Author ALLY BLAKE loves strong hot coffee, fluffy white clouds, dancing in the car to a song she hasn’t heard in ages, and the glide of a soft, dark pencil over really good notepaper. She also adores writing love stories. Having sold over four million copies of her books worldwide she is living the dream. Alongside one handsome husband, their three spectacular children, and too many animal companions to count, Ally lives and writes in the leafy western suburbs of Brisbane, Australia.

Also by Ally Blake

Falling for the Rebel Heir

Hired: The Boss’s Bride

Dating the Rebel Tycoon

Millionaire Dad’s SOS

The Royals of Vallemont miniseries

Rescuing the Royal Runaway Bride

And look out for the next book

Amber and the Rogue Prince Coming June 2018

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Rescuing the Royal Runaway Bride
Ally Blake

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07758-3

RESCUING THE ROYAL RUNAWAY BRIDE

Published in Great Britain 2021

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Cover

About the Authors

Booklist

Title Page

Note to Readers

Table of Contents

Back Cover Text

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

About the Publisher

Royal bride on the run...

Into the arms of an enigmatic rescuer...

On the way to the Vallemont royal wedding, Will Darcy’s overblown sense of chivalry leads him to rescue a damsel in a muddy wedding dress! And, yes, it’s the princess-to-be! While the media furor dies down, they’re holed up in one hotel room where irrepressible Sadie makes buttoned-up Will reconsider his life. For once work isn’t his priority—resisting the tantalizing royal runaway is!

For my husband, Mark, who loves nothing more than looking to the stars.

CHAPTER ONE

THE DAY COULD not be more perfect for a royal wedding, thought Will as his open-topped hire car chewed up miles of undulating Vallemontian roads.

The sky was a cerulean-blue dome. Clusters of puffy white cumuli hovered over snow-dusted mountains and dotted shadows over rolling green hills filling the valley that gave the small European principality its name.

By Will’s calculations, snow should fall on the valley any day. Instead, the delicate bite of a warm sun cut through the washed-clean feeling that came after lashings of rain. It was as if the influential Vallemontian royal family had wished for it to be so, and so it was.

But Will Darcy did not believe in wishes. He believed in the human eye’s ability to find millions of colours in a drop of light; the resultant heat of distantly burning stars; that weather forecasting was an inexact science.

This coming from an astronomer; his field truly a game of extrapolation, using ancient evidence to build current theory, relying on calculations that pushed against the edges of the range of known values. One had to be part cowboy, part explorer, part decoder, idealist and seer to do well in the field—something he’d addressed as the keynote speaker at the Space and Time Forum in London the night before.

It had been a late night too. Hence the fact he’d flown into Vallemont only that morning, and would arrive at the palace just as the ceremony was about to start.

The delayed flight had also given him plenty of opportunity to back out if need be. There was the lecture on worm holes he was due to give at the University of Amsterdam a few days from now, after all. The podcast with newyorker.com. The notes from his editor on the second edition of his graduate-level astronomy textbook due any day. And then there was the virtual-reality game set in the Orion Nebula for which he was both investor and technical advisor.

Reasons enough to forgo the trip.

But only one reason to get on that plane.

To see his old friend tie the knot.

A day for knots, Will thought, choosing to ignore the one that had formed overnight in his belly at the thought of what this day might bring.

He pressed down on the accelerator on the neat little convertible his assistant had hired for him in the hope he might “realise how damn lucky he was and take a moment to enjoy himself”. The chill wind ruffled his hair as he zoomed through the bucolic countryside until the road narrowed, heralding yet another idyllic Arcadian village.

Around a tight bend and he was in the thick of it—tightly winding cobblestone streets dotted with gaslight-style street lamps, stone houses with thatched roofs tucked tightly together and wedged into the side of a steep hill, their windowsills abundant with brightly coloured flowers; history in crumbling stone walls, mossy pavements and the occasional brass sign telling of times past.

The engine on the low-slung sports model growled as Will changed down a gear. The suspension knocked his teeth together as it struggled against the ancient stone beneath, but it was all he could do to avoid the crowd spilling from the thin footpaths onto the road.

Festive they were. All smiles as they headed to pubs and parks and lounge rooms all over the country to watch the wedding on television. Pink and gold ribbons had been strung across the road. Handmade banners flapped from weathervanes. Pink flower petals covered the footpaths and floated in tiny puddles.

All because Will’s oldest friend, Hugo, was getting married to some woman named Mercedes Gray Leonine, no less. Though those who had strung the ribbons and scattered the petals knew the guy as Prince Alessandro Hugo Giordano.

Then the roadway cleared and Will aimed for a stone bridge crossing the rocky river that trapped the village against the hillside and hit open space again.

It was all so very green, rain having brought a lush overabundance, shine and glisten as far as the eye could see.

And on he drove. Until he reached a tunnel of trees running parallel to the river.

Glimpses of fields pushing into the distance sneaked through the dark foliage. The ever-present mountains cast cool shadows through the sunshine. And, if his GPS wasn’t glitching, any moment to the east...

