The Runaway Princess Read Online Free PDF

spoke in a really low baritone . . . “She wanted me to have her money, so when she . . . died . . . I, um, inherited it.”
    The proportions of his face thinned with disapproval.
    â€œI bought these trappings and came here playing a role because I couldn’t bear to expire without ever having tasted the wonders of the world,” she concluded rapidly.
    â€œYou call that the truth?” His nose, a craggy edifice, grew pinched, and his lips compressed. “I had hoped you would see your error. Did not the good sisters teach it is a sin to lie—Your Royal Highness?”
    Had he been hoaxing her with his accusations of prostitution? Looking at him now, all dignifiedcensure, she thought he had. He’d been testing her, trying her out like a rider with a new horse.
    If he were indeed mad, then he played his delusion with a cool logic she might admire . . . if only she were not the object of that delusion. “I’m not the princess, and I’m not lying!” Or not much. “I’ve got a copy of the will in my bag. It’s a good will, it really, really is. Perfectly legal. If you’ll just let me get it . . .”
    He caught her as she tried to step around him and into the open area of the room. “Let me tell you what I think. I think you are the spoiled daughter of the House of Chartrier.”
    She would have protested again, but he held up his hand. “I listened to you,” he reminded.
    â€œBut you don’t believe me. You haven’t seen this princess in twelve years, but you think you know her.”
    â€œThe evidence points to your true identity. You have been attending the convent school near Viella, just across the Spanish border. You recognized me in the dining room and retreated to your room to make up a plan—an inadequate fabrication which you were ill-equipped to tell.”
    â€œI didn’t feel the need to explain myself to a madman.” She asked suspiciously, “And why do you want this princess so badly?”
    â€œI don’t feel the need to explain the obvious.” He mocked her with her own words. “You know you panicked when you saw me holding the penknife I sent you as a present for your fifteenth birthday.” He nodded toward the desk where the contents of her secretary were scattered willy-nilly.
    â€œI panicked because I thought you were going to stab me.”
    He smiled, a slight lift of the lips. “Only a fool would hurt you.”
    She hated this. He sounded so sensible, so . . . so . . . uncrazed. If he kept talking, he could almost convince her she was Ethelinda of Serephina.
    But even if she assumed he was sane, there was still the nagging question of his identity. Choosing her words carefully, she asked, “If I were truly the princess, and I recognized you in the dining room, why would I flee in alarm?”
    â€œI weary of your foolish questions,” he said disdainfully.
    â€œHumor me.”
    â€œYou would flee”—he said repressively—“because you know I am Danior. Danior of the House of Leon.”
    With a sinking sensation, she realized she was familiar with the name. “Danior of Baminia?”
    He nodded. “Your betrothed.”

Four
    Evangeline backed toward the corner of the chamber. “But you can’t be a prince. You can’t!”
    Danior’s heavy, dark eyebrows rose. “Why not?”
    â€œBecause you’re too . . . too . . .” Big. Broad. Muscular.
    She’d seen pictures of princes in her books. Lots of them. Princes wore capes lined with robin’s egg blue silk that they threw carelessly over one shoulder. They wore velvet caps trimmed with soft feathers. They trod so lightly that the ground was grateful to hold their weight. They were slender, graceful—and charming.
    A prince did not wear unremitting black and white, like any gentleman of fashion. He did not