Rachelle McCalla - Protecting the Princess

Royalty on the run

A series of explosions took out the royal motorcade and threw the country of Lydia into chaos. Princess Anastasia missed her limo, and doesn’t know what has become of the rest of her family. Whisked away from her native country for her protection, Stasi is dismayed that her life is now in shambles. But at least she’s not alone. Kirk Covington pledges to keep her safe. He’s a royal guard…and the man she’s spent years blaming for her brother’s disappearance. Now she’ll have to trust him with her life—and her heart—in order to regain the throne.

“Get down,” Kirk ordered.

Stasi’s eyes widened as she looked at him. What was happening? Were Kirk’s actions related to the attack? She already doubted she could trust the man. He’d been linked to such a horrible crime before.

“Down,” Kirk commanded, his open palm pushing her head below the level of the dashboard.

She grabbed his wrist and tore his arm away from her royal head. “No. I won’t do what you say.”

Kirk stopped the Jeep with a jerk and glared at her. “Don’t fight me. Don’t you see? The royal family has been attacked. If anyone sees you, they’ll know you weren’t killed. I’ve got to get you out of here.”

Stasi looked at him dumbly. Too much didn’t make sense. “What do you mean? You think someone might try to kill me?”

“Please.” Kirk’s voice plunged to pleading depths. “You’ve got to stay down. Your life is in danger.”

Stasi shrunk in her seat, but her eyes didn’t leave Kirk’s face. “What are you going to do with me?”

“I’m going to hide you, if I can.” He looked around at the empty streets. “But you’ve got to do what I say.”

Protecting the Princess

Rachelle McCalla

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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On the Sabbath we went outside the city gate to the river, where we expected to find a place of prayer. We sat down and began to speak to the women who had gathered there. One of those listening was a woman named Lydia, a dealer in purple cloth from the city of Thyatira, who was a worshiper of God. The Lord opened her heart to respond to Paul’s message. When she and the members of her household were baptized, she invited us to her home. “If you consider me a believer in the Lord,” she said, “come and stay at my house.” And she persuaded us.

—Acts 16:13–15

To Eleanor, my princess, who taught me to wear pink and enjoy jewelry.

You are stronger than you think you are. I love you.

Acknowledgments

Thank you to my loving and supportive family, who insist they enjoy frozen pizza, freeing me from cooking so I can write. I love you all!

Thanks also to my awesome friends whose insights contributed to the factual accuracy of this book. Special thanks to Lonny Douthit, my cousin who flies helicopters, who patiently tried to explain them to me. Any errors are mine, not his!

And to all the friends who chimed in on my efforts to name the Crown Prince—because of you, he is not Xerxes or Phineas or Arthur. Thank you. And let me not forget all those friends who supplied terms and words when my brain ran dry. Because of you, the-woman-behind-the-ticket-counter-who-sells-tickets-at-the-airport shall henceforth be known as a ticketing agent. Ah. So much better.

And special thanks to my editor extraordinaire, Emily Rodmell, for her insight, expertise and patience with my frantic Friday afternoon email barrages. Enjoy your weekend in peace, you’ve earned it!

Disclaimer: The people and events of this story are fiction. There is no nation of Lydia, although there was a woman named Lydia mentioned in Acts chapter 16 of the Bible, and she had a house church in that area of the world. Beyond that, this story is the fruit of my imagination, and any resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

ONE

Her Royal Highness Princess Anastasia of Lydia grabbed the doorknob and gave it a turn, but when she tried to push the door open, it wouldn’t budge.

Stasi blinked. How strange! Her door had never given her any problems before. She tried again, this time pushing harder, but with no success. Finally, throwing all her weight into it, she shoved the door with her shoulder. Nothing.

Had someone barricaded her door so it wouldn’t open?

Stasi looked around her suite uneasily.

She was trapped inside her own room, and the royal motorcade would be leaving any minute for the state dinner.

Refusing to give in to the panic she felt, Stasi grabbed her phone and dialed the number for the palace managers.

Theresa Covington answered.

“I’m trapped inside my room—and the motorcade is leaving any second!” She fingered her sapphire necklace uneasily.

“I’ll send someone immediately.”

“Thank you.” Stasi ended the call and waited, glancing nervously around, wondering why her door wouldn’t open, and if the peculiar disturbance had anything to do with the other unusual trespasses she’d experienced lately. She knew of at least three other times in the past few weeks when items in her room had been eerily displaced—not stolen outright, but disturbed, as though they’d been rooted through, and then put back slightly out of order.

Footsteps approached from the hallway outside her door. “Your Highness?” A voice sounded from the other side, and she watched the doorknob turn. “Your Highness?”

“Yes!” She practically threw the door open, prepared to thank whoever had rescued her, but she startled backward when she recognized the man on the other side of the door.

Kirk Covington.

So, Theresa had sent her son.

“Thank you.” Stasi glanced at the chair Kirk had pushed aside. Had it been propped against her door, preventing her from getting out? She didn’t have time to analyze what had happened, so she brushed brusquely past him and hurried down the wide marble staircase. Dashing as quickly as she dared in her high heels across the gracious foyer, she flung herself through the front palace doors and blinked.

The twenty-foot-tall wrought-iron gates closed behind the last of the royal limousines a hundred meters away.

Her stomach sank.

The royal motorcade had left without her! She bit her lip, ready to cry after the ordeal of the last few minutes.

“Your Highness?” Kirk had followed her down the stairs. “Have they gone?”

“Yes.” She straightened her posture to royal perfection. It wouldn’t do to let Kirk Covington see her distressed.

“I’ll drive you.”

Stasi froze.

“I can drive myself. I’m a perfectly capable driver.” She hoisted up the fluffy skirt of her long evening gown as she stepped outside and descended the palace steps.

“Yes, I suppose you could drive yourself—” Kirk kept pace with her, hauling an enormous military-style duffel bag over his shoulder, as if he’d been en route to somewhere when his mother sent him to free her from her room “—but then what are you going to do with your car once you arrive at the state dinner? There won’t be valet parking, and if you have to hunt for a space…”