Stolen To Wear His Crown (Mills & Boon Modern) (The Royal Guard, Book 1)

by Marcella Bell

  Rather than looking chastened, as she’d expected, the King scoffed, adding casually, “You’re fired. Effective immediately. You may go down in history as having had the shortest ever tenure on the advisory council.”

  His words, tossed out so cruelly, hit her like a bullet in the chest. She felt the telltale pressure of tears forming in the back of her eyes but refused to allow them free. Fate, it was becoming clear, would not be satisfied until it had trampled every last piece of her dreams into the dirt.

  She wasn’t supposed to meet the King for months, and when she finally did, it was supposed to be in the comfort of the council chambers—not a cramped chapel with the Archbishop, politely ignoring their exchange, mere steps away.

  And, while she had never expected friendship—he was the King, after all—she had at least expected basic professional decorum and respect.

  Instead, he had insulted her.

  “Of course,” he went on, after taking her in from head to toe, with a faint flare to his nostrils, “a curtsy would have been ridiculous in that suit. You deserve credit, at least, for selecting the path of least clownishness. Given your...presentation, I imagine that must be a challenge.”

  Mina quietly gasped, her mouth dropping open at the same time as her eyebrows drew together.

  Years of effort and sacrifice flashed before her eyes—all of it gladly given for the opportunity to advise the arrogant man who now stood before her.

  Her father’s words echoed again in her mind: “Cyrano is counting on you.”

  If this was the King, there was little she could do for Cyrano.

  It had been naive of her to imagine a paragon for a monarch. She should have known better. Vast wealth and privilege weren’t known for instilling integrity and character into individuals, but for some reason she had always imagined the King would be the kind of man who listened.

  She had been mistaken. But she’d encountered enough bullies throughout her career to know when it was time to stand up for yourself.

  “Well,” she said, “if you brought me all this way to fire me, consider your goal achieved. If you don’t mind, I’ll take my leave now—Your Royal Majesty.” She was proud of the amount of scholarly disdain she infused into the words.

  The King remained unfazed. “In fact—unfortunately—I did not. If it were that simple I would have sent a note. You are here because we have been searching for you for some weeks, to no avail. Only to have you stroll into the castle of your own accord.”

  “That’s absurd. My interview was scheduled six months ago, and I am by no means in hiding.”

  A part of her took note of the fact that she was arguing with the King, and in front of an audience no less, but that part wasn’t strong enough to pull in the reins.

  The King’s nostrils flared. “The error has been corrected. We may move on.”

  “Move on with what?” Mina asked, unsure if she even wanted to know the answer.

  “Our wedding.”

  He broke their visual connection for the first time since he’d established it to look at his watch, and Mina felt the absence as a physical experience—though his words overwhelmed even that novel experience.

  “Our wedding...?” she croaked.

  The King tsked. “Reports of your intelligence seem to have been greatly exaggerated. Look around you. This chapel is certainly not where I meet with advisory council members.”

  Mina’s mouth dropped open once again, and he observed her with a mild grimace.

  “The papier-mâché box of a suit is bad enough. The fish look doesn’t improve it.”

  Mina’s mouth snapped shut, and her eyes narrowed.

  “Are you nearsighted, as well? We can have that fixed...though the recovery will be long. That might be for the best, though. Give you more time to acclimate. Glasses make you look older than your age, you know.”

  He said all this matter-of-factly, more akin to a man examining livestock he’d just purchased than a king speaking to his...to his what?

  Confusion crinkled Mina’s forehead even as her eyes stung at his words. And, yes, she did know—though she wasn’t vain or naive enough to blame it on the glasses.

  At thirty-six, she wasn’t young.

  She had skipped being young to secure her disastrous interview before Parliament.

  Closing her eyes on a sigh, Mina brought her fingers up to rub her temples. None of this made any sense.

  “I think there has been some mistake,” she said. “My name is Dr. Mina Aldaba. Six months ago, after applying for review, I was invited to interview for a position on your council—”

  Taking a step down from the dais, one step closer to her, the King cut her off with a raised hand. “We know who you are. Dr. Amina Aldaba, only daughter of Ajit and Elke Aldaba. And, while there certainly has been a mistake, it is not ours.”

  His eyes chilled momentarily, and Mina realized she preferred his fire to his ice.

  As if he could read her thoughts, he once again captured her gaze, his eyes warming.

  She couldn’t look away.

  Lost in a sea of violet, she felt electric tingles ran up and down her spine, her entire body aware of the narrow distance between them.

  His nostrils flared and his eyes darkened, some new emotion wrestling for dominance with the irritation that had simmered in them from the moment they’d met.

  But he merely said, “There is no mistake—and you’re late. Let’s get on with this.”

  The King turned to the Archbishop, whom Mina had all but forgotten in the intensity of their exchange.

  Her cheeks heated in embarrassment at behaving like a fawning teen in front of the holy man, but the archbishop only emanated an aura of kindness and acceptance.

  There, at least, things were as expected.

  His voice threaded with iron, the King turned to the older man and said, “Archbishop, are you prepared to begin?”

