Читать книгу The Princess And The Cowboy - Martha Shields, Martha Shields - Страница 9

“You’ve got to help me find a husband!”

Princess Joséphene Eugénie Béatrix Marguerite Isabeau Francoeur didn’t try to hide the desperation in her voice as she locked the bedroom door of her American friend, Melissa Porter, behind them. She didn’t want to chance Madame Savoie—the dragon lady who doubled as her maid—walking in on them.

The princess had visited Melissa often enough here at the prosperous Porter ranch outside Auburn, California to feel at home in any room in the two-story house, but Melissa’s room was where they’d been solving their problems for over ten years. She was counting on that now.

When she turned, however, her redheaded friend’s green eyes were wide with shock. “Husband? I’m the one who’ll have a husband, Josie. You’re here for my wedding, remember? Maid of honor. That ring a bell?”

Josie. Though she’d thought of herself by the nickname ever since Melissa first used it when they became roommates at an exclusive British boarding school, her friend was the only one who called her that. The sound felt good in her ears—like she’d come home.

But home was half a world away. Slightly larger than Martha’s Vineyard, her tiny island country—officially called the Principality of Montclaire—lay in the Mediterranean, a hundred and thirty-eight kilometers off the southern coast of France.

“No, my mind is still where it always was.” Josie sat on the king-size bed and tucked a leg underneath her. “What’s more, he has to be rich—I’m talking in the Forbes top five hundred—and we have to find him before your wedding. I can’t go home until I’m married.”

“Find a filthy-rich husband? In five days? For a princess? Are you nuts?” Melissa plopped onto her bed. “All right, spill it. What’s Bonifay done this time?”

Gilbert Bonifay was the chief minister of Montclaire. Richelieu in modern clothing.

“He’s found an ancient law, made by Louis Francoeur himself. It seems my ancestor’s son was fonder of men than women, if you understand my meaning. Prince Louis passed the law to force him to marry, to secure heirs to the throne.”

“What is this law?” Melissa asked.

“Heirs to the throne have to marry by their twenty-fifth birthday.”

Melissa’s jaw dropped. “That’s only three weeks away. Why hasn’t Bonifay brought this up before now?”

“He says it’s because Montclaire’s economy is in such shambles—which it is. But I think it’s mostly so he can exercise his control over me.”

“I bet he already has a husband picked out for you, doesn’t he?”

Josie swallowed hard, but it didn’t rid her of the bitter taste in her mouth when she thought of her fiancé. “His name is Alphonse Picquet. He’s the fifth richest man in France. He prides himself on having worked his way up in Marseille from an arrimeur… What is the word in English?”

Melissa wrinkled her nose. “Stevedore.”

Josie grabbed her friend’s hand. “He’s older than my father, Melissa. He’s big and fat and bald and ugly—and he’s going to ruin Montclaire.”

“Ruin it? How?”

“One of the shepherds overheard his men talking at the north end of the island. They’ve found a rich supply of marble. When Monsieur Picquet becomes prince, he’s going to quarry it. His surveys discovered that nearly the entire island is made of top-grade stone. In twenty years, Montclaire will be one huge pit.”

“And I’m sure he’ll make Bonifay rich in the process. What a sneaky, rat-faced…” Melissa peered at her closely. “You did check this out, right? There really is such a law?”

Josie nodded miserably. “It was in the historical archives, in a dusty book of law dated 1437.”

“Tell me one thing. If the Princess of Montclaire is getting married, why isn’t the story all over the television and newspapers?”

“I convinced my father to keep Bonifay from making the announcement until after I returned. I told him how impolite it would be to upstage your wedding. Appearances, you know.” Josie smiled sadly. Appearances were all her father cared about. “It was the only concession I could get.”

“Dang.” Melissa shook her head in disgust. “You do need a husband, don’t you?”

“It’s my fault. After I graduated, I should’ve insisted on taking the reins of government. I should’ve wrested them away from Bonifay. But you know how much I hate being a princess. I was content to spend the days with my horses. I told myself I didn’t know the first thing about ruling. I’ve never been taught the most rudimentary procedures. Bonifay saw to that. It wasn’t hard for him to convince Papa I’d be more valuable as Montclaire’s window dressing. That’s all I’ve been—a well-dressed objet d’art, trotted out on special occasions to represent my country.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it, Josie. You couldn’t have known. It’s your father’s fault, not yours. He’s the prince.”