There. Sunlight bounced off arched windows and turned pale sandstone turrets into rose-gold. Pink and gold banners flapped high in the breeze while the Palace of Vallemont sat high and grand on its pretty bluff, like something out of a fairy tale.

And the knot in Will’s stomach grew so that it pressed hard against his lungs.

The first time he’d been invited to the palace had been well over a decade before. Circumstances—by way of a skiing accident—had seen to it that he’d been forced to stay at his grandparents’ mausoleum of a townhouse in London that summer, leaving his sister, Clair, to visit the royal family as Hugo’s special guest on her own.

Only a few weeks later, Will’s life had been irrevocably, tragically altered. The boy who’d already lost so much became a young man who’d lost everything. And Vallemont, this postcard-pretty part of the world, had been a throbbing bruise on his subconscious ever since.

Memories lifted and flurried. He’d handled things less than admirably at the time. This was his chance to put things right. He held the steering wheel tighter and kept moving forward.

The thicket filled out, the view narrowing to the curving tunnel of green and rutting muddy road that hadn’t had the benefit of recent sunshine. A herd of sheep suddenly tripped and tumbled their way across the road.

Will slowed again, this time to a stop. He rested his elbow on the windowsill, his chin in his hand, his finger tapping against his bottom lip. If life wasn’t so cruel, random and insensate, he might one day have attended a very different wedding in this storybook place. Not as a ghost from the groom’s past, but as best man and brother, all in one.

He shook his head.

What ifs were not relevant. The world simply kept on turning. Day would dissolve into night. And tomorrow it would start all over again.

The last of the sheep skittered past, followed by a wizened old man in overalls holding a crook. He tipped his hat. Will returned with a salute. And then he and the knot in his belly were off again.

He kept his speed down as rain had dug deep grooves into the ancient mud and stone. The trees hung dangerously low over the road, dappling sunlight over the windscreen, shadow and light dancing across his hands, hindering his vision for a second, then—

Will slammed on the brakes. He gripped the wheel as the car fishtailed, mud spattering every which way, the engine squalling, the small tyres struggling to find purchase.

Then the car skidded to a jarring halt, momentum throwing him forward hard against the seatbelt, knocking his breath from his lungs. At which point the engine sputtered and died.

His chest burned from the impact of the belt. His fingers stung on the wheel. Blood rushed like an ocean behind his ears. Adrenaline poured hotly through his veins. And beneath it all his heart clanged in terror.

He’d heard a noise. He was sure of it. The growl and splutter had been punctuated with a thud.

Expecting carnage, axle damage from a fallen log, or, worse, a lone sheep thrown clear by the impact, Will opened his eyes.

Sunlight streaked through the thicket. Steam rose from the road. Wet leaves fell like confetti from a tree above. But there was no sheep in sight.

Instead, dead centre of his windscreen, stood a woman.

He blinked to make sure he wasn’t imagining her. So pale, sylph-like in the shadows of the dark, dank vegetation, she practically glowed.

As if in slow motion, a leaf fluttered from above to snag in a dark auburn curl dangling over her face. Another landed on a fair bare shoulder. Yet another snagged on the wide skirt of a voluminous pink dress three times bigger than she was.

Those were details that stampeded through Will’s mind during the half-second it took him to leap from the car. The mud sluicing over the tops of his dress shoes and seeping into his socks mattered only so far as the fact it slowed him down.

“Where are you hurt?” he barked, running his hands through his hair to dampen the urge to run them over her.

Not that she seemed to notice. Her eyes remained closed, mouth downturned, black-streaked tears ran unstopped down her cheeks. And she trembled as if a strong gust of wind might whip her away.

Best case scenario was shock. Worst case... The thud still echoed against the back of his skull.

“Ma’am, I need you to look at me,” he said, his voice louder now. It was the kind of voice that could silence a room full of jaded policy-makers. “Right now.”

The woman flinched, her throat working. And then she opened her eyes.

They were enormous. Far too big for her face. Blue. Maybe green. Not easy to tell considering they were rimmed red and swollen with dark tears.

And every part of her vibrated a little more, from her clumpy eyelashes to the skirt of her elaborate dress. Standing there in the loaded silence, the hiss and tic of his cooling engine the only sound, he knew he’d never felt such energy pouring off a single person before. Like the sun’s corona, it extended well beyond her physical body, impinging on anyone in its path.

He took what felt like a necessary step back as he said, “I cannot help you until you tell me whether you are hurt.”

She let out one last head-to-toe quiver, then dragged in a breath. It seemed to do the trick as she blinked. Looked at his car. Lifted her hands into the air as if to balance. Pink diamonds dangling from her ears glinted softly as she shook her head. No.

Will breathed out, the sound not altogether together. Then, as relief broke the tension, anger tumbled through the rare breach in his faculties.

“Then what the holy hell were you doing jumping out in front of my car?”

The woman blinked at his outburst, her eyes becoming bigger still. Then her chin lifted, she seemed to grow an inch in height, and finally she found her voice. “I beg your pardon, but I did not jump out in front of your car.”

Will baulked. The lilting, sing-song quality of the Vallemontian accent that he had not heard in person in years was resonant in every syllable. It took him back in time, making the ground beneath his feet unsteady.

