Stolen Promise

By Kimberly Nee

Crown Prince Stefan Vanechka has no choice but to accept the bride chosen for him, whom he’s never met. The woman chosen to be his queen has the gift of second sight and because of this, he will do what he must in order to protect his people and his throne, even if it means taking a wife he doesn’t want. Kristian Petroviya never knew she was betrothed at birth to the future King of Mordainia. Rather, she was raised by an aunt who used her gift for her own advantage. Marriage to anyone, least of all a future king, was the furthest thing on her mind and the last thing she wished to do. As they journey on, neither can deny the growing attraction between them. But when Kristian discovers the truth as to why he has come for her, and what her gift means for the future of his reign, it threatens to destroy not only lifelong friendships and growing trust, but Mordainia’s existence as well.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Feb 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781509205738

Kimberly Nee

Kim fell in love with historical romance when she was sixteen, and blames it on Kathleen Woodiwiss, since it was her The Flame and the Flower that got her hooked. Not long after finishing it, she sat down to write one herself and now, many moons later, she’s still writing them. A native of New Jersey, Kim still lives there with her family, which includes a cat named Oreo and a pupper named Koda. When she’s not writing, she’s a gym rat who weight trains, does cardio grudgingly, and is currently working toward her Master’s Degree in History. Like a true Jersey girl, she is obsessed with Bruce Springsteen, the New York Giants, the New York Rangers, and the New York Yankees. She’s also strangely fond of tattoos, American history, Gerard Butler, Billy Joel, knitting, and reading, just not necessarily in that order.

Book preview

princess…

Chapter One

Mordainia, 1800

The sun had only just shattered the night’s darkness, rising above the snow-capped peaks of the Carpathian Mountains in the distance. Tucked away in the shadow of those mountains, the village of Lestav was all but forgotten in the western outskirts of the kingdom of Mordainia. Even at that early hour, the narrow cobbled streets bustled with activity. Although the villagers hurried from shop to shop and about their daily routines, each paused as the elegant black coach, drawn by four pure white horses and flanked by soldiers in dark green uniforms astride coal black horses, rolled down the main street. You must see this!

Kristian Petroviya looked up at Marie’s exuberant cry, peering over the low wall separating the kitchen from the storefront. See what?

Marie waved a plump hand excitedly toward the front windows. "A royal coach. Here. In Lestav. It’s so beautiful. You must see it!"

Kristian turned her attention back to the apples she was slicing. "I care nothing about a royal coach. There’s much to be done this morning, Marie, and we have precious little time to waste gaping at a silly coach that is most likely only passing through. Royals do not stop in Lestav, if you’ve forgotten. They prefer to pretend we don’t exist."

Oh, pish. Marie reluctantly turned away from the glass, wiping her hands on her flour-streaked apron as she joined Kristian at the long, low oak work table in the back room. White and wheat bread baked in the ovens, and they were in the midst of cutting up fruit for the day’s pastries.

Kristian didn’t miss how Marie scowled at the clutter of earthenware bowls, several draped with stained linen towels. Their work area was a mess, as spoons, more linen, and knives of varying lengths and sharpness all littered the nicked, scratched, and floured surface. But the delightful scent of sweet cinnamon and the earthy aroma of nutmeg floated together in the air from the brick oven in the corner to offer up a distraction from the disarray.

She drew the back of her hand across her forehead. Although it was still early, the bakery was warm from having both of its large brick ovens lit. They began their day before sunrise, mixing and kneading the doughs that would become cinnamon rolls, raisin breads, cakes, and pastries to be placed in the windows in a short while. It was tiring, but always left her with a sense of accomplishment, and dawdling about, gawking at a gaudy coach, was not something she need do. She couldn’t abide wasting time. Watching that coach go by most definitely fell into that category.

Marie shoved a small, chubby hand into the bowl of apples. I’ve always hoped to catch a glimpse of the prince. Such a beauty, he is. At least, that is what Milla Androvich always claimed. She said he puts ordinary men to shame.

Kristian smiled. It had been years since royals ventured into the wasteland of Mordainia, and Lestav sat in the center of those wastelands, but Milla never tired of boasting about the time the royal family patronized her family’s tavern well over four years earlier. Since Kristian herself never laid eyes upon any member of the Vanechka family, she had to take Milla’s word that the prince was so handsome he put ordinary men to shame.

I’m certain he is, but this fruit will not wait for a pretty prince. Kristian picked up an overripe apple and went to work peeling it.