Tears burned Josie’s eyes as she thought of her father. Poor befuddled man. He’d spent the last twenty years in a fog of grief, staring at the deep blue depths of the sea that had claimed the life of her mother. His black hair had turned to silver that very night, some said. She had to admit it heightened his royal appearance.

Appearance was all there was to her father, though. He would rouse himself from his grief long enough to talk to visiting dignitaries—because that was for appearances. But that’s all he’d do. Ruling the country held no interest for him. She held no interest for him. His only child.

So Bonifay was the de facto Prince of Montclaire.

“If only I hadn’t been such a coward, I would’ve done something before now. I would’ve found a rich husband who would help my people, not make their home a rock pit.”

Melissa grabbed her shoulders. “Don’t worry, Josie. We’ll find you a rich husband. Dad’s invited some of his business friends to the wedding. He’s not just a rancher, you know. You have to invest in more than cows these days, just to keep the cows in feed. Anyway, if one of them won’t do, surely they’ll know someone who will.”

Josie hugged Melissa close and felt a weight lift from her heart. Ever since Bonifay informed her three days ago of the marriage he’d planned, she’d been counting the minutes until she arrived in California. She knew the only true friend she’d ever had would help her.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Josie tugged at the outrageous blond wig Melissa had yanked down over her black hair.

“No,” her friend said. “But do you have any other choice?”

Josie sighed. “You were just married. I’m supposed to be helping you change. Not the other way around.”

“You did. It took exactly nine minutes for me to step out of my wedding gown and into this dress.” Melissa waved her concerns away. “I’m ready to go. Now we have to make sure you are.”

Her heart beating dully with dread at what she had to do, Josie studied her reflection in her best friend’s dresser mirror. A stranger stared back at her. “I look like…like…”

“Like trailer-park trash? This is perfect. You look enough like my cousin Betty Jo to pass right by your bodyguards.”

Melissa scrutinized Josie’s image in the mirror. “The Versace gown detracts from the trailer trash image, I know, but that doesn’t matter, since it’s what all eleven of the bridesmaids were wearing. It being a different color from yours will help fool them. Just remember—don’t let them get a good look at your face, and giggle all the way to the stables. Like you’re going there to have hot sex with a man.”

Josie had long ago stopped blushing when Melissa mentioned hot sex with a man. Sex was one subject her friend never tired of. And to tell the truth, Josie liked hearing her talk. After all, sex once-removed was better than no sex at all.

Josie met her friend’s eyes in the mirror. “Are you sure I’m doing the right thing?”

Melissa stopped fussing with the wig, pushed Josie’s excess skirts out of the way, and sat down next to her on the dresser bench, facing her. “We’ve talked and talked and talked, and haven’t been able to come up with a better plan. If only Dad knew more bachelors—but I guess most of the people his age are married. And the younger ones are all living on their parents’ money or have jobs, so they won’t do. If only we’d had more time, I could’ve—”

“You couldn’t help it.” Josie hugged her friend. “The wedding parties were already planned. You couldn’t miss one given in your honor.”

Melissa smiled wryly. “You don’t think they were in my honor, do you? Most of them were an excuse for Sacramento society to get a princess into their homes.”

“I’m sure that’s not the—”

“That doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you find a husband so you don’t have to marry that awful man Bonifay picked out for you. Since we couldn’t find you a decent husband in the past week, you have to find an indecent one.” Melissa grinned at her own wordplay. “A cowboy will be perfect.”

Josie shook her head. “I have to ask some cowboy to marry me? Who came up with this plan?”

“I did, and you know it.” Melissa arched a brow. “Don’t go soft on me now. It’s perfect. There’s a rodeo starting in a little over an hour on the south border of our property. I showed you where yesterday, when we went riding. A cowboy will be the least likely person to know who you are, plus he’d be the least likely person anyone would suspect you of marrying.”

“I don’t know if I have the nerve to walk up to a stranger and ask him to marry me. What if I can’t find a man who will?”

