A/N: Okay, so many of you have bravely followed me through my various crazy story ideas, from French farces to "The Mentalist" Old West style, to my recent ghost story. Please stay with me now as I jump on the fairy tale bandwagon. I love fairy tales, have always loved them, and then as an adult, I have loved historical romance. You can see the evolution there. But now, with fairy tales back en vogue, yet another crazy AU idea has captured my imagination, and here I am again, begging your indulgence. If I'm going to keep writing for "The Mentalist," I have to find ways to keep myself entertained so that hopefully, I can entertain you as readers.

I will try not to make this too over-the-top, and the challenge of course is to try to keep everyone in character, despite the different time and place. (Oh, and you have to imagine they have British accents, lol. Or not, I guess.) I'll be stealing from everything from the Brothers Grimm to Robin Hood, but mostly this is a romance, pure and simple, with a little magic thrown in along the way. Thanks for taking a chance again, and if you're a new reader, welcome. I hope you enjoy this.

Goldilocks and the Red Wizard

Prologue

Once upon a time, there lived a very handsome, golden-haired prince named Patrick. He loved magic and fortunetelling, and took great pleasure in showing off his skills to all the courtiers. He became so proficient, that he incited the jealousy of a certain wizard by the name of Red John, personal advisor to King Stiles.

A careless remark by the prince, belittling Red John's talents, was all it took to incite the wrath of the spiteful wizard. He demanded satisfaction or vowed revenge. In his arrogance, Prince Patrick refused to apologize.

Thus, with one flourish of Red John's hands, Prince Patrick's wife and young daughter fell lifeless to the castle's marble floor. Devastated, the prince rose from his throne to confront the wizard with his own magic. But alas, before he could raise a hand, Red John disappeared in a puff of smoke, his evil laughter echoing through the halls. He would never be heard from again.

At least, that's what everyone believed…

Chapter 1

Five years later…

"Do you think he will like me," asked Princess Grace to her brother Patrick.

The royal carriage rattled along the King's Highway through the countryside, the matching bays paying no mind to the verdant hills around them. The siblings were three days along in their journey of four, and both were exhausted, despite the nightly stops in the royal family's castles and manor houses along the way.

Prince Patrick sighed, reaching inside himself for patience. His sister had asked this at least twice a day since they'd left, and he was trying not to add any more pressure than the poor girl felt already. It must be hard to leave the only home she'd ever known to marry a man whom she'd never met. But Grace and Lord Craig been betrothed since her birth, and now it seemed their impending marriage would be the only way to avoid going to war.

"Of course. How could he not?" he replied. "You're beautiful, Grace. If Lord Craig doesn't fall instantly in love with you, I'll…I'll eat my purse." And he drew out his small, velvet draw-string bag, heavy with coins, and pretended to stuff it in his mouth before drawing his hand away with a flourish to show that it had disappeared.

Grace laughed at his trick, as he'd intended. He rarely did magic anymore since Angela and Charlotte's deaths; he'd once told Grace it was too painful a reminder. She knew then he must be trying very hard to cheer her, and so grew instantly contrite.

"I'm sorry I'm being such a worry wart. I want to do what's right for our people, and if I do not please Lord Craig…"

"Don't borrow trouble, Grace," he said softly. "Now try to get some rest, my dear. We won't reach Castle Hartshorne until long after dark."

Grace obediently closed her eyes and leaned her bright red head more comfortably into the overstuffed seat. He watched her fondly a moment before turning his face toward the setting sun whose last rays shone in through the window. The carriage was winding its way now through a dense forest, the rolling hills having given way to tall hardwood trees with wispy green ferns covering the ground. Here and there purple and white flowers dotted the forest floor. Despite his best efforts to stay awake, the sway of the coach began to lull him to sleep, and so it was that Patrick was terribly startled when they suddenly lurched to a hard stop, nearly throwing him and his sister into the floorboards.

"What the devil was that?" he cursed, going to the window and squinting now into the darkness. He rapped on the ceiling.

"What's happened," he called to the coachman. "Why have we stopped?"

