His Forever Princess

  Cowboy Fairytales

  Lacy Williams

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Exclusive invitation

  Find me online

  Also by Lacy Williams

  Chapter One

  Once a Navy SEAL, always a SEAL.

  But Gideon Hale wasn’t a young and foolhardy warrior anymore.

  It was early summer, but an inch of snow had covered the road through the Rocky Mountains of Colorado—a road that was more of a track than anything else.

  The remote cabin stood empty and had been for months, judging by the dust covering every surface.

  It didn't matter if there was an inch of dust accumulated on the countertops. That it was cold outside and getting colder. There was no room for him to be complacent, not when the princess had nearly been killed.

  His wife.

  His wife had nearly been killed.

  He held a 9mm at the ready as he moved on stealthy feet across the cabin. It belonged to an old friend and there wasn't much to it. Not many places to hide. Maybe the curtained-off lower shelf beneath the minuscule kitchen counters. Gideon swept it aside with his foot. Empty.

  He heard a soft sigh behind him as he bypassed the bed and headed for the only other door in the place. A bathroom? He nudged open the door, 9mm pointed ahead of him. Careful.

  Alessandra's next sigh carried a hint of impatience. Or maybe exasperation.

  He didn't stop. Couldn't. His need to keep her safe was primal.

  It was also the only thing holding back the fury pounding through his veins.

  He swept aside the shower curtain. For one microsecond, the motion cast a shadow on the wall. He almost pulled the trigger.

  But good sense prevailed.

  He turned back to the room. "Clear."

  Alessandra, in her charcoal sweater over dark-colored jeans, ignored him. He'd insisted she wear a hat to cover her golden hair, but she'd taken it off sometime in the last hours driving the empty mountain roads. Now she stared out the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows.

  Neither one of them had slept in almost forty-eight hours, but he wouldn't have guessed it by looking at her. She looked as regal as ever. Perfect posture, every strand of hair in place, a hint of disdain in the slight frown she wore. Disdain for their accommodations? Or because she was stuck here with him?

  He didn't let the thought land. Couldn't afford the distraction.

  Yet he couldn't stop his memory from shifting to provide him a glimpse of Alessandra when he'd first met her. She'd been on the run then, too. Not dressed for the weather, pale and terrified. And beautiful.

  He blinked away the memory that felt like a punch.

  He secured his gun into the holster at his hip and crossed to the windows, where he began lowering the blinds.

  Alessandra shifted. He didn't hold out hope that she would argue with him. It had been the silent treatment ever since they'd left the Triple H’s ranch house. She'd argued then, on a video call with her sister, the Queen, and a security team from the palace in Glorvaird.

  Gideon and Alessandra’s sister Eloise rarely got along, but this time Eloise had agreed with his plan. Which meant Gideon had overridden Alessandra’s protests about this plan. Twice.

  She’d iced him out since.

  When he reached above his head to pull the cord for the upper blind, the bullet-wound in his side screamed against the movement.

  He ignored the pain.

  These windows were a direct invitation for a sniper to take an easy shot.

  "You can wash up, if you'd like,” he told her.

  He didn't look over to see whether or not Alessandra moved. They'd only stopped when the SUV had needed gas. And each time Gideon had followed her to the bathroom. It hadn't been a trip fit for a princess. But he didn't care. This was the only way to keep her safe.

  Especially since she'd left him in the dark about the threats against her.

  He was so angry his hands shook. They hadn't been on the same continent since Maggie's wedding. Before that, it had been at least five years.

  She didn't need him. She'd made that perfectly clear years ago. But that didn't stop him from video conferencing with her security team once a week. He always knew where she'd be. What legislation or trade agreement she was working on. The threats against her.

  Until this recent threat.

  She'd ordered her security team to hide the truth from Gideon, to make the threat seem less severe. She'd almost died because of it. And put their daughters in the crossfire.

  Gideon had made sure all three of his daughters, along with Maggie's husband and Tirith's beau, had been sent to secure locations as a precaution. He felt reasonably secure that his daughters would be safe. After all, the letters and emails had threatened Alessandra directly. Not his family.

  Now it was up to him to keep Alessandra alive.

  "I'm going to walk the perimeter. Then I'll bring in your bags."

  He didn't expect a response, and none came.

  Exhaustion buffeted him as he stepped outside into the darkness. The sky was littered with stars. No moon out tonight.

  He leaned one arm against the side of the house, sagged against the wall, letting it take his weight. His side ached. He wanted to sleep.

  Focus.

  He had to keep going. This had been his plan. Isolate Alessandra until his team, not hers, had neutralized the threat.

  It had been a long time since he'd been a Navy SEAL, but he still had connections with that world. He only hoped they would be enough.

  He walked the perimeter of the cabin, eyes alert for any sign that someone had been here recently. Everything was dark and quiet.

  At the SUV, he pulled out Alessandra's duffel bag and one of the brown grocery bags. His side protested.

