The Prince's Bargain - K.M. Shea Page 0,3

the older man edged past him.

Another quick glance and it looked like the coast was clear. All that was left was to—no.

He froze in place when he spotted the three beautiful young ladies watching him with the intensity of snow cats. When they saw him looking in their direction, the trio curtsied and started to weave through the crowd.

No, no, no! Not again!

Arvel knew those ladies—not because they were friends or even acquaintances, but because they were titled, wealthy, noble ladies that his mother had tried pushing him at for the past three royal socials. But hidden beneath the girls’ perfect hair and beautiful dresses was a ruthless streak that had them aiming for him even though he wasn’t interested.

So, he fled.

It wasn’t glorious. But faced with the oncoming storm, it was the only survival technique that came to mind. And determined ladies, Arvel had learned, were the most dangerous sort of enemy there was.

Arvel darted through the open door and blinked rapidly in the dimly lit hallway, where only the occasional torch in a stand bolted to the wall sputtered in the breezy corridor. He inhaled the fresh air and wiped his brow off.

“Your Highness?”

Arvel lunged into a fast march that was just short of an actual run. “I need to shake them off my trail,” he muttered to himself.

He turned up a random hallway, trying to find an even more shadowy stretch where flickering light wouldn’t reveal him. He found his sanctuary in one of the long hallways that wound around the Celebration Hall.

This particular one was cluttered with suits of armor. Most of them were human forged, but Benjimir and Gwendafyn—his older brother and sister-in-law—had brought back a few High Elf armor sets on their last visit to Gwendafyn’s home country and the dwelling place of the Lesser Elves, which was so originally named Lessa. Those armor sets were displayed in prominent spots that had been cleared to properly showcase the ancient and beautiful work of the long-gone High Elves.

Arvel dove behind the massive marble block one of those stately sets of armor was displayed on. He pulled his long limbs close, making sure he was adequately hidden by the block.

Just as he adjusted one of the daggers that hung from his belt, the quiet tap of shoes on stone told him his feminine pursuers had entered the hallway.

“Are you certain he went this way?” one of the young ladies asked.

“Yes!” another said, her voice lined with irritation. “That strawberry blond hair of his nearly glows in the dark.”

“He made a run for it then,” the third young lady concluded. “As expected.”

“No, not as expected,” the irritated lady said. “How dare he treat us so shabbily?”

“It’s hardly surprising,” the third girl continued, her voice growing louder as they neared the armor Arvel hid behind. “He’s been running from other girls for months. I heard this past winter he crossed a frozen pond to escape Lady Regeenia.”

“He’s either addled, or a coward,” declared the irritated girl. “Neither bode well for the future of Calnor.”

Arvel grimaced at the callous observation, but he couldn’t outright deny it. He fled from the marriage candidates his mother insisted on presenting as if he was running for his life. And indeed, he might be. His mother would never suggest someone who might actually like Arvel; only ones she could manipulate, or who would serve some purpose for her.

“Perhaps, but the title of crown prince has passed to him,” the first lady timidly said—she was obviously the type Arvel’s mother, Queen Luciee, knew she could boss around.

“It’s a shame Benjimir fell out of favor,” the third lady sighed. “He’s more handsome.”

“And married,” the first girl said. “To a princess of the Lesser Elves.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the irritated girl declared, her voice fading as they continued down the hallway. “Arvel is the heir. Eventually he’ll have to pick a bride despite his slippery ways.”

Arvel waited until their voices became muted hums before he stood, uncurling from his folded position.

They didn’t say anything I don’t already know. There’s not a female alive in my court who’d marry me for anything but political reasons.

Ruefully, he ran a hand through his hair.

There were several things he regretted about becoming crown prince of Calnor. His sudden popularity with all the single ladies of Calnor was just one of them.

He brushed his fingers against his belt and slightly rearranged his daggers both hidden and openly sheathed before he headed off in the opposite direction the girls had gone in. He