“Well, don’t just walk up to one and blurt it out. Ease into it. And don’t worry. These are rodeo cowboys. They don’t like to be tied down, but they do like money. Since you can offer the right candidate several thousand dollars in exchange for a few months’ use of his name, you’ll have more takers than you can throw a lasso at. Especially since this is not going to be a platonic relationship.”

Josie ignored her friend’s playful nudging. She wasn’t thrilled with the idea of having sex with a perfect stranger, even if he would be her husband. But she knew if the marriage wasn’t consummated and Bonifay’s men found her, it would be quickly annulled and the wedding with Picquet would proceed.

“If only I could go with you and go on my honeymoon.” Melissa sighed. “I could help you pick out a real cute cowboy.”

Josie shook her head. “I need to do this on my own. I’m going to have to disappear for a few weeks, and I don’t want even you to know where I am.” Steeling herself for what she had to do, Josie took one last look in the mirror. She straightened the bodice of the gown and stood. “I’m sure Peter’s getting anxious for you to go downstairs so you two can leave. You put the bundle of clothes and money in the tack room, right?”

“Behind the second row of saddles on the left.” Melissa stood and faced her, tears shining in her green eyes. “Well, who’d a’ thought? I’m married, and you’re about to be.”

Josie smiled wryly. “With any luck.”

Melissa gathered her into her arms. “Take care of yourself, okay? You’ve never been on your own. I’ll be worried.”

“Don’t be.” Josie returned the hug. “I’ll be fine. Go on downstairs. I’ll slip out during the excitement of you and Peter going away.”

With one last hug and a lingering glance from the door, Melissa left. A few minutes later, Josie heard the commotion of the wedding guests wishing the new couple well. She took a deep breath and slipped into the empty hall.

She grabbed a bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses as she passed the kitchen. Accessories to complete her disguise. With another deep breath, she opened the door and stepped boldly through.

What was probably less than a minute seemed like an hour, but she made it into the stable without raising an alarm. She paused to catch her breath as she entered the cool shade, but didn’t linger.

Placing the champagne on a bale of hay, she picked up her voluminous skirts and ran down the wide corridor between the stalls that housed dozens of blooded thoroughbreds and quarter horses. The familiar smells and sounds of the stable comforted her, but she didn’t pause to enjoy the rare solitude. She ran straight for the tack room.

Kicking her skirts aside, she reached behind the second row of saddles on the left. No bundle.

Concerned, she began pulling saddles from their racks to look behind them. No bundle. Anywhere. One of the hands must have found it, and either returned it to the house or stolen it.

Alarm blared through her. What was she going to do now? She didn’t have any money or any clothes except the gown.

She forced herself to breathe, to fight the panic making her heart race. What should she do? Give up? Go back to Montclaire and marry Alphonse Picquet? Watch the bedrock ripped from her island, slab by slab?

No, that’s the one thing she couldn’t do.

Josie glanced down at her clothes. The skirt was full. She could ride in it. And she was wearing diamond earrings and a necklace she could exchange for American dollars.

She had to go through with her plan. Though it was ripping apart at the seams, it was the only option she had.

“Yes, ma’am.” Buck Buchanan rolled his eyes toward the gray metal ceiling of the camper on the front end of his horse trailer. Why couldn’t his mother just forget he existed?

“Now, Hardin, I’m counting on you coming home tomorrow night. It’s your father’s birthday, after all, and you know how I hate an uneven table. Besides, Susan needs an escort.”

He didn’t know which he hated worse—his mother calling him by the name she’d given him at birth, or the fact that she’d set him up again with some California debutante she wanted him to marry.

“Tomorrow night? Sorry. No can do. I’ll be heading for—”

“You have to, Hardin. You’re giving the party.”

“I’m what?”

“I’m at the ranch right now.” There was a definite shudder in her voice. “How do you think I got your number this time? I found the cell phone bill in your file drawer.”

Buck ground his teeth so hard he could hear the enamel scraping against itself. His parents—his mother especially—hated the Double Star Ranch. To them, it represented their ranching roots, which they’d worked as hard as any ditchdigger to “rise above.” That his mother was giving his father’s party at the ranch Buck had inherited from his grandfather, instead of their three-million-dollar mansion in Sacramento, meant she was stepping up her campaign to get him married.

He knew why. It wasn’t because she wanted grandkids to pamper. Oh, no. His thirtieth birthday was just around the corner, and it galled her that he hadn’t cemented the Buchanans’ place among the California elite by marrying some rich American princess.

