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

by Marcella Bell

  “Where are you going?”

  He spun around. She lay on her side, sheets drawn up to cover her breasts. Her head was on the pillow and her stare was wide open.

  The image of her like that—relaxed, trusting—clawed at his throat like a choking bramble.

  “Go back to sleep.” His words were stilted and brittle, tin men in the face of the raw honesty she offered.

  “You’re leaving.”

  She didn’t say it as a question, and for some reason that rankled him more.

  “I have work to do.”

  “At this hour?”

  “At all hours. A king is never off duty,” he snapped.

  “Typically, it requires a national emergency to force the King into working in the wee hours. Unless I missed an emergency, I can’t imagine what is calling you.”

  This time when he snapped, it wasn’t just his voice. “Tonight was an emergency, Mina. An enormous disaster. What’s ‘calling me’ is the need to get my head out of whatever this is—” he gestured toward her and the bed “—and back into my work. Unlike you, Mina, people depend on my ability to do my job well.”

  She winced, her fists tightening on the sheets, but didn’t break eye contact with him. “There’s no reason to be nasty.”

  But she was wrong. There was every reason. He had made a fool of himself, and therefore a fool of Cyrano. And all over her.

  “There is every reason to be nasty. I swore to myself I would not make the same mistakes my father made—that I would never put my own feelings before the health and safety of my country.”

  “I don’t see how tonight—” she began.

  But he cut her off. “Of course you don’t see. You may be brilliant, Mina, but don’t kid yourself. You’re no political mind. Tonight was a travesty, and it was all because I couldn’t keep my head together.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  Her obvious desire to soothe him only added fuel to the fire.

  “You, Mina. I’m talking about you. When you’re around I lose control, and that’s something a king can’t afford. I’m not willing to put the kingdom at risk because I’m in love with you, Mina.”

  The words shot out—an accusation even more than a confession.

  They hung in the air between them, heavy, throbbing, raw.

  She searched his face, capturing his gaze with her green and golden stare before asking. “You’re in love with me?”

  The air whooshed out of him silently, as if he’d been punched in the gut. Still the words hung suspended in air, almost visible, seeming so tangible. She waited for him to answer, and there was grace rooted in her quiet steel. She waited for the truth.

  He nodded.

  When he did not offer more, she frowned. Then she nodded too, the movement a communication with herself rather than a response to his gesture. It was sinking in—what he was saying to her.

  Finally, after the silence had stretched between them and gone past comfortable, she asked, “And you think that’s a threat to national security? So you’re leaving me, in secret, in the middle of the night?”

  Looking deep into the clear sage of her eyes, noting their growing sheen, he pinched off the voice inside him that said he could forge a new path—a stronger path—with the woman he loved at his side, and instead he answered her, “Yes.”

  He saw his words strike her, saw the gutted agony flash across her gaze and even felt it in himself. He wrenched at it, writhing even as he stood motionless, watching her collapse inside herself. And, unable to bear witness to the havoc he was wreaking, he turned on his heel and walked out.

  He walked through the twisting corridors all the way to his office, where he locked himself in on the pretense that he needed to begin developing damage control strategies with Farden.

  Six drinks later he’d spent no time thinking about Farden. Alone in his office, and drunker than he typically allowed himself to get, the reins on his mind turned invariably to Mina. Always Mina.

  The sharp, raw edges of that hole inside him offered clarity at least. He needed to get away from her. He couldn’t go to the summer palace. Not now. Not after the time they’d spent there. Her memory would be everywhere. It would be like surrounding himself with potent traces of the woman he couldn’t shake off.

  He needed to get away from her—and sooner rather than later. Only time and distance would be sufficient to suffocate the thing that had taken root inside him.

  He arrived in Paris through a private airport just before three a.m. A driver took him from there to the apartment his family kept on the Champs-Élysées, and he watched the dark streets of the City of Lights pass by through his window. The cobblestoned streets and sidewalks were deserted this deep into the night, each arrondissement at quiet rest in preparation for another day of making up the city of Paris.

  Stepping out of the car, he looked up to take in the French apartment. It was the first time he had been here in at least three years, and when he tried to name the sensation drawing his heart down into his gut the word that came to mind was regret.

  That was absurd, however. Regret was a luxury a king could not afford. He did not regret. He merely wished he had brought Mina along, wondering how she would have received the opulent Parisian apartment, which was classic, traditional, and all things French.

  Imagining her wonder brought a smile to lips as he rode the elegant antique elevator to the apartment. But a scowl replaced his smile just as the elevator doors opened, revealing the long hallway that led to the royal apartment. Striding down the hallway, he gave the door guards each a stormy nod before they opened the doors for him.

  Inside, he headed straight for the study—and the liquor cabinet. Moving with all the deliberateness and yet none of the care he usually took, he selected a highball glass and rummaged through the assortment of crystal decanters available, all filled with glowing liquids in colors ranging from jewel-toned deep ambers to painfully clear.

