Lucy Gordon: Royal Weddings: The Reluctant Princess / Princess Dottie / The Royal MacAllister

The Viking’s frown deepened. Evidently, he found the disparity between her wishes and his orders vaguely troubling. But not troubling enough to get him to give up and go. “You will pack now, Princess,” he intoned. “Necessities only. All your needs will be provided for at Isenhalla.”

Isenhalla . Ice hall. The silver-slate palace of Gullandrian kings….

Truly, truly weird. A Viking in her living room. A Viking who thought he was taking her to her father’s palace. “I guess you haven’t been listening. I said, I am going nowhere with you and you are trespassing. I want you to leave.”

“You will pack now, please.” Those flinty eyes seemed to see right through her and that amazingly square jaw looked set in granite.

Elli repeated, more strongly than the first time, “I said, I want you to leave.”

“And once you are packed, I will do as you say. We will leave together.”

There was a silence—a loaded one. She glared at him and he stared, unblinking, back at her. From outside, she heard ordinary, everyday sounds: birds singing, the honk of a horn, a leaf blower starting up, a siren somewhere far off in the distance.

Those sounds had the strangest effect on her. They made her want to burst into tears. Though they were right outside her door, those sounds, all at once, seemed lost to her.

Lost…

The word made her think of the brothers she had never known. There had been two of them, Kylan and Valbrand. Kylan had died as a young child. But Valbrand had grown up in Gullandria with their father, the king. Over the years, she and her sisters had talked about what it might be like to meet their surviving brother someday, to get to know him.

But that would never happen now.

Valbrand was dead, too. Like Kylan.

And were her brothers the key to what was happening here? Her father had no sons anymore. And without a son, maybe his thrown-away daughters had value to him now—whether they wanted anything to do with him, or not.

Yes. She supposed that made sense—or it would make sense if she could even be certain that this Viking had been sent by her father in the first place.

Maybe this was a trick. Maybe this man had been sent by an enemy of her father’s. Or maybe he was simply a criminal, as she’d assumed at first. But instead of robbing her apartment, he was here to take her hostage. He’d haul her out of here and hold her prisoner and her mother would be getting a ransom note….

Oh, she didn’t know. How could she know? This was all so confusing.

And whatever the reasons for the Viking in her living room, there could be no more denials. Elli could see it, shining there, in those unwavering pale eyes. Hauk FitzWyborn—who called himself the king’s warrior, who said he was blood-something-or-other to her father— might be at her service, but only if her desires didn’t conflict with whatever orders he’d been given. He intended to take her…somewhere. And wherever that somewhere actually was, he meant to take her today—whether she agreed to go or not.

The bottom line: this was a kidnapping and Elli was the kidnappee.

Oh, what was she thinking —to have stood here and argued with him? She should have hit the door running at the sight of him.

Maybe she could still escape—if she moved fast enough.

She spun for the door.

And she made it. She had the doorknob in her hand.

But she never got a chance to turn it.

With stunning speed for such a big man, he was upon her, wrapping those bulging, scarred arms around her. It was like being engulfed by a warm boulder. She cried out—once. And then a massive hand covered her mouth and nose.

That hand held a soft cloth, a cloth that smelled sharp and bitter.

Drugged. He had drugged her….

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” she heard him whisper.

And the world went black.

Chapter Two

Hauk looked down at the princess in his arms.

She was slim, but not small, with long, graceful bones and surprisingly large, ripe-looking breasts, the kind of breasts that would serve equally to please a man and nourish the children he gave her. Her mouth was full-lipped—and silent, at the moment. Silent and lax.

The compliant one , his lord had called her. And compliant she was—now. The drug had made her so. But Hauk had looked deep into those fjord-blue eyes. He’d seen the steel at the core. If his lord hoped this one might be yielding when conscious, he was in for an unpleasant surprise.

“ Bring her to me ,” Hauk’s lord had instructed. “ Tell her that her father would like to see her, tospeak with her. Say that her father has many thingsto say to her and will explain all as soon as he cantalk to her. Try to coax her to come with you willingly.My spies tell me that of the three, she is by farthe most compliant .”

Hauk had sworn to do as his lord commanded. “ And if she should refuse, in the end, to accompanyme? ”

There had been a silence. A silence that spoke volumes. Finally his lord had said quietly, “ Her refusalis not an option. I wish you to bring her. But please.Treat her gently .”

Shaking his head, Hauk carried the woman to the couch against the inner wall. Coaxing was for courtiers, he thought as he carefully laid her down. He tucked a bright-colored pillow beneath her head so her neck would not be strained into an uncomfortable position. Then he slipped off her low-heeled shoes and smoothed her skirt modestly over those pretty knees.

He stood back and stared down at her, considering. The drug would wear off shortly. She would not be pleased when she woke, and she would make her displeasure known. He should disable her now.

But he hated to do it. She looked so sweet and peaceful, lying there.

With some regret, he went for the duffel bag he’d left behind the chair across the room. From it, he took lengths of soft, strong rope and a kerchief-sized gag.

Carefully, he turned the princess on her side, so she was facing the wall.

He was good with knots. It took only a few minutes to bind her wrists behind her, to tie her knees together, and her slim ankles, as well. He ran an extra length of rope down her back, connecting the ropes at wrist and ankle, bending her knees slightly, drawing her feet up and back.

Perhaps the final rope, which would gradually pull tighter with resistance, was overkill. But he couldn’t afford to take any chances. She would be angry when she woke and ready for a fight, ready to do anything in her power to escape. It was his job to see that she had no power. He tied the gag firmly in place, taking care to smooth the softly curling wheat-colored hair out of her face so none of the strands were caught in her eyes or her mouth.

The binding accomplished, he stood back from her again.

It was not for him to wonder—and yet, he did wonder. If his liege wanted this woman effectively coaxed, why in the name of the frozen towers of Hel had he sent a soldier to do it?

The soles of her feet, turned out to him because of his perhaps too-cautious binding, seemed to reproach him. He bent, gently scooped her up and turned her so that she was facing the room again. Bound was bound and she wouldn’t like it, but at least in her current position, when she woke, she could see what went on around her.

He noted a flicker of movement in his side vision, tensed, and then relaxed again. It was only those two cats he’d spotted earlier, when he’d entered the apartment. One was big and white, the other sleek and black. They were sitting side by side beneath the table in the kitchen area, watching him.

“Freyja’s eyes,” he muttered, and then smiled to himself. The oath was fitting. Freyja was the goddess of love and war. Her chariot was drawn by cats.