The Secret Princess

“Are you Amy Scott?”

She glanced at the door, then back at the man, who had not moved since he’d come in. He wasn’t advancing on her. If she needed to, she could almost certainly outrun him, if only because she had several yards’ head start. “Who wants to know?”

He stepped closer. “But you are, of course. Your face…it’s unmistakable.”

She automatically lifted a hand to her cheek. “Have we met?”

“No, I don’t believe we have.” His mouth curved toward a smile but didn’t quite make it. In the flickering candlelight he looked the way she’d always imagined Sir Lancelot—a deeply handsome face, sensuous mouth, intelligent eyes, but a stature that implied such power that he was almost intimidating. Almost.

He moved toward her and gently lowered her hand from her face. “My God, you’re even more beautiful than I’d imagined.”

Her heart hammered in response to his touch, even as her brain told her to back off and be prepared to call the authorities in case this was some crazy guy off the street.

“You tried to imagine what I’d look like?” she heard herself ask.

“All my life.”

Though the door was closed, when the wind lifted again outside, Amy imagined she felt it finger through her hair and tingle down her back. “Why?” she asked, standing her ground by the back door. “Who are you?”

“Forgive me,” he said, smiling the kind of thousand-megawatt smile usually reserved for movie stars. “I’m not explaining myself very well. I am,” did he hesitate? “Franz Burgess. I am in the royal service of the Crown Prince of Lufthania.”

“Lufthania?” Last year she had spent a frustrating month trying to locate a travel book on Lufthania for the Bradleys, a local couple who were always looking for unusual and obscure travel destinations. She had been unsuccessful in finding a book, but she’d learned just enough about the small Alpine country to pique her curiosity.

“You have heard of Lufthania?” he asked, not necessarily surprised, but he watched her with keen interest.

“Just barely. Who did you say you were?”

“I am secretary to the Crown Prince. Looking for, well, you might say a long-lost relative.”

Amy raised an eyebrow. “Then you must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. There’s no royalty here.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” The lights flickered on and Amy said a silent thanks to the Chesapeake Electric Company. “Oh. That’s better.” She blew out her candles and felt more confident now that the power was on.

That is, until she looked at Franz Burgess and saw what the candlelight had barely revealed.

Her first crazy thought was that he was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. It was that simple. His eyes, which had held so much expression even in the dark, were so vibrant a green that it seemed as if light came from inside of them. His hair was wavy and haphazard, a rich chocolate brown touched with auburn lights from the same sun that had tanned his skin.

He was a little bit younger than she’d initially thought, perhaps in his mid-thirties. Faint lines bracketed his mouth and fanned out from the corners of his eyes, but rather than aging him, they gave his face just the ruggedness it needed to keep from being too pretty.

“As I was saying,” he said, “I’m here in the prince’s service, looking for a lost relative.”

“A lost relative,” she repeated flatly. “Of royalty.” She stared at him for a moment before asking, “Are you an actor?” That would explain the slick good looks, the smooth delivery of an absurd story. Someone had hired him as a practical joke.

He looked puzzled. “I beg your pardon?”

“Did one of my friends send you here with this crazy story?” That had to be it. Someone remembered her search for books on Lufthania and thought it would be funny to resurrect the place.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” she said. “My birthday isn’t for two months.”

“On the contrary,” he said, his gaze even. “Your birthday was the day before yesterday.”

The silence that followed was brief but shuddering.

“What are you talking about?” Her nerves went tight. “My birthday is in almost two months. January twenty-ninth.”

He gave a short nod, as if he knew better but wouldn’t bother with such small details right now. “Let me explain why I’m here. Why I’ve been looking for you.”

“You have.”

He nodded. “For a very long time, actually.”

A tremor rumbled through her. “Okay, what do you want? Special orders can take several weeks, you know.”

“I’m not here to order anything. My business with you is personal.”

Gooseflesh rose on her arms and she ran her hands over them. “What personal business could you possibly have with me, Mr. Burgess?”

His gaze was steady. “What I’ve come to tell you might seem unbelievable to you, but it’s true, and I believe you’ll consider it very good news.”

Amy’s muscles tensed. “So what is it?”

He glanced at her desk. “Perhaps you should sit down.”

“That doesn’t sound like good news.”

He smiled. “Sometimes good news can make you weak in the knees as well.”

She bet this guy knew a lot about making women weak in the knees. “I’ll be fine,” she said, defying her own reaction to him more than his suggestion that she might go weak. “Spill it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry?”

Now it was her turn to smile. “Spill it. Your news. I’m ready.”

“All right.” He took a breath, then cocked his head slightly and looked at her for a moment before saying, “I’m here on behalf of your country.”

She hesitated. “Funny, you don’t look like Uncle Sam.”

“Not America. Lufthania.” He paused for a moment to let that sink in. He watched her closely as he added in a careful tone, “The country where you were born. The country of your blood family.”

Her face turned cold, then her shoulders, her arms and, in a rush, the rest of her. For a moment, she couldn’t speak. No one ever talked about her biological relatives. She knew nothing about them except that her parents had died in a car accident that she’d survived. Just under three years old, she was taken to Kendell County Hospital, where her adoptive mother, Pamela Scott, had worked as a nurse on the night shift.

The authorities had tried to identify her parents to no avail. No missing-persons reports ever surfaced, no alerts for missing children. It was as if they didn’t exist at all. The only reason they knew Amy’s name, or thought they did, was because one of the paramedics on the scene had heard the woman saying the name repeatedly before she died. They concluded that Amy must have been the child’s name.

Pamela Scott had taken to Amy immediately, working extra shifts to nurse her back to health. When no family could be traced, she and her husband, Lyle, a very successful attorney, had become Amy’s foster parents. After several years they were finally able to make the adoption final.