From Amazon
Setting: Europe, 1805
Sensuality: 8
Sensuality: 8
Imperious and beautiful, Princess Serafina has loved Darius Santiago, the king's most trusted warrior, since she was a child. But Darius was plucked from the gutter by the king to be trained as a spy, and although he loves Serafina beyond reason, he conceals his heart for he believes his background forbids a union between them. When Serafina is betrothed to a ruthless Russian aristocrat in a bargain that gains her tiny island kingdom protection from Bonaparte's armies, Darius intervenes to save her. His actions set in motion a sequence of events that will challenge the strength of their love and threaten their lives as well as the survival of the kingdom.
This energetic plot has the hero and heroine poised on the razor's edge of physical danger at the same time they're struggling to trust each other with the deepest secrets of their hearts. The supporting cast of secondary characters is excellent, especially the members of the heroine's family. Their normalcy provides a stark contrast to the hero, whose childhood of neglect and abuse has left scars and built emotional walls that only the heroine's love may heal. The delightful tales of Ascencion's royal family, first begun with The Pirate Prince, will continue with Foley's next novel, Prince Charming, the story of Serafina's brother, Prince Rafael di Fiore. --Lois Faye Dyer
Review
"There is star quality in this writer! Gaelen Foley . . . is destined to captivate readers."
--Romantic Times
--Romantic Times
Book Description
Dear Reader,
I'm so proud to introduce Gaelen Foley, a captivating new writer who will sweep you away with this unforgettable story of forbidden love and wondrous destiny.
Darius Santiago is the King's most trusted man, a master spy and assassin. He is handsome, charming, ruthless, and he has one weakness--the stunning Princess Serafina. She is all he has ever wanted and everything he cannot have. Serafina has worshipped Darius from afar her whole life, knowing that deep in the reaches of her soul, where she is not royalty but a flesh and blood woman, she belongs to this dangerous, untouchable man. Unable to suppress their desire any longer, they are swept into a daring dance of passion destined to consume them both until a deadly enemy threatens to destroy their new love.
PRINCESS is historical romance at its best--full of adventure, intrigue, and pageantry--from an amazingly talented new author whose storytelling career is just beginning. . . .
Enjoy!
Shauna Summers
Senior Editor
The Ballantine Publishing Group
I'm so proud to introduce Gaelen Foley, a captivating new writer who will sweep you away with this unforgettable story of forbidden love and wondrous destiny.
Darius Santiago is the King's most trusted man, a master spy and assassin. He is handsome, charming, ruthless, and he has one weakness--the stunning Princess Serafina. She is all he has ever wanted and everything he cannot have. Serafina has worshipped Darius from afar her whole life, knowing that deep in the reaches of her soul, where she is not royalty but a flesh and blood woman, she belongs to this dangerous, untouchable man. Unable to suppress their desire any longer, they are swept into a daring dance of passion destined to consume them both until a deadly enemy threatens to destroy their new love.
PRINCESS is historical romance at its best--full of adventure, intrigue, and pageantry--from an amazingly talented new author whose storytelling career is just beginning. . . .
Enjoy!
Shauna Summers
Senior Editor
The Ballantine Publishing Group
From the Back Cover
"There is star quality in this writer! Gaelen Foley . . . is destined to captivate readers."
--Romantic Times
--Romantic Times
About the Author
Gaelen Foley was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She holds a degree in literature and a minor in philosophy. She lives with her new husband, Eric, and two spoiled bichon frises, and is hard at work on her next novel.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
May 1805
The sound of her rapid, shallow panting filled the narrow space between the box-hedge walls of the garden maze. The hedges towered over her, closing in on her, and the pounding of her pulse was so loud in her head she knew they would hear. She inched down the narrow lane, her bare toes creeping silently over the cool, lush grass, her chest heaving. Constantly she looked over her shoulder. Her whole body was shaking, her hand bleeding, maybe broken from punching Philippe in his smug, sneering face with the sharp edge of her huge diamond ring. But at least she had managed to throw herself out of his iron grasp and had torn into the maze, where she thought she could evade them. She dared not call out for help because only the three men would hear.