He refocused. “Jump. Leap. Swan dive. It’s all the same. You had to have heard me coming. My car engine isn’t exactly subtle.”

That earned him a surprisingly unladylike snort. “Subtle? It’s a mid-life crisis incarnate. You should have been driving your overcompensation more slowly! Especially with the roads being as they are after the rain we’ve had.”

“It’s a rental,” he shot back, then gave himself a swift mental kick for having risen to the bait. “Speed was not the issue here. The pertinent fact is that you chose to cross at a bend in the road shaded by thick foliage. You could have been killed. Or was that your intention? If so it was an obtuse plan. Nearly every person in the country is already at the palace or sitting by a TV to watch the royal wedding.”

At that she winced, her pale face turning so much paler he could practically see the veins working beneath her skin. Then she broke eye contact, her chin dipping as she muttered, “My being right here, right now, was never part of any plan, I can assure you of that.”

Okay. All right. Things had gone astray. Time to bring everything back to fundamentals. “So, just to be clear, I did not hit you.”

She shook her head, dark red curls wobbling. “No, you did not.”

“I could have sworn I heard a thud.”

Her mouth twisted. Then she looked up at him from beneath long, clumping eyelashes. “When I saw you coming I did the only thing I could think to do. I threw a shoe at you.”

“A shoe?”

“I’d have thrown both if I’d thought it would help. But alas, the other one is stuck.”

“Stuck?” Will was aware he was beginning to sound like a parrot, but the late night, early morning, the knotty reality of being in Vallemont after all these years were beginning to take their toll.

He watched in mute interest as the woman gathered her dress and lifted it to show off skinny legs covered in pale pink stockings. One foot was bare. The other foot was nowhere to be seen—or, more precisely, was ankle-deep in mud.

Will glanced back at his car. Then up along the road ahead.

Time was ticking. Hugo’s wedding was looming. Will wasn’t sure of the protocol but he doubted a soon-to-be princess bride would be fashionably late.

The woman in pink was calmer now, the static having dulled to a mild buzz. Best of all she was unhurt, meaning she was not his problem.

Will did not do “people problems”. His assistant, Natalie—a jolly, hardworking woman who performed miracles from a desk at home somewhere in the Midwest of the United States—was the only person in the world to whom he felt beholden and only because she told him every time they spoke that he should. Even then her efforts on his behalf were well-compensated.

He preferred maths problems, fact problems, evidentiary problems. His manager would attest that time management was Will’s biggest problem as he never said no to work if he could find a way to fit it all in.

And yet... He found that he could not seem to roust himself to wish the woman well and get back on his way.

There was nothing to be done except to help.

Decision made, he held out both hands as if dealing with a wounded animal. “Any way you can jiggle your foot free?”

“Wow. That’s a thought.” It seemed she’d hit the next stage of shock—sarcasm.

“Says the woman who threw a shoe at an oncoming car in the hope of saving herself from getting squished.”

Her eyes narrowed. Her fists curled tighter around her skirt. Beneath the head-to-toe finery she was pure street urchin itching for a fight.

Shock, he reminded himself. Stuck. And she must have been cold. There wasn’t much to the top part of her dress but a few layers of lace draped over her shoulders, leaving her arms bare. The way the skirt moved as it fell to her feet made it look like layers of woven air.

Air he’d have to get a grip on if he had any hope of pulling her free.

Will slid the jacket of his morning suit from his shoulders and tossed it over the windscreen into the car. Rolling his sleeves to his elbows, he took a turn about her, eyeing the angles, finding comfort in the application of basic geometry and calculus.

She looked about five-feet-eight, give or take the foot stuck in the mud.

“What do you weigh?”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind.” It would come down to the force of the suction of the mud anyway. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to take you from behind.”

A slim auburn eyebrow rose dramatically. “I thank you for asking first, but I do mind.”

Will’s gaze lifted from the behind in question to find the woman looking over her shoulder at him. Those big eyes were unblinking, a glint of warmth, laughter even, flickering in the blue. Or was it green?

Right. He’d heard it too. He felt his own cheek curving into an unexpected smile. “My intentions are pure. I only wish to get you out of your...sticky situation.”

Her right fist unclenched from her skirt, her fingers sliding past one another. Then her eyes dipped as she gave him a thorough once-over to match the one he’d given her.

Will crossed his arms and waited. He was the pre-eminent living name in modern astronomy. Eyes Only at NASA. An open invitation to the UN. On first-name terms with presidents and prime ministers alike.

Yet none of that mattered on this muddy country road as, with a deep sigh of unwitting capitulation, the woman waved an idle hand his way and said, “Fine. Let’s get this over and done with.”

First time for everything, Will thought as he moved into position. Adrenaline having been sapped away, he was now very much aware of the damage incurred by his footwear. He attempted to find purchase on the boggy ground. “Ready?”

She muttered something that sounded like, “Not even close.” But then she lifted her arms.

Will wrapped his arms around her waist. There really was nothing of her. More dress than woman. He grounded his feet, and heaved.

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About the Author

Rescuing the Royal Runaway BrideAlly Blake

Note to Readers

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Rescuing the Royal Runaway Bride
Ally Blake