He nodded. “There had been a mock funeral. There was no pretense of it being otherwise. It was only a formality to put your memory to rest.”
“That’s—morbid!”
“It was a clear statement that all hope was gone that you would ever be recovered. But the investigation wasn’t over, it was renewed with vigor, in fact, as if you had only just been killed. Having lost all hope, your father finally wanted revenge. Understandable, if a bit late. But I was told that an effort was still being made to find out who had set this plot in motion.”
“You could have just taken me back. You could have let my father protect me. You should have, when I was still a child, before—”
“He didn’t protect you from me, Alana,” Poppie cut in sharply to remind her. “You were too easy to get to. I was not going to take that chance with a life I came to value more than my own.”
Just enough defensive umbrage was in his tone to give her pause. He sounded so sincere, yet how could she believe all this? Death plots, assassins, stolen babies. If this tale was true, didn’t he realize he’d waited too long to tell her? She was an adult. This was her home, not some foreign place that had no meaning for her. And she had no interest in knowing her real father, whom Poppie disparaged as incompetent and incapable of protecting her.
“Why did you wait this long to tell me all this?” she demanded.
“I couldn’t tell you sooner. I didn’t want you growing up knowing who you were, and thinking you were so important that you didn’t need to learn anything from others. I wouldn’t have told you now except—”
“Important? Who am I?”
“I told you, a Stindal.”
“That name means nothing to me,” she said in frustration. “Please be more specific.”
He tsked at her. “You know. Your studies were thorough. Your father is Frederick Stindal, the reigning monarch of Lubinia.”
After all the shocks she’d just absorbed, those words were a soothing balm because they proved none of this was real. She even began to laugh.
“This has all been a bad joke, hasn’t it? Are you testing my fortitude, my gullibility? Obviously I failed, royally—no pun intended. Good Lord, that’s a relief. You really had . . . me . . .”
Her words trailed off. Poppie wasn’t laughing with her, and his expression had turned more serious than she’d ever seen it. “This wasn’t an easy decision for me. I’ve been grappling with it for weeks. I always knew I would have to take you back someday to claim your birthright, but not until it was safe to do so. It infuriates me that it still isn’t safe! Yet I’ve had news that makes it imperative that we go back now.”
She leapt to her feet. “No! I won’t leave the life I love here, I won’t!”
“Alana, the old regime, the late king Ernest’s most fervent supporters, are trying to depose your father. They are using rebels to agitate the people to revolt, spreading lies that the king is ill and might soon die without a proper heir. It will come to war if—”
“Stop it!” she cried angrily, tears running down her cheeks. “I won’t listen to any more of this. How could you even ask that of me when you don’t care about that country any more than I do? How could you care? You’re an—an assassin! Oh, God!”
Chapter Five
SHE HAD RUN OUT of Poppie’s office and locked herself in her room. He had followed, but she was crying too hard to hear his entreaties to let him in, and eventually the pounding on her door stopped.
She just wanted to wake up, to once again have nothing to worry about other than Lord Adam Chapman and his intentions, and an introduction to society that seemed superfluous now, when she wanted to devote her life to teaching. . . .
The tears wouldn’t stop. She wasn’t waking up either. This nightmare was real.
Poppie had lied to her all her life. How could he possibly think she’d believe anything he said now, especially something so preposterous. A princess? He should have told her the truth, instead of a ridiculous tale like that. But she believed he was a killer. She tried to deny that, too. She tried so hard! But he wouldn’t tell her something that horrible unless it was true. Yet there had to be some other reason he wanted to take her back to Lubinia. It could be as simple as an old betrothal and her future husband was now demanding his bride. And Poppie must have changed his story midway when she’d revealed her contempt for their homeland, and her abhorrence to marrying anyone from it. But a princess? He should have known she wouldn’t believe that!
“Alana, open the door for me,” Annette called out. “I’ve brought your dinner.”
Alana stared hard at the door, then walked over to it and put her wet cheek against it. “Are you alone?”
“Certainly, why wouldn’t I be?”
Alana wiped her sleeve across her cheeks quickly and opened the door. She immediately moved away from it toward her bureau. She hadn’t put her pistol away yet. She took it out of her pocket now and dropped it into a drawer. So silly that Poppie insisted she carry it with her at all times, just because she knew how to use it.
Her pocket was still heavy. She’d forgotten about the carving Henry had given her—it seemed so long ago instead of just that afternoon. She set the soldier up on the bureau next to the figure of the young lady. Henry was so talented that the wooden female figure did actually look like her in one of her winter dresses minus a bonnet. Henry. Once more, tears filled her eyes. Would she ever see that dear child again? Or would Poppie forbid her to go to the orphanage now?
“You two had an argument?” Annette said from behind her as she slid a tray onto the low table next to the sofa. “I’ve never seen your uncle so distraught. It must have been very serious.”
Annette sounded worried. But Alana held her tongue. She wasn’t going to talk about those horrible revelations to anyone. Ever.