  He needed to check the wound. He'd only had time for the doctor to put in a few stitches and toss some antibiotics in his duffel. It had been twelve hours since then.

  Inside, Alessandra wasn’t immediately visible, and his pulse skyrocketed.

  There.

  Maybe the bathroom door didn’t latch or something because it stood open a couple of inches. He caught sight of her blonde tresses, saw her face pressed into her hands, shoulders trembling.

  His first instinct was to go to her. It was a visceral tug, the desire to pull her into his arms, reassure her, comfort her.

  Except he wasn’t the right guy for the job. Not anymore.

  He dropped the bag of groceries on the counter with a thud. “Everything is clear outside.”

  He crossed to the bed and put her designer leather bag on the end of it. He’d need to scrounge up sheets and a blanket. A chest under the window seemed the likely place for them.

  He was bone tired and didn’t want to add one more thing to his to-do list, but there was nothing for it. Alessandra didn’t need to sleep on a bare mattress.

  He was propping the the lid of the chest open when he felt a trickle of warm liquid trail down his side, underneath his T-shirt and the flannel shirt he’d thrown over it.

  He bit back a curse word. He needed to be at full speed, full strength. His wound would slow him down if he didn’t take care of it.

  When Alessandra left the bathroom, he set the sheets and blanket on the end of the bed and went into the bathroom himself.

  Pain flared as he took off his shirt.

  This was bad.

  Alessandra couldn't seem to get warm.

  Gideon had noticed on the drive up. He'd turned on the heater and the heated seats.

  Gideon noticed everything.

  She hated that about him.

  She didn’t want to be here. To be sequestered with her husband. For him to find out the secret she'd been keeping all these years.

  She'd argued for a different solution, but after the attack at Maggie's charity ball, Gideon and Eloise’s security team had overruled her.

  "It's only a few days." She barely breathed the words, but it was so quiet here—completely silent, unlike the constant bustle in the Glorvaird palace or the steady stream of cowhands at the Triple H—that her whisper sounded as loud as a shout.

  "You say something?" Gideon spoke through the cracked bathroom door—the thing had a faulty latch.

  She took her cell phone out of her pocket. She hadn’t turned it on since yesterday, at Gideon’s demand. If she powered it up now, she could guess that there would be no bars. No service.

  "Is there wifi?"

  She knew the answer before he said it. A remote place like this, more than an hour from the nearest town.

  "No." His voice commanding, even with the partly closed door between them. "Keep your cell phone off."

  She knew why. Location services could be hacked. But it still rankled to hear him order her around.

  "I have the meeting with Ambassador Cain in a week," she said. "There are documents I need to read through. Send changes back through my assistant, Clara.”

  "You can mark up the paper copy your aide sent." He was maddeningly calm.

  There was a rustle of clothing. And that was it. Just mark up the paper copy.

  Her temper sparked. "I can't be out of communication for an unde

termined period of time. There are people I need to talk to."

  He didn't answer. She looked toward the bathroom, imagining banging on the door until he responded to her—

  Then she realized he was shirtless.

  It was so unexpected that she lost her composure for the briefest moment.

  And he was staring at her, dark eyes unreadable.

  "Who?" he asked. His voice held a dangerous undertone.

  Who, what?

  Afraid he would see her icy mask slipping, she shook her head and turned away.

  But that didn't stop her brain from fixating on the memory image of him. Gideon wasn't the kind of rancher who sat behind a desk and ordered his cowboys around. He never had been.

  And his years of work showed, even on a fifty-something year old body.

  She hadn't aged as well as he had. She'd gone soft in some places, especially after Bea’s birth twenty-four years ago.

  Gideon didn't have an ounce of softness on him.

  She closed her eyes, willing away the image of his broad shoulders and the ropes of muscles down his abdomen.

  It didn't help.

  What had they been talking about? Communications. Or the lack thereof.

  "I need to be able to communicate with Eloise. And Clara. And there are others." She opened her eyes to a wavy reflection of him in the outdated stainless steel fridge.

  He remained in the doorway, one arm propped on his hip.

  Not on his hip, she realized.

  Her surprise had her reacting before she'd thought it through. She whirled and took two steps toward him before her thoughts caught up. She stopped short.

  "You're hurt."

  Blood, stark red, was soaking through the wad of tissues he held against his left side.

  She caught the flash of surprise in his eyes before his expression went carefully blank.

  "I got nicked. I'm fine."

  She'd seen his nicks before. Once at the ranch, he'd nearly sliced his finger off while filing a horse’s hoof. He’d declared it so minor he didn't need to see a doctor.

  She'd overruled him.

  But back then, everything had been different. That was before their marriage had transformed into this cold, barren wasteland full of pressure mines.

  They stared at each other, all of it hanging almost palpably in the air between them. The words they'd spoken and the ones they hadn't. The missed anniversaries. Their daughters growing up without him. Both of them missing Maggie so deeply for so long.

