Princess In Denim (10 page)

King Albert spoke slowly. "I had an announcement planned for later, after we dine, but perhaps I should make it now in case—" He coughed a little. "In case I grow too weak."

"But, Your Majesty—" William began.

King Albert held up his hand to stop him.

William persisted. "It can wait until you are stronger."

"Nonsense, William. Why keep my daughter waiting?" King Albert looked warmly at Chloe and smiled.

It was her first clue that this had something directly to do with her, that it was something that William wanted to put off, if the shuttered look on his face was any indication. Suddenly lunch didn't smell so wonderful, but all the same, she smiled politely in return.

With a shaky hand, King Albert lifted his wineglass in a salute to Chloe. "Moira, my daughter, I have missed you these past years. I am delighted to have you home again, to see your beautiful smile, to hear your lovely voice." He paused, whether to catch up on his oxygen or to wait for her response, Chloe wasn't certain.

"Thank you, Father."

His eyes glowed for a moment. "Ah, it does my heart good to see you again, to know that you are happy. A father wants his children to be happy, you know."

Some response seemed to be called for again.

She nodded a little.

"That is why," he announced with great pride, "I have arranged for you to marry."

Without thinking, Chloe jumped to her feet. "Marry? But, Father—" Her protest lost its momentum when the heavy chair, its legs caught on the carpet, wouldn't move out of her way and shoved her forward. Her hands shot out to brace herself, she upended her plate and sent stew splattering all over the white tablecloth, dotting it with broth and chunks of vegetables.

William tossed his napkin onto the table as he bolted to his feet beside her. "Your Majesty, please."

Chloe looked up at him, thinking that the anguish on his face must mirror her own. She turned back to King Albert to plead her case.

See, William doesn't want you to marry me off to some.
..
some..
.
man.

"You can't do this!" Chloe felt a moment of guilt when her father paled slightly. "I mean, not without my meeting him. I could never marry someone I didn't love," she said weakly, not because she didn't mean it, but because a uniformed nurse had dashed into the room and now hovered near the old man's shoulder.

King Albert's voice might have been weak, but his intent was firm as he proclaimed, "Moira, it is for your own good. I have already signed the marriage contract."

"No!"

"William will make you a fine husband."

William?

The same William she'd gone riding with this morning? As friends? She whirled on him, standing inches from her. He was tall and broad and could have sat her back down with little effort, but she was too stunned by the news to be intimidated by his size. "All the time...you
knew?"

He had the good grace to smile sheepishly.

Very quietly, to be sure she had this absolutely correct, she asked, "When you asked me to go riding with you yesterday, you'd already signed a contract to marry me?"

"Yes." The slightest of smiles tugged at the corner of his lips, as if he were testing the waters.

"No!" she roared. She wheeled on her chair and gave it a good cowgirl kick out of her way. He'd known! All the time, he'd known. How dumb could she be? "When?"

"I approached your father months ago."

"And when did you sign the papers?"

"Last week."

She stood toe-to-toe with him. "I've never met anyone so underhanded, so connivin—"

"Please, Moira."

"How
archaic
could you possibly get?"

"Your father and I think—"

"I think, too, buddy. My answer is no."

"But, Moira—"

"And you can take back your horse!"

Chapter Five

I'm a princess. I can do whatever I want.

William bent down, grasped Chloe's chair with one hand and gently righted it by the table. "Please, Moira, sit down."

As mad as she was, she remembered how gentle his hands had been on her after she'd fallen. Feeling betrayed, she folded her arms across her chest and held her ground, unsure whether to be madder at King Albert or King William.

I'm a princess. I can do whatever I want.

"We will discuss this," he said softly, as if she were a naughty child.

William won—she was madder at him. All that acting as if he liked her, cared for her. He'd given her a fancy Andalusian mare, for heaven's sake. What was that? A bribe?

"Calmly, rationally."

"I'm a princess."

He grinned. "Yes, I know." He eased the chair in behind her legs until she sat, then scooted both her and the chair up to the table as if she weighed no more than a young child.

When she looked down, it was clear that the servants had been busy while she was ranting. The soiled tablecloth had been draped and covered with fresh white napkins. A server hovered nearby with another helping, though from the look on his face, he wasn't certain whether to put it anywhere within her reach.

She had everyone's attention—everyone who mattered. "And as a princess, I can do whatever I want."

William scooted in beside her and draped his arm along the back of her chair. "Well, in most circumstances."

She turned and batted his arm away. "This is one of them."

"No—"

King Albert interrupted. "The contract is signed. I will hear no more of it."

"I will not marry this man."

"You will."

"Not!"

Her father cast a rueful smile at William. "I am afraid my daughter—" He coughed, and couldn't stop. The nurse took his pulse, adjusted his oxygen cannula, told him to calm himself, and still he coughed.

Prince Louis spoke up. "I feel I must voice my concern."

Oh, great.

"My sister has grown up in another country and become quite . . . headstrong. I think it would be unfair to expect William to put up with her, Father."

"Thanks," Chloe muttered. "I think." It was quite a change from the sniping Louis had done yesterday, and she wished she knew him better. Or at least more about his and Moira's relationship.

King Albert's lips turned gray, and Chloe wouldn't say anything more to upset him. If he'd looked like death warmed over yesterday, he looked halfway in the grave today.