  He poured his drink rakishly and replaced the decanter with a clatter, uncaring of his lack of grace. There was no audience here. Unlike the kiss at the ball, and the brawl before dinner, there was no one here to bear witness to his absolute lack of decorum.

  “Zayn!”

  He didn’t turn around at once. He simply closed his eyes with a sigh, brought one hand to rub the bridge of his nose and set the glass down with the other. Then he turned around.

  A woman stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip, the other pointing toward him, her silhouette backlit by the bright living area behind her.

  “Mother.”

  The light flicked on. His mother no longer stood in the doorway but walked toward him, her silk pajamas flowing with her movements as she put the safety catch on the small pistol she held as she walked.

  “This is unexpected,” she said.

  Though it was four in the morning, she showed no sign of tiredness, no hint apart from her clothing that he’d woken her from sleep. As always, she was perfect. Elegance personified. It wasn’t on purpose. In fact, his memories of childhood were full of her eager efforts to disrupt her own natural grace—so at odds with the fire of her personality—to no avail. With her long white-blond hair, delicate bone structure, and wide violet stare, the blue of her blood had shown through even the thickest mud. And all of it had aged well.

  “I didn’t know you were in residence,” he replied—because it was true. He had not thought to check her whereabouts in his eagerness to escape Mina.

  “I only just arrived,” she said.

  Silence stretched between them, two sets of matching eyes meeting each other across the gulf of the room.

  Finally, she said, “You married.”

  And as if the soft, sad words were the spark the dry tinder of his temper had been waiting for, and because tonight was apparently the night he lost all control, the words, “Did you k
now?” were ripped out of him, raw and acidic because they made him vulnerable.

  Startled confusion replaced the look of hurt in her eyes and she demanded, in a stronger voice, “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “Did you know about the betrothal?” he barked, willing to make his own demands.

  “Young man. You may be the King of Cyrano, but I am your mother and you will speak to me with respect.”

  “Like you and father respected me? What about my right to choose?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Zayn. There are worse things than finding yourself married to a beautiful, accomplished woman.”

  “How do you know she’s any of those things?” he asked.

  The hurt had returned to her voice when she responded. “I’ve been following the news.”

  His attempt at censure might not have found their mark, but hers did. “We were married in private by the Archbishop. Not what you would call a wedding.”

  “A mother still wants to witness such an event.”

  “There was no event. I told you. Just the two of us and the Archbishop.”

  His mother frowned. “Surely her parents were there?”

  Zayn shook his head, a feeling of defensive shame growing in his gut at his mother’s expression. “No,” he said.

  “Why not?” she asked, and a dangerous and growing note of suspicion entered her voice with each successive question.

  “There wasn’t time.”

  “There wasn’t time to invite her parents to her wedding?”

  Again, Zayn shook his head. “My men had trouble locating her. She does not go by the name used on the betrothal document. I did not want to risk losing track of her once we found her.”

  “You make her sound like some kind of criminal.”

  Zayn flinched, thinking back to his use of the national riot team to collect her.

  “I had no idea who she was.”

  Finally, he was able to turn some of the censure around. And this time it was his mother who flinched.

  Lifting her hands, palms up, she offered, “We always thought you’d get out of it.”

  For a moment he just stared at her incredulously. “I had the best lawyers in the country look over the contract. It’s unbreakable.”

  She nodded. “Of course. You were the only one who could have broken it. Or her, I suppose...”

  A fluttering sensation entered Zayn’s chest at his mother’s words. He didn’t recognize it as panic because he had never experienced it before. He took a seat on the studded leather sofa. Did his mother know some way that Mina might nullify the marriage? If she was free to walk away, would she?

  Palms going clammy, Zayn asked cautiously, “Is there some way we could render the marriage void?”

  Mistaking the thread of fear that wove through his words for desperation, his mother took a seat beside him, her eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, no, darling. I’m so sorry. It’s far too late now. We just never in a million years thought it would take you so long to find love...”

  Her voice trailed off, and the slick, oily panic that had coated Zayn’s throat at her words began to dissolve.

  The marriage stood.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  His mother’s alarm warped into guilt before his very eyes, and for the first time in his life he had the experience of seeing his mother ashamed. “We just never thought it would come to this.”

  He raised an eyebrow “Somehow I find that hard to believe. Father entered into an agreement that would require constitutional amendment.”

  “That’s absolutely absurd. Absolutely.” Like a tempest, his mother blew through emotions like mere changes of clothes. Now indignation ruled. “You’re the King—you can’t marry a cabbage farmer’s daughter!” she exclaimed.

  The sentiment was the last thing he’d expected from his mother, who had spent her time as Queen championing the rights of the poor, and Zayn found himself bristling in Mina’s defense.

