It was a small blessing, and, observing her, he could at least find no fault with her there. When his eyes finally moved back up to meet hers, she cleared her throat and opened her mouth.
“I’m not the Queen. We’re not married.”
The words, abrupt and inelegant, hung in the air between them.
Zayn closed his eyes and took a breath before answering. “We are.”
It wasn’t that he hadn’t been expecting her to say something along those lines. He’d merely hoped she would be smart enough to understand that if there had been a way out of the situation, he would have found it.
She shook her head. “There was nothing legal about that ceremony.”
“I assure you, our union is legal and binding.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Mina insisted. “You didn’t even know who I was the day before yesterday.”
“Not true. I’ve known who you are for exactly three weeks.”
She looked taken aback by that fact, but pressed on. “You can’t force a woman to marry you. You said it yourself: ‘The King is not above the law.’”
“No. But fathers can apparently still force their children to marry.”
“So, this is real?”
She sounded so desolate he was tempted to take pity on her—but she was the Queen now, and making it easy on her wouldn’t be doing her any favors.
So he didn’t, instead saying, “It is. So, if we may continue?” He inclined his head toward the stack of forms sitting at her right hand. “There are several legal statements you must sign. You are to select one to three, but no more, causes to champion. These will then inform your outreach activities.”
Her expression suggested that he’d grown another head, but she said nothing so he continued.
“Your attendance is expected at all official state functions. A personal secretary has been assigned to you to manage your calendar, your discretionary budgets, and personal affairs.”
Zayn noted that her color was fading, but she remained upright, present, and attentive. It would do. He sensed there was more going on inside, but overnight she seemed to have managed to gain some control over her constant emoting.
At least she was a quick study. She would need to be. There were those who would use her every emotion against her, and he wouldn’t always be around to protect her.
“Your diplomatic functions will include acting as royal hostess, overseeing entrainment for visiting dignitaries, and representing Cyrano whenever abroad.”
At this, she brightened, once again broadcasting her feelings, transparent as glass. He’d given her credit too soon.
“Politically, should anything happen to me, you are to take my place as ruler, working closely with the advisory council—”
She sucked in a pained breath at his mention of the council, and he felt another twinge of regret. Not for firing her from the position. That had been a given. The Queen did not have a seat on the advisory council. But he could find sympathy for her obvious disappointment.
Continuing, he said, “In readiness for such an emergency, you are to keep abreast of the status and scope of my duties as well as your own. This is considered a royal duty, and you will be allotted time for review in your official schedule.”
Here was another duty she felt an affinity for, judging from the ease she radiated.
For the thousandth time he wondered why his father had chosen her—and for the thousandth time he brushed the thought away.
Speculation was a waste of his time.
“Other duties will be assigned as they arise, but you will be informed well in advance. I mentioned that you would receive a wardrobe budget. In addition to that, you will receive an administrative budget and an annual salary. You will get three months of vacation per year, and six months of maternity leave—”
Mina made a choking sound in the back of her throat, and the energy in the room took on a new edge.
They had not yet discussed heirs.
Heirs—or at least the attempt—would be one of her essential duties as Queen. It was literally spelled out in the position’s description.
As Zayn took her in now, a burst of color masquerading as a deflating cardboard box, he was surprised to feel heat stirring in his gut.
Unlike the women on his list, Mina bore none of the traits he found attractive in a woman. She was tall, whereas he liked petite, serious whereas he valued humor, and, he suspected, she was curvaceous under her suit—more like a proud Valkyrie than a woman with the willowy frame he preferred.
His father couldn’t have selected a more inappropriate woman for him had he tried.
And yet...
Zayn cleared his throat. “Out of consideration for our heirs, and the continuation of the d’Argonia line, both parties are prohibited from extramarital relations until the union has produced three children who have lived past the age of five.”
Mina’s face, having darkened when he began, was a mortified mask of purple by the time he’d finished.
“That’s oddly specific,” she squeaked.
He would have called it distasteful, but essentially he agreed. This conversation was crude. All this information was included in the marriage contract, usually reviewed by each party privately before the wedding. However, there was nothing usual about this marriage.
“Once we have produced the requisite number of heirs, we are free to explore or return to other relationships.” He found himself frowning as he spoke, oddly as insulted by the idea of Mina taking a lover as he’d been intrigued by the idea of producing an heir with her.
“Perhaps we can take it slow when it comes to heirs,” she suggested, her voice coming out scratchy and uneven. Her cheeks were still red-tinged, and she had pushed her seat back, away from the opposite side of the desk.
Unbidden, he had a distinct impression of innocence from her, followed by a strangely conflicted dual surge of interest and frustration. He chose to focus on the frustration. Training a prudish virgin scholar in bed was the last thing he wanted.
The answering rush of heat to his groin, however, said otherwise.