She rose to her feet, carefully this time. "I can see that my behavior is distressing my father. Excuse me, please."

On her way out the door, she told the nearest footman to summon Emma. Chloe needed her more than ever, needed her advice before going one-on-one in a royal battle of wits with William.

* * *

William felt more alone than he had in a long time. Moira had left the dining room abruptly, King Albert had been wheeled off to his bedchamber by his nurse, and Louis had followed.

He had known it was too soon to tell Moira, had begged King Albert to wait, but the old man was concerned about his health and did not want to delay.

There was only one thing William could do now. He had to talk to Moira and explain everything to her, reason with her, convince her that this was in her best interest.

That decided, he rose to his feet.

"His Majesty wishes to speak to you, Your Majesty," the nurse announced from the doorway through which she had taken King Albert.

He strode into the bedchamber to find the old man's eyes closed, Louis bending solicitously over him.

"He is sleeping now," Louis said.

The nurse frowned. "But he sounded so determined." She checked his pulse and oxygen flow.

"Yes, well," Louis said, "you can see he is asleep. Perhaps later, William."

Frustrated by the delay, William grabbed the first servant he found. "Take me to Her Highness's suite at once."

All the way there, he wondered what he would say, what he
could
say, to change her mind. He could not promise her love or happiness; he knew only that they must marry. And soon.

He was standing outside Moira's door, knocking on it when she stormed around the corner at the other end of the passageway. "Moira—"

She breezed past him and slammed the door in his face, something no one had ever done before. He grinned and made a mental note to thank King Albert for sending his daughter to live in America; she had picked up such . . . charming habits there. He heard other doors within the suite slam, also. She was nothing like the rest of her family, neither spineless nor meek.

How could I ever have thought so?
He would consider himself a lucky man if he could get her to the altar. When he had signed the marriage contract, he had done it for his country. It seemed he was to be rewarded.

He rapped his knuckles on the wood again. "Moira, open the door." He tested it and found it opened only a fraction; she had blocked it with something, probably a chair.

A loud crash sounded from within, as if she were tearing the walls down. Literally. "Moira?" He pressed his ear to the door, but instead of her voice, all he heard were a few more heavy thuds, like stones falling. "Moira, answer me! Are you all right?"

Dear God, let her be all right.
He tested the door again, but it still opened only a fraction. And through that gap, he saw a cloud of dust or smoke coming from her bedchamber. /
will do better next time. I will keep her safe.

If she is alive.

He shoved the door with his shoulder and made no progress. He planted one good, solid kick against it, and heard no more than a small crack. The wood was thick and braced, and it seemed that an eternity passed before his efforts finally crushed the chair she had tipped beneath the knob.

The double doors to her bedchamber were slightly ajar. Dust poured out through them, and he saw only rubble beyond.

He heard coughing, a hacking, torturous distress signal that tore at his heart. "Moira!"

He crossed the sitting room in bounds and threw open the double doors. Along the far wall was a pile of stones and rubble. A huge hole gaped overhead.

Moira sat slumped against a chair, one hand waving dust away from her face as she stared at the mess in front of her.

He knelt beside her, his hands moving rapidly over her body, looking for injury, even though he could plainly see not a scratch on her, no stones lying around her body, no blood.

He said a silent prayer of thanks.

"It was such a pretty bed," she said.

"There is a bed under there?"

She nodded. "A canopy bed. I always wanted a canopy bed." She cast a startled glance his way. "I mean, in the United States, I missed having a canopy bed."

With more time to look at the mess, he could see a chandelier lying amid the plaster and stone, too.

"Two attempts on your life in one day, Moira—"

She halted him with a gentle laugh. "Oh, stop. It was an accident, William. I mean, how many years has that thing been hanging there, anyway?"

"It should not have fallen."

"Well, you won't get any argument there."

Accidental or intentional, it made no difference to William. He could not protect her if he was not beside her.

"Are you all right? Can you walk?" He was quick to lend her his hand to rise.

She brushed plaster dust off herself. He wanted to help, so he did. He began with her back; she could not object to that. Then he picked bits and pieces out of her hair, until she pulled out her braid, bent over and swung her hair loose and free.

"How's that?" she asked, her back still to him as she straightened.

He sank his fingers into her tresses. "Much better."

She looked over her shoulder at him. "William?"

He busied himself with brushing imaginary debris off her shoulders. He worked his way down and around, over her skirt, lingered on her knees.

"William." She sounded . . . out of breath.

He stood up again, in front of her this time, his chest nearly touching her breasts, when what he wanted to do was crush her to him. Her eyes were soft, confused, liquid warmth compared to the cold rubble around them. Had this happened at night, she would have been buried beneath it.

Leonard had advised him to romance Moira. It seemed stronger methods were mandatory if he was to keep her alive long enough to get her to the altar.

"I have decided," he said. "You are coming home with me."

* * *

William, arms folded across his chest, stood by the door and watched as Moira's maid packed for her.

"Angela, stop that," Moira ordered.

"Let her be, Your Highness," he reiterated for the hundredth time. For a princess, she certainly did not know when to obey her superiors. He was beginning to have mixed feelings about her stay in the United States. He would bet that American friend of hers, that Chloe Something-or-Other, had been a bad influence.

Moira stomped up to him until they were toe-to-toe. Inside, he wished for her to come closer.

"Angela is my maid."