A Royal Mess: A Royal Mess / Her Knight To Remember

Hadn’t Amelia warned her of the good old U.S. of A., land of pop-up minimalls, Hollywood divas and Wild West cowboys?

If truth be told, Natalia had a secret passion for old westerns. Both her sisters felt she watched too many Clint Eastwood movies, and maybe she did, but they fascinated her. Logically, she knew modern American men didn’t wear hats and carry six-shooters, but it was a good visual, and she appreciated a good visual.

There was a real good visual sitting right next to her; all long, leanly muscled and wearing the requisite Stetson hat. And he was holding her hand. How sweet was that? She hadn’t imagined a cowboy could be sweet on top of being tough as nails—and she had no doubt that this man with his rugged looks and low, authoritative voice was tough as nails. She looked him over, thinking Hollywood had missed the mark by not using him in movies. “You don’t, by any chance, carry a six-shooter do you?”

He lifted his hat and stared at her. “Have you been drinking?”

“No, of course not.” Another thing princesses didn’t do in public…indulge. “I was just wondering. So do you? Carry a gun?”

He put his hat back over his face, which was a crying shame given how amazing his face was. Not pretty-boy amazing—she got enough of that at home—but amazing in the way the Marlboro man would look without a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. A tanned, lived-in face, so arresting she couldn’t look away, paired with a body that would make any woman drool.

“I left the six-shooter at home,” he said. “With my talking horse.” He yawned and stretched that tough, coiled body, bumping his knees on the seat in front of him. Swearing beneath his breath, he tried to fold himself back up, but oddly enough, he did it while leaving his large, warm hand in hers.

Not a woman easily touched, Natalia nearly melted. He wore a dark blue T-shirt. And denim. Let’s not forget the denim, which looked incredibly soft and perfectly worn. She’d bet all the earrings in her left ear that he hadn’t bought them that way, but had worn them in with years of work.

Contrary to what one might imagine a princess’s wardrobe to contain, she herself had several pairs of jeans, none of which were with her now, as she preferred stirring things up, and leather seemed to do that nicely.

It was a middle-child thing. When she’d been ten years old her mother had taken her to a “specialist” to find out why she had to be the center of attention all the time. All it had netted her mother was a big doctor’s bill, though Natalia could still fondly remember the cool candy he’d handed out after each session. Anyway, her mother had never discovered Natalia’s problem, but Natalia figured she knew. She loved attention.

Which was why she was here, alone. On her first solo trip sans attendants on her way to a royal friend’s wedding, where she planned on representing her family and making them proud. For once. But she hadn’t counted on good old-fashioned nerves.

She was sandwiched in between the once-again prone cowboy and a three-hundred-pound woman who’d fallen asleep with her mouth open. Her snores had gone from loud to off-the-sonic scale, even over and above Blink-182’s latest CD blaring out of her earphones.

At least the cowboy slept utterly silently, though he still proved quite the distraction because he had such a commanding presence she couldn’t seem to stop sneaking peeks at him.

But unfortunately, she’d sipped too many glasses of water and needed to visit the facilities. Badly. She looked at Ms. Snoring-Loud. Please, someone just shoot me dead if I ever fall asleep in public with my mouth open wide enough to catch flies. “Excuse me,” she whispered, gently nudging the large woman. “I need to get up.”

The woman jerked awake with a loud snort and glared at her. “I was sleeping.”

“I realize that. But I must use the facilities.”

“The facilities?”

Did they have no class in this country? Natalia pointed toward the front of the plane, past first class where she should have been seated.

“Oh, you mean the pot?” This was said loud enough for the people in the Republic of China to hear. “You have to pee. Well, my goodness, you should’ve just said so.” She cocked a brow. “Or isn’t a princess allowed to say the word pee?”

Oh, amusing. Wasn’t she amusing? “Can I please get out?”

“Yeah, yeah.” The woman heaved herself out of the seat and into the aisle. “Far be it for me to keep the princess waiting.”

Once Natalia was finally in the “pot,” she stared at her harried face in the mirror. Pale and sickly. She tried splashing her cheeks with water, but succeeded only in making her hair look like the Bride of Fran-kenstein. Very nice.

The cowboy stirred when she sat back down, and slowly tipped back his Stetson, prying one eye open. One green eye. One amazingly forest-green eye, which looked her over before closing again.

Unlike everyone else she’d ever met, he didn’t comment on the makeup, jewelry or clothing. “Are we there yet?” he asked.

“No.”

“Hmm.” He settled back in the seat, his long, built body far too big for it. His arm bumped hers off the armrest, and she stared at him, shocked he didn’t immediately fall all over himself and apologize as most people did when they accidentally touched her.

He didn’t even look at her!

Because he was obviously squished, and because she didn’t want to draw his attention again, she let it go. But even as rude as Americans were, she had to admit, they sure made their men quite magnificent.

“Are you watching me sleep?” he asked in a low, rather husky voice.

She jerked her gaze off him. “Of course not.”

“You’re watching.”

Not anymore. Not if her life depended on it. Refusing to so much as look out the window—heaven forbid he mistake that for her watching him—she eyed the woman next to her, who was once again snoring.

With a sigh, Natalia turned straight ahead and gave her best imitation of a royal at utter tranquility, even when the plane dipped unexpectedly. It was the hardest thing she’d ever done.

And a very small part of her wished the cowboy would give her his hand back.

WHAT SHE HADN’T REALIZED during that hideous plane ride was that things could get worse.

Far worse.

The plane landed on schedule. Natalia got off on schedule.

And that’s where, unfortunately, the worse part came in.

The flight attendants waved goodbye to everyone as they exited the plane, smiling and looking like parade commissioners. When Natalia got to the front, they all promptly stopped waving. On cue, they bowed and cried “farewell thy princess.”

Funny. Ever so funny.

She thought maybe her Clint Eastwood look-alike, standing behind her, laughed. The sound was low and rough, just like his voice, but when she whirled to glare at him, he was simply looking at her with those intense, see-all eyes of his. No smile at her expense on his mouth, but there was a very little hint of it in his gaze, she just knew it.

She stared at him for another long second, during which he patiently endured her scrutiny.

Then someone behind him nudged him forward, and he pressed against her back for a brief moment before widening his stance to better brace himself.

Her spine indelibly imprinted with the feel of his warm, hot body, Natalia rushed forward, in a desperate hurry to…

Get lost.

She had to find her next flight in this monstrous airport in…where was she? Oh, yes. Dallas. Dallas, Texas. Where all the women had huge hair and the men wore belt buckles larger than—

Well. No use going there.

Not when she had herself to feel so sorry for. She stuck out like a sore thumb and felt people staring every time she so much as moved, which of course made her thrust up her chin and give everyone hard stares back. Funny, but she’d never felt like an atrocity before. Distracted by that, she somehow ended up in Terminal C instead of Terminal B.

Uh-uh. No way was she going to miss her connection. Not when she had two perfectly good legs to get her there. She had her sights on first class this time, and she would accept no less. But with only a few minutes to spare before the flight, she was afraid she’d be told that ridiculous overbooked story again. To avoid that, she started running. Not easy in an overcrowded airport full of people and wearing heavy boots meant for looking good, not sprinting a marathon. Dodging left and right, she hustled on, her carry-on banging against her thighs with every step she took, her toes screaming against the steel front of her boots. But damn it, the boots looked good.

It took forever to make progress. Old people walking too slowly, kids in the way…. At this rate, by the time she got to the right gate, she’d be a very unprincesslike sweaty mess. She already felt so out of breath she had to stop, drop her purse and carry-on, and bend over to suck in some serious air.