Sample: A Stolen Crown (Stolen Royals #2)

Chapter 9: We're Not in Dellsby Anymore

Not one single thing in Myrzel had proven simple. Though each day grew a bit easier, Cecily still questioned every move she made. Despite all of her education in Dellsby, nothing seemed to translate to life in Myrzel. During one of her first few days, she'd slipped off her sandals to rub her sore heel. The shrieks from the noblewomen Ephraim had just introduced her to had startled her off the chaise she'd rested upon. Apparently, feet weren't to be free in Myrzel unless one was in one's chambers or swimming in the pools.

Worse, Cecily had lost track of time one evening as she and Muriel tended to Gayla, who wasn't acclimating well. The three of them arrived late to the feast, which the royals held nightly for nobles living near the castle. When all eyes turned toward them, Cecily felt the haughty displeasure of the ladies whose glares were fixed on her. Mercusius remained gracious, seating Cecily beside Ephraim as she mumbled an apology. The prince's brow creased and his smile tightened as he dipped his head in acceptance.

The food, too, presented a challenge, tempting her to become even fuller-bodied than she already was. The spices on the meats, the various dressings over enormous salads or mixed greens, and the many ways they served potatoes tempted Cecily to devour her full portions and return for more.

The first night, Cecily ate everything they offered her, while Muriel and Doreen picked at their meals, eating just enough to satisfy.

Now she only took a few bites.

The tight fabric of Myrzellian dresses hugged every curve, magnifying the chubby roll around her waist and the ample width of her backside. She wanted to be as svelte and lovely as possible when she met her fiancé.

That is, if he ever returned.

"It's been two weeks. Shouldn't he be back by now?" Muriel stood with her arms folded, staring out the window at the green oasis below. There weren't any windowpanes in Myrzellian architecture, so the breeze blew freely through the palace.

"It does seem odd," Doreen said, lounging on a chaise nearby. "Perhaps he wasn't as close as they thought?"

"Or maybe they didn't send anyone after him."

Rory's mutter brought all four of them around. Gayla, knitting by herself in a chair nearby, perked up. "Of course they did—they said they did." She shifted her gaze between Muriel and Cecily. "Why would they lie?"

Rory's eyes slid around the room, avoiding Cecily. She'd been this way ever since they'd arrived, each moody response crawling under Cecily's skin and cutting away at her patience.

"They didn't lie." Cecily glowered at Rory, who looked just as grumpy as Muriel. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. I just think if they'd done what they said, Prince Rakesh would be here."

"Two weeks was just an estimate. Who knows how long it will take them to find where he's staying." Cecily smoothed out her fluid, sapphire skirt, her lips pursed. "Rakesh will get here when he gets here."

"Please." Rory rolled her eyes. "They have to know where he is—a prince can't hide."

"Unless he's rebellious." Doreen joined the conversation with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Perhaps Rakesh is a rogue one who likes to pretend to be a civilian, and he's staying in a hut somewhere, enjoying the sunshine."

"Don't be a fool." Muriel stepped away from the window and joined them. "Rakesh is the crown prince. I'd sooner think Tom is the rebellious one."

"But he's not a prince." Cecily rubbed the back of her neck, her muscles tight—she hated rehashing this conversation in every possible incarnation. "He's the illegitimate son of the king. Besides," she turned on Muriel, "I don't see why you even care that he isn't here yet. It's not like we're on a strict schedule."