Chapter 3
Chapter Three
ANDI
My heart rate ratchets up, and I can’t seem to get enough air into my lungs. Three men have backed me into a corner at the end of the Golden Jubilee Bridge. Individually, the scrawny drunks aren’t threatening, but together they’ve made it impossible for me to escape. Their hot breath carries the sour tang of beer and nicotine, and the slight breeze from the Thames wraps their intense body odor around me as well. I lean against the closed elevator door behind me, my fingers stealthily questing for the call button. I breathe shallowly, trying not to vomit. Although that might be a good way to get rid of them. No one wants to harass a woman being violently ill, do they?
Their thick accents render them almost unintelligible, but I recognize a few derogatory words, and my cheeks blaze. My gaze darts to the tourists flooding by, but none of them make eye contact. If I scream, they’ll have to help me. I hope. But if the authorities get involved, that will bring Celeste, and later my aunt, down on me. Still, better to be embarrassed—again—than be found dead or worse in a London slum. I draw in a deep breath and almost gag.
A dark figure appears behind the rudest one on my left, and my already racing heart threatens to pound out of my chest. This new danger is bigger than the other three and exudes a sense of purpose the others don’t. The first guy senses the newcomer and spins, nearly losing his balance and spilling beer on the sidewalk. The other two, distracted by their friend’s shameful waste of alcohol, pull their distracted attention from me.
The tall man growls out a single syllable. “No.” His deep, angry voice sends a shiver up my spine, but it’s not fear. This man is well dressed and well groomed. Not that a posh guy can’t be a danger, but something about him feels safe. The threat is obviously directed at the drunks, not me.
My harassers agree. Their eyes widen, and one utters a curse word under his breath. After a long deer-in-the-headlights moment, the man speaks again. “Go.”
They don’t require a second invitation. The three would-be thugs skitter into the night like rats abandoning a sinking ship. Thankfully, the breeze whips away their stench, and my stomach stops rolling. I press a hand to my abdomen and draw in a cautious breath. The Thames never smelled so good.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone.” My rescuer’s deep voice rumbles through me like an express train, shaking me to my core.
I wave an airy hand as I try to catch my breath. “They didn’t scare me.”
“You looked scared.”
“I looked sick. I was about to—” I break off. Telling a man you were going to lose your supper all over a squad of drunken hooligans is not good manners. And while my aunt, the Grand Duchess, may claim I’m hopelessly irredeemable, I’m certainly not rude. I squint into the darkness, trying to get a good look at the man. “Thank you for your assistance.”
He stares back at me. At least I think he’s staring at me. How has he managed to find the one poorly lit spot on this bridge? “I will escort you to your hotel.” His accent is posh London, but there’s a twang of something else.
“I’m not staying at a hotel.” I take a couple steps away, hoping to draw him into the light. “And even if I were, I’m perfectly fine on my own.”
He follows me into the circle of lamplight. The overhead glow seems to cast a halo around his dark wavy hair, caressing his chiseled features, his raised brow. The man is god-like, in a Greek gods way, with a perfectly sculpted face and body. Even the faint scar through his left eyebrow seems like it was put there by the artist to emphasize the perfection of the rest of his face. Unfairly long eyelashes shadow his eyes, which might be hazel.
“You didn’t look fine to me.” The flick of his hand indicates the direction my erstwhile aggressors took.
I lift my chin. “I told you—I wasn’t scared, I was feeling ill. I’m better now. Thanks for the help. Gotta go.” I pivot on my heel and head down the steps that should take me to the Tube station.
He falls in beside me, easily matching my stride. “I will see you home.”
At the base of the steps, I swing back toward him. “I appreciate your assistance on the bridge, but I don’t require an escort. And despite your heroic actions, you’ll forgive me if I’m hesitant to allow a stranger anywhere near my home.” Or my depressing short-term apartment, but he doesn’t need to know details. I turn again and hurry under the bridge toward the subway station.
He keeps pace with me down the sidewalk. When I reach the Tube entrance, I stop again. “Why are you following me?”
He shrugs and waves his Oyster card as he strides past. “I’m not. I’m taking the Tube as well. It’s a big station. Lots of places to go.”
I pull out my phone and scurry after him. At the barrier, I tap it against the ticket panel. It beeps and the barrier opens to allow me through. I put on a burst of speed to get past him, then pause at the first tunnel, studying the vertical station list. We took the Circle line to get here, so I follow the signs to that platform. Each time I glance back, I find my new bodyguard a few steps behind me. When I reach the quiet platform, I confront him again. “You’re still following me!”