"Why do you suppose he’s come here? I’m amazed the royal family remembers Lestav even exists, let alone send a member to visit. What could he want with us? Marie’s lips split into a grin, revealing several missing teeth. Do you know what Milla told me?"

What, Marie? Kristian tried to keep from rolling her eyes. Ignoring her was pointless. Marie would prod until Kristian answered. Best to simply answer and hope they could return to work as soon as possible.

That he sends a valet to France when he needs new unmentionables.

Kristian grinned as she sliced the apple and tossed it into the bowl with the other apple slices. "Nothing but the finest silk for his popka, I’ll wager."

He would not be caught dead in rough togs such as these. Marie picked up the second paring knife and, with the knife’s point, gestured at her worn butternut homespun gown, streaked with flour despite her heavy dark green apron. Only the finest for the prince, I suspect.

Another fop in silk and sateen, no doubt. Kristian lobbed two more apple slices into the bowl. Her fingers were sticky from the juice, but she resisted the urge to dip them in the small bowl of water in the middle of the table.

The coach clattered by, the horses’ hooves echoing loudly through the small bakery. In spite of herself, she looked up and allowed herself a bit of indulgence. It was a beautiful coach—ebony black, emblazoned with the royal crest of the Vanechka family; a scarlet griffon with gold talons and emerald eyes, draped with a deep purple sash. Red and purple silk banners draped along the sides, and even the driver was dressed better than most of the villagers themselves. His gaudy scarlet satin breeches and emerald green silk shirt most likely cost more than Kristian’s entire wardrobe.

She sniffed and turned her attention back to her bread. Crown Prince Stefan Vanechka and his popka were hardly worth a second thought as far as she was concerned. There were more important matters to clutter her mind and wasting time on a spoiled peacock was not one of them.

I believe the raisin bread is finished, she said to Marie, who had turned back toward the front windows. The coach rocked by, and when Marie neither turned back, nor acknowledged her, Kristian cleared her throat. Marie!

Marie spun about, her eyes practically glowing. I beg your pardon, Kristian, but it is simply so exciting.

Of course. Kristian offered up a bland smile. Ordinarily, Marie was the best worker of her three shop girls. That she was so distracted now was annoying, but forgivable. Please, take the raisin bread from the oven.

Of course. Marie dropped the dough she’d been kneading onto a baking sheet, flattened it slightly, and left it to hurry over to the top brick oven to open the door. She plucked the long-handed board from the nook, slid it into the oven, beneath the bread pan. The raisin bread was perfectly baked, golden brown and fragrant with cinnamon and raisins.

Marie returned the board and came back to the table. Why do you think he’s come?

Who?

Prince Stefan.

Finished with the apples, Kristian let the knife clatter to the table and shrugged. I neither know nor care. We have much to do and precious little time. She glanced down at the recipe book open on the table beside her, its pages lined with spidery handwriting. Fortunately, she could read. Marie could read a smattering of words, but the other two girls she employed couldn’t. Gisele dropped hints she would be willing to sit and learn if Kristian would be as willing to teach. Unfortunately for Gisele, Kristian had no desire to add to her list of chores. By the time her work was done for the day, she had just enough energy to crawl into her meager bed. Besides, as long as she was the only one with the skill, she had no worries of her precious recipe books vanishing.

Kristian picked up a long-handled spoon, then looked over the assortment of spices on the table. Where is the sugar I asked you to bring up?

In the store room. I’ve not had time to refill the canister.

The honey cakes will be ready in but a moment, please check on them. Kristian wiped her hands on her black apron as she moved toward the cellar door. It creaked as she tugged on it, and she took down a candle from the sconce on the wall beside it before creeping into the depths.

The steps squeaked as she descended into the musty darkness. Cobwebs dangled from the beams overhead, dust filtering down with each of Marie’s footfalls. The cellar was dank, dark, and shadowy, but it hardly troubled her; there wasn’t anything in the dark that wasn’t there in the light. The shop was small, but it was hers and she was satisfied. It had taken years of toiling for the shop’s original owner, but they were years well spent, as the shop and her life were her own. She would never again need to rely on another person. Ever.

A barrel in the far corner held the precious sugar. Kristian plucked a rough sack from the pile atop the small table beside it and filled it from the supply. Barrels of various flours, those precious stores of both white and brown sugars, racks of rare and valuable spices, broken bowls, aprons and work dresses to be laundered crowded the small space and filled the air with an oddly comforting perfume.

The floorboards groaned, more dust spilling down in a shower of specks as Marie pounded from one end of the shop to the other. A moment later, hinges screamed as Marie tore open the door. Kristian! You need come up here at once!

