The Prince Kidnaps a Bride by Christina Dodd Read Free Book Online Page B

had been two days since he’d eaten, eight years since he’d eaten well.
    Then his eyes snapped open, and swiftly he moved into the corridor. He moved without sound through the silence, halting to listen at every corner. The guards were outside on the castle walls. In the palace, nothing moved. Not even a mouse dared disturb Queen Claudia’s rest.
    The door of her chambers opened beneath his touch, and he knew at once he’d come to the right place. The scent of lavender was overwhelming. Dainty feminine furniture crowded every inch of the sitting room, and the single night candle that burned in the next room showed a rumpled, massive bed with a replica of the ornate crown carved on the headboard.
    As he made his way toward the bedchamber, the scent of lavender grew stronger. He stepped across the threshold. The queen’s bedchamber was huge and high, not the most comfortable room in the palace, but certainly the grandest, and that was what mattered to that damned old queen. He glided forward, toward the mound of blankets that covered her reclining figure.
    He had dreamed of this moment. In the depths of his prison cell, where the light seldom shone, where the gray walls closed in and the ceiling was not quite tall enough for him to stand—he had dreamed of being here, staring at the old besom and knowing that at last he was going to get revenge.
    For one moment, his eyes clouded and the blood thrummed in his veins. He took a long, slow breath. His head steadied.
    And behind him, he heard the hammer of a pistol click into place.
    Swinging around, he saw the white-haired lady sitting in a chair by the window, wrapped head to foot in a wool blanket, the barrel of her pistol protruding from its folds.
    In her hoarse old voice, she commanded, “Put your hands up, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
    Distantly he noted at least two bloodstains on her Aubusson carpet—he didn’t make the mistake of disbelieving her. Lifting his hands, he watched as she reached for the bell cord, and said, “But Your Majesty, don’t you recognize your only godson?”
    She paused. She stared at him.
    He knew what she saw. His gray rags hung on his bony form. His eyes burned with fervor. A beard covered his chin and a mouth that had forgotten how to smile. And he smelled. Smelled like a man who hadn’t seen soap and water for years.
    He was not at all the noble edifice her godson should be.
    “What are you babbling about?” she asked.
    He bowed, as best he could with his arms up. “Prince Rainger de Leonides, at your service.”
    “You insolent imbecile. My godson was shot dead by the revolutionaries eight years ago.”
    “The rumors of my demise are greatly exaggerated.”
    She gave a brief cackle and said, “Light the candles.” The clawlike, bejeweled hand that held the pistol was so steady she might have been twenty, and not the eighty-two he knew her to be. “Move carefully. I would hate to get nervous and shoot my godson by mistake.” Disdain dripped from her tone, but she didn’t shout for the guards.
    He did move carefully, taking a taper and lighting it in the fire, then igniting as many of the candelabras as he could see.
    “Turn around,” she said.
    He faced her. She was old, so old, and so thin. Her once-handsome face had fallen into a mass of wrinkles. Her fingers were twisted with rheumatism. But he knew she wouldn’t surrender. At the age of seventy-six, she had fought back the revolutionaries. She had reclaimed power, and now, six years later, she wouldn’t surrender to anyone. Certainly not someone who had broken into her castle. Not someone she imagined to be an imposter.
    She searched his features, seeking some confirmation that he told the truth.
    Her face fell, and again she reached for the bell cord.
    He tensed, and in a cold, dead voice said, “I’ll attack if I have to.”
    “Very princely,” she said with a sneer, but she drew her hand back. Sighing, she gestured to the window. “I saw you