Royally Knocked Up by Pamela DuMond
Chapter 1
Ishivered, pulled the sash of my warm, woolen coat tighter around me, and glanced around Old Town, a neighborhood of Sauerhausen, the capital city of Fredonia. I adjusted the scarf that I’d been wearing for over forty-eight straight hours and brushed off a few donut crumbs. I’d already dribbled a mochaccino down my front and the smell of buttermilk curdled crème mingled with the bitter fragrance of smashed dreams. It was a cold, crappy morning in hell and I wasn’t all that happy about it.
I usually adored this bustling European metropolis: its energy, the friendly hustle-bustle vibe, and its architecture -- a mish-mash of modern structures made of concrete block and glass, juxtaposed with gorgeous older buildings that resembled decadent pastel colored pastries. The jail that my kind-of-husband was being held in, fell in the former category. I stared at it now, standing in front of it, knowing my beloved Nicholas was just behind its walls. It looked like sad wedding cake that had been left out of the box for too long, icicles dripping from its roof.
Perhaps I was projecting my own insecurities and simply describing myself. I was a hot mess: makeup-less, sleepless, groom-less. Oh. Skip that one, because apparently there was a possibility that I was married, just not to the right guy. More specifically, not to the right brother.
I had signed up to marry Prince Nicholas Frederick of Fredonia, he of the wavy jet black hair, come hither blue eyes, and six pack abs so ripped I massaged my hands against them every night. I had signed up, on numerous occasions might I add, to marry this delicious man with the hilarious sense of humor. He was the younger prince of Fredonia, the ‘spare’ to the throne, but I didn’t give a rat’s ass about royal titles and monarchy, pomp and privilege. I did, however, care very much about Nicholas.
I cared about the thoughts in Nick’s brain, and every inch of his delectable body. I cared about his kindness, the way he treated people, myself included, with honor and dignity. I cared that he loved me so much he’d married me three, count that, three times now. Which is why it pained me that through some cruel twist of fate, I was now quite possibly legally wed to his older brother, Cristoph. Oh yes, a few days after my last royal wedding, Archbishop Causesdesperdues had butted into my life again, insisting that I was married to the other prince of Fredonia.
What’s the problem, Lucy, one might ask? Cristoph was equally hot, the heir to Fredonia’s throne, the handsome blonde playboy crown prince who had slept with half of the eligible ladies in Europe, and was tackling other continents as well.
While I’d never had sex with Cristoph—we’d made out a once or twice in the past—purely in the line of my former part-time job. And yes, I knew his attractions were… sizeable. But my brother-in-law’s charms were the least of my worries because my Nicholas was still incarcerated, and this pained me.
I glanced at the royal Sauerhausen prison that was in serious need of a paint job, but acted like it didn’t care, squatting imperiously behind high, thick, wrought iron fences. Palace guards wearing warm winter coats accented in the royal colors of purple, white, and gold stomped up and down the perimeters, trying not to shiver in the gloomy cold.
It was January 2, and the skies were gray with approaching storm clouds. It had been two days since my Nicholas had been taken into custody and thrown into jail by Archbishop Causesdesperdues and his bullies. Or as I liked to call him, Archbishop Asshat. Two days and two nights that my husband—maybe technically not my husband, but whatever, should have been my husband—had been forcibly removed from our home and ripped away from me.
After Asshat’s guards cuffed Nick, they escorted, or should I say—bullied—him away from our home, and stuffed him into the back seat of a black, shiny town car. I chased after them imploring them to release him. Okay, fine. I swore like a sailor while flipping them off with both hands, but they ignored me as the sedan peeled off, smoke belching from the tailpipe.
I raced after them, absolutely livid, until I couldn’t run any longer. I stopped, hunching over to catch my breath. I felt hopeless and helpless, but then realized what needed to happen: I rallied my ladies-in-waiting.
