The royal pain, p.27
The Royal Pain, page 27
part #2 of Alaskan Royal Family Series
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ROYAL PAIN
Alaskan Royal Family Book 2
By
MaryJanice Davidson
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
* * *
The Royal Pain
MARYJANICE DAVIDSON
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
* * *
BRAVA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
850 Third Avenue
New York, NY 10022
Copyright © 2005 by MaryJanice Davidson
Brava and the B logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN 0-7582-0806-5
First Kensington Trade Paperback Printing: November 2005
Printed in the United States of America
* * *
For Julie Kathryn Gottlieb, who whines when
I don't dedicate a book to her.
Off my case, hose-face.
* * *
We are born with luck
Which is to say with gold in our mouth.
As new and smooth as a grape,
As pure as a pond in Alaska,
As good as the stem of a green bean
We are born and that ought to be enough.
—Anne Sexton, The Evil Seekers
Treason and murder ever kept together.
—William Shakespeare, Henry V
A Sheldon can do your income taxes. If you need a root canal, Sheldon's your man. But humpin' and pumpin' is not Sheldon's strong suit. It's the name. "Do it to me, Sheldon. You're an animal, Sheldon. Ride me, big… SHELdon." Doesn't work.
—Harry, When Harry Met Sally
* * *
Acknowledgments
Thanks again to my wonderful family, who may well recognize parts of themselves in some of these pages but too bad, I've already spent the advance.
Extra thanks to my dad, the inspiration for King Al, who once explained to me that he could never run for president because the newspapers wouldn't print "fuck" and thus he would never be properly quoted. When I got over my startlement, I realized he was right. And once again, America was cheated of a great leader, all because the papers won't print the word "fuck."
Also, thanks to Giselle, Stacy, and Jessica, who listen to my endless complaints and give excellent advice (chief of which: "Stop yer bitching").
Thanks also to my sister, Yvonne, who reminded me what a bail is for and was kind enough not to give me shit about blanking on the word.
Thanks are also due to the exalted Kate Duffy, who edits her authors as gently as a sighing kitten and promotes them as savagely as a ravenous white shark. She works too hard and her bosses should give her a raise at once.
Finally, thanks to the readers who have been asking me whatever happened to those pesky Baranovs. You got me wondering, so here we all are.
* * *
Author's Note
As with The Royal Treatment, I've taken liberties and, as of this writing, Alaska still is not a country. However, it is possible to kill someone with a chair and nightmares do inevitably result.
The events of this book take place twenty-two months after the wedding of His Royal Highness Prince David to Lady Christina.
Prologue
The Sitka Palace
2:32 A.M.
"Nicky, get down!" Alexandria's father roared, and her little brother dropped like a rock and rolled away. There was no mistaking the command in that yell; she nearly fell to the carpet herself.
There was a sound, some odd sound she should have recognized but did not, and suddenly her father was staring at the two small, feathered darts sticking out of his chest. He stared…
(What story tonight, Alex?)
... they all stared…
(No, hon, that one gives you nightmares.)
… it was all happening so fast…
(There's nothing to be afraid of.)
... and then her father…
(We're going to be all right now.)
… her father…
(There's no such thing as monsters.)
... slowly folded to the floor.
She heard another sound—the flat, smacking sound of metal hitting flesh—but she was too busy looking around, looking around for…
There.
"Not's'fast without y'r pea shooter, eh?" she heard someone, Kurt? David? slur.
"Y—you have to come with me, Prince Nicholas," the monster said. He was reaching for her little brother, actually daring to reach for her brother after the gross assault upon her father. "Your place is with us."
"Get the hell out of here, you traitorous piece of shit," her older brother David ordered. Alexandria agreed wholeheartedly… to a point. "If you leave now, our security team might not blow your head off."
Stay a while. Just a minute longer. I'll give you something to remember the Baranovs by, you prick.
"Us, sir?" her little brother, Nicholas, asked. As always in response to stress, he was overly polite.
She slipped out of one of her shoes. There was more talking, but it was background noise, it was how the ocean sounded to a starfish. Huge and irrelevant.
"My father is the true king," Nicholas said, and that she did hear. Nicholas was a child, a brave and honorable one, but too young to know it was useless to talk sense to an extremist.
"Devon!" her sister-in-law Christina shouted, and Alexandria heard that, too, like the crack of a whip, again and again: Devon. Devon. Devon. "You'll never get out of here."
Never.