Like Susan. He knew her and dozens like her. Spoiled, selfish, with hair, skin and nails as perfect as the best salons could make them. They’d never done a lick of work in their lives, and would be horrified at the suggestion they ought to.

“Hardin. I’m counting on you.”

That’s all his mother had to say—those four little words, in that half-hurt, half-disbelieving tone of voice. She was his mother, after all. Even though she vehemently disapproved of the cowboy life he lived, he loved her.

He sighed heavily, not caring whether she heard it or not. “I’ll be there.”

She sighed happily, as if she’d doubted the outcome of her call. Like he’d ever been able to refuse her. His mother was a master at applying guilt. It was amazing how much she could heap on him with a dainty silver teaspoon.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Goodbye, son.”

Buck didn’t reply. He pushed the End button on his cell phone and hurled it onto the camper bed set high on the gooseneck portion of the trailer.

Why had he answered the damn phone? He should’ve known it wouldn’t be his lawyer this late. But he’d been distracted after checking the Internet for the day’s stock prices. He’d picked it up without thinking.

Now he was stuck—not only with a damn dinner party, but with his parents’ presence at his ranch. No telling how long his mother would stay if she was determined to get him married by the time he turned thirty.

He shoved open the flimsy camper door so hard it banged against the side of the trailer. He dropped to the ground in one step, bypassing the fold-down step leading up to the tiny cramped quarters he called home most of the year. The two-inch slanted heel of his cowboy boot dug into the dirt and spewed a shower of earth as he spun toward his horse.

Agamemnon waited patiently, tied to the back of the trailer. The blood bay gelding didn’t shy at Buck’s display of pique, just gave him a cool look as if to say, “Mother got the best of you again, huh?”

“I don’t want to hear it, Aggie.” Buck placed a hand on the gelding’s rump as he stepped around him and into the trailer. He grabbed the padded horse blanket made especially for steer wrestlers and threw it on the bay’s back. “She cornered me. There was nothing I could do about it.”

Get yourself hitched. That’ll shake the loop out of her lasso.

Buck paused with his hands on the saddle as his grandfather’s words drifted back to him. Buck’s mother had been after him to marry some rich society girl ever since he’d come home with a master’s degree in finance from the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School of Business.

He’d escaped the same way he’d escaped his socialite parents’ clutches since he was a boy—by going to the ranch his mother and father eschewed as beneath them. His grandfather, Bowen Buchanan, had been alive then and welcomed him, protected him.

Buck had earned his nickname on the Double Star by riding anything that couldn’t stand a saddle. He’d lived in relative peace until five years after he graduated—when his grandfather died.

Since then, his mother’s unrelenting pursuit of a “suitable” daughter-in-law had driven him from the ranch his grandfather left him. He’d gone rodeoing to escape. Most of the time she didn’t know where he was or the unlisted number of his cell phone, so he had weeks of precious solitude.

Then, when he least expected it, she’d find him.

Get hitched. He rolled the idea around in his mind as he picked up his bulldogging saddle and settled it on Aggie’s back.

Getting married would certainly foil any plans his mother had about foisting some debutante off on him. But hell, he’d been looking for a woman to love ever since he graduated. He sure didn’t want a spoiled, rich, American princess whose only thoughts were of which parties she was invited to or the designer gowns she’d wear to them.

He wanted a woman who was as comfortable in a doublewide as she was on the back of a horse. A woman who didn’t mind mucking out stalls.

A trailer-park queen. That’s what he wanted. He’d always preferred women a little on the trashy side. But he wanted one with a brain, so she wouldn’t bore him to death for the rest of his life.

He snorted. As if a woman like that existed.

Still, he considered the problem as he led Aggie toward Auburn, California’s McCann Arena, which lay just beyond the lot where his trailer was parked among thirty-odd others.

Maybe he was going about this all wrong. He didn’t necessarily need to be married forever—just long enough to convince his mother to lay off. Hell, he could pay some woman to marry him. Have her sign an ironclad prenuptial. A trailer-park queen would be grateful to earn as much money as he could afford to give her.

They’d get divorced after five or six months, and he’d have years to “recover” from his wife leaving him. Surely by then, he’d find a woman who’d make him happy.

