Her Royal Highness (Royals #2) - Rachel Hawkins Page 0,38

nearly got me in a bar fight.”

Rolling her eyes, Flora throws the shirt in her pile of things to pack. “Hardly a bar fight. Barely even a scuffle, really. You’re exaggerating. And anyway, a thank-you would not go amiss here.”

“A thank-you for . . .”

Flora looks up at me, lips pursed. “For defending your honor against that wanker? He kept asking you to dance after you’d said no. Completely inappropriate.”

“Except that you were looking for some excuse to throw your brother and his friends into a fight so the school would kick you out.”

“Wanting to get kicked out and helping you are not mutually exclusive,” she replies with the arrogance that hundreds of years of royal breeding can give a person.

I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head a little. “You are such a piece of work.” Then I pick up another bag of tent stakes and toss it to her. “Put this with tent thirteen, please.”

She does, making a fairly neat stack of things before gesturing for me to hand her another waterproof bag.

I do before saying, “Today wasn’t another attempt at getting kicked out, was it?”

Flora doesn’t look up, studiously stuffing a compass, first aid kit, and pair of hand warmers into the bag. “Course it wasn’t. You heard Mummy. I can’t get expelled, and if I try again, I lose royal privileges for a thousand years.”

“I think it was four years, but yeah.”

“So,” Flora says, looking up at me with a bright smile, “you can rest assured my days of attempting to get expelled are firmly behind me.”

I nod, but there’s something about that smile—and the way it curls up when she thinks I’m not looking—that worries me.

In today’s ROYALS: THEY’RE JUST LIKE US EXCEPT NOT AT ALL news, have you guys read up on this “Challenge” thing they do out at that scary boarding school Flora goes to? It’s like Outward Bound, I guess, but they basically dump a bunch of posh kids in the middle of the Highlands and make them camp for two nights to, like, Commune with Nature and learn skills? Which seems stupid to me since it’s not like these people are ever going to actually be in the wilds of anywhere except Hyde Park, but whatever, rich people, DO YOUR THING.

Mostly, I’m just going to be warmed from the inside at the thought of Princess Flora having to camp for forty-eight whole hours. WHAT IF HER HAIR GOES UNSHINY??? THE HORROR!!!!

(“What the Whaaaaaaat?” from Crown Town)

CHAPTER 17

The morning the Challenge starts is actually sunny.

Okay, “sunny” might be too generous a term, but it’s not raining, and the clouds aren’t that thick, so as far as I’m concerned, it’s sunny. Scotland Sunny.

And to tell the truth, I’m kind of excited. Okay, maybe a lot excited.

Yes, having to do this with Flora is less than ideal, but finally getting out into Scotland? Real Scotland? Not even the prospect of two days alone with Flora can kill my buzz for that.

Although, as we stand in front of the school waiting to get going, she’s certainly doing her best.

“This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever had to do,” she mutters against the lip of a Styrofoam cup of tea. It steams in the cold morning air, fogging up her giant sunglasses. From the neck up, she’s typical Flora—those sunglasses are Chanel, and her hair has been pulled into a high ponytail, but the ends are curled, and she’s wearing makeup.

From the neck down, she’s as hideous as the rest of us are. We’ve got these khaki pants and long-sleeved T-shirts covered with a heavy vest, our standard-issue Gregorstoun raincoats on top. There are a few more layers in our bags, but mostly, we all look like slightly bedraggled zookeepers.

Still, this is the best outfit for what we’re doing, even if not everything fits great. The school didn’t have Challenge uniforms for girls, after all, so we’re all making do with hand-me-downs except for the boots. I brought my best pair from home, and I wiggle my toes in them now.

“The stupidest thing?” I ask Flora now. “I find that hard to believe.”

I wait for the smart-ass remark, but instead, Flora just shrugs and says, “Fair point.”

Narrowing my eyes at her, I shift my pack on my shoulders. “Are you sick?” I ask. “Or just freaked out about camping?”

“Neither, Quint,” she replies, tossing out the rest of her tea on the gravel. It splashes a group of girls standing nearby. They give startled squawks