There was no answer, and Patrick heard the faint sound of a scuffle, then the distinct clamor of someone falling from the perch of the coach and landing with a thud.

"What was that?" Grace cried, instinctively pulling her ermine lined cloak more tightly around her. Patrick's hand went to the latch.

"Stay here," he cautioned. "Maybe we've hit something."

But he knew the moment he exited the coach and caught sight of the dancing lanterns that they were being waylaid by someone bent on doing them harm. He felt a cold chill run down his spine, fearful more for his sister than for himself. For once, he wished he carried a pistol, or at the very least, that his sword was inside the carriage instead of stored in its case on the back. He peered into the darkness and saw the vague outline of his coachman on the ground, and no sign of their accompanying outrider knight on horseback.

He should have listened to his father and brought an entire royal contingent of guards, for it had been five years since he'd been this far away from his home castle, and apparently the roads were not as safe as they used to be. When another sword poked lightly against his throat, he wished more than ever that he wasn't such a stubborn man. The figure accosting him was small, his entire body covered in black, including a dark hood that completely shrouded his features.

"Well, what have we here," he said in a low, gruff voice. "Looks like a fine peacock ready for the plucking."

Patrick knit his brows at her logic. "You eat peacocks?"

The tip of the thin sword dug more deeply into his neck. "Shut up," said the highwayman. "Now, you'll pardon me while I check your coat for valuables."

He felt a small hand reach out to pat him down, and it was in that instant Prince Patrick realized his highwayman was in fact a highway woman. He grinned.

"What are you smiling at, pretty boy?" she said, finding his purse and raising it triumphantly.

"Oh, nothing…sir."

Patrick sensed rather than saw her hesitation, but soon he was pushed so hard against the side of the carriage that it rocked roughly. Despite her slim shoulders, the lady was deceptively strong. With that, a tall, hooded man emerged from the darkness with his lantern. Another, much shorter man, similarly clothed, stepped into the light, his own lamp swinging.

The tall man held his light closer to the carriage.

"From the looks of the crest on the door, seems we've caught ourselves a pretty big fish." He bowed mockingly. "To whom are we speakin', your royalness?"

Patrick wondered why he wasn't afraid of this small band, even though his coachman still lay motionless nearby.

"I am Prince Patrick of Maliborough. And you are?" He rose to his full height, looking purposefully down his nose at them all, but humor sparked deep within his blue-green eyes.

"We are the ones asking the questions," said the woman, still affecting the gruff tone. "But look how pretty this one is," she continued to her cohorts. "He looks more like a Princess Jane than a Patrick, with all those lovely blonde curls and that lace at his gullet. It would be a shame to soil his beautiful white ruffles with blood." He felt the slight stick of the sword, felt a small, warm rivulet run down his neck and into his blouse.

"Oops," she said softly. Her men chuckled.

The amusement left Patrick's eyes, but his smile remained frozen on his lips. "You have my money, now let me go," he said tightly. He felt a sudden fear for what these men might do to his sister once they discovered her inside the coach, and he didn't want to trust his first instinct that this band of robbers was harmless.

"Sorry, Your Highness, but there are a few more ripe cherries yet to pluck from this tree."

She continued to hold her sword at his throat while his men shone their lights on the luggage strapped to the carriage.

"No way we can take those trunks with us, Boss," said the shorter man.

"May as well take the whole carriage," said the taller one.

Their leader seemed to consider this information a moment. Patrick waited, heart pounding, to hear his fate. Grace was being admirably silent, but he knew she must be terrified inside the coach.

"How much do you think a prince would fetch? Especially a beauty such as this one," she asked, and Patrick knew she was still staring at him, evaluating his worth. It was highly unsettling.

"Ransom?" asked the shorter in surprise.

"We've never done a kidnapping before," said the taller, and his voice sounded a bit reluctant.

The prince, on the other hand, was heartened at this suggestion. You couldn't get much from a dead prince and princess.

"I think that's a fine plan," he risked saying, then hissed a little as the sword point found its mark again.

"Shut up," she said in annoyance. But Prince Patrick was not used to being silenced.

