Princess In Denim (9 page)

"It is safe here, but I must insist."

He said it in such a way that it could only be taken as genuine concern. She took a deep breath, pasted on a smile and willingly gave in. As a princess, she supposed, she could have stormed off until she got her way, but then she'd have missed riding with William.

They warmed up the horses for a mile, let them out for a frisky lope after that and then settled into a companionable trot, side by side. Their escorts followed at a discreet distance, so they were almost alone. Enough to talk freely. Chloe was dying to call him "William" instead of "Your Majesty."

He nodded toward a steep hill ahead and to the right. "That would be a good location for a health care facility, Your Highness."

"Yes," she said, feigning interest. "Please, call me Moira."

She was rewarded with a warm smile that lit up his eyes.

"If you will call me William."

"I'd like that...William." It felt so good to finally say it, she almost got giddy.

"You blush beautifully, Moira."

That
made her giddy.

"And I like your laugh. It is like the breeze blowing gently through tiny bells."

"A wind chime," she said. "How poetic, William."

"I enjoy the view of the river from the hilltop. Would that be all right?"

She'd have followed him anywhere right then. "Sure, but I need to tighten my girth first."

"The groomsman—" he began, but by the time he finished offering someone else's services, she'd dropped her stirrup, leaned down, pulled the buckles tighter and had her leg back in position again.

She took one look at his raised eyebrows and grinned at him. "I'm not very good at letting people do everything for me," she confessed.

"So it appears. Your staff in America must have had it quite easy."

She didn't want to get into that. "Let's do that hill now."

Halfway up at the steep, boulder-strewn hill, Chloe's saddle slipped just enough for her to realize her girth had loosened again. She tightened her legs and wondered what kind of substandard equipment they had in this country. She was just reaching for a handful of mane when the saddle tilted to the left, then broke free completely.

The mare panicked and jumped to the right, then whirled on her forehand. Chloe got dumped on the left and tucked into a protective roll that carried her partway down the hill before she stopped. She'd fallen plenty of times in the past; what trick rider hadn't? But rolling over and over left her head spinning when she sat up.

"Moira!"

Not spinning so much, though, that she didn't melt inside when William's arms circled her.

"Hold still," he ordered.

As if she wanted to move while his hands roamed her arms and legs, feeling, she supposed, for broken bones. The thundering in her ears was new, and it took her a moment to realize that it was their escorts charging up to them.

There were queries of "What happened?" and "Are you all right, Your Highness?" and orders of "Someone catch that damned mare!"

But Chloe couldn't have cared less. William's arms were warm and strong and tender as he sat behind her to lend support she didn't need, except for the fact that she found it difficult to breathe with him touching her all over. His chest was hard and solid against her back. His thighs cradled her hips sturdily. His breath teased the top of her head as he gave orders to all the men in a low, controlled voice that did nothing to disguise his fury.

He had the escorts hopping to do his bidding. All Chloe wanted to do was recline in his arms a bit longer. She supposed, though, that she should let him know she was unhurt.

In another minute.

The saddle landed at her side, next to William's knee, and William's man-at-arms held the end of the leather girth, where there should have been three buckles.

"All three gave way, Your Majesty. They must have been cut."

"Whattaya mean, cut?" Chloe would have bolted right out of William's arms, except that he held her close.

"Your Highness, you should not move," he warned.

"I'm fine." She reached for the girth and saw remnants of stitching, little pieces of broken threads all that remained on the off side, where one seldom checked. "Maybe it's dry rot."

"Your Highness...Moira, please be careful," William cautioned. "You might have internal injuries."

"I'm fine," she snapped, and bolted to her feet. "Is my horse all right?"

"She is fine, Your Highness," an escort answered, and led her forward so that Chloe could see for herself that the mare was neither frightened nor limping.

William followed closely as she circled the mare. "You are limping, Moira. Let me carry you back to the castle now."

Chloe waved his concern away. "I'm fine. If I could have the girth from one of your —"

Carry me back? As in, ride double?

"Well, my leg
is
a little sore from that tumble."

William snapped his fingers; his horse was instantly led forward. He mounted from the high side of the hill, then reached for her. A man-at-arms gave her a boost, but she barely felt him touch her leg as William settled her sideways in the saddle, while he himself moved to sit behind it.

They started downhill.

Chloe had ridden in many different positions, but sideways down a steep hill wasn't one of them. As a trick rider, she'd always been in control, but it wasn't possible this way. "Oh, this is awful," she complained with a groan.

"What, Moira?" William asked, his voice warm and husky in her ear. "Am I holding you too tight?"

Yeah, right.

"Oh, no, Your Majesty...William."

"What then?"

"Nothing. William..."

"Yes?"

"Would it be all right if I laid my head on your shoulder?"

"Of course."

His neck was warm from the sun, his shirt as soft as chamois. A week ago she'd been a plain American nobody, and this week she was cradled by a hunk of a king who wanted to help people by building a health care facility on top of a hill.

She couldn't help wondering whether it was possible for him to be as interested in her as he was in his people. She wanted him to be, but given the circumstances into which she'd been thrown— royal princess where the boy next door was a grown-up monarch—she'd be wise to keep rein on her emotions and see if they could be friends first.

Not that that sounded nearly as interesting as what she was feeling at the moment.

* * *

It was just as King Albert had feared. William hated to admit it, but Moira's father might be right. He had said Moira could be in danger if she came home, and William had promised to protect her.

He would not go back on that promise.

She was warm and cozy in the circle of his arms, and silent enough to give him time to think. Had she adjusted her own girth because she was meek and did not want to trouble anyone, or because, as he now suspected, a measure of American independence had rubbed off on her? After all, she had not lain on the ground and wept. She had not winced when he felt for broken bones. She had not begged for a well-sprung carriage to carry her home, or for the immediate presence of a physician.

