The Prince Kidnaps a Bride (Lost Princesses, Book 3)
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Betrothed in the cradle, Princess Sorcha and Prince Rainger were destined to rule their countries together. Then revolution sent Sorcha to a remote Scottish convent—and Rainger into a dungeon so deep rumor claimed he was dead.
Now danger threatens, and Sorcha must travel home with a simple fisherman as her companion—Prince Rainger in disguise. Changed by his imprisonment from a careless lad to a dangerous man, he's determined to win back his kingdom—and the woman he wants more than life itself. But can he protect a woman who believes every person she meets is her friend, every tavern is an opportunity to sing bawdy songs, and each turn in the road hides new adventure? To keep his princess safe, he must resort to his most treacherous weapon: seduction.
right.” Going to the still-fractious horse that the attacker had ridden, he laid gentle hands on him. The young horse jerked and shied, but Arnou petted him, spoke to him, until he calmed. Sorcha wouldn’t have thought that a sailor would have so much experience with horses. “You have an awfully high voice for a lad,” Arnou said. “Oh.” Arnou had a good point. Perhaps her speech was the reason Haverford had penetrated her disguise so quickly. “I can make it deeper.” “That would be a good idea.”
disappeared”—Rainger used Farrell’s ear to bring them face to face—“I’ll hunt you down and shake my shillings and whatever you were paid for my horses right out of your arse.” Rainger knew very well the effect of his icy stare on a younger man, and he wasn’t disappointed now. Farrell blenched. He tried to duck away, but couldn’t tear himself free. “Dunna fancy the job,” he muttered. “I could get hurt.” “That’s too bad, because as far as I’m concerned, the job is yours—whether you want it or
a horrible stillness. “Keeping all this in mind”—taking the heavy pouch from his belt, Rainger pressed it into Father Terrance’s hand—“let’s celebrate our marriage, but let it be known only to the people of the village. Your discretion, everyone’s discretion, is required, for our safety is precarious and everyone’s return to Beaumontagne and Richarte depends on it.” “We’ll post guards on the road and turn any traveler aside. I’ll make sure everyone in the town understands.” Father Terrance put
had forgotten they were there. Arnou turned her to face the congregation, on their feet and shouting their delight. Sorcha couldn’t help herself—she broke into a smile. And together they went into the town square. The villagers seated Sorcha and Arnou at an elevated table. They served them ale and wine, lamb and herbed potatoes. A fiddler and a drummer played while the newlyweds danced. Then everyone joined them. It was a celebration like none Sorcha had ever attended, without the pomp of
ahead, she heard loud voices and shrill laughter. “They’re at breakfast,” Hubert told her. “A little late for a hunt, aren’t they?” she asked. He hunched his shoulders, took her arm, and led her into the great hall. The room where Count and Countess duBelle dined glowed with a thousand candles and glittered with the sparkle of gold: on the plates, the tapestries, the jewelry, even the thread on the uniforms of the serving staff. Yet beneath the scent of expensive perfume, a pervasive odor