  “Begin?” Mina interjected.

  The Archbishop gave Mina a look of apology, but nodded to the King. “Yes. Your Royal Majesty.”

  Mina felt a little jolt of triumph at the censure in the holy man’s tone. At least she wasn’t the only one appalled by the monarch’s behavior.

  “I, Archbishop Samuel, solemnly consecrate the agreement entered into by King Alden of Cyrano, and Ajit Aldaba, declaring their intent that their two families be joined through the sacred bond of marriage.” He turned to the King. “Zayn Darius d’Argonia, King of Cyrano...”

  The King said nothing.

  “Welcome Amina Elin Aldaba as your wife and Queen. Care for her, treat her as your equal consort in all ways, and your union will blossom, a blessing to all of Cyrano.”

  Mina broke out into a cold sweat from head to toe.

  Consort? Queen? Wife?

  He had said “wedding,” but that was absurd. They had never even met before.

  The Archbishop continued, his words swirling around in her mind, spoken in her native tongue, yet completely incomprehensible.

  She was supposed to be an advisor to the King. Not his wife.

  The Archbishop turned to Mina, and the room reeled. King Zayn steadied her elbow with his large, firm hand, the heat of his skin burning through the thick starched fabric of her suit jacket, his eyes on her, pinning her in place like a butterfly with the needle of his violet gaze. The pressure of his touch was gentle, though, even if his expression was mocking.

  “Amina Elin Aldaba. Grace smiles upon the woman who looks to her husband as her King. May you ever look to your husband as your King, with your eyes filled with love. Honor and support him, and in turn you will honor and support Cyrano. Before God we celebrate this fruition of the promise your fathers made, joining your families, for evermore, in holy matrimony. May your union be one of love and laughter. May your marriage be blessed with children, and may your reign be long
and fruitful.”

  Mina shook her head in denial. Hearing her father’s name on the Archbishop’s tongue had set off an explosion of memories, the soundtrack of her father’s steady voice forever repeating: “for the good of Cyrano...”

  Suddenly it all made sense.

  It wasn’t their shared dream that she become an advisor to the King. She had been the one to misinterpret that. That was her dream. Her mistake.

  Her father had wanted her to become Queen.

  The room spun as her perspective on her entire relationship with her father shifted.

  His insistence on her studying, his absolute refusal when it came to the subject of dating... His incessant litany of, “Cyrano is counting on you...”

  He had meant it literally.

  The familiar phrase morphed into a menacing phantom swirling around her mind, taunting her as everything she’d ever known about the world went up in flames.

  The King knelt, and everyone in the room followed—except for the Archbishop and Mina.

  Mina stood frozen.

  The Archbishop whispered, “Kneel,” and she knelt, her obedience to a direct order automatic even through her shock.

  The Archbishop continued with the ceremony. “When you rise, you rise together as King and Queen of Cyrano. Joined in marriage for the betterment of the nation.”

  And if we stay down here?

  The thought bubbled up in Mina’s mind—a deranged joke as her world ended.

  The King stood, capturing her elbow his hand with a secure grip, drawing her up beside him.

  So much for that, she thought wistfully.

  The Archbishop bowed to them, the movement acknowledging them as co-monarchs. The King released Mina’s arm to embrace the Archbishop and then lead the older man out.

  Mina stared after them, absurd thoughts bouncing around her mind like senseless pinballs: I was married by the Archbishop of Cyrano... Papa would have been so proud... Papa...

  There was a neon sign in her mind, flashing in bright, desperate alarm.

  Her father had married her off. To the King.

  An arranged marriage. People didn’t do that anymore.

  She was a scientist, not a queen.

  Her knees buckled, but the King, having returned to the dais, once again steadied her, casting her a frosty glare as he did so.

  She turned away from the glare, desperate for something else to focus on, knowing on some level that she couldn’t escape, but looking for a route nonetheless.

  Again, the King read her mind. “There’s no way out.”

  She shook her head. “There has to be. An annulment. A divorce.”

  He gave a firm negative with a shake of his head. “It is an edict of the King.”

  “You’re the King.”

  “I wasn’t then. There is no getting out of it. I have exhausted every possibility.”

  His words stung, even though she was just as desperate for answers.

  “This can’t be real,” she said. “Cyrano is a modern European nation.”

  As if he were arguing with a toddler, the King’s eyelids fluttered closed, and a small sound of exasperation slipped from his lips. “We are. And, like in many modern, civilized nations, it is easier to put a law on the books than it is to get it off. Though it pains me to admit it, breaking our betrothal would require a constitutional amendment.”

  “But you’re the King.”

  His eyes narrowed, a different kind of disappointment entering them. “A king is not above the law. I shudder to think of the counsel you would have provided as advisor, given that I have to remind you of that fact.”

  She would have thought that by this point in the day she would be numb to something so minor as a casually thrown verbal barb. Instead, his words cut right to her heart. Hadn’t she been thinking along the same lines about him just moments before?

  Before they were married.

  “I would never suggest that.” She didn’t bother to keep the snap out of her voice. They were married now, after all. She added sarcastically, “Forgive the implication. I’m not at my best. It’s not every day that I am arrested to attend my own surprise wedding.”