He could like this new side of Moira, too. As long as she did not try to forestall what he knew was best for their countries.

He guided his stallion past the stable, to the castle entrance where Emma waited.

She greeted them with concern. "Your Highness?"

"We had a little mishap," William answered for her. He turned over his reins to his groom, slid backward over his horse's hindquarters, then stood beside Moira's knees and reached up for her.

Her eyes were clear and bright, showing no pain, no anger. She rested her hands on his shoulders, slid off the saddle and allowed him to take her weight. Reluctantly he let her slide down in front of him, when he would have preferred to drag her up against his chest and feel her against him again, face-to-face this time. When her feet touched the ground, he held her for another moment to be sure she was steady, but she had no difficulty and did not even pretend to lean on him.

Good, she was fine. Now he was free to find out who was responsible for her "accident."

"Are you all right?" Emma asked her.

"Yes, I just took a little tumble."

"You?" Emma visibly composed herself. "I'll see you to your quarters, then, Your Highness. Just to be certain."

Moira turned and looked up at William with a warm, soft gaze that told him that maybe, in spite of the dangerous accident, he had made inroads toward a friendship with her. An important step.

When he found the man who had nearly put an end to all this, he would not only punish him, he would make him wish for a quick death.

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

He had liked it ever so much better when she called him by his name. But of course she was not free to do so at the moment.

"You were very kind to let me ride back with you."

Every so often, she got formal like that. He really preferred the other side of her, the American one that bubbled over with expressions he could not take literally but wanted to hear more of. And he was quite pleased that she had lost some of the shyness she had exhibited with him on the plane.

"It was my pleasure."
If she only knew.
"Your father has invited me for lunch, so I will see you in a little while."

He watched carefully as she took her first steps away from him, to make sure she was not hurt more than she would let on, that she did not stumble and fall. But she really did appear to be all right. Her limp was slight.

It could have been much worse. She could have been killed.

He turned on everyone present and snapped, "Come to the stables and bring everyone who was anywhere near that mare."

It took only minutes; there was no one else for them to go roust out. The groomsman swore the girth had been perfect when he saddled her.

A man-at-arms from Castle Ennsway stepped forward. "Except for a minute, she was never out of my sight, Your Majesty."

"You deserted your post?" William demanded.

At His Majesty's tone, the man blanched. "Her Highness's own assistant secretary asked me for assistance, Your Majesty. I thought—"

"You
thought?"

"But, Your Majesty—"

William turned abruptly to his man-at-arms. "Throw him in the dungeon."

* * *

Chloe had a one-o'clock lunch date with King Albert.

"What would you like to wear?" Angela asked.

"Oh, I don't know. I usually just..." No, she couldn't say she usually just stood in her cramped bedroom and stared into her dark, minuscule closet until the right clothes struck her. Or that she rooted through the hamper for her least dirty tank top. "I usually just pick a color."

"Like blue?"

"Mmm, maybe." She headed for the shower, thinking maybe red would be a nice color today; it would give her courage. When she returned, wrapped in a towel as big as a sheet, she found a blue dress laid out on the bed.

"Is this all right, Your Highness?" Angela asked.

Well, what did it matter, really? Maybe Angela knew that King Albert's favorite color was blue or something. Maybe she was trying, in her own way, to present Chloe in the best light. "Sure."

"I will get you something else."

"This is fine."

"But, you are—" Angela pointed to her own eyebrows "Frowning?"

"It's fine, really."

Angela rushed toward the closet, calling over her shoulder in an eager tone, "I will bring you every color until you like."

Chloe sighed; she really didn't mean to cause more work for anyone. "Red, Angela."

At ten after one, in a scarlet skirt and heels, she was jogging along a stone passageway—she could have sworn she'd been through it just five minutes before, but so many of them looked alike—and muttering to herself about making one wrong turn after another. When she finally found her father's suite, she burst through the doorway.

Everyone turned to face her at her abrupt entrance; William, his smile warm and gentle as he stood next to her father; King Albert, seated at the head of the table with an oxygen tank by his side; Louis nearby, stroking his beard with a hand that bore a long scar across the back. The servants went about their business silently, and William and Louis moved toward their dining chairs.

Nearly out of breath, Chloe tried to look composed as she apologized courteously. "I'm sorry I'm late, Father."

King Albert's smile was feeble, but warm nonetheless. "I understand your fall has put you off schedule."

Sounded good to her, better than
I got lost in the home I grew up in.
"Yes."

"You were not injured?"

"No, Father."

He nodded, as if he were satisfied with that answer. "Come. Sit."

A servant stood behind the chair on her father's right, holding it for her. William, next to her, and Louis, across, stood by theirs and waited for her to be seated. She'd heard about such manners, of course; she'd just never come across them herself.

"I heard your girth broke?" Louis asked.

"Yes."

William's reply was curt. "It was cut."

Louis's eyebrows puckered in great concern. "Cut? But, Moira, who could have cut it? Who knew you were going riding this morning?"

She shrugged. "Just about anyone, I suppose."

"Ah," Louis said. "But who knew you would be using that particular girth?"

Why did these men talk as if it were a conspiracy? "I'm sure the stitching just dry-rotted or something."

Their meal was set before them, a light stew ladled into bread bowls, served on china trimmed in gold. No one had to tell her it was real gold.

Servers continued to circle the table without speaking, pouring white wine into crystal stemware and dishing out hot rolls and cold butter.

King Albert cleared his throat and gained Chloe's, William's, and Louis's attention. "I am quite tired today."

The aroma of Chloe's lunch made her mouth water, but she sat still, her hands folded in her lap, waiting until someone else made the first move.