We texted, phoned, face-timed, messengered, and e-mailed. The ladies called their friends who called their friends, and now I, together with a few hundred women were marching in a sisterhood of protest outside the cakebread jail, carrying picket signs proclaiming: “Release Prince Nicholas!” “False Arrest!” “Down with the Fake-riarchy!” as we chanted, “Hell no, we won’t go!”
“Lucy. Speaking of hell, you look just like it.” Lady Joan Brady tugged on my arm, pulling me out of the crowd of protestors onto the sidelines. “Why don’t we take a quick break? It will do us both good.” She pulled a thermos from her Gareth Trent designer tote and unscrewed the top.
“I hope that’s the really extra strong super black coffee.” I rubbed my hands together, pressed them to my mouth and blew on them.
“Triple dark French blend for you, my friend.” She poured two cups of steaming brew and handed one to me. “It’ll zap you awake quicker than a cattle prod and bonus—it warms the hands. You’ve been out here since the night Nick was arrested. You need some sleep, a warm bed, and as much as I love you, trust me on this, you need to shower.”
I held up one arm, sniffed my armpit, and cringed. “Was Joan of Arc all that worried about her hygiene when leading French troops into war with the English?”
“My namesake only had the locals following her. If the paparazzi had been hounding Joan it would have been a different story. She might have practiced her key talking points and polished her armor. Maybe it’s time you return to the townhouse and regroup. Let the palace lawyers and the bureaucrats figure this out.”
“And leave Nick all by himself inside a jail cell at the beginning of the New Year? At the start of our marriage?” I frowned. “That would be a shitty thing to do to him, let alone set a terrible example of the kind of wife I aspire to be. I will not be the woman who’s only there for her husband during the good times. I didn’t enter this marriage for titles or headlines and trust me, he didn’t either.”
“I know, Lucy.” Lady Esmeralda Castile von Haspburgh joined us, elbowing into our tiny huddle. She held out her mug. “Caffeinate me, Joanie not of Arc.”
She did, and Esmeralda sipped from her steaming cup. “My sources, Lucy, tell me now that if you’re wed to Cristoph, you’ll have moved up five places in the line to become Queen of Fredonia some day.”
“I couldn’t care less about becoming the queen of anything.” I gazed at the prison, wondering if Nick could see me through one of the windows from his cell, possibly on the second or third floor. On the off chance, I waved and then blew him a kiss.
“That’s not true,” Joan said. “Everyone wants to become queen of something.”
“Fine. You’re right,” I said. “I claim pizza. I’d like to become Queen of pizza some day. Thin crust, pepperoni with mushrooms. And for the last time, Esmeralda, you might think you know everything but you don’t. I’m not married to Cristoph!”
“Archbishop Causesdesperdues says you are.”
“Archbishop Causesdesperdues has his head up his ample, floppy behind. You were at my wedding. You listened to me pledge my trout—”
“Your troth.”
“My trout, my troth…” My temper flared. I grabbed Esmeralda by the shoulders of her double-breasted crimson woolen winter coat and shook her. “Whatever the fish, or the promise, I pledged it to Nicholas. NOT Cristoph!”
I heard a distinct crack, and it came from Esmeralda. She widened her eyes.
“Oh my God! I’m so sorry! I was somewhat violent with you. Are you all right?”
“I’m fabulous. You just adjusted my middle back better than my chiropractor has done in years.”
A firm hand landed on my shoulder. “Trouble, ladies?”
I whipped around and saw a familiar face. “Major Peters!” I stared at the handsome late thirty-something man in a military uniform.
“Actually, it’s Captain Sam.”
“Of course. Captain Sam. You helped us so much when Nick was kidnapped.”
“I’ll never forget our mission to Monaco,” he said. “You ladies were superb. Who knew you could harmonize like Diana Ross and the Supremes?”
“Technically we were the Ice Cream Dreams. That was crazy! It’s been a few months since I’ve seen you, Captain Sam. What brings you back to Sauerhausen?”