  He looked away first, a muscle jumping in his cheek.

  He didn't like this either, she realized. He didn't want to be here with her.

  Why had he insisted so furiously, then?

  His sense of duty.

  Of course.

  Like recognized like. She understood duty. She was good at it.

  It was everything else that she could never seem to manage.

  "The mirror is too high." It seemed as if he was speaking through gritted teeth. "I can't get a good look at it." He twisted and she saw dark stitches against his skin. "Would you... please... take a look for me?"

  She had to clear her throat to push words past the lump that wanted to choke her. "Yes. Of course."

  Her feet took her to him before she could truly steel herself. The bathroom was minuscule, so she stayed in the doorway and bent to examine his wound.

  "Was it...?" She couldn't say the words.

  "A bullet. Just grazed me. Doctor checked it out and it passed right through. I'm fine."

  He sounded so matter-of-fact, but all she could do was remember how they’d stood together at Maggie’s charity ball. One moment, he'd been at a polite distance. Not so far that anyone would know they were estranged. He had once found it difficult to be more a few inches from her. He'd often stayed glued to her side, his hand at her back.

  There'd been a crack that split the air, and she'd found herself unceremoniously pushed to the ground. Gideon had covered her body with his.

  Was that the moment he'd taken this bullet? One meant for her?

  "I just need to know if the stitches held." His voice had gentled.

  Had he guessed that her thoughts would spiral in terrible circles?

  She breathed in deeply and was shocked by the familiar scent of his skin. He'd used that same soap since she'd met him. She just hadn't been close enough to smell it in ages.

  Suddenly uncomfortable, she straightened. "The stitches look all right. But I'm not a doctor."

  He nodded, meeting her eyes in the small rectangular mirror that was shoulder-height for his tall frame. "Can you stick a bandage on for me?"

  She glanced past him to the sink, where he'd carefully laid out a white gauze square. It had tape on all four sides. All she needed to do was press it over his wound.

  She reached past him to pick up the gauze. Her hand brushed his bare arm and the shock of the inadvertent touch sent her eyes flying to his in the mirror.

  His gaze was hooded, telling her nothing.

  Maybe she was the only one unmanned by the graze of skin against skin.

  She grabbed the bandage and carefully lined it up before she pressed it against his skin. This time she was better prepared for the sparks that coursed through her.

  "Good enough?" she forced a cool tone into her voice and when he nodded—she couldn't quite meet his eyes now—she turned to retreat.

  There was nowhere to run, so she began making up the bed.

  It had been a long time since she'd touched a man. That's what she told herself as she kept her eyes on her task. That was the reason for her overblown reaction. She missed touching, being touched.

  It didn't mean anything.

  And she needed to get ahold of herself if she was going to keep him from discovering her secret.

  Chapter Two

  Alessandra opened her eyes. She didn't know how much time had passed or whether she'd dozed off or not.

  She rolled over.

  The sheets on the bed at this remote cabin weren't the same quality she was used to. The feel of them against her legs was just a shade off uncomfortable.

  Or maybe it was the company making her so restless.

  There was Gideon, standing where she'd last seen him. He had one shoulder propped against the wall and stared out a sliver of exposed window.

  She sighed softly. And she knew he heard, because his eyes flickered briefly.

  "It's the middle of the night," she whispered. "You need to sleep."

  "I'm fine."

  His stitches had just barely opened. He hadn't lost much blood, but a gunshot wound was a gunshot wound. And they'd driven sixteen hours straight to get here.

  She had a sudden urge to growl, like some kind of wild animal. Or chuck a pillow at him.

  The man was so stubborn. So stubborn.

  Well, so was she. Years ago, she had single-handedly convinced the royal council to uphold one of Eloise’s only edicts.

  She sat up in bed, the sheets folding around her bent knees. Her hair was loose and fell over one shoulder.

  "You're not a machine," she argued softly. "You need rest just the same as I do."

  Saying the words aloud was a good reminder for her, too. She'd lived in survival mode for so long. Sometimes it was easier to think of Gideon as a machine. A thing with no feelings.

  Because if he was a machine, he couldn't mean to hurt her.

  Alessandra hated that what had once been a warm relationship, one she'd been sure she couldn't live without, had faded into the same kind of sham marriage as her parents had.

  Now he grunted, shifting a little on his feet. Was he in pain?

  "I didn't pack a sleeping bag," he said.

  Confusion pinched her brow.

  Maybe he had 20/20 peripheral vision, because he continued as if she'd spoken her confusion. "There's only one bed."

  Oh.

  Did it bother him to think about lying in the same bed with her? Heat crept into her cheeks. She turned her face to the side.

  "We shared a bed for years," she said. Was that her voice? Husky and soft? "It doesn't bother me."

  He was silent and motionless for a moment that stretched long. The longer it stretched, the more she wondered if he was finally going to say all the things that were broken between them.

 

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