  Something that might have been compassion flashed across his eyes, but it was gone before she could be sure. When he spoke, he said, “Obviously we will go over terms more formally in the coming weeks, but in the immediacy of today know this: out of respect for my father, you will be Queen, with all the associated rights and requirements. That includes a private guard, access to the Queen’s suites in the palace, and an annual salary. Planning and hosting the Queen’s Ball will be your first official duty, and it will also serve as your debut.”

  “But that’s just two weeks away.”

  “As I mentioned, it took us longer to locate you than anticipated.”

  Mina almost laughed. He made it sound as if it was her fault. The only reason she held back a snort was the fear that she would deteriorate into mad cackling if she let it out.

  Cyranese custom held that the Queen hosted an annual ball, inviting the entire aristocracy of the island, as well as Members of Parliament, representatives from media outlets, and other illustrious members of society to attend. The tradition had begun a century before—one savvy queen’s method of diverting angry lords from violence—but had not taken place in the two years since King Alden’s death. The first year the widowed Queen had been too deep in mourning. The second year Zayn had been crowned and the country no longer had a queen.

  Traditionally, the ball took place on Queen’s Day—two weeks away.

  Mina had never planned a party in her life.

  Again, the unbelievability of this narrative struck Mina.

  A person didn’t go from being ordinary one moment to being Queen the next. The Archbishop had conducted the ceremony, but there had been no judge present, no license signed. Surely even the King needed a license and a judge for a marriage to be legal?

  But the King had moved on.

  “Your guards will be...” he scanned the row of guards “...Moustafa and d’Tierrza.”

  Two blue-clad figures stepped forward. Both were women. One wore her long brown hair pulled back into a braid nearly as tight and controlled as Mina’s. The other sported a swoopy silver-blond pixie cut.

  The blonde guard’s voice was a low rasp, infused with humor, as she executed a bow and came up saying, “Your Royal Majesty...”

  Without missing a beat, the other woman followed, and Mina found herself nodding to them with a genuine smile on her face, amused and slightly grateful at their military manner. It reminded her of her father.

  Her father who had secretly arranged her marriage.

  Mina pushed the thought away. She wasn’t ready to untangle that knot quite yet.

  Instead, she focused on the women in front of her.

  The blonde woman’s name was revealing. The d’Tierrzas were one of the oldest aristocratic families on the island. The family was currently headed by a daughter, the mother scandalously passed over in the father’s will, who was infamous for her scandalous appointment to the Royal Guard.

  And now she was Mina’s guard.

  “There are several other matters we need to discuss...” the King’s voice cut into Mina’s thoughts “...but that will have to wait. I have an appointment. Your guards will escort you to your rooms.”

  He spoke as if he were working through a to-do list, rather than parting from his new bride. He was so casual about it all that Mina wondered if he had always expected his marriage to be like this—sudden, rushed, and painful.

  For once, however, he seemed to be unaware of her train of thought, continuing with, “Meet me in my office tomorrow at eight a.m. We will go over the rest.”

  Then he was leaving, with the rest of the guards pouring out after him.

  Now she was
alone with her new guards the small chapel felt colder, the emptiness of the space more profound for its lack of the King.

  Her husband.

  Mina shivered.

  “Your Majesty?” Moustafa asked.

  It took Mina a moment to realize the woman was addressing her. When she did, she grimaced. “Please, call me Mina.”

  The woman nodded. “Mina. Would you like us to escort you to your rooms?”

  “If by that you mean my apartment in the city, that would be wonderful. Can you do that?” Despite everything, she couldn’t keep the wistful thread of hope out of her voice.

  D’Tierrza laughed out loud. “You certainly deserve it. But we can’t—at least not until we’ve swept and secured the premises.” She added the last with a wink.

  Mina felt an answering smile grow on her own face as she took a closer look at the other woman. D’Tierrza’s rich alto voice and confident demeanor, coupled with her creamy skin and line-free face, as well as the startling clarity of her sapphire-blue eyes, were completely at odds with the danger coiled in her frame. The woman was beautiful—but Mina got the distinct impression that that fact didn’t matter to her in the least.

  Moustafa had her own stern beauty, with her dark coloring and angular bone structure. Her face was all high cheekbones and slashing brows, and it suited her perfectly. Her surname was common, and she lacked the insouciant ease the island’s aristocracy seemed born with. Both facts confirmed the impression that she had made it to the palace the same way Mina had: through hard work and a fierce refusal to give up.

  Her guards would make good friends in the palace.

  Accepting that, if nothing else, Mina said, “Please lead the way.”

  Moustafa and d’Tierrza turned, and Mina followed them out of the chapel.

  The hallways they took her through were dim and quiet, clearly not open to the public. Low-wattage bulbs provided just enough light throughout, and beneath them the marble floors sparkled.

  “These are the residential corridors. You’ll eventually figure them all out,” d’Tierrza said after the they’d taken a third turn. “They’re the fastest way to travel the palace and the grounds and are well guarded and surveilled.”