No one else was outside on such a night, when the breeze spattered rain from a sky deepest indigo smeared with gold clouds. The cicadas roared in waves, while the wind, as it rose and fell, brought fragments of a tinkling minuet spilling out over the vast gardens and the royal park from the ball in progress--her engagement party. Her fiancé had been unable to attend.
She jerked her face wildly to the left, hearing movement on the other side of the dense hedge.
He was right there. The acid taste of the wine she'd drunk rose in the back of her throat.
She could see the shape of him, tall, bedecked in his finery. She could see the shape of the pistol in his hand and knew her pale silk gown was sure to be visible through the branches. She crouched down and moved silently away.
"Don't be afraid, Your Highness," came Henri's mellifluous voice from several rows away. "We're not going to hurt you. Come out now. There's nothing you can do."
They had split up so they could surround her. She choked back a sob, clawing to keep hold of her fragile control as she tried to decide which way to go. She had run around in this maze since she was a little girl, but she was so frightened she had lost all sense of direction.
She heard the lulling splash of the fountain in the tiny center courtyard of the maze and used the sound to try to orient herself. Clenching her fist so tightly her nails dug into her palm, she huddled against the bush, edging inch by inch down the lane. At the end, she pressed her back flat against the scratchy bushes, too scared to turn the corner. She waited, shaking, praying, trying to gather her nerve, her stomach in knots.
She didn't know what they wanted.
She had been propositioned many times by the gilded, predatory courtiers of the palace, but no one had ever attempted to haul her away before. No one had ever used guns.
God, please.
She would have cried, but she was too terrified. The breeze rose again. She smelled cut grass, jasmine, man.
They're coming.
"Your Highness, you have nothing to fear. We are your friends."
She bolted, her long, black hair streaming out behind her. Thunder rumbled, the scent of a summer storm on the wind. At the end of the lane, she stopped, again too petrified to turn the corner, lest she find Philippe or the blond one, Henri, standing there waiting to catch her. She kept thinking how her ex-governess always said something like this would happen to her if she didn't mend her wild ways, stop acting so bold.
She vowed she would never be bold again. Never flirt. Never trust.
Her chest lifted and fell, lifted and fell.
They were coming. She knew she could not remain where she was for more than a few seconds longer.
I am trapped. There is no way out of this.
And then there came another voice, barely audible, a ghostly whisper.
"Princesa."
The single word seemed to rise from the earth, or to slip out of the very air.
She nearly sobbed aloud to hear it, wanting with all her heart to believe it was not her panicked brain playing tricks on her. Only one person called her by that name, the Spanish version of her proper Italian title, Principessa.
If ever she'd had need of him, it was now.
Beautiful, blackhearted Santiago.
He alone could have saved her from this nightmarish game, but he was far away on the king's business, intelligence-gathering and protecting the ambassador in Moscow, where the new alliance against Napoleon was being formed.
Darius Santiago was an insolent, arrogant heathen, of course, but he did not know the meaning of fear and she quite believed he could do anything. She had not seen him in nearly a year, but he was always lingering near the outskirts of her heart, with his arrogant smirk and his coal-black eyes, as though watching her from across the miles by some occult vision.
"I grow weary of this chase, ma belle," Henri warned. She saw movement through the rows, made out tousled blond curls. She saw the Frenchman stop and cock his head, listening.
Wide-eyed, both hands pressed to her mouth to silence her ragged panting, Serafina began backing away. At a tug on her hair, she almost screamed, whirling to find that one of her long black curls had merely snagged on the grasping bushes.
"Princesa."
She knew she heard it that time! But how could it be? She froze, her gaze darting wildly.
Could he know somehow that she was in danger? Could the bond between them still be so strong?
And then she realized she felt him there, felt his strange, silent power all around her in the night like the imminent storm.