She caught Nicholas's gaze, saw him glance at the gun, Kurt's gun, on the floor. She shook her head but he ignored her and bent for it. Thank God, Devon was distracted by Princess Christina.
"You've fucked up, it's done."
Yes, its done.
"You shot my daddy," Nicholas said, and the rest of them noticed what she had just seen: he had the gun. It was steady in his small hands; the butt snugly against his left palm, right index finger on the far end of the trigger guard.
Yes, you shot my daddy.
"You shot my king and my sovereign, and you hurt my friend."
Dad.
"So I'm thinking, it's only fair if I shoot you."
Don't worry, Nicky. You won't have to. I'm going to fix him. I'm going to fix everything.
"Your High—"
The last thing Devon said. Fitting that it should be proper use of a title. Part of one, anyway. Her hands had closed over the banquet chair. Wood, not metal—but she would make do. Her grip was firm, not sweaty. (The night sweats would come later, and stay forever.) She levered the chair up off the ground; it went easy, lighter than feathers.
She swung the chair sidearm
("Honey, not like that. You're throwing like a girl. Yeah, yeah, don't go all PC on me. Do it like this.")
putting every ounce of her one-fifty behind it.
The monster did not fall; he slammed against the wall. It wasn't what she was expecting at all; it was nothing like TV. Her hands and arms absorbed most of the shock of the blow and it would be days before she could raise her wrists above her shoulder.
The chair, as she had calculated, did not shatter. It was good wood, it held. But force had to go somewhere. She had been counting on it, and from the blood coming out the monster's ears, the force had gone exactly where she intended.
"There!" she said, her arms still vibrating. "That's—" Then he got up. The monster actually got up off the floor, blood dripping down his sideburns, moving steadily, not noticing he was mortally wounded. In her head, Alex screamed and screamed.
Devon brushed cake from his uniform and took the gun from Nicholas's nerveless fingers, shot her brother David…
(this is wrong)
shot her other brother Nicky, shot her sister-in-law Christina. Took the chair away…
(it's not like this)
swung…
(it didn't happen like this)
and the last thing she saw was the chair, descending. The last thing she knew was that she had failed. Everyone was dead and she failed.
Chapter 1
The Sitka Palace
2:42 A.M.
She didn't scream.
She never screamed.
She was cringing in her bed, bracing herself for the blow, and it took a minute or so to remember it was just the old nightmare, she had not failed, everyone was alive, she had not failed.
She had not failed.
Princess Alexandria, third in line to the Alaskan throne, pressed a hand to her mouth, hurried to the bathroom, and threw up.
Alexandria stole down the hall, took a left, nodded to an insomniac footman, and walked quietly into the nursery. But not so quietly that her sister-in-law, Christina, didn't hear.
The nursery was right next to David and Christina's bedroom, and after years of being on her own and looking over her shoulder, Christina slept about as deeply as a cat with ADD.
There was no night-nurse; there was barely a day nurse.
(Christina had the charming idea that she should raise her own daughter, which was adorable, if common.)
Knowing she had permission, Alex scooped up the sweetly sleeping baby and cuddled her against her shoulder. Dara stirred but did not awaken and Alex simply stood over the crib, holding the baby and taking comfort in her warmth, her sweet milky smell, the fineness of her baby hair, the softness of her skin.
"Another one?" Christina whispered. She didn't whisper so as not to wake Dara; the baby didn't sleep, she hibernated. But Christina didn't want to wake her husband, who had a grueling day of ribbon cutting and Chardonnay drinking and penguin counting ahead of him. "What is this, the third time this week? And it's only Tuesday."
Alex shrugged. She adored Christina, but did not discuss the dreams with her. With anyone. Well, almost anyone.
"Alex, for God's sake. You've got to get some sleep. When was the last time you got a mil eight hours? Unbroken?"
Another shrug. Alex nuzzled the top of Dara's head. The baby shifted and snored on.
"Why aren't you taking the stuff Dr. Pohl prescribed? Don't shrug again or I'll pull all your long, beautiful hair out."
She snorted. "You don't scare me, you're getting slow in your old age. And you know why."
"Well, maybe I haven't bounced back from the baby as fast as I—"
"It's kind of late for jokes."
"It's kind of late for anything. And here you've got a perfectly good prescription for sleeping pills in your… oh, God, you're just like your brother! He wouldn't take a Tylenol for an amputation. You guys."
"What?"
"Come on. I get the whole 'we're a rugged band of royals who carved a country out of the harsh wilderness' bit, but would it kill you to pop an Ambien?"