The panic in her voice was heavy and unusual. What is it? Kristian tied off the small sack and gathered her skirts in one hand to hurry up the steps, two at a time. What is the matter?

Marie’s fat cheeks were as bright as blooming tulips, quivering as she blurted, He’s here! Sweet baby Jesus, he is here!

Who is here?

"The prince! And he wishes to see you! Oh, this is so exciting—he’s brought Chancellor Sakorev with him. He’s with the Privy Council, so this must be of great importance!"

Her fingers tightened about the neck of the sack. What could Crown Prince Stefan want with her? And why bring his closest advisor? Unless…

No. That wasn’t possible. She shook her head, shoving by Marie. Did he say why?

No. Only that he wished to speak with you. Marie’s flushed cheeks gave the impression she was about to swoon. "Oh, Kristian! You must see him! He is even more handsome up close!"

Kristian plunked the sack of sugar into Marie’s plump hand. Go. There are sugar flat cakes left to bake before we open.

Without waiting for Marie’s response, Kristian brushed by her to go back up front. There, she stopped in the doorway, her gaze drawn to the two men who filled the front room of her shop, each bundled in a heavy woolen greatcoat.

Both men were above average height, with broad shoulders and dressed in dark greatcoats that made them appear broader still. Although she’d never actually laid eyes upon him, Kristian knew the taller of the pair had to be Crown Prince Stefan Vanechka. At least she thought he had to be. Not only did he just look regal, he was certainly handsome enough, but his most striking feature had to be his eyes. They were pale—not exactly blue, but with hints of gray swirling through the blue. The brows above those pale eyes were dark, and Milla did tell anyone who would listen that the Crown Prince’s hair was as black as the night sky on a moonless night.

The shorter of the two men reached up to remove his beaver hat, his blond hair gleaming gold in the sunlight. Miss Petroviya?

Wiping her hands on her apron, Kristian eyed him carefully. I am.

His expression remained formally bland. I am Chancellor Alexei Sakorev, Privy Counsellor First Class and representative of Crown Prince Stefan Vanechka. He gestured to the man behind him, silently watching. May I have a word with you?

Why? She looked from Sakorev to His Highness. Am I in trouble? Have I done something wrong?

Sakorev showed a hint of a smile, but that was all. Not at all, Miss Petroviya. His eyes flicked up, his gaze going over her shoulder. Might we have a word in private?

Peering over her shoulder, she saw Marie standing in the doorway behind her, her eyes gleaming with excitement. Marie, do you mind?

Marie’s round face fell, but she nodded and left the room. Turning back to the chancellor, Kristian said, What is it you wanted?

Sakorev glanced over at the prince. Have you a way to prove you are who you claim to be?

"Prove who I claim to be? She frowned up at him. Why would I need to prove who I am? I know who I am."

But we need know if you are, in fact, Kristian Petroviya.

Irritation bit at her insides with dull teeth. Why would I claim to be someone I am not in reality?

Can you provide the proof, miss? His voice remained pleasantly calm.

Both men looked so serious her courage faltered. Are you playing games with me? Because if so, they aren’t at all fun. I have much to do and not much time. So please, what is this about?

The chancellor’s mouth tightened at the corners. We are not playing games, my lady. I understand you’ve work waiting for you, so if you will go fetch those papers—

A chilled sense of dread stole over her. I have no papers. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder, mindful of Marie’s presence and painfully aware of just how small her shop was. May we discuss this somewhere else? I’d rather my employee not overhear.

Of course. The tightness around the chancellor’s lips eased, blood coming back to fill in what had been a narrow white line. We can discuss this in your apartment, if you prefer.

She turned an incredulous stare first to the prince, then to the chancellor. I beg your pardon, but that would hardly be wise. I don’t know either of you, and I’m not in the habit of bringing men I don’t know into my home.

Stefan sighed. We have no time for this, Miss Petroviya. Now, if you would but cooperate…we need know if you are Kristian Petroviya. That is all.

But I’ve told you, I have no papers to prove who I am. The floor creaked behind her, on the opposite side of the wall. Marie with her ear pressed to the plaster no doubt. Kristian stepped closer to both men, feeling the gentle strain on her voice as she lowered it to ask, Will I be arrested if I cannot produce these papers you seek?

For some reason, that seemed to strike Stefan as amusing and he surprised her by smiling. Of course not. But you must have some way to prove your identity.

Why did they push so hard about these nonexistent papers? She’d been raised in Lestav. Everyone had known her since she was a young girl, so why on earth would she need to prove her identity to anyone?