"Make your way to the center courtyard," the dark, airy murmur instructed her.
"Oh, my God," she whispered, closing her eyes, almost sick with relief. He had come.
Of course he had come.
Even though he did not want her, even though he would never love her, she was of the royal blood and he was honor-bound to protect her.
Darius Santiago was the king's most trusted man, a master spy and assassin. His loyalty to her father was absolute. If ever there was dark work to be done protecting the kingdom and the royal family of the small Italian island kingdom Ascencion, Darius was there to shoulder it without complaint. His presence here now made her realize there was even more to Philippe's attempt to abduct her than she had guessed.
She lowered both hands from her mouth to her sides. Her chest still heaved with each breath, but she lifted her chin, awaiting Darius's instructions.
"Go to the courtyard, Your Highness. Hurry."
"Where are you?" she breathed, trembling. "Help me."
"I am near, but I cannot get to you."
"Please help me," she choked, stifling a sob.
"Shh," he whispered. "Go to the inner courtyard."
"I'm lost, Darius, I forget." Blinded now by the tears she had been staving off since Philippe had first seized her, she stared through the dense green lace of the hedge trying to see him.
"Stay calm, be brave," he softly instructed. "Two right turns. You're very close. I'll meet you there."
"A-all right," she choked out.
"Go now." His whisper faded away.
For a moment, Serafina could not seem to move. Then she pierced the cold fog of fear, forcing herself. She set out for the tiny, brick-laid courtyard, legs shaking beneath her, her scraped knee still burning from before, when she had slipped on the grass. The mist-hued gown of gossamer silk she had been so delighted to wear now had a tear at the knee. Each movement was torturous with her effort to be silent, slowed by her tremors of fear, but she painstakingly followed the lullaby of the fountain splashing in its carved stone basin.
With every inch gained, her mind chanted his name as if she could conjure him, Darius, Darius, Darius. She came to the first corner.
Steeled herself. Peeked around.
Safe.
She moved on, gathering confidence. Images flashed through her mind of Darius watching over her all through her childhood, calming her with a look, her stern, beloved knight who would always protect her. But when she had finally grown up, nothing had gone according to plan.
Darius, don't let them get me.
Ahead she saw she'd have to slip past a break in the left wall of the lane where it intersected another path. She prayed her pursuers weren't down there to see her pass. At the break in the hedge, she hesitated, her courage faltering.
A bead of perspiration ran down her cheek.
Let them put that in the newspapers, she thought madly, brushing it away with the back of her hand. Shocking news--the Princess Royal sweats!
She shut her eyes briefly and said a prayer, then darted past, stealing a fleeting glance down the lane as she went. Some twenty feet away, Philippe's thuggish driver lay sprawled on his face, unmoving. A length of wire glinted in the moonlight. He had been garroted, she realized, sickened. Darius had passed this way.
She marched on with stiff, jerky strides while cold horror spiraled down to her belly. The cicadas' song stretched to one flat, vibrating note she thought would snap her nerves. When she reached the end of the lane, she grimaced, fighting a silent, mighty battle for the courage to look around the corner. She forced herself.
Clear!
The entrance to the courtyard was in sight at the far end of the corridor. She was almost there. All she had to do was pass yet another gap in the bushes halfway down the lane.
She turned the corner and ran for it.
Her breath raked over her teeth, her bare feet bore her swiftly over the silken grass. The break was coming, while straight ahead lay the entrance to the courtyard. The sky flung a handful of rain on the breeze into her face. Clouds covered the gold half-moon.
"Get back here, you little bitch!" a deep voice roared.
She shrieked and looked over her shoulder as Philippe tore around the corner behind her.
As she passed the gap, running full force, Henri exploded out of the intersectin...