"My father would pay anything you asked. As of now, I'm the sole heir…"

He could imagine her eyes lighting up with greed. He wondered vaguely what color those eyes were beneath that dark hood, then mentally shook himself. It wouldn't do to start having fantasies about one's captor.

"Bind and gag him," she said abruptly, "and put him back in the carriage. Make sure that gag is particularly tight," she said with a hint of amusement. Though he could not see her reaction, he gave her his most charming smile. Patrick might not have any magic dust or fireworks on his person, but he'd found that his face was sometimes his most effective weapon. It wasn't his imagination that she stood speechless a moment while her cronies brought forth some rope from their nearby horses.

They bound his hands tightly in front, and their leader produced from her pocket a rather un-masculine handkerchief, edged in fine lace and smelling of rose petals. He raised an amused eyebrow. Then the linen scrap was unceremoniously shoved in his mouth, and a length of scratchy hemp was wrapped around his lips to keep the gag in place. His nose was suffused with roses.

When the tall man opened the carriage door, Patrick held his breath, but he didn't shine the light too far inside, so Grace, hidden on the long bench seat with her legs drawn up, the lap blanket thrown over her, remained unseen. They shoved the prince inside and he stumbled, then found his place on the opposite bench.

"Now be a good boy, mind your manners, and you won't be hurt," said his kidnapper.

The prince listened closely to the sounds of horses being mounted, then the soft shaking of the carriage as someone climbed to the perch to take the reins. A few moments later, they were off at somewhat of a breakneck speed, given the darkness and the state of the road.

"Patrick?" whispered Grace from beneath the blanket. "Are you quite all right?"

With the gag in his mouth, he could only make a grunt, which he hoped she would interpret in the affirmative. Grace slid from beneath her covering and moved stealthily to his side. She gasped when she felt his bound hands and the rope wrapped round his face. As quickly as she could in the dark, she awkwardly loosened and pulled down the rope covering his mouth. He spit out the handkerchief.

"We must keep up the ruse that I am the only passenger," he said quietly. "You must try to stay hidden until you see our chance to make an escape."

"Where are they taking us?" she asked.

"I've no idea. They're highwaymen, Grace, so we are likely being transported to their secret lair. Did you hear they plan to ransom me?"

"Yes," she breathed. "But we are three days from home. That means nearly a week before we know Father's reply."

Patrick smirked. "You don't think he'll pay for me?"

"Not a penny," said Grace, for she knew how terribly angry the King was that Patrick had not remarried and gotten a wife with an heir, after destroying his chances because of his run-in with Red John.

Patrick chuckled softly. "Father values continuing the family line more than anything, and as long as there's still a chance, he'll save me. And then, of course, there's you, dear Sister, worth a price far above rubies…"

He could imagine her smile in the darkness, but then her voice grew serious. "You could use your magic to set us free."

"No," he said sternly. "I don't do that anymore." His tone softened. "You mustn't worry; Father will come through for us."

Her silence at that spoke volumes.

They rode the rest of the bumpy ride in relative silence, and as the carriage seemed to slow, he told Grace to put the gag back into his mouth.

"I shall have to remember this when we get back home," Grace said, a smile in her voice as she stuffed the handkerchief in his mouth and refastened the rope.

He gave a growl of mock outrage, and Grace returned to her seat and her camouflage.

The road became considerably more treacherous as they turned off the main highway, and Grace and Patrick were jounced around so much that they knew they'd be black and blue by morning. The prince strained to see through the windows and could just make out that they were entering some structure, likely a barn. The carriage came to a halt, and their new driver disembarked. Low voices reached his ears.

"We'll have to keep him here with the carriage," said the girl, no longer masking her voice. "Rigsby, see to the horses. Come daylight, we'll work out our plan for taking our demands to the King of Maliborough."

"What do we do with him tonight?" came the voice he recognized as that of the taller man whom she'd called Rigsby.

"Kimball, get Princess Jane out of the carriage and tie him to a post."

The door was unceremoniously opened, and a lantern lit the darkness.