  “Mina is far more than just a cabbage farmer’s daughter, Mother—far more. And, thanks to Dad, we are already married.”

  The fact that he’d used the cold, commanding tone he reserved for speaking from the throne on his mother startled them both.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again.

  Uncomfortable with this discord with his mother, but unwilling to back down in his protection of Mina, he surprised himself by adding, “Besides, you don’t even know that her father grew cabbage.”

  His mother took her seat once more, her eyes growing shrewd. “Of course I know her father grew cabbage. I know everything about the man.”

  It was Zayn’s turn to be confused. “What do you mean?”

  “I was pregnant with you—just weeks away from my due date—when I developed anemia. My hemoglobin levels dropped below three and my doctors insisted I needed a blood transfusion. Obviously they looked to Seraphina first, but I have a rare blood type and she wasn’t a match. They searched the national donor database, invoked royal privilege to search all private medical records, and even reached out to distant cousins amongst Europe’s royal families, but still could not find a match. Then your father had them search an old military database—and would you believe it? A match with a former sergeant. Ajit Aldaba—the one person on the entire island who could save my life.”

  Zayn’s mouth dropped open, hanging wide in the same fish expression he’d accused Mina of having.

  Clearly exhausted by the telling, his mother continued, “Your father was out of his mind with worry. My pregnancy had been rocky from the beginning, and we wanted you more than anything in the world. By then we knew I would not likely be able to sustain another pregnancy, so even though there was a risk we approached Sergeant Aldaba.”

  Zayn’s voice rasped out, a dagger in the darkness. “And he said yes, on the condition you gave away your only son in a betrothal?”

  His mother’s eyes widened, catching enough light in the dim room to shine a clear amethyst. “Oh, no. No. Nothing like that.” Her eyes went a bit misty before she continued. “No. He said yes without hesitation... He was about to have a daughter—she was due just after you—and he said he hoped anyone would do the same for his wife. And, of course, he was a soldier through and through, always ready to answer the call ‘for the good of Cyrano.’” She smiled at the memory.

  The echo of the same words he’d heard in Mina’s voice pierced Zayn’s heart like a poisoned dart. Then his mother shook her head, as if the images were a fog.

  “No. It was your father who took it further,” she continued.

  “What?”

  “That man.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest, irritated still, even thirty-six years later. “He offered the man anything under the sun—insisted he chose a gift when he initially refused. He even had the gall to remind him to think of his growing family. It was that that did it, really.”

  “Did what?”

  “Gave him the idea to ask for your hand in marriage.”

  Zayn would have laughed at her turn of phrase if farcical history had not been the stuff of his destiny.

  “After your father had all but commanded him to ask for something, and then reminded him of his coming daughter, he threw out the idea of marriage. I think he was joking, really, but once the words were out things snowballed.”

  “What do you mean, ‘things snowballed’?” Zayn’s didn’t bother to hide his irritation when he spoke.

  “I was out of it after the transfusion. Ajit was out of it too. Your father was out of his mind with relief that both you and I had made it through the procedure alive. He needed a grand gesture to show his gratitude. One thing led to another and you were betrothed.”

  “You make it sound like a one-night stand,” he observed drily.

  The Queen snorted, continuing, “Your fathe
r regretted it before we even left the hospital. So much so that he went back to Ajit—and you know how much pride he had.”

  As usual, his mother was siding with his father, but her statement, could not go unremarked upon. “I should think so. He was a great proponent for choice and true love, after all.”

  His mother lifted her eyebrow. “You’re emoting rather loudly, dear.”

  He scoffed. “I’d say I have the right.”

  “This side of you is all your father.”

  He ignored that. “You were saying...? He felt bad?”

  “He swallowesd his pride and went back to Ajit to amend the agreement. They added a clause. If neither child should find love before they turn thirty-five, the two shall be joined... It was a small addition, but we all felt it would do the job.”

  Zayn didn’t try to hide his exasperation. “This is all absolutely absurd, you do realize? You were real monarchs, you know—not fairy tale characters.”

  She chuckled. “I was on a lot of drugs at the time. And your father... He would have done anything for us.”

  The look on her face said she was momentarily lost, caught up in the memory of the man she’d loved more than any other soul save the son who stood before her. She came back, though.

  “Besides, thirty-five seemed like plenty of time—eons away at the time. Of course, it all flew by faster than we could ever have realized...”

  Watching his mother, knowing he was about to lose her to the pull of sorrow, as he had so many times since his father had died, he made his voice bitter when he said, “I should have known.”

  “Should have known what?” she asked, reluctantly drawn back from the pull of his father’s memory.

  “I should have known that his unhealthy attachments were at the root of all this.”

  An edge came to her voice as she lifted her eyebrow to say, “Excuse me?”

  “I should have expected this entire fiasco had its roots in Dad’s obsessive love.”