He crosses his arms over his impressive chest and looks down at me, eyes hooded. “I’m not. But I will if I have to.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? You’re clearly following me. You didn’t just happen to need the Circle line. No one else is going this way.” I wave angrily at the empty station. As if to contradict me, a couple wanders through the entry. After a quick glance in our direction, they head toward the far end of the platform.
He raises his brow again, sending another little shiver down my spine. How can one tiny movement be so attractive? After a long stare, he looks away. “As it happens, I take this train all the time.”
“Right. Then where do you get off?” Now he’ll have to admit he’s following me.
“Notting Hill Gate.”
I wasn’t expecting that. “Really? Like in the movie? I’ve never been there. Do you live in a house with a blue door?”
His eye twitches, as if he finds me irritating. “No, our door is red.”
Disappointment hits me like a bucket of cold water. He said, “our door.” He’s married. Or living with someone. I straighten my shoulders. Not that I care. He’s overbearing and unfriendly, and just because he saved me from a bunch of drunks—whom I did not need saving from, incidentally—and looks like a Greek god, is no reason to start spinning daydreams about the man. “Fine. You may ride with me.”
He chokes a little, but I can’t tell if it’s a cough or a laugh. With an elaborate flourish, he bows. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
My breath catches again. Does he know who I am? How could he? I’m not that well known. The whistling rumble of an approaching train cuts off any chance at conversation. Hot, oil-scented air blows my hair away from my face, then the train whooshes past, slowing and stopping. The doors slide open, and a group of people shuffle out, chattering.
The man gestures toward the train doors. “After you.”
“Thank you.” I stride in and sit near the center of the car. My rescuer takes a seat across the aisle and a few spots down, as if trying to prove we aren’t together. As we pull out of the station, I look up at the sign over his head, studying the list of stations on the yellow line. Westminster, St. James, Victoria Station, Sloane Square. Wait. That one doesn’t sound right. My eyes scan on, pausing for a second on Notting Hill Gate, then continuing. “No. Where’s Earl’s Court?”
My companion looks up from his phone. “Earl’s Court? It isn’t on this line.”
“But we came on this train.” I stand to squint up at the next map with the green line. “It’s right there!”
The brow goes up again. “That’s the District line. You’ll need to change.” When my face falls, he stands and guides me back to my seat. His cologne—faint, not overbearing—wraps around me with notes of pine and lime and something else. I draw in a deep breath, and a cloud of calm wraps around me.
He swipes to his Google Maps app and types in Earl’s Court, then hits the directions button. “See? You can change at any station along here—the yellow and green lines stay together until Gloucester Road. Then you switch. It’s only one more stop. Or, depending on where you live, you might be able to walk from Gloucester.”
I bite my lip as I gaze at the tiny map. Celeste has always managed our travel. I thought I’d be able to get back to the apartment by retracing our steps, but I forgot we didn’t come directly from our place tonight. I take another deep breath of his comforting, calming scent. It’s like a mini-meditation. “This subway system is so much more complex than the one back home.”
His expression goes blank, as if anywhere other than London isn’t worth visiting. “I’ll take you.”
The instinctive refusal dies before it reaches my lips. I’m sure I could figure it out, but he obviously knows what he’s doing. “Thank you.” A weight I didn’t realize I was carrying falls from my shoulders.
I’d escaped from Celeste in a bid to see London like a normal girl, without a nanny. I didn’t stop to think I might be at risk on my own. But my encounter with the drunk thugs shook me more than I care to admit and diminished my desire to travel alone in this city.
I roam around Freiberg solo all the time, and everyone there knows who I am. For the first time, it occurs to me that might be why it’s so easy. No one in Freiberg—no matter how drunk—would dare to accost a member of the royal family. And they’d happily offer help if I appeared to be in need. Here in London, where I’m no one special, I’m fair game to thugs and invisible to everyone else. A tiny trickle of regret tickles my throat. Maybe shedding my royal status wasn’t such a great idea after all.
“What’s your address?”
I look up in surprise. I’d been so lost in my sudden revelation I’d almost forgotten he offered to help. I give him the address on Knaresborough Place and watch him type it into the phone.
“You got decent shoes?” He stares down at my flat sandals.
“Good enough.” My feet are aching from all the walking today, but I’m not going to tell him that. “Why?”
“We’ll get off at Gloucester Road and walk. It’s a little farther, but we won’t have to wait for another train.” His tone says the sooner he can get rid of me, the better.
And who can blame him? I haven’t exactly been friendly. He saved me from an embarrassing—if not dangerous—situation, and I acted like he’d interrupted my evening. I put a hand on his arm and smile up into his handsome face. “Thank you for helping me. I’m Andi, by the way.”