"I don't have trouble getting to sleep," she pointed out. "Just staying asleep. And I'm sorry I woke you."
Now it was Christina's turn to shrug. "It's no big deal. I won't have trouble getting back to sleep," she added, raising her eyebrows. She softened a bit when Alex made no reply. "Well, I normally would, too, tomorrow being the big day and all, but I didn't get a nap today and—never mind, it's boring. In fact, never mind about all that… listen, why don't you take her back to bed with you? That works sometimes."
Alex grinned a little. "You're just trying to sleep in."
"Well, it's a handy bonus, I must admit. Besides, the thing doesn't even start until… what? Noon?"
"One," she corrected. "Sounds like someone hasn't read her program."
"Great, one, even better. Hey, you just have to change her and feed her and entertain her until I wake up… say, eleven-ish?"
"Nine."
"Done." Christina bent forward and planted a soft kiss on the baby's head. "Luck getting some Z's. Don't squish the baby."
Offended, she said, "I would never."
"See, you'd have a better sense of humor if you were getting a couple more hours a night."
"Hush up."
"I'm just saying," Chris said, backing away.
Alex took Dara back to her room, carefully laid the baby on the left side of the bed (the bed had been pushed against the wall months ago for that express purpose), tossed all the pillows on the floor just in case, and pulled a blanket up to the middle of the baby's back. Dara snored on, oblivious.
Five minutes later, Alex was doing the same.
Chapter 2
It was like any other family event—except with royals. The Baranovs (those who had read their schedules) were assembled in one of the many side corridors, waiting.
"I can't believe," Princess Kathryn, fourth in line to the Alaskan throne, whispered, "there's hardly anybody here but the family."
Prince David, first in line to the throne, grinned. He looked more relaxed than anybody could ever recall; the general consensus was that marriage and fatherhood agreed with him immensely. He was wearing a dark gray suit with a royal blue shirt and a gray tie dotted with tiny rockhopper penguins. His shoes, thanks to a tireless staff, were shined to a high gloss. David, thanks to a royal upbringing, didn't notice. "Hey, Chris insisted. No press, no big deal, no fuss, no—you know."
"I know what she insisted on," his sister replied. Kathryn was six months away from ridding herself of the hated braces, and was the promise of truly breathtaking beauty, with the classical Baranov coloring: sinfully dark hair, enormous, crystal blue eyes. "Like I said, I just can't believe she pulled it off."
"Dad's fond of her."
"Tell me. It's like having the sister I never wanted," she added with a mock sigh.
They were standing in the left foyer of the palace chapel, where Prince Nicholas (sixth in line to the throne) quickly joined them.
"Are we ready? Is everybody here?"
"Well," David said, "the baby's not here. And Chris isn't here. And the Alexes aren't here. And Dad—"
"Cool your jets, everybody," the king said, stepping in through a side door, his majordomo, Edmund, right on his heels. "I said I'd be here, didn't I? Right? Right. So what the hell's the holdup? Can we get this over with, please? Now? Please?"
"How did you get him into that suit?" David asked, losing his usual smooth manners and gaping at his father.
"A crow bar," Edmund replied smoothly. "Are we ready to begin?"
"Well, the godparents aren't here."
"Ah." Edmund pretended to consult his program, when everyone in the room (possibly the palace) knew he'd been the one to write it. "Prince Alexander and Princess Alexandria. And where is Her Highness, Princess Dara?"
A shrill whistle burst through the air and they all looked through the foyer door, across the front of the chapel, and into the opposite door, where Christina was holding the baby and waving madly.
"She came in through the wrong door," Edmund sighed.
"She probably didn't read the—I mean, she probably didn't pay attention to—" Princess Kathryn blushed to her eyebrows, then added, "I mean, doesn't she look gorgeous? Purple is definitely her color."
"Kid looks like an eggplant with arms," the king muttered, sticking a finger under his collar and giving it the tenth wrench of the morning. When David swung around, eyebrows raised, he hastily added, "A good-looking eggplant. Jesus! Can we please get the fucking show on the road? I could be in a fishing boat right this minute."
"Don't say 'fucking' in church, Dad," Nicholas corrected, running a hand through his cap of blonde curls. He was the only child of the king who looked nothing like his father. It had caused some trouble in the past; the late queen had been known to dally with men not her husband. "We're just waiting on the Alexes. You'll be on a boat by three. Supper-time, prob'ly, at the latest."
The king wriggled in his suit coat. "I hate these things."
"We all do, Dad."