The sound of her rapid, shallow panting filled the narrow space between the box-hedge walls of the garden maze. The hedges towered over her, closing in on her, and the pounding of her pulse was so loud in her head she knew they would hear. She inched down the narrow lane, her bare toes creeping silently over the cool, lush grass, her chest heaving. Constantly she looked over her shoulder. Her whole body was shaking, her hand bleeding, maybe broken from punching Philippe in his smug, sneering face with the sharp edge of her huge diamond ring. But at least she had managed to throw herself out of his iron grasp and had torn into the maze, where she thought she could evade them. She dared not call out for help because only the three men would hear.
No one else was outside on such a night, when the breeze spattered rain from a sky deepest indigo smeared with gold clouds. The cicadas roared in waves, while the wind, as it rose and fell, brought fragments of a tinkling minuet spilling out over the vast gardens and the royal park from the ball in progress--her engagement party. Her fiancé had been unable to attend.
She jerked her face wildly to the left, hearing movement on the other side of the dense hedge.
He was right there. The acid taste of the wine she'd drunk rose in the back of her throat.
She could see the shape of him, tall, bedecked in his finery. She could see the shape of the pistol in his hand and knew her pale silk gown was sure to be visible through the branches. She crouched down and moved silently away.
"Don't be afraid, Your Highness," came Henri's mellifluous voice from several rows away. "We're not going to hurt you. Come out now. There's nothing you can do."
They had split up so they could surround her. She choked back a sob, clawing to keep hold of her fragile control as she tried to decide which way to go. She had run around in this maze since she was a little girl, but she was so frightened she had lost all sense of direction.
She heard the lulling splash of the fountain in the tiny center courtyard of the maze and used the sound to try to orient herself. Clenching her fist so tightly her nails dug into her palm, she huddled against the bush, edging inch by inch down the lane. At the end, she pressed her back flat against the scratchy bushes, too scared to turn the corner. She waited, shaking, praying, trying to gather her nerve, her stomach in knots.
She didn't know what they wanted.
She had been propositioned many times by the gilded, predatory courtiers of the palace, but no one had ever attempted to haul her away before. No one had ever used guns.
God, please.
She would have cried, but she was too terrified. The breeze rose again. She smelled cut grass, jasmine, man.
They're coming.
"Your Highness, you have nothing to fear. We are your friends."
She bolted, her long, black hair streaming out behind her. Thunder rumbled, the scent of a summer storm on the wind. At the end of the lane, she stopped, again too petrified to turn the corner, lest she find Philippe or the blond one, Henri, standing there waiting to catch her. She kept thinking how her ex-governess always said something like this would happen to her if she didn't mend her wild ways, stop acting so bold.
She vowed she would never be bold again. Never flirt. Never trust.
Her chest lifted and fell, lifted and fell.
They were coming. She knew she could not remain where she was for more than a few seconds longer.
I am trapped. There is no way out of this.
And then there came another voice, barely audible, a ghostly whisper.
"Princesa."
The single word seemed to rise from the earth, or to slip out of the very air.
She nearly sobbed aloud to hear it, wanting with all her heart to believe it was not her panicked brain playing tricks on her. Only one person called her by that name, the Spanish version of her proper Italian title, Principessa.
If ever she'd had need of him, it was now.
Beautiful, blackhearted Santiago.
He alone could have saved her from this nightmarish game, but he was far away on the king's business, intelligence-gathering and protecting the ambassador in Moscow, where the new alliance against Napoleon was being formed.
Darius Santiago was an insolent, arrogant heathen, of course, but he did not know the meaning of fear and she quite believed he could do anything. She had not seen him in nearly a year, but he was always lingering near the outskirts of her heart, with his arrogant smirk and his coal-black eyes, as though watching her from across the miles by some occult vision.
"I grow weary of this chase, ma belle," Henri warned. She saw movement through the rows, made out tousled blond curls. She saw the Frenchman stop and cock his head, listening.
Wide-eyed, both hands pressed to her mouth to silence her ragged panting, Serafina began backing away. At a tug on her hair, she almost screamed, whirling to find that one of her long black curls had merely snagged on the grasping bushes.
"Princesa."
