Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance)(114)

Whoever called them Meals, Ready to Eat is a damned liar.

My stomach is rumbling, oddly enough. I should have eaten the pomegranate. Bored, I lean over the edge and stare down the mountain slope.

It’s not as sheer as I thought. If I could get down from the balcony without falling…

Right, Penny. You’re going to climb down a steep mountain slope without any gear, in a dress, and make it all the way down without falling. I lean out a little farther and peer down. If I did fall, it would be a long drop followed by a quick stop. I flinch as the image of my body bursting apart as it hits the ground pushes me back from the ledge. A sudden gust yanks at my sleeves and I rub my shoulders.

There’s a knock at the door, but it’s an announcement, not a request for permission. It swings open.

He walks into my bedroom.

The prince stops. He’s exchanged the black trousers he wore this morning for doe-brown riding pants and high boots, and holds a riding crop tucked under his arm. Standing still, he stares at me with his head cocked to the side as I lean on the railing and look back at him. A soft smile forms on his lips before he jerks upright, as if shaking himself back to reality.

I was staring, too, I realize.

Oh God, this is corny. No, not happening. Stop forgetting that he cut a guy’s head off last night, Penny. In front of you.

“You did not change?”

“What’s wrong with this?”

“I gave you many dresses. Why wear only one?”

“I’d rather wear shorts.”

“I won’t have you dress like a harlot. Come, it’s time for lunch and hawking.”

“Um, what is hawking, exactly?”

He blinks. “Falconry?”

“You mean hunting with a bird?”

“Just so. Come.”

“Uh,” I say.

Again, it’s not a request, and we’re being watched. There are servants and guards in the hall. That means I’d better be on my best behavior. Swallowing hard, I lift my skirts and step down into the room.

The prince offers me an arm, crooking out his elbow. I glance at the people outside and then at him. Then I slip my arm through his, and walk. At least he takes the weight off my bad foot.

“Your leg pains you,” he says quietly.

“Yeah. It hurts.”

“Much?”

“No, it’ll get better. Not the first time I twisted my ankle.”

“When was the first time.”

I blink a few times. “What?”

“Tell me the story.”

“I don’t know, I was a kid. I was out running with my brother and…”

My breath catches.

“Sorry, I was out with my brother and we were running. We’d just gotten a puppy, a little beagle, and he got off the leash and ran from us. He wasn’t trying to get away, he just wanted to play. I could run faster so I went after him and I left the sidewalk, heading for this little brook.”

“Go on.”

“I chased him down a slope and got my foot wedged between two rocks and lost my balance. I thought I broke my ankle, but it was just a sprain. It hurt at the time, though. I don’t think I’ve ever screamed so loud. I screamed my little lungs out.”

“How old?”

“Nine.”

“Your brother?”

“He was six then.”

“You are close.”

“We were,” I let slip.

He stops in his tracks.

“Were? What happened between you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I could command it.”

I look up at him.

“If you wouldn’t cut my hand off, please don’t command me to tell you about this. I don’t want to.”

I can see him weighing it. He nods and gives a little flip of his chin.

“On, then.”

I let out a long sigh and try not to shudder but do it anyway. I know he can feel it. He glances at me as we walk, looking at me like a difficult puzzle.

In the courtyard he lifts me up into a tall SUV-type car. To my surprise, it’s completely silent when it starts to move.

“This car runs on a hydrogen fuel cell. All automobiles in the principality are either hydrogen or electric powered. A few still run on high-pressure natural gas.”

“That’s, ah, nice.”

“Low emissions. Good for the environment. Renewable.”

“So you tell them what to drive,” I say dryly, staring out the window.

The car starts to wind down the mountain.

“Your idea of freedom confuses me,” he says, folding his muscular arms. “I should let my people hurt themselves? Hurt their children and grandchildren?”

“No, but people have to be free to make decisions.”

“Why? What if those decisions are wrong?”

I shift in the seat to face him. “People aren’t robots. You can’t just program them to do whatever you want.”

“My people make many decisions. I don’t tell them what they must do or where they must do it.”

I snort. “Right. You give them a list of options you pick and call that making a choice.”

“What about you? Could you go home and be a rocket scientist or an astronaut or a musician? Can you do whatever you want?”