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loneliness and obscurity. She remembered every tale Leona had told about the Two Kingdoms. Perched on the spine of the Pyrenees, Baminia and Serephinia had once upon a time been united. A foolish quarrel had split them, and although never had there been actual combat across their shared border, the peoples cordially despised each other. According to the prophecy of Santa Leopolda, Prince Danior and Princess Ethelinda were fated to bring their countries together again, but for some reason—Evangeline looked at Danior and thought she knew why—the real princess had written a letter denouncing her heritage.
    And here, conveniently, stood Evangeline, who spoke the Baminian language and knew their customs and history. She could fool everyone into thinking she was the princess, and no one would ever know the truth.
    She stood on the brink of the greatest adventure of her life. The adventure she’d always dreamed of.
    She opened her mouth to say, “Yes, I will marry you.”
    Instead, what came out was, “I am Evangeline Scoffield of Cornwall. I’m a commoner, an orphan, and I’m going to go back to England and open a bookstore.”
    The substance of adventure, when compared to the dream, contained just a little too much gritty reality for plain Evangeline Scoffield.
    Yet adventure clutched her by the hand, and its name was Danior. His grip tightened, and deliberately, he lifted his head and looked into her eyes.
    Determination. The man vibrated with determination. “I will marry you,” he said, “if I have to cross all of Hell’s rivers to do it.”
    â€œMight be necessary.” Behind her, she groped for the ceramic handle, and she heaved the pitcher in a wide circle. Water sloshed as she tried to crack Danior in the head, but he buried his face in her ribs. When the weight of the swinging pitcher threw her off balance, he caught her midsection under his shoulder and stood with her.
    With grim satisfaction, he said, “You are a very predictable woman, Ethelinda.” And he tossed her on the bed.
    The pitcher clattered to the floor as she brought her hands up, but nothing could hold off the full weight of his descent. It was like having a log fall on her, and despite what he said, there was nothing noticeably noble about this log.
    â€œI said I would wed you.”
    She tried to adjust so she could get her hands out from beneath him.
    Effectively, he moved to crush her deeper into the feather mattress. “I want you to remember, this isn’t my chosen method of courtship.”
    â€œI didn’t think you were courting me . . . her. I thought you were telling.” She squirmed. “I can’t breathe.”
    He didn’t reply. He just moved against her, securing her with his weight and his hands. And she really couldn’t breathe.
    It was like before. Like at the orphanage, when she had stood up to the headmistress and her cohorts. Charitable women, they called themselves, who ran a “school.” Hags, Evangeline had said; bullies who slapped the younger girls if they wet the bed or cried out with a nightmare.
    That was where she had learned that courage would be punished, and dreams never came true. How had she forgotten that lesson?
    It was dark beneath him, and the feather mattress extended around the sides of her. She was suffocating, and she gasped and strained, shaking with fear. “Danior. Please.”
    Abruptly she was released. She lay gasping, sucking in the air that had seemed too thin, and staring at Danior’s scowl. He hovered as if waiting for a trick, and when she didn’t move, he said, “Interesting. Did they lock you in the closet in that school you attended?”
    â€œSometimes.” Realizing he wasn’t going to attack again, she sighed and relaxed.
    His fingers slid along the jut of her jaw, lifting it to its former defiant position. “We didn’t pay them to do that.”
    â€œ You