She knew she heard it that time! But how could it be? She froze, her gaze darting wildly.
Could he know somehow that she was in danger? Could the bond between them still be so strong?
And then she realized she felt him there, felt his strange, silent power all around her in the night like the imminent storm.
"Make your way to the center courtyard," the dark, airy murmur instructed her.
"Oh, my God," she whispered, closing her eyes, almost sick with relief. He had come.
Of course he had come.
Even though he did not want her, even though he would never love her, she was of the royal blood and he was honor-bound to protect her.
Darius Santiago was the king's most trusted man, a master spy and assassin. His loyalty to her father was absolute. If ever there was dark work to be done protecting the kingdom and the royal family of the small Italian island kingdom Ascencion, Darius was there to shoulder it without complaint. His presence here now made her realize there was even more to Philippe's attempt to abduct her than she had guessed.
She lowered both hands from her mouth to her sides. Her chest still heaved with each breath, but she lifted her chin, awaiting Darius's instructions.
"Go to the courtyard, Your Highness. Hurry."
"Where are you?" she breathed, trembling. "Help me."
"I am near, but I cannot get to you."
"Please help me," she choked, stifling a sob.
"Shh," he whispered. "Go to the inner courtyard."
"I'm lost, Darius, I forget." Blinded now by the tears she had been staving off since Philippe had first seized her, she stared through the dense green lace of the hedge trying to see him.
"Stay calm, be brave," he softly instructed. "Two right turns. You're very close. I'll meet you there."
"A-all right," she choked out.
"Go now." His whisper faded away.
For a moment, Serafina could not seem to move. Then she pierced the cold fog of fear, forcing herself. She set out for the tiny, brick-laid courtyard, legs shaking beneath her, her scraped knee still burning from before, when she had slipped on the grass. The mist-hued gown of gossamer silk she had been so delighted to wear now had a tear at the knee. Each movement was torturous with her effort to be silent, slowed by her tremors of fear, but she painstakingly followed the lullaby of the fountain splashing in its carved stone basin.
With every inch gained, her mind chanted his name as if she could conjure him, Darius, Darius, Darius. She came to the first corner.
Steeled herself. Peeked around.
Safe.
She moved on, gathering confidence. Images flashed through her mind of Darius watching over her all through her childhood, calming her with a look, her stern, beloved knight who would always protect her. But when she had finally grown up, nothing had gone according to plan.
Darius, don't let them get me.
Ahead she saw she'd have to slip past a break in the left wall of the lane where it intersected another path. She prayed her pursuers weren't down there to see her pass. At the break in the hedge, she hesitated, her courage faltering.
A bead of perspiration ran down her cheek.
Let them put that in the newspapers, she thought madly, brushing it away with the back of her hand. Shocking news--the Princess Royal sweats!
She shut her eyes briefly and said a prayer, then darted past, stealing a fleeting glance down the lane as she went. Some twenty feet away, Philippe's thuggish driver lay sprawled on his face, unmoving. A length of wire glinted in the moonlight. He had been garroted, she realized, sickened. Darius had passed this way.
She marched on with stiff, jerky strides while cold horror spiraled down to her belly. The cicadas' song stretched to one flat, vibrating note she thought would snap her nerves. When she reached the end of the lane, she grimaced, fighting a silent, mighty battle for the courage to look around the corner. She forced herself.
Clear!
The entrance to the courtyard was in sight at the far end of the corridor. She was almost there. All she had to do was pass yet another gap in the bushes halfway down the lane.
She turned the corner and ran for it.
Her breath raked over her teeth, her bare feet bore her swiftly over the silken grass. The break was coming, while straight ahead lay the entrance to the courtyard. The sky flung a handful of rain on the breeze into her face. Clouds covered the gold half-moon.
"Get back here, you little bitch!" a deep voice roared.
She shrieked and looked over her shoulder as Philippe tore around the corner behind her.
As she passed the gap, running full force, Henri exploded out of the intersectin...
