Royal Weddings: The Reluctant Princess / Princess Dottie / The Royal MacAllister. Lucy Gordon

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      But he hated to do it. She looked so sweet and peaceful, lying there.

      With some regret, he went for the duffel bag he’d left behind the chair across the room. From it, he took lengths of soft, strong rope and a kerchief-sized gag.

      Carefully, he turned the princess on her side, so she was facing the wall.

      He was good with knots. It took only a few minutes to bind her wrists behind her, to tie her knees together, and her slim ankles, as well. He ran an extra length of rope down her back, connecting the ropes at wrist and ankle, bending her knees slightly, drawing her feet up and back.

      Perhaps the final rope, which would gradually pull tighter with resistance, was overkill. But he couldn’t afford to take any chances. She would be angry when she woke and ready for a fight, ready to do anything in her power to escape. It was his job to see that she had no power. He tied the gag firmly in place, taking care to smooth the softly curling wheat-colored hair out of her face so none of the strands were caught in her eyes or her mouth.

      The binding accomplished, he stood back from her again.

      It was not for him to wonder—and yet, he did wonder. If his liege wanted this woman effectively coaxed, why in the name of the frozen towers of Hel had he sent a soldier to do it?

      The soles of her feet, turned out to him because of his perhaps too-cautious binding, seemed to reproach him. He bent, gently scooped her up and turned her so that she was facing the room again. Bound was bound and she wouldn’t like it, but at least in her current position, when she woke, she could see what went on around her.

      He noted a flicker of movement in his side vision, tensed, and then relaxed again. It was only those two cats he’d spotted earlier, when he’d entered the apartment. One was big and white, the other sleek and black. They were sitting side by side beneath the table in the kitchen area, watching him.

      “Freyja’s eyes,” he muttered, and then smiled to himself. The oath was fitting. Freyja was the goddess of love and war. Her chariot was drawn by cats.

      Hauk had more to accomplish before the darkness fell. He turned for the room where the princess slept.

      Elli groaned and opened her eyes. She was lying on her side on her own couch, a rumbling ball of white fur in front of her face and a pillow cradling her head.

      And speaking of her head—it ached. Her stomach felt queasy and her mouth…

      She had a gag in her mouth! The gag was firmly tied and held her mouth open, so that her lips pressed back hard over her teeth. Her jaw hurt and her throat was dry and scratchy, the gag itself soggy with saliva.

      And that wasn’t all. Her arms and legs were tied, too.

      “Rrreow?” The sound came from the white ball of purring fur in front of her face. Doodles put his damp kitty nose to her cheek and asked again, “Rreow?” Then he jumped to the carpet and trotted off toward the kitchen, fat white tail held high, no doubt hoping she would take the hint and get out there and dish up his dinner.

      Elli groaned and yanked at the ropes that bound her. It didn’t help. If anything, her struggling seemed to pull them tighter.

      “It is best not to struggle, Your Highness,” said a deep, calm voice from across the room. It was him—the Viking. He sat in the easy chair opposite her. With Doodles in the way, she hadn’t seen him at first.

      “Struggling only pulls the long rope tighter.” His kindly tone made her yearn for something long and sharp to drive straight into his heart.

      One of her suitcases waited upright beside his chair. Evidently, he’d done her packing for her.

      “We’ll be on our way soon, Princess. We’re only waiting for darkness.”

      Waiting for darkness…

      Well, of course they were waiting for darkness. Dragging a bound-and-gagged woman down a flight of stairs and out to a waiting vehicle wasn’t something he’d be likely to get away with in the bright light of day.

      He was silent, watching her, his expression implacable. She watched him right back, fury curling through her, banishing the thickheaded grogginess left over from the drug he’d used on her.

      As a rule, Elli was good-natured and easygoing, not as ambitious as her older sister, Liv, not as brave and adventurous as Brit, the baby. Elli had always thought of herself as the ordinary one of the three of them, the one who wanted meaningful work that didn’t eat up her life, a nice home to fill with love and, eventually, a good man to go through life beside her. They used to joke among themselves that Liv would run the world and Brit would thoroughly explore it. It would be up to Elli to settle down, get married and provide the world with the next generation.

      Right now, though, looking at the man in the chair across from her, Elli didn’t feel especially reasonable or easygoing or good-natured. She felt angry.

      No. Anger was too mild a word. She felt a burning, growing rage.

      How dare he? What gave him the right—to break into her home, to give her orders, to knock her out, to tie her up?

      Her father?

      So the Viking said.

      And what gave her father the right? Her father had no rights when it came to her. He’d given them up twenty-plus years ago.

      And even if her father still had some claim on her, no claim in the world made kidnapping acceptable. This was an outrage, a crime against basic human decency.

      Elli wanted the ropes untied and the gag removed. And she wanted—had a right—to be untied now. She grunted and squirmed in her rage and fury.

      And as her Viking captor had promised, the rope that bound her wrists to her ankles pulled tighter, until her heels met her hands and her body bowed outward beyond the outer edge of the couch cushions. Her right thigh cramped up. It was excruciatingly painful.

      She let out a small, anguished moan and lay still, forcing herself to breathe slowly and deeply, to relax as best she could with her heels yanked up and pressed against her palms. Sweat broke out on her brow. She shut her eyes, concentrated on pulling her breath in and sending it out, willing the cramp in her thigh to let go.

      The pain seemed to ease a little. She opened her eyes to find the Viking standing over her. She let out a muffled shriek as she saw the jet-black knife handle.

      With an evil snicking sound, the slim, deadly blade sprang out. The Viking bent close—and cut the rope that held her hands and ankles together.

      The relief was a fine and shining thing. She straightened her legs, the cramp in her thigh subsiding completely. And then, though she knew it was foolish in the extreme, she flung out her bound feet and tried to kick him.

      He simply stepped to the side, collapsing the knife and kneeling in a smooth, swift motion to stow it in his boot. Then he stood to his height again.

      “I am sorry to have bound you, Princess.” He actually managed to sound regretful. “But your father’s instructions are to bring you to him, whether you are willing or not. I can’t have you trying to run away all the time—or shouting for help.”

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