The Man Behind the Mask

The Man Behind the Mask
Christine Rimmer

He had been in hiding for years, but the sight of Dulcie Samples, with her girl-next-door appeal, was enough to finally draw Prince Valbrand into the light.Yet Valbrand, whose face–not to mention spirit–had taken a serious hit from the assassination attempt that had driven him underground, was sworn to spend all the rest of his days hunting down the enemies who had done this to him. And even if he had the time for love, who could see past his scarred face to the man inside? Certainly not the beautiful Dulcie….Or so Valbrand thought. But despite the darkness and mystery that surrounded him, Dulcie knew that the half-masked man before her was her destiny. Now, if only she could convince him that she held both the key to his heart and his kingdom in her trembling hands….

I was a madman no longer.

I was, once again, a prince. Once again, I was bound by all the dragging obligations and careful courtesies that being a prince entailed.

But still I dared to look at the American again. She gazed at me as if all that she was, all that she had been, or ever would be, was mine. It stunned me how powerfully I wanted to take what she offered. I longed, if not for the refuge of madness, at least for the mask. For the comfort of shadows.

Or I had until that moment.

Until the redheaded American with the wide, honest eyes.

And so in a moment of purest insanity, I held out my hand. I knew she would trust her hand to me, without hesitation. With no coyness.

And she did.

The Man Behind the Mask

Christine Rimmer

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

For my guys: Steve, Matt and Jess.

Contents

Chapter 1 (#u1ddb75fa-c3ab-5035-af6e-5b667e4ebe73)

Chapter 2 (#u83cf67e6-cfe3-56bb-b6de-fa8a6954869b)

Chapter 3 (#ud3829ab3-ce09-56dd-b0a3-60c6d93e9798)

Chapter 4 (#u4696d55e-3e21-57a8-9cfd-b18098d17263)

Chapter 5 (#uae137120-fc28-5912-827e-a49456d5d7d9)

Chapter 6 (#u2e3f5a89-21c4-5152-9563-475c95076fb9)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 1

For me, it was love at first sight.

Okay, okay. Nobody believes in love at first sight anymore. It’s like disco. Or the dickey. Went out decades ago, isn’t coming back, no matter how many brave fools try to resurrect it.

And, you may ask, how would I, Dulcinea Samples, a semi dewy-eyed young thing of twenty-four, even know about a dickey?

My mom used to wear them. She’s wearing one, in fact, in the family portrait that sits on our mantel back home in Bakersfield. The outline of it is just visible beneath her V-neck sweater.

My mom’s a true romantic. She’s always claimed she fell in love with Dad at first sight.

As I said, like the dickey. People don’t do that anymore.

But my mom did. And there’s more. Witness my name. How many people get named after the purer-than-pure alter ego of the barmaid whore heroine in Man of La Mancha? With a last name like Samples? Hel-lo?

Just call me Dulcie. Please.

And back to my mom. Yeah. Romantic. Capital R. And I know some of it rubbed off on me, though I swear I always tried my best to keep my romantic impulses strictly under control. They’re about as useful as a dickey if you’re a single girl living in East Hollywood. Not to mention a lot more dangerous. Get too romantic in East Hollywood—really, in any part of L.A.—and there’s no telling what could happen to you. Did you see Mulholland Drive? Enough said.

And maybe that was part of it—why I fell in love with this certain guy at first sight. Because that first sight didn’t happen in L.A., where I understood the hazards and would have had my guard up. Not in L.A. but in a ballroom in a palace in a tiny island country called Gullandria.

He was a prince—did I mention that?

And not just as in “a prince of a guy.” No. I mean a real, bona fide, son-of-a-king type of prince. A Gullandrian prince. That’s right, Gullandria. Remember? That island country I mentioned?

Gullandria is a story in itself. Picture the Shetland Islands. Get an image of Norway. And then, midway between the two, a little to the north, put a heart-shaped island maybe a hundred and fifty miles across at the widest part—you know, ventricle to ventricle? Lots of dramatic, jewel-blue fjords. Mountains to the north and rolling lowlands in the south. A capital city named Lysgard. “Lys” means light. And the king’s palace, which stands on a hilltop just outside the capital? Isenhalla: Ice-hall. Oh, I love that.