Still, what a difference a smile made. Now she could see why so many women in Mordainia fairly swooned at the mere mention of the Crown Prince’s name. He was most definitely swoon-worthy. A bit over-demanding, perhaps, but definitely swoon-worthy.

Why would you think so? I’ve never needed to prove it before.

Sakorev’s expression grew staid. Because Kristian Petroviya is the betrothed of Crown Prince Stefan. She is to be the future Queen of Mordainia.

Chapter Two

It was fortunate her hands were empty, for if she had held a bowl or cup, it would have shattered against the sloped pine floor. She could only stare at the chancellor. He certainly appeared serious enough, with his furrowed brow and piercing blue eyes. However, his words were so utterly absurd that her shock gave way to another, more unusual reaction.

She burst out laughing.

His frown deepened. Miss Petroviya, did you not hear what I said?

Her shoulders shook, her eyes watered, as she threw her head back and let loose a roar of laughter that would have rattled the windows in their panes if she was closer to them. It was all too amusing; these fine gentlemen thinking her foolish enough to even consider they spoke the truth.

Leaning against the counter, she wiped her eyes with the hem of her apron. Very well, gentlemen. You have had your fun at my expense. A queen, indeed. Did you truly think I would believe you? Straightening up, she shook her head as her smile faded. I hope you have enjoyed a laugh at my expense, Your Highness. Now, if you’ve not come to purchase something, I will ask you to kindly take your leave. As I said, I’m going to be opening soon, and I still have a lot of work to do.

Ignoring Marie’s gasp, audible even with the wall between them, Kristian turned her back on both men, but not before catching the shock on their faces. In all likelihood, they weren’t used to being treated with such flippancy, but she was irritated enough not to care about showing the proper reverence. If the Crown Prince was so bored he was reduced to teasing shop girls, he full well deserved as little reverence as possible.

Miss Petroviya, Sakorev blurted, I’ve not given you permission to take your leave.

That is all right, she replied pertly over one shoulder. I’ve not asked for it. She marched toward the doorway leading to the kitchen.

Footfalls shuffled behind her. A hand clamped onto her shoulder and jerked her around to come eye to eye with a very red-faced Privy Counsellor, First Class. "Are you addled, Miss Petroviya? One does not simply walk away from His Highness."

Deliberately provoking either man wouldn’t be wise, and it certainly wouldn’t make them leave any more quickly. And although she wasn’t foolish enough to believe either one of them, she also wasn’t foolish enough to test them much further. It wouldn’t end well for her.

Very well. I beg your pardon, of course. I didn’t mean to be quite so rude. But—she turned to Stefan—you cannot exactly blame me, either, can you? If you were in my shoes, would you believe something as far-fetched as to be told you are to be the Queen of Mordainia?

She’d expected him to say something along the lines of how he’d absolutely believe the tale, but instead, he gave a subtle shake of his head. No. I don’t suppose I would, either. But in this case, it is the truth. That is, he added emphatically, "if you are Kristian Petroviya."

Kristian stared hard at the wide, square hand still curled about her upper arm, and then up at Sakorev. I beg your pardon, Mr. Chancellor, but if His Highness is in search of amusement, you would fare better with Inga Karlsen. I’ve no doubt she would swoon to hear she is to be crowned Queen of Mordainia. Now, if you will excuse me. I have work to do. She pulled herself free and tried to step away.

Halt.

Crown Prince Stefan Vanechka’s voice did not rise above normal tones, but it held a note of authority Kristian had never heard before. Deep and powerful, his voice had the ability to halt her in mid-stride, and she turned back to see he’d stepped up alongside the chancellor.

Marie hadn’t been exaggerating. Up close, Stefan Vanechka was strikingly handsome, with pale gray-blue eyes beneath heavy black brows. Her mouth went dry as that piercing gaze met hers, and she bit down on her bottom lip at the odd tremble shuddering through her. Could it possibly be true? No. Of course not. Long-lost princesses only happened in fairy tales.

But what if?

I assure you, this is not a joke, Miss Petroviya, but very serious. You will come with us, once you confirm you are who you say you are.

A muffled creak reached her ears, this one coming from much closer to the door. Marie always was the nosey sort. Kristian swallowed over the odd pounding in her ears—her nerves reacting to such nonsense, no doubt—and nodded. Very well. If you insist this is for real, I won’t argue the lunacy of it any longer. However, the fact still remains that I have no identification papers. I never have.

Of course you do— Chancellor Sakorev corrected, a heavy note of patronization in his voice, as if he knew something about her she didn’t know herself, and she fought the scowl tugging at her facial muscles.

