Chapter 1
Princess
Princess Juliette had discovered very early in life that the easiest time to disappear was when everyone believed they knew exactly where she was supposed to be.
Her brother’s wedding had provided an exceptional opportunity. The palace was overflowing. Courtiers drifted through the galleries in embroidered silks and jeweled doublets. Foreign dignitaries occupied nearly every guest chamber in the eastern wing. Servants hurried through corridors carrying flowers, linens, wine, silver trays, forgotten ribbons, misplaced gloves, and occasionally expressions of outright panic.
Someone was shouting about candles. Someone else was insisting there were too many flowers. From somewhere below came the unmistakable crash of something expensive breaking, followed by a collective silence and then several people speaking very quickly.
She smiled to herself as she walked through it all. For once, hardly anyone was looking at her. It was glorious.
Normally a princess could not cross a courtyard without somebody noticing. A lady wanted to adjust her sleeve. A minister wanted five minutes of her time. A visiting noble wanted an introduction. A tutor wanted to remind her that queens did not slouch. Her father wanted to know where she had been.
And Sir Armand invariably already knew.
She slowed as she reached the end of the gallery and glanced behind her. No broad shoulders. No dark royal armor. No irritatingly composed expression.
Interesting.
Her father had specifically assigned Armand to her for the entirety of the wedding celebrations, apparently because Juliette had once escaped a diplomatic luncheon through a conservatory window.
Once.
It had been three times at most. And the window had been perfectly safe. She really did not understand why everyone continued mentioning it.
Perhaps Armand had finally been distracted. There were hundreds of people in the castle. Surely even he could not keep track of her while simultaneously helping oversee palace security.
She turned toward the servants’ stairwell. The kitchens were only two floors below. There was cake there.
Wedding cake.
More importantly, there were people who generally had better things to do than discuss treaties with her.
She had almost reached the door when a voice behind her said, “Princess Juliette.”
Her shoulders sank.
Not Armand.
Worse.
She arranged her expression before turning. The smile came easily. She had been practicing it since childhood.
“Prince Edric.”
The young prince approaching her wore the pale blue and silver of the northern court of Rethen. He was handsome in the carefully cultivated way princes tended to be handsome: well-tailored, well-groomed, and entirely aware of the effect.
He bowed. She inclined her head.
“I was hoping I might find you before the ceremony,” he said.
Of course you were.
“How fortunate.”
His smile broadened. She maintained hers.
“You must be very excited.”
“For my brother?”
“For the celebrations.”
“Ah.”
She considered this.
“There are musicians, flowers, six hundred guests, and enough food downstairs to withstand a siege. I believe excitement is mandatory.”
Edric laughed. She had not been joking.
“I've heard Valenne does nothing modestly.”
“My father considers modesty suspicious.”
“That explains the roses.”
She glanced toward one of the enormous floral arrangements occupying most of the alcove beside them.
“There were fewer yesterday.”
Prince Edric looked uncertain whether she was serious. She let him wonder.
“Your brother seems happy,” he said.
At that, her expression softened genuinely.
“He is.”
“And you approve of his bride?”
“I wasn't aware he required my permission.”
“Surely your opinion matters.”
“My opinion always matters.”
She smiled sweetly.
“It is simply not always obeyed.”
That earned another laugh.
Better. If she could keep him amused, perhaps this would be brief.
He shifted closer. Not improperly. Just enough for her to notice.
“We haven't had much opportunity to speak during my visit.”
“No.”
“I had hoped perhaps tomorrow”
A servant appeared at the far end of the corridor carrying an armful of folded table linens and looking desperately lost.
She loved her immediately.
“Forgive me.”
She stepped neatly around Edric before he could finish. The servant looked startled when Juliette approached.
“Your Highness.”
“You look as though you're about to declare war on those napkins.”
The young lady stared down at them.
“I was told they were meant for the southern dining hall, Your Highness, but I”
“Wrong staircase.”
“Oh.”
“Back down this gallery, second archway on your left. Take the narrow stairs down one level and follow anyone carrying wine.”
Her relief was immediate.
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
“You're welcome.”
She turned back toward Prince Edric. He was still waiting.
