Free The Runaway Princess by Christina Dodd Page A

an inexplicable excitement.
    Miss Evangeline Scoffield of East Little Teignmouth, indeed.
    Some might say he should have patience with her prevarications, reading them as the panicked fluttering of a woman innocent of the ways of men.
    He said she should be used to the thought of wedding him—they’d been betrothed since the day she was born. And any forbearance he might have felt was washed away by his rampaging determination to be king.
    He would be king. King of Serephina and Baminia, united after a thousand years of acrimony. And this little princess and her loss of nerve would not stop him.
    That was why he had brought her to the convent of Santa Leopolda. The towering precipice would protect them from attack, yes. It would also assure him that Ethelinda—no, Evangeline—remained in his custody, and her dowry, the country of Serephina, would be his.
    â€œLet me down,” she said. “You need to rest.”
    â€œI will. When we’re up there.” With a jerk of his head, he indicated the convent above.
    â€œYou are a stubborn man,” she exclaimed, as vexed as he had heard her.
    â€œThat is a wise thing to remember,” he answered, gratified. At the same time he examined the open space around the base of the convent cliffs. Trees had been stripped away to provide a defense against marauders, and when they left the forest, they would be exposed. If he could get them through this one peril, they would be safe—until they once more left on their journey to Plaisance.
    But he had learned to confront one danger at a time.
    He scrutinized the tree line. He listened to the carefree calls of the birds. He looked for unusual shadows among the boulders at the base of the cliff. It was safe. As safe as possible. “Hang on,” he muttered.
    Realizing his intention, she struggled. “No. Let me run!”
    â€œWhere?” he asked grimly. Gripping her, he sped away from the protection of the trees andtoward the narrow path that led to the entrance to the convent.
    Evangeline clung, her legs and arms wrapped around him tightly, riding him like a horse, lessening the impact of his step. His breath came hard, his arms and back ached, but he did what he had to do. It was a lesson he’d learned well.
    A future king always did what he had to do.
    Gaining the lowest reaches of the path, he continued more cautiously. The rebels might be hiding behind one of the stony bends.
    â€œYou can’t carry me up that path. It’s too steep!” Evangeline protested.
    â€œSh.” As he reached the first bend, he turned and surveyed the meadow. No one raced after them. Above them, he could hear nothing, and on the ground he saw only one set of footprints. Victor’s.
    They were safe—for the moment. Moving on at a slower rate, he tried to regain his breath and answer Evangeline’s most recent protest. “Of course . . . I will carry you. Your shoes . . . have not grown . . . new soles.”
    â€œI’ll walk carefully, but listen to you! Your lungs are working like bellows and your arms are trembling from my weight.”
    Carefully he regulated his breath and adjusted her weight to a more comfortable position. “I’m fine.”
    He wasn’t, not really. The sleepless night and strain of carrying her had taken its toll. But it irked him that she should think him such a milksop that he couldn’t complete the journey.
    More than that, he took an odd pleasure in carrying her on his back.
    His own doggedness didn’t even make sense. Trudging along as she weighed him down was a constant, meticulous torture—but not because of muscle strain and fatigue. Oh, no. It was that she was open to him in some eccentric, reversed imitation of lovemaking, her arms around his neck, her legs around his hips. Her breasts pressed into his back, the nipples hardening with each chill, then softening as she warmed, like a woman brought to