It doesn’t matter. There is another way for me to confirm your identity. However, it’s one that will require us to go where we might have some privacy, Stefan broke in with quiet determination.

She stared at both of them. They were not going to give up, not going to leave her in peace, until she complied, so she might as well just get it over with. The shop was due to open in less than an hour, and the pastries awaited her in the kitchen. Hopefully, Marie would detach herself from the door long enough to take the breads from the oven before they burned. She sniffed. No. Nothing burning. Yet.

Still, she didn’t think Vanechka would be deterred by half a dozen loaves of baking bread and honey cakes. A glance at the clock on the shelf behind the counter and her spirits sank. It would cut into her meager profits, if she didn’t get her goods out in time.

She swallowed her irritation as she turned back to him. Please…my cakes will be ruined if I don’t take them out of the ovens. I’ll have nothing to sell if that happens. If I can’t prove to you who I am, you both will simply laugh and go on your merry way. I, on the other hand, will lose business because I have no goods to sell.

As she expected, her words didn’t seem to trouble him. His expression didn’t change at all. It is just as well. A lady has no business in trade.

Is that so? Another sniff. A hint of smokiness lingered in the air. Damn it! I do very well, thank you very much. Trade has been good to me.

He cast a wary gaze around, his expression suggesting he didn’t believe her. I am certain you do. Now, I have no more time for this nonsense. Do you live above this shop or will we need to travel?

Damn it. The oath was out before she could stop it, not that she would have stopped it anyway. Her frustration mounted at her dilemma. Then she exhaled hard enough to make a wayward curl at her temple flutter upward.

The smoke thickened above their heads, the grayish haze now visible as it seeped through the crack above the door. She started toward the kitchen, only to have Sakorev halt her again. His fingers curled about her upper arm, and she swallowed her irritated growl as his hold tightened. "Fine. Fine. Yes, I live above. But is going up there absolutely necessary? I’d feel much more comfortable remaining right here."

Sakorev, let go, Stefan ordered, his voice low but firm. Then, he added. We’re not going to hurt you, you know.

Her gaze remained fixed on the gray cloud swirling along the ceiling. Would you tell me if you were?

Marie snorted from the other side of the wall—why the devil wasn’t she taking the breads and cakes from the oven? She’d definitely hear about that once these two were on their way—and Alexei Sakorev burst into a coughing fit as Stefan’s jaw went slack. A dull flush crept up into his swarthy skin, and then his jaw tightened. You are mildly amusing, woman. If nothing more, you will provide adequate entertainment. But now, I’m out of patience. We will go. Now.

Is that so?

Stefan crossed his arms. It is.

Marie! Take the bread from the oven! I need to go upstairs for a few minutes. Her bellow made both men jump, which in turn made the floor creak ominously. She smothered her growing smile, and satisfied Marie would do as she was told, Kristian turned back to the imposing chancellor. "If I’m not back in a reasonable amount of time, she will come charging up with a skillet in her hands. And I think it only fair to warn you, she has a very strong swing—augh!"

The outburst was involuntary as Stefan caught her around the waist and simply slung her over his shoulder.

Now, just one min— she protested, blood pounding through her temples as it rushed to her head.

You said you live above this shop, did you not? He bounced her against his shoulder, rattling her senses as much as it rattled her bones.

"Ooof! Yes."

Where is the entrance to your quarters? he demanded.

Another jostle and she groaned, hoping her ribs wouldn’t be bruised come morning. To your left, through that door and up the steps. But I—

He didn’t wait for her to finish but started toward the narrow door. Praying he wouldn’t drop her, Kristian squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to think about how far above the ground she dangled. The floor was so far away, and if he dropped her, she’d land square on her head.

He thumped up the stairs, bouncing her hard against his shoulder. Most likely, it was intentional, for her disrespect. Of course, she had been unforgivably rude to a member of the Mordainian Royal Family, even if he brought it on himself with his poor excuse of a joke.

Behind them, Sakorev said, Your Highness, perhaps we have the wrong woman.

We will know soon enough.

The door to her apartment slammed open, and he unceremoniously dropped her back to her feet, sending jolts of pain racing up her legs. She sucked in her gasp, reaching out to steady herself on a straight-backed chair.

Now, Miss Petroviya, if you would not mind? Stefan shrugged out of his greatcoat to drape it over the back of that same chair, looking very much as if he meant serious business as he plunked his beaver hat on the chair’s seat.

If I’d not mind what? How much stalling could she get away with? A hint of nervousness curdled her insides as Sakorev locked the door, and both men glared down at her. What