"Out with you now," said the thief, Kimball. Prince Patrick disembarked and was ordered to sit against a beam in the hay, the smell of horses and manure tickling his nostrils. Kimball produced more rope, and tied the prince's waist to the post, rather too tightly, in Patrick's opinion.

"Take off his gag," the woman directed. "I might need a few more answers from the royal maw. Besides, no one will hear his cries for mercy way out here."

"I've nothing to say to cowardly thieves who hide their faces," Patrick said haughtily, once Rigsby removed his muzzle.

"Oh really? Haven't you had enough of my blade?" she asked, producing her weapon from her scabbard and advancing on him menacingly. The prince merely shrugged. He found suddenly that he missed the unaffected voice he'd heard from the carriage moments before, and thought perhaps it was time to call her out.

"I'm just saying that you can stop with the pretense…my lady…"

Rigsby and Kimball looked at each other, then at their liege for her reaction. Much to their surprise, she reached up a hand and removed her hood. The prince was caught completely off guard by the beauty that was revealed to him. Her raven hair was long and wavy, her eyes moss green and spirited. Dimples flashed in cheeks flushed with anger and something else he couldn't quite identify. His breath caught in his throat.

"How did you know?" she had to ask. And her voice was soft and smooth, despite her discomposure.

"Small hands," he said simply, able to meet her eyes at last. "And no male thief carries a scented handkerchief."

"See to the horses," she said to her men, using that as an excuse to cover her dismay at being discovered. They hesitated, not wanting to leave her alone with so perceptive a captive, but at her pointed look, they hopped to their work. Prince Patrick was impressed with the power this petite woman had over such hardy men, and found himself thoroughly intrigued by her. Their eyes met and clashed in unspoken challenge.

"Tell me, my lady, why does so beautiful and powerful a woman need to resort to theft and kidnapping?"

She regarded him a moment, and her emotions flashed so openly across her features that Patrick felt he was reading her mind. She seemed flattered by his compliments, but debated whether she should answer him or slit his throat and be done with it. He couldn't help grinning at her obvious quandary. His smile seemed to make up her mind, and her eyes narrowed with sudden resentment.

"It's because of men like you, Your Highness," she said disdainfully. "The princes of this world who disregard the needs of their people, who deprive and burn and kill whenever it suits them. Who sit in their palaces above while their people starve and die in the villages below. Someone has to protect and provide for them…by any means possible."

Her passionate speech touched him, and he realized he was looking at a lady of honor, despite the ropes that burned into his skin.

"I'm not one of those horrible princes you mention, my lady. I'm not even from this kingdom you strive to protect. You judge me unfairly and deprive me of my liberty. What makes you any different than the rulers you claim to disdain?"

He had her there, and she flushed now from slight abashment along with her anger. Yet, when she looked at this prince, she couldn't help seeing what the money for his carriage, his horses, even his fine clothing could do for her people. She rose to her full height, her arm straightening as she pointed her sword again.

"It matters not to me who you are or where you come from. All royalty are the same—it's in your very blood."

"If you release me, perhaps I can help you."

"Ha," she scoffed. "You would say anything to escape. No, Princess Jane, I'm afraid you'll have to learn what it is to suffer, for once in your spoiled existence."

A shadow crossed his features, and his charming smile disappeared. "You know nothing of what I have suffered in my life," he said softly.

She was startled at the truth in his eyes and in his voice. "Perhaps not," she relented. "But you, sir, could have no concept of mine."

He nodded, at a stalemate, and his good humor returned.

"So, my lady, you have me at a loss. You know my name, but I fear we have not been formally introduced. Have I met the famous Robin Hood? Perhaps you go by the name of Scarlet Pimpernel, or-dare I say it-Joan of Arc? "

For the first time that he could see, her pink lips quirked a little in amusement, and another surprisingly sweet dimple appeared.

"My people call me Saint Teresa. You, Jane, may call me…Boss."

A/N: Still here? Thank you! Now, please tell me what you think of this beginning. I'm truly dying to know…

P.S.: I'll have this week's tag up soon, once I write it .