Naturally.
“I should let you continue,” he said.
That was the first thing he had said that she found genuinely charming.
“How considerate.”
“I'll see you tonight?”
“You and approximately six hundred others.”
He smiled. She smiled. He bowed.
She waited until he disappeared around the corner.
Then she dropped the expression entirely.
“Cake.”
She opened the servants’ door.
The kitchens smelled like butter, cinnamon, roasted meat, yeast, sugar, smoke, and approximately twenty different things Juliette could not identify. They were also wonderfully loud.
No one stopped working when she entered. That was why she liked it. People noticed her, certainly, but unlike the upper floors, nobody seemed to believe the kingdom would collapse if the princess stood in an inconvenient place.
“Look who finally escaped.”
She grinned.
Mistress Branna stood at a washing basin with her sleeves rolled above her elbows, her gray hair escaping its knot in several determined curls. She had been working in the royal kitchens for longer than Juliette had been alive and possessed absolutely no fear of royalty.
“It took effort,” Juliette said.
“I imagine Sir Armand will be devastated.”
“He doesn't know I'm here.”
Several cooks exchanged looks.
She frowned. “What?”
Nothing.
Suspicious.
A small brown kitchen dog trotted toward her, tail wagging furiously.
“There you are.”
She immediately crouched despite the elaborate skirts surrounding her. The dog pushed his nose against her hands.
“Oh, yes. You've suffered terribly, haven't you?”
“He ate half a sausage not ten minutes ago,” Branna called.
She rubbed behind his ears. “Cruel accusations.”
“He stole it.”
“Resourceful.”
“He's getting fat.”
“He's dignified.”
The dog rolled onto his back. She scratched his stomach.
“Extremely dignified.”
Someone laughed. The sound was swallowed almost immediately by the general chaos.
She stayed there longer than necessary. Nobody told her to stand correctly. Nobody commented on her posture. Nobody reminded her that embroidered silk did not belong on a kitchen floor.
Eventually she stood and drifted toward Branna.
“Is the cake finished?”
“No.”
“Can I see it?”
“No.”
“Can I taste it?”
“No.”
“Do you love me at all?”
“Not enough to explain to your brother why his wedding cake has a hole in it.”
She leaned dramatically against the counter.
“I could taste somewhere discreet.”
“You've said that before.”
“And I was discreet.”
“You ate an entire row of sugared violets.”
“No one noticed.”
“I noticed.”
“That seems like a personal failing.”
Branna snorted.
Someone slid a plate past her. There was a small honey pastry on it. She looked toward the young kitchen maid responsible. The girl winked. She immediately stole it.
“Traitor,” Branna said.
“I've always liked her.”
“You like anyone who feeds you.”
“It's one of my more admirable qualities.”
She climbed onto the broad wooden counter beside the washing basin before anyone could object, carefully arranging several yards of formal skirt around herself.
Branna looked down at the gown.
“You'll crease that.”
“I sincerely hope so.”
“Your lady's maid will blame me.”
“My lady's maid blames Armand for everything.”
“She has good sense.”
She bit into the pastry. Warm honey melted over her tongue.
She closed her eyes.
“Oh.”
Branna continued washing a bowl. “That good?”
“I may marry whoever made this.”
“She's sixty-two.”
“I've always valued maturity.”
Branna laughed.
She smiled around another bite.
This.
This was what she wanted.
Not forever, perhaps. She knew better than to pretend she could spend her life sitting barefoot on kitchen counters eating pastries while somebody else's dog begged at her feet.
But an hour.
Surely she was entitled to an hour.
She listened to Branna complain about flour deliveries. She watched two kitchen boys argue over whether a tray of pies had already been counted. She gave the dog a piece of pastry she absolutely had been told not to give him.
For several precious minutes, nobody asked Princess Juliette Valenne to be anything at all.
Knight
Sir David Armand knew where the princess was. He had known where she was for the better part of twenty minutes. He had simply permitted himself the minor luxury of pretending otherwise.
There were three places Juliette escaped to most often: the western gardens, the old library tower, and the kitchens. It was raining outside. The library currently housed two elderly ambassadors engaged in an argument about border tariffs.