“Oh, he knows what brought him to Sauerhausen,” Esmeralda said. “And Captain Sam also knows why he should have stayed the hell away.” She swiveled and walked off, her head high, her hips swinging from side to side.
“Aren’t you going to say hi to Captain Sam?” I asked.
She waved at us dismissively.
“I don’t understand. I know we are all stressed out. But why is Esmeralda being so rude?”
He cleared his throat. “Because I get under her skin.”
“Pun intended?”
“Yes. Happy New Year to you, Duchess.”
“I’m not a Duchess.”
“That remains to be seen. Since last I’ve seen you, I’ve been given a promotion. I’m now personal attaché to the Prince of Fredonia. His go to person. The man assigned to help him with pressing palace matters, sticky situations, you know, the usual.”
“That sounds terrific!” I said. “Congratulations. So, you’ll be working for Nicholas and be able to help us track down what went wrong with this latest snafu. It’s only been a couple of days, but I can’t reach Cristoph. I think he’s the guy to clear this whole thing up. I suspect he has a new woman in his life because he’s not at his townhouse, and he’s not answering any of my texts. He probably spirited his new lady off to a tropical island where they’re surfing, sailing, fishing, enjoying sunsets to die for and inhaling their 5 star meals. They’re frolicking naked in the Caribbean, or the Seychelles while I’m stuck here in Sauerhausen smelling like curdled milk and yesterday’s dreams.”
“Actually, Prince Cristoph is here,” Captain Sam said. “He touched down at the airport a little over an hour ago and is making his way toward us, even as we speak. Look.”
I glanced up and spotted the black, shiny Mercedes town car with two motorcycles driven by security police leading the way through the crowds.
“Thank God! Fredonia’s playboy prince might be a wild child but he’s no one’s fool. He loves his family, and he’s got a heart of gold. Tell me he’s going to end this mess here and now? That he’ll declare this is just a big, crazy mix up and that Nick and I are truly married? That there’s been fake news about Fredonia royal marriages, and weddings.”
“No,” he said. “That’s not going to happen.”
“But he has to do something.”
“Oh he is. Prince Cristoph is going to invoke an ancient royal law, break Nick out of this jail, and have him transported to the palace where he’ll be under house arrest.”
“That’s terrific, I think.” I smelled something a bit rank, and frowned upon realizing it was me. “I need to go home and shower before I drive to the palace to see Nick.”
“There’s plenty of time,” he said. “But I believe you have to schedule your visit with the proper authorities in advance.”
“Right. What is this ridiculousness with the whole house arrest thing? These adultery charges need to be dropped. Nick and I are legally wed. There is no way I’m married to Cristoph.”
He sighed. “There’s been a cock-up.”
“What do you mean, a cock-up?”
“You know, a screw up, a mistake of epic proportions. The kind of thing that goes down in history books as being one of those quirky blunders that everyone loves to dissect, and tries to figure out where it all went wrong. But when all is said and done, it’s tough to put a finger on it because a cock-up takes on a life of its own and becomes either a tragedy of comic proportions or a comedy with a tragic flare.”
“This ordeal is some weird kind of misunderstanding and someday we’ll laugh about it over a nice single malt Scotch,” I said. “But right now I am sleep deprived, my skin is tingling, and it doesn’t feel all that funny. I need to go home. Shower. Feed my dog and snuggle with her for a minute. And then visit my husband. I want to hug him, and kiss him, and tell him everything’s going to be all right. That we can go back to our married life. Is that too much for a girl to ask? Is that too much for a new bride to ask about her new husband?”
Captain Sam stared at his feet. “Actually, no. That’s one of the reasons I’m here. To escort you home.”
“Thank God! 11211 Centralaski Park West, please.”
“Actually I’ll be driving you to 11213 Centralaski Park West.”
“But that’s Cristoph’s place.”
“And yours as well, Duchess. I’m here to escort you back to your royal residence as the lawfully married wife of Prince Cristoph of Fredonia, heir to the Fredonia throne.”