The Runaway Princess Read Online Free PDF Page A

hand, she shoved him hard, right on the Adam’s apple. “Yuck!”
    He dropped her and grabbed his throat.
    Sidling away from him, she demanded, “What did you do that for?”
    â€œWhat?” he asked hoarsely. He coughed slightly, then repeated, “Do what? I was just kissing you.”
    She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth in the most offended manner she could devise. “You licked me.”
    She had hoped to insult him. Instead, hand on his throat, he stared down at her. The brilliant cobalt of his eyes faded to a thoughtful shade of slate. “One would think you have not made your fortune by prostitution.”
    â€œI am not a whore. I told you, I’m Evangeline Scoffield, an Englishwoman. I inherited money from the . . .” She stared up at his domineering features in despair. She didn’t want to tell him about her silly fantasies. Especially not now. When he laughed at her, the humiliation would wither her, and all her memories of this time would be tainted.
    Only, nothing but the whole truth would do. Otherwise, how would she save herself, as a proper Englishwoman should do?
    â€œI’m listening.” He folded his arms across his chest.
    Obviously, passion had not overcome him. Probably, he’d never lost his discipline, for she wasn’t a creature of irresistibility. She sagged withprivate, contraband disappointment. This week had proved that. She was only—“Evangeline Scoffield. I’m an orphan bought from a foundling school. I worked for a lady . . . who . . . died.”
    â€œWhat kind of work did you do?”
    â€œLeona had this incredible library”—incredibly musty—“and she wanted a . . . well, I suppose you could call it an inquiry aide.”
    â€œA dull occupation for one so vibrant as you.”
    â€œOh, no!” She shifted away from his searching gaze. “At least, not at first. I was eleven when I went to her, and hungry for knowledge, not to mention skinny and pathetic.” Smiling, she invited him to picture the child she had been, but he stood stoically. “She taught me Greek, Latin, French, Spanish, Slavic, and an obscure dialect called Baminian.”
    â€œYou speak it like a native,” he commented.
    â€œYes, well, Leona was a skilled linguist!” Was she getting through to him? She couldn’t tell. “I can translate Mandarin Chinese and German. I know how to make fireworks, how to break a horse, how to ride a camel.”
    Or rather, she knew how to do those things in theory . She had no practical experience. She and Leona had gone nowhere, done nothing but read and learn. Letters and drawings had come from distant scholars, and Evangeline had rubbed the ornate ink strokes with her fingertips and wished she could go to those places. Her adolescence had slipped by, frittered away on dreams of freedom and travel.
    But she didn’t think it would be wise to admit that to this cynic. “I could even dissect a human body,” she said triumphantly.
    â€œI will make sure I keep all knives away from you while you’re around me.”
    In any other man, Evangeline might have thought that was humor. In this man, she considered it a warning.
    She ought to refuse to explain herself any further. After all, he was waiting without a visible flicker of interest for her to finish. Hastily, she continued, “My knowledge was limited only by Leona’s interests, and Leona was interested in everything. And I was grateful to be there.”
    â€œIn East Big Mouthie, Cornwall.”
    â€œEast Little Teignmouth, and yes, I was grateful. Anything was better than the alternatives.”
    â€œWhat alternatives were those?”
    â€œGoverness, starvation, or, your favorite, prostitution,” she said in a clipped tone. She wasn’t getting through to him. It was as if he could comprehend none of the languages she spoke. Perhaps if she