Ignoring it, he nodded at Mina. “Certainly. Everything is spelled out in the marriage agreement.” He tapped the thickly bound stack of papers on the desk. “Copies are filed here, as well as in your own office and with the state office. I mentioned the Queen’s Ball yesterday... As your first official duty, your work on it must reflect the quality and standards of the Crown. The royal steward will inform you if you’ve achieved that. Now, if you don’t have any questions, you may take your leave.”
The phrasing was open, but his dismissal clear.
Instead of taking her leave, though, Mina opened her mouth.
“I’ve certainly got questions. Let’s say that I believe this impossible situation is irreversible, for the sake of this conversation. If that’s the case, what about my things? I have an apartment and a car in the city, as well as a storage unit filled with my research. My laptop and phone were confiscated outside Parliament. I will need those returned if I—”
Zayn held up a hand to stop her. “You will be given new encrypted devices, and your belongings are being seen to by palace staff as we speak. Your car has been donated to charity. As Queen, you will not need a vehicle—and you are, in fact, not allowed to drive.”
“That’s absurd!” Mina protested.
“Regardless, it is true.”
“I have rights as a citizen of Cyrano.”
Zayn shook his head, ruefully. “You are no longer a citizen of Cyrano. You are the Queen of Cyrano.”
“And if I refuse?”
“There is no refusing.”
“It’s not right.”
Zayn stared at her for a moment before slightly inclining his head. “I agree. But it is. And it is more important than you or I.”
Mina frowned. �
��Your cavalier response to an obvious injustice leaves a bit to be desired.”
“As does your reaction to the acquiring of new and unwanted responsibility. It seems we both have room for growth.” Zayn’s voice was even, but no less cutting for its collegiate tone.
Her green eyes narrowed. “Do not presume to know the first thing about me, Your Royal Majesty.”
She was right. The fact that her words were valid only added to the acid sting of them. He knew nothing about her—and yet she was his wife.
“I do not. Neither, however, should you make assumptions about me. Aren’t we lucky that it appears we will have many years together to learn?”
And how does any of this prove your point, Father? he wondered.
How in the world did marrying him to a stranger prove how urgently important it was that he find a wife to love and cherish? His father had contradicted every single one of his words to his son about love and marriage before he’d even said them in the first place, betrothing him to a stranger and never giving him the chance to come to know and love her.
Zayn had at least known the women on his list socially. Some he had known a bit more. That had to make a stronger foundation upon which to build love than no knowledge whatsoever.
And if a love match had been King Alden’s hope for his son, why had he taken the choice from him? If he had truly believed a partner must be a helpmeet, why hadn’t he prepared this woman for her future role? Or even informed her of it, for that matter?
Unfortunately, there were more questions than answers, and no time to spend on them—especially now that he had a stubborn and inept queen sitting in his office.
It didn’t matter that the issue burned in him all the more for being the one subject that he and his father had never seen eye-to-eye on. No. All that mattered was the future of Cyrano.
And Cyrano would weather this—just as it had endured the loss of its King, two years of turmoil, and a century of war and technological transformation before that.
That kind of continuity was more significant than his feelings, his father’s and his wife’s combined.
Turning back to the woman across the desk from him, he noted that while she had no retort for him, neither did she appear to be any closer to leaving.
“Is there anything else, Dr. Aldaba?” he asked.
Her color was high and bright, but not the dusky rose of her earlier embarrassment, and she looked as if she was casting about for a reason to linger. Frustration poured off her, and Zayn was momentarily comforted by the return of his ease in reading her.
Finally, she said, “When can I expect my new personal devices?”
She was grasping for power and control over something, and they both knew it, but instead of irritating him, the pointless effort stirred something like pity inside him.
He glanced up at the clock. “They should be waiting for you in your office, along with your new secretary, by the time you return there.”
Again, the dismissal was blunt—and again she stayed where she was.
“You’re certain there’s nothing we can do?” she asked after another long pause.
He almost didn’t hear the quiet question. The note of defeat and vulnerability in her voice called out to him, but he reminded himself that pity did her no favors. A queen had to be impenetrable.
“I am certain. Now, I suggest you return to your office. Please select your causes soon, and inform your secretary so that we may update the royal website. And, please, for the love of God, assign someone to your wardrobe immediately.”
As he’d intended, she pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes into outraged green slits. Gone was the air of fragility, replaced with the heat of anger and the spark of determination he’d seen her muster so many times in their brief interactions.
She stood stiffly and he almost smiled, relieved to see the fire radiating from her. She was going to need fire like that if she was going to make it as Queen.
CHAPTER THREE
“AND PLEASE, FOR the love of God, assign someone to your wardrobe...”
A week and a half later, standing in front of her new closet, staring at the same old four black cocktail dresses she owned, the King’s words still stung.
It was the morning of the ball and, while she might not have taken his advice in the time since their meeting, she had taken d’Tierrza’s.