Buck grinned. This sounded like a plan.

Now all he had to do was find himself a bride. The trashier, the better.

“Oooouuuuweeee! Will you look at that long, tall drink of sweet water?”

Buck tightened the cinch on Aggie, then turned to see what had his fellow steer wrestler so excited.

The sight of a young woman walking around the corner of one of the campers kicked him in the gut like his horse’s hind leg. Leading a dun mare, she moved as if on the runway of the Miss America Pageant, though she was dressed in the gaudy starred-and-striped sequined weskit of the rodeo “court” and white jeans so tight he wouldn’t be surprised if they’d been painted on.

As he watched, she paused and glanced around, then twisted to tug at the seam riding up her rear end. The action was so sexy, Buck reacted as if she’d stripped right in front of him.

“Damn.” He shifted his stance to ease the sudden tightness of his own jeans.

The other cowboy whistled. “I ain’t never seen her around here before. Have you?”

“She must be that princess the rodeo director’s been looking for.” Buck stared at her through the chaos of horses, cowboys and cowgirls—a hunter whose crosshair was squarely on his quarry. “And maybe the one I’ve been looking for.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.” Buck quickly wrapped off the cinch. “I’ll go tell her they’re waiting on her.”

“Hey, I saw her first,” the cowboy complained as Buck walked toward the young woman.

“Too bad.” Buck threw a grin over his shoulder. “This little filly could be the answer to my prayers.”

“Howdy, Princess.”

The sound of her title made Josie’s heart slam against her ribs even before she could untwist from her awkward position. She straightened to find a tall, broad, incredibly handsome cowboy smiling down at her. The sight as much as the panic at being found so quickly made her stammer. “What… How…”

With a smile that could melt the rock cliffs of Montclaire, he drawled, “They’re looking for you.”

Her eyes widened further. “For me? They are?”

Oh, no. How could they have found her already? Though it had taken an hour to ride across the fields toward the rodeo, she didn’t think they’d even miss her by now. It was barely dark.

“Can’t open a rodeo without all the princesses leading the procession.”

She blinked hard. “All the princesses?”

“There are six of you, I think, not counting the queen.” He pushed his hat back on his head. “Didn’t you practice with the others?”

“Practice? No, I…” Josie dragged her gaze away from the cowboy’s sexy blue eyes so she could think.

There weren’t any queens or other princesses in California at the moment, that she knew of. These must be the beauty queens America was so fond of crowning. Melissa had said rodeos held a contest for a “queen” and her “court,” but why would this cowboy think she was one of them?

A quick glance around the area told her. In the limited light, she could see three other young women wearing a sequined blouse identical to the one Josie had “borrowed.”

Mon Dieu, I can’t even steal properly.

After she’d cleared the fence that separated the Porter ranch from the rodeo property, she’d quickly realized her ball gown would stick out like a black sheep in a flock of white merinos.

Luckily—or so she’d thought at the time—these tortuous pants and the red-white-and-blue sequined blouse had been hanging on a trailer door at the edge of the lot. There’d even been a hat and boots to complete the outfit. She’d been desperate enough that it didn’t take long to overcome her scruples about taking them. As she’d changed behind the trailer—one end of which bounced and squeaked rhythmically—she could hear loud moans coming from inside. She’d felt better then, thinking if the woman was sick she wouldn’t need the clothes.

To help assuage her guilt, Josie left her own gown as payment. The Versace was worth at least ten outfits like the one she had on.

“You must be a substitute princess,” the cowboy offered.

This was getting worse by the minute. If she claimed to be a substitute, she’d have to ride in the procession this man mentioned. She didn’t think anyone would recognize her in this disguise, but she didn’t want to waste any time. Soon either Madame Savoie or the bodyguards would realize she was missing. She wanted to have found a prospective husband and be long gone by the time they thought about searching the rodeo grounds.

But if she claimed she wasn’t this rodeo princess, she’d have to admit stealing the clothes, which could put her in jail. Then Bonifay’s men would locate her for sure.

Why couldn’t she have found a plainer outfit to steal? One that would let her blend into the crowd?

“Are you okay, miss?”

She’d have to take her chances in the procession. Surely it couldn’t take that long. The only problem was… “I don’t know what to do.”

