Rescuing The Royal Runaway Bride

She nodded and another curl fell down, tumbling into his face. He blinked to dislodge a strand from his eyelashes. And a sweet, familiar scent tickled his nose till he could taste it on the back of his tongue. Honeysuckle.

“Here we go,” he grumbled. “One. Two. And...three!”

He felt her sink into the ground and as she pushed he pulled. With a thick, wet schlock her foot popped free.

She spun, tottered, her feet near slipping out from under her. And finally came to a halt with her face lodged into his neck.

There she breathed. Warm bursts of air wafted over his skin and turned his hair follicles into goose flesh.

Then he felt the moment she realised she had one hand gripping his sleeve, the other clamped to his backside for all she was worth.

The breathing stopped. A heartbeat slunk by. Two. Then she slowly released her hold.

Only, the second she let go, she slipped again.

With a whoop she grabbed him—the sound shaking a pair of bluebirds loose. They swooped and twittered before chasing one another down the tunnel and away.

And suddenly she was trembling in earnest. Violent shakes racked her body, as if she were about to self-destruct.

Dammit. Computing how best to separate her from her trap was one thing, but this was beyond his pay grade.

She made a noise then. Something between a squeak and a whimper. The next time she shook she broke free with a cracking laugh. Then more laughter tumbled on top of the first. Braying, cackling, riotous laughter—the kind that took hold of a person until they could barely breathe.

Will looked to the sky. He wasn’t built for this kind of roller coaster of emotion. It was so taxing and there was no logical pathway out.

Ready to take his leave before things turned again, Will took her firmly by the arms.

Another curl fell to dangle in front of her face. She crossed her eyes and blew it away with a quick stream of air shot from the side of her mouth. When she uncrossed her eyes she looked directly into his.

Spots of pretty pink sat high on her pale cheeks, clear even beneath the tracks of old tears. As her laughter faded, her wide mouth still smiled softly. Light sparked in the bluish green of her huge eyes, glints of folly and fun. And she sank into his grip as if she could stay there all day.

Instead of the words that had been balanced on the tip of his tongue, Will found himself saying, “If you’re laughing because your other foot is now stuck I will leave you here.”

A grin flashed across her face, fast and furious, resonant of a pulse fusion blast. “Not stuck,” she said. “Muddy, mortified, falling apart at the seams, but the last thing I am any more is stuck.”

Will nodded. Even though he was the one who suddenly felt stuck. For words. For a decision on what to do next. For a reason to let her go.

Which was why he let her go. He unclamped his fingers one at a time, giving her no reason to fall into his arms again.

The woman reminded him of a newly collapsed star, unaware as yet that her unstable gravitational field syphoned energy from everything she touched.

But Will wasn’t about to give any away. He gave every bit of energy to his work. It was important, it was ground-breaking, it was necessary. He had none to spare.

“Look,” he said, stopping to clear his throat. “I’m heading towards court so I can give you a lift if you’re heading in that direction. Or drop you...wherever it is you are going.” On foot. Through muddy countryside. In what had probably been some pretty fancy shoes, considering the party dress that went with them. From what Will had seen there was nothing for miles bar the village behind him, and the palace some distance ahead. “Were you heading to the wedding, then?”

It was a simple enough question, but the girl looked as if she’d been slapped. Laughter gone, colour gone, dark tears suddenly wobbled precariously in the corners of her eyes.

She recovered quickly, dashing a finger under each eye, sniffing and taking a careful step back. “No. No, thanks. I’m... I’ll be fine. You go ahead. Thank you, though.”

With that she lifted her dress, turned her back on him and picked her way across the road, slipping a little, tripping on her skirt more.

If the woman wanted to make her own way, dressed and shod as she was, then who was he to argue? He almost convinced himself too. Then he caught the moment she glanced towards the palace, hidden somewhere on the other side of the trees, and decidedly changed tack so that she was heading in the absolute opposite direction.

And, like the snick of a well-oiled combination lock, everything suddenly clicked into place.

The dress with its layers of pink lace, voluminous skirt and hints of rose-gold thread throughout.

The pink train—was that what they called it?—trailing in the mud behind her.

Will’s gaze dropped to her left hand clenched around a handful of skirt. A humungous pink rock the size of a thumbnail in a thin rose-gold band glinted thereupon.

He’d ribbed Hugo enough through school when the guy had been forced to wear the sash of his country at formal events: pink and rose-gold—the colours of the Vallemontian banner.

Only one woman in the country would be wearing a gown in those colours today.

If Will wasn’t mistaken, he’d nearly run down one Mercedes Gray Leonine.

Who—instead of spending her last moments as a single woman laughing with her bridesmaids and hugging her family before heading off to marry the estimable Prince Alessandro Hugo Giordano and become a princess of Vallemont—was making a desperate, muddy, shoeless run for the hills.

Perfect.

CHAPTER TWO (#u6f6eb8ce-925f-51d5-80af-85a5e041d0bd)

“YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS.”

Sadie swallowed as the man’s voice echoed through the thicket. Or she tried at the very least. After crying non-stop for the last hour, her throat felt like sandpaper.

In fact, her entire body felt raw. Sensitive. Prickly. As if her senses were turned up to eleven.

Adding a near-death experience hadn’t helped a jot.

Well, pure and utter panic had got her this far and she planned to ride it out until she reached the border. Or a cave. Or a sinkhole that could swallow her up. Where was a batch of quicksand when you needed it?

She gathered as much of her dress as she was able and kept on walking, hoping her sardonic liberator would simply give up and drive away.

Unfortunately, his deep voice cut through the clearing like a foghorn. “You’ve made your point. You can stop walking now.”

Sadie’s bare foot squelched into a slippery patch of mud. She closed her eyes. Took a breath. Turned. And faced down the stranger in her midst.

When she’d heard the car coming around the corner her life had flashed before her eyes. Literally. Moments, big and small, fluttering through her mind like pages in a picture book.

Not yet school age, screaming, pigtails flying behind her as she was being chased through the palace halls by a grinning Hugo. Her mother waggling a finger at her and telling her to act like a lady.

At five, maybe six, Princess Marguerite gently reminding her not to hold her hand up to block the bright lights from the TV crew. Hugo standing behind a camera making faces as she sat on a couch in the palace library, answering questions about growing up as a “regular girl” in the palace.

The blur of high school without Hugo at her side—the first sense of feeling adrift without her safety net.

Her attempt to overcome that feeling—wide-eyed and terrified, landing in New York when she was twenty. Then grabbing that safety net with both hands as, teary and weary, she fled New York and moved back into the palace at twenty-five.