Prince of my Panties (Royal Package 2)

“Of course.” I step back, and she moves around me, headed for the restroom at the rear of the café. “What are you having? I’ll order for you. My treat.”

“Oh, no,” she says over her shoulder, with another dramatic swipe of her nose. “It’s fine. I’ll order in a few minutes. I don’t know what I want. I never know until the last minute. I’m so indecisive.” She laughs and flutters her tissue my way. “See you at the wedding. Until then, take care of that brother of yours, and my sister, too. I’ve got a good feeling about this match.”

Before I can respond, she ducks into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.

Exhaling through my nose, I cross to stand by the community bulletin board near the entrance, pretending to read the notices about sunrise yoga in the square and used furniture for sale while I wait for her to emerge. If she thinks she’s getting rid of me that easily, she’s crazier than this sister-swap would lead one to believe.

Long minutes pass with no sign of her. The bathroom door remains closed while half a dozen patrons place their orders and settle into the wooden tables scattered throughout the café or pop outside to sit on one of the benches in the front garden. Finally, a woman with a laptop tucked under her arm heads for the lavatory. I expect her to try the door and find it locked, but the knob turns easily in her hand.

Before I realize it, I’m in motion, grabbing the door before the woman can close it behind her.

She jumps and demands to know “What’s the matter with you?” in Rindish.

“I’m sorry,” I reply, my stomach sinking. “I thought my friend was inside.”

But Elizabeth isn’t my friend, and she isn’t inside.

The bathroom is empty, and the window on the far wall wide open. The princess has made a run for it, confirming my suspicions.

She’s Lizzy.

And now she knows she’s being hunted.

4

Elizabeth

I tumble through the bathroom window into a rosebush with inch-long thorns that catch on my scarf, jabbing through my linen dress into the skin beneath. Hissing in pain, I finally free myself from the bush only to lose both clogs on the way out of the muddy back garden.

“Princes,” I mutter, fishing my shoes out of the muck with a stick and shoving my now soaked sock feet back inside with a shiver.

It feels like princes have been causing me grief my entire life, but I know that’s not true. It’s only been since I was five, when my parents got the bright idea to promise me in marriage to a boy I’d never met.

“But it’s all going to work out just fine,” I remind myself as I hurry through the parking lot behind the cafe and jump the fence into a pasture filled, thankfully, with sheep instead of something more menacing.

I’d really prefer not to be gored to death by an angry bull.

There are more pleasant ways to die, and I still have unfinished business. I have a collection to complete, a happily ever after to arrange, and final affairs to put in order. I’m so close to ensuring that everyone I love is taken care of, and I refuse to let Prince Jeffrey throw me off course.

Yes, his deep, scary voice makes me want to confess and beg for mercy.

Yes, his eyes are as intense—and beautiful—as I remember, and if things were different, I would probably enjoy gazing into them over dinner.

But things are the way they are, and confession is dangerous.

I’m eighty percent certain Sabrina is destined to marry Andrew and that nothing I can say or do will interfere with that, but I’m not taking any chances. Sabrina is a huge piece of my heart. I need this happiness for her. I need to know she’s loved and cherished and supported before our next birthday rolls around.

I clamber over the fence on the other side of the pasture and hustle toward my rental cottage at a jog.

Of course, it’s possible I’ve spent all these years worried about nothing. The curse might not come true. If that turns out to be the case, and I’m proven to be the most gullible fool in the history of fools, I’ll be so relieved I won’t care.

I wish for that relief every morning when I wake up and every night before I go to bed, but I also plan for what I’m almost certain will happen. Everything else the woman who kidnapped me predicted has come to pass. It would be foolish to think my death will be the exception to the rule.

Which means I have seven months.

Six months and eight days, to be exact.

Sabrina, Zan, and I will all turn twenty-six on December eighteenth. We’ve already made plans to celebrate at a ritzy ski lodge in Switzerland. Zan reserved a suite with a hot tub on the balcony that faces the slopes so I can watch my sisters swish through the snow while I drink hot cocoa in the warm water and read a book like a reasonable human being who understands that zooming around with sticks strapped to your feet and expecting not to get hurt is plain silly.