it’s an announcement, not a request for permission. It swings open.

He walks into my bedroom.

The prince stops. He’s exchanged the black trousers he wore this morning for doe-brown riding pants and high boots, and holds a riding crop tucked under his arm. Standing still, he stares at me with his head cocked to the side as I lean on the railing and look back at him. A soft smile forms on his lips before he jerks upright, as if shaking himself back to reality.

I was staring, too, I realize.

Oh God, this is corny. No, not happening. Stop forgetting that he cut a guy’s head off last night, Penny. In front of you.

“You did not change?”

“What’s wrong with this?”

“I gave you many dresses. Why wear only one?”

“I’d rather wear shorts.”

“I won’t have you dress like a harlot. Come, it’s time for lunch and hawking.”

“Um, what is hawking, exactly?”

He blinks. “Falconry?”

“You mean hunting with a bird?”

“Just so. Come.”

“Uh,” I say.

Again, it’s not a request, and we’re being watched. There are servants and guards in the hall. That means I’d better be on my best behavior. Swallowing hard, I lift my skirts and step down into the room.

The prince offers me an arm, crooking out his elbow. I glance at the people outside and then at him. Then I slip my arm through his, and walk. At least he takes the weight off my bad foot.

“Your leg pains you,” he says quietly.

“Yeah. It hurts.”

“Much?”

“No, it’ll get better. Not the first time I twisted my ankle.”

“When was the first time.”

I blink a few times. “What?”

“Tell me the story.”

“I don’t know, I was a kid. I was out running with my brother and…”

My breath catches.

“Sorry, I was out with my brother and we were running. We’d just gotten a puppy, a little beagle, and he got off the leash and ran from us. He wasn’t trying to get away, he just wanted to play. I could run faster so I went after him and I left the sidewalk, heading for this little brook.”

“Go on.”

“I chased him down a slope and got my foot wedged between two rocks and lost my balance. I thought I broke my ankle, but it was just a sprain. It hurt at the time, though. I don’t think I’ve ever screamed so loud. I screamed my little lungs out.”

“How old?”

“Nine.”

“Your brother?”

“He was six then.”

“You are close.”

“We were,” I let slip.

He stops in his tracks.

“Were? What happened between you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I could command it.”

I look up at him.

“If you wouldn’t cut my hand off, please don’t command me to tell you about this. I don’t want to.”

I can see him weighing it. He nods and gives a little flip of his chin.

“On, then.”

I let out a long sigh and try not to shudder but do it anyway. I know he can feel it. He glances at me as we walk, looking at me like a difficult puzzle.

In the courtyard he lifts me up into a tall SUV-type car. To my surprise, it’s completely silent when it starts to move.

“This car runs on a hydrogen fuel cell. All automobiles in the principality are either hydrogen or electric powered. A few still run on high-pressure natural gas.”

“That’s, ah, nice.”

“Low emissions. Good for the environment. Renewable.”

“So you tell them what to drive,” I say dryly, staring out the window.

The car starts to wind down the mountain.

“Your idea of freedom confuses me,” he says, folding his muscular arms. “I should let my people hurt themselves? Hurt their children and grandchildren?”

“No, but people have to be free to make decisions.”

“Why? What if those decisions are wrong?”

I shift in the seat to face him. “People aren’t robots. You can’t just program them to do whatever you want.”

“My people make many decisions. I don’t tell them what they must do or where they must do it.”

I snort. “Right. You give them a list of options you pick and call that making a choice.”

“What about you? Could you go home and be a rocket scientist or an astronaut or a musician? Can you do whatever you want?”

“If I can do the math or fly a plane or play an instrument, yeah, sure. Can your people do that?”

“Of course.”

I sigh.

“When was the last time you went out there, in the city?”

“Often enough. I speak to my people from time to time.”

“Right, and I’m sure they’re all very candid and open with the guy that will cut off their hands if they piss him off.”

“You, who have never set foot in my country, know my people better than I do?”

“I don’t have to set foot here.”

I turn up my nose.

“Why is that? What special knowledge do you have?”

“I watch television.”

He snorts.

I round on him. “You get a lot of press, you know that? You’re a pretty famous guy.”

“What does this press say?”

I frown, biting my lip. I’m digging a deeper hole with every syllable, I can just feel it.

“You oppress your people. You use your country’s economic power to bully other countries. You might invade Solkovia any day now.”

He leans back in the padded leather seat. “What if I do? Would that be so terrible?”

“Of course it would. You can’t just invade another country.”

“Oh?” he says wryly.

Before I can answer, he leans forward and speaks to the driver in rushed Kosztylan.

As the car descends the mountain, it makes a sharp turn, into town.

I tense, staring through the windows, not sure what to expect. Barbed wire and electrified fences. Thugs in black uniforms patrolling the streets with machine guns.

What I see is a garbage truck. A weird garbage truck. It rolls smoothly from stop to stop without lurching or belching smoke, like I’m used to. In fact, it makes no noise at all until it uses a mechanical claw to scoop up a dumpster from the side of the road and dump it into the back of the truck. As we pass, I blink a few times.