Like a fairy godmother, Roz Chastain had turned out to be everything Mina hadn’t known she needed.
Roz wore a uniform that consisted of a long-sleeved boat-necked black shirt with black skinny jeans and leopard print loafers. Her mind was as sharp as a sword, and—a fact Mina could personally attest to—her tongue even sharper.
Mina could scarcely believe the day of the ball had arrived as she settled on the sleeveless dress. The dress’s design was plain, but suitable, as were the simple black ballet flats she would wear with it. Both had served her well through years of parties, publication celebrations, and galas.
With the task of choosing her ensemble complete, she glanced at the clock. It was early—just past seven in the morning—and, after Roz’s efforts and hers, she had the whole of the rest of the day to relax before the big event.
Grabbing her mug of tea from the side table where it rested, she made her way onto the large wrap-around balcony of the Queen’s Wing and considered trying her mother’s phone again.
Since her father’s death, her mother had run the family farm business on her own, ferociously protecting Mina’s study time by refusing to allow her to help—even if that meant working from dawn to dusk to maintain the thriving business and the house in support of the dreams of her daughter and her late husband.
In anticipation of how busy Mina would be, preparing for her parliamentary interview, her mother had taken a rare trip back to Germany. They were to reconnect when she returned in late summer.
But what would she say to her? Hi, Mom. I got married.
She would be heartbroken—not just because she had missed one of the most important major milestones of her daughter’s life, but also for the same reason Mina was. Her father had kept this secret from both of them. Of that fact Mina was of no doubt. There was no way her mother would have kept her betrothal from her. She knew her too well to leave her that unprepared. And now, in addition to swallowing her daughter’s marriage and becoming Queen, her mother would also have to reckon with her husband’s great secret.
It wasn’t something Mina was willing to do over the phone. No, it was better to wait until her return and to break the news gently, in person.
So instead of calling her mom she took a deep breath of sea air.
Overlooking the stunning Mediterranean, the smooth architecture of the balcony was timelessly elegant, although it was a bit chilly. Mina wore a pair of slouchy boyfriend jeans, wool socks, sandals, and a knit sweater, and still the sea breezes found their way to her skin.
Her long braid, dangling down the center of her back now, had loosened over the past nine days. It was just one of many signals that her life as a scholar was over.
The thought brought an ache to her chest.
Looking out to sea, she wondered what, if anything, her colleagues had learned of her humiliation.
The ball was to be her debut as Queen, so no information about her identity had been publicly released. Neither had she found anything about her dramatic parliamentary interview online, or in any of the city’s newspapers. Not that she had had much time to look, ensconced with Roz in event-planning as she had been.
Their efforts had been well worth it, though. It was amazing what could be accomplished in a short amount of time when one had limitless funds and access to a ruthless genius event-planner.
A knock on the door startled a jump out of her, and tea sloshed over her sweater sleeve. It served her right. She had been about to lose herself in thoughts about the King. It was e
nough that he was devastatingly handsome. She didn’t need to compound the situation by developing Stockholm syndrome.
Moving as quickly as she could, while also steadying the mug, Mina hurried to the door and opened it to find Roz standing in the hallway.
Without a word, the older woman pushed the door open wide and Mina to one side.
“Out of the way, dear,” she rasped.
Mina frowned. The other woman’s behavior was not unusual, but it was unexpected. As far as Mina had understood, they’d had no plans to see each other until the ball tonight.
A young woman also dressed all in black had followed Roz into the room, wheeling a large beauty salon chair and vanity unit in front of her. Another woman sporting an extreme asymmetrical haircut and a color block dress followed. A heartbeat later, a bald man with a salt-and-pepper beard, thick black glasses, and a thin gray sweater entered. The last to come, and the shortest of the lot, was a woman with a face so perfect it looked like a painting. She shut the door behind her.
Mina looked around the suddenly crowded room. “Roz. Everyone... To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
Before answering, Roz conversed with the first young woman about where to place the salon chair. Then she replied, “We’re here to fix you, my dear.”
Mina laughed. “I wasn’t aware that I was broken—but, thank you, Roz.”
Roz gifted her with a stare utterly devoid of patience and, much like the vacuum of space, of life itself. Roz did not like to repeat herself.
“I did not put together the event of the year in a single week to have it fizzle out at the finale.”
Mina set her tea on a side table and wrapped her arms around herself protectively. “And how does that relate to me?” she asked.
Roz’s eyebrow inched up, setting off alarms in Mina’s head. She had seen that look before.
“You are the finale, dear, and as it is now you simply won’t do.”
Mina frowned. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing. Other than the fact you plan to wear a depressingly square department store cocktail dress to my ball.”
Stolen To Wear His Crown (Mills & Boon Modern) (The Royal Guard, Book 1) Page 4