He shrugged. “From what I can tell, it’s not hard. Just ride around the arena with one of the sponsor flags. C’mon. I’ll walk you to the gate.”

Her eyes traveled uncertainly across the wide expanse of his shoulders. “But…who are you?”

His smile broadened, folding two deep dimples into his hard cheeks and stealing air from her lungs. He tipped his black hat. “Name’s Buck Buchanan. Pleasure to meet you, Miss…?”

“Josie Fr—” She clamped her mouth shut to keep from uttering her French name. After a bare second’s pause, she supplied the rough translation. “Freeheart. Josie Freeheart.”

His dark brows moved together. “Freeheart? That some kind of hippie name or something?”

Not knowing how to answer, she lifted a shoulder. Free-heart sounded like a perfectly good American name to her.

To take his mind off her possible faux pas, she asked, “Are you a rider of…” What did Melissa call those wild horses? “…broncs?”

“A bronc rider? Not anymore. But hey, we’d best get you to the gate. C’mon.” He grabbed her hand and started walking toward the arena. “I’m a bulldogger these days. I used to ride broncs, but when you’re six-two and two hundred twenty pounds, there’s too much of you to be jerked around.”

Josie barely heard his explanation. Her mind was so consumed with the sensation of her hand in his, she barely remembered to keep hold of her horse’s reins.

Never in her life had a man held her hand. Not like this, palm against palm, fingers laced. The most she’d ever experienced was a man’s hand wrapped around her gloved fingers as they danced. She’d never felt the heat that not only engulfed her hand, but shot up her arm to spread all over her body. Her heart began to race like it had when she escaped across the—

“Josie?”

“Hmm?” As she tried to shake off the curious sensation, she took one more step than he did, which landed her smack up against his side. The mare’s nose shoved into her back, pinning her there.

Startled, she glanced up into eyes the deep blue color of the Mediterranean water surrounding her island home.

His smile made her heart beat even faster. “Meet me here after I ride, okay? I’ll buy you a dog and a beer.”

“A dog?”

He gave her an odd look. “Yeah. A hot dog.”

“A hot dog. Oh.”

What should she say? What should she do? None of the etiquette rules drilled into her at boarding school covered an invitation for dogs and beer.

Then she smiled. Of course they didn’t. There weren’t any rules covering such a situation for a princess, because princesses didn’t get into situations like this.

She was blazing new ground for princesses everywhere. She was on her own, free to do anything she wanted.

“A hot dog and beer sound wonderful.”

Suddenly he dipped his head and pressed his lips against hers.

Shocked, Josie stiffened, her gasp cut off by virtue of no air. Only a second passed, however, before the lack of oxygen didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that the contact go on forever.

She whimpered and pressed closer.

After a long, delightful moment, he drew away. “Damn.”

She opened her eyes. His were so close she could barely focus on them. “You kissed me.”

“Yep. I’m about to do it again.”

“You are? Why?”

He chuckled. “For luck…among other things.”

“Luck?”

“To help me catch my steer. The way I feel right now, though, I can’t imagine not setting a record, just so I can get back to you.”

The heart that had begun to slow began racing again. “All right. You may kiss me again.”

The blue of his eyes darkened a shade, but he closed them a second before his mouth covered hers. His lips were warm and pliant, soft and—

Suddenly the point of physical contact lost focus as heat forged a bond that melded them together. Warmth flowed from him into her, then surged back again. The effervescence of it made Josie dizzy. To keep from falling, she grabbed his thick, hard biceps as his arms encircled her waist.

“There she is! About time. Tear yourself away from lover boy, Candy, or we’ll start without you.”

The rodeo director’s words penetrated the sensual fog clouding Buck’s mind, and he reluctantly drew away from the lips that had instantly sent him into a tailspin. He didn’t want to stop kissing the trailer-park queen he’d just found. Not now. Not ever.

Slowly, she opened her fathomless amber eyes. He was gratified to note the trouble she had focusing, though the evidence of her desire made it hard not to bend and taste her again.

“Josie?”

“Hmmmm?” she asked dreamily.

This could be the stupidest thing he’d ever done, but he had a strong feeling it was fate slapping him up the side of the head. Why else would she appear so quickly, right after he’d made his plan?

“To hell with the hot dog. Will you marry me?”