There’s no driver. There isn’t even a cab, just a bank of cameras and pods, like some kind of radar.

“Is that…”

“A self-driving garbage truck, yes. Hydrogen powered. The electric drivers are better suited for other applications. There are two sets of trucks, gathering organic and recyclable refuse. The organic refuse is turned into natural gas which is in turn used to supplement the power grid and fuel some government vehicles.”

I turn back to him. “That’s pretty impressive, I guess. Where are all the people, though? Isn’t it lunchtime?”

He leans toward me and glances at the clock in the front seat. I pull away slightly then straight myself. My shoulder brushes his.

“The lunch hour does not begin for another fifteen minutes.”

I eye him. “Lunch hour? The
entire country
has lunch at the same time?”

“Except for cafeteria workers,” he says, laughing softly. “Also those in essential positions that require human attention at all times.”

“You tell everybody when to eat lunch?”

“Yes.”

“Do you tell them what to eat?”

“They have a choice.”

I raise my eyebrow. “Of whatever they want?”

“Of course not. Menus are set according to state standards.”

I feel a chill run up my spine. This man tells an entire country of people what to eat, and when.

“There are exceptions. Feast days. I allow the people to observe certain holidays. Christmas is popular with the children.”

“Do you tell the parents was presents to buy?”

“That sort of nonsense is not permitted. It’s a feast day, not a celebration of crass materialism.”

I just stare at him.

“You don’t let parents give their kids presents?”

“Why would they need them? They are all well provided for.”

The car takes a sharp turn, heading down a sloping road that cuts messily in a diagonal across the others, away from the city center. All the buildings look the same, efficient but stark concrete slabs and polished steel and glass. It feels so empty. There’s no one on the street.

“What are cities like in your country?”

“You’ve been there. I saw you on TV at the UN.”

“I want you to tell me.”

I sigh. “Fine, you know what they’re like? There’s people on the street, going places and doing things. There are shops.”

“There are shops here.”

“Shops that sell what you let them, right?”

“Your country has no rules on what shops can sell?”

“Of course, there’s safety standards and stuff and you can’t sell illegal things, but—”

“Give me an example of an illegal thing.”

“Um, marijuana.”

“That is also illegal here.”

“You know what happens to me if I use it at home?”

He shrugs.

“It’s decriminalized. Unless I’m selling it I get a ticket. I pay a fine. What would happen to me here?”

“For using it? Reeducation.”

“Oh, that sounds fun.”

He sits up, visibly irritated, and grits his teeth. “For selling it, death.”

“How do you decide who is selling it?”

The prince throws up his hands and slaps his legs. “Quantity.”

“So if you caught me with too much, you’d kill me?”

“You wouldn’t do something so foolish, would you?”

I turn in the seat to face him. “Me. Look at me. Would you cut off my head for having too much drugs?”

He rather pointedly does
not
look at me.

“It’s not a problem. You wouldn’t find any here anyway.”

“That’s not an answer to my question, is it? What other dumb thing will you chop off my head for? Can I have a list, or do I have to guess?”

“Tell me about the cities in your country,” he says sharply. “I tire of this line of conversation.”

“Oh, that’s easy. I’m just trying to figure out what’s with you.”

“With me?”

“Are you just an emotionless robot that can cut people’s heads off,” I snap, “or do you get off on it? Do you like it?”

“I take no pleasure in the task. Fortunately it’s an infrequent one. My people know their place.”

“Know their place. Cute.” I glare at him.

He looks at me sharply. “I asked you a question.”

“Okay, fine. Where I come from, there are street musicians, vendors selling food, artists painting, people walking with their kids. This place is dead. It looks like no one lives here.”

“I have been to New York,” he says, shrugging his big shoulders. “I walked in Manhattan. I saw men and women living on street corners, in crude shelters made of trash. The city spent more time trying to hide them than trying to help them. In my country no one goes hungry, no one sleeps out in the cold or the rain. I don’t make parents choose between a meal for themselves or for their children. Can you say the same?”

I fold my arms. “There are homeless people in my country. A lot of them have mental problems. I’m getting tired of you talking to me like I’m a child, by the way. You had me a little flustered at breakfast. You know, before you threatened to cut off my hand. I’m not stupid.”

“No, you are not. I think you are quite clever, and brave.”

“Brave?” I blink.

“Without you,” he says casually, gazing out the window, “your pretty little friend would be dead.”

“My pretty little friend?”

He glances over at me quickly, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Is that a hint of what, jealousy? Is that what I hear?”

“What? No, don’t be absurd. I’m not jealous of Melissa.”

“I did not say that you were. I suggested you are jealous of my attentions toward her.”

“Um,” I squeak. “I’m not, I…”

“In the USA it is said, ‘gentleman prefer blondes,’ yes?”

I nod. “I guess, there’s a movie by that name.”

“I know it. Marilyn Monroe. Very pretty woman.”

He reaches over and traps a loose lock of my hair between his fingers, twirling it into a tight little rope. I feel a weird urge to move closer to him but shake loose instead.

“Did you study the folklore of my people at all before you came here?”

“I didn’t know I was coming to Kosztyla before I—”