So. The kitchens.
He descended the narrow servants’ staircase with one hand resting near the pommel of his sword. The castle was too full.
He disliked full castles. Too many unfamiliar faces. Too many doors opening and closing. Too many servants temporarily hired for the celebrations. Too many foreign guards who believed carrying a prince's colors somehow exempted them from Valenne's security rules.
A wedding was supposed to be a celebration. To him, it was a catalog of potential disasters decorated with flowers.
And somewhere inside all of it was Juliette.
His responsibility. His princess. His
He stopped the thought before it could become anything else.
He was good at that. Usually.
He reached the passage outside the kitchens and heard her laugh. His hand relaxed slightly.
There were people who thought Princess Juliette delicate. They were not entirely wrong. There was softness to her. Not weakness. Never that. But softness.
She cared too quickly. Trusted too deeply when someone managed to earn it. She cried over injured animals and then threatened anyone who mentioned it afterward. She remembered servants’ names. She smuggled food to children standing outside festival gates. She complained relentlessly about ceremony and then spent hours learning the correct greeting for a visiting diplomat because she refused to embarrass them.
And she was beautiful.
That was inconvenient.
He had spent years trying not to notice it.
He noticed everything.
The dark hair she hated having pinned too tightly. The expressive eyes incapable of concealing annoyance for more than three seconds. The slight crease between her brows when she was concentrating. The way she lifted her skirts when she ran despite being repeatedly instructed that princesses did not run through palace corridors.
He had never understood that particular rule. If anything, Juliette was more herself when she ran.
Which was precisely the problem.
People saw what they wished to see in princesses. Grace. Purity. Beauty. Something precious and distant.
He knew better.
She cheated at cards. She stole pastries. She swore when she believed no one important could hear. She had once hidden a frog inside the chamberlain's ceremonial hat after he told her ladies shouldn't keep frogs.
He had removed it before the chamberlain discovered it.
She remained convinced she had gotten away with the crime. He had never corrected her.
He reached the kitchen doorway.
And there she was, sitting on a counter.
The gown she was wearing was pale gold, embroidered along the sleeves and bodice with tiny pearls. Several folds of the skirt were almost certainly being crushed beneath her. One slipper dangled from her foot. The other was nowhere in sight. There was sugar on her thumb.
The kitchen dog had stationed itself directly beneath her like a soldier awaiting orders.
She was laughing at something Mistress Branna had said.
He stopped. Only for a moment.
She looked happy.
Not princess-happy. Not the polished smile she wore when foreign dignitaries praised Valenne. Actually happy.
Her head tilted back slightly. Her shoulders had relaxed. There was no calculation in her expression. No awareness of being watched.
Something in his chest tightened.
He allowed himself perhaps three seconds.
Then he remembered the castle upstairs. The ceremony. The visiting courts. The security arrangements still awaiting his attention. And the fact that Princess Juliette was currently hiding in a kitchen with honey on her fingers.
He stepped inside.
“Your Highness.”
Her smile vanished.
He tried not to find that amusing.
She slowly looked toward him. “No.”
Several people in the kitchen became very interested in their work.
He folded his hands behind his back. “That is not generally the appropriate response to your title.”
“I reject it.”
“I don't believe you can.”
“I am the princess.”
“Yes.”
“Then surely I possess some authority over the matter.”
“No.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You're intolerable.”
“So I've been informed.”
She took another deliberate bite of pastry.
He waited.
She chewed slowly.
He continued waiting.
Branna coughed into one hand, suspiciously close to laughter.
He raised an eyebrow.
She swallowed. “I am busy.”
“I can see that.”
“This is important.”
“Extremely.”
“The stability of Valenne may depend upon it.”
“Then I am relieved you have matters under control.”
She glared at him.
He almost smiled. Almost.
“Come along, Your Highness.”
Her lower lip pushed outward. A pout. A deliberate one.
He was unmoved. Mostly.
“You ruin everything.”
“I'll add it to my duties.”
She sighed as though he had personally condemned her to execution and slid down from the counter.
Her skirt caught on the corner.
He moved before she could. “Wait.”
She froze.
He stepped closer and carefully freed the delicate embroidered fabric from the hook where it had snagged. His fingers brushed the material beside her hip.
Too close.
He released it immediately.
“There.”
She looked down. “Thank you.”
“You're welcome.”
Her tone became sweet. Suspiciously sweet.
“You know, Sir Armand”
“No.”
“I haven't even asked yet.”
“I know.”
“You don't.”
“You want to remain here.”
“I might.”
“You want cake.”
“Everyone wants cake.”
“And if I refuse, you'll remind me that you're the princess.”
She considered him.
“I hate how well you know me.”
“No, you don't.”
She blinked.
He regretted saying it.
Something quieter passed between them.
Then she smiled.
Not the court smile.
His smile.
The dangerous one.
“No,” she admitted. “I suppose I don't.”
He looked away first. “Come.”
She found her missing slipper beneath the counter and shoved her foot into it.
“If I behave through the entire ceremony, will you bring me back?”
He looked at her. “To the kitchens?”
“Yes.”
There were several hundred reasons to say no.
He chose none of them.
“If it makes you happy.”
Her expression changed. Only slightly. But he saw it. He always saw it.
“It does,” she said.
“Then yes.”
She followed him from the kitchens.
“David?”
“Your Highness.”
“You could occasionally call me Juliette.”
“No.”
“You didn't even think about it.”
“I have thought about it extensively.”
She nearly missed a step.
He kept walking.
Her silence lasted perhaps five seconds.
“What does that mean?”
“It means we're late.”
“You're avoiding the question.”
“Yes.”
“That is extremely inappropriate behavior toward your princess.”
“I'll add it to the list.”
She hurried after him.
“Do you actually have a list?”
“No.”
“I think you do.”
“I don't.”
“Where do you keep it?”
He closed his eyes briefly.
Behind him, she laughed.
By the time they reached the lower courtyard, music had begun drifting from the wedding grounds. The rain had stopped, and sunlight broke through the clouds in thin golden shafts, catching on hundreds of white flowers woven through the archways.
Guests filled the lawn beyond in bright silks and house colors, foreign banners moving gently above them, jewels flashing whenever someone turned beneath the returning light.
She slowed beside him.
The moment they emerged from the passageway, she changed.
Her shoulders straightened. Her chin lifted. The playful woman from the kitchens disappeared beneath twenty-five years of training, and the princess returned so seamlessly that anyone watching would have believed she had never been anything else.
He stepped automatically three paces behind.
Where he belonged.
He knew she hated that he did it.
She never had to say so. He could see it in the small tightening of her shoulders whenever he fell back into position, in the way she occasionally glanced over as though she might order him forward simply to prove that she could.
But the courtyard was crowded, and this was no servants’ passage where he could indulge her. Someone called her name, and she smiled. Someone bowed, and she inclined her head. Another courtier approached, and he watched the familiar calm settle over her face as she prepared herself.
Then she slowed.
Not dramatically. Most people would not have noticed, but he did. Her attention had shifted somewhere beyond the courtier in front of her, fixed on something across the grounds, and he followed the direction of her gaze.
A man stood beneath the shadow of the far stone arcade, alone.
That was the first thing he noticed. Everyone else had arranged themselves into the usual little constellations of rank and allegiance. Nobles clustered beneath their banners. Visiting royalty stood among guards and attendants. Even the men pretending not to watch one another were doing so in groups.
This man seemed entirely unconcerned with any of them. He was tall, dressed almost entirely in black, with no visible house colors and no obvious attendants. He was speaking to no one and watching no one.
Except her.
His attention sharpened. The distance was too great to make out every feature clearly, but there was something strange about the man's eyes. Too bright, perhaps.
He looked at the stranger's clothing again, searching for a crest, a clasp, anything that might identify him.
Nothing.
Beside him, she had gone completely still. For one long moment, the stranger merely watched her.
Then he smiled. It was not the expression of a courtier greeting a princess from across a crowded lawn. It was the smile of someone who recognized something or someone.
His unease sharpened into something colder.
“Your Highness?”
She blinked.
“Who is that?” she murmured.
He followed her gaze and went completely still.
