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

by Marcella Bell

His mother gasped. “Zayn Darius d’Argonia. How dare you speak of your father like that?”

  “My father put love before his duty to the nation time and time again. When he decided to let the prime minister handle public hearings two days a week so the two of you could spend quality time together. When he postponed the national exposition because your due date approached... And this—sacrificing my future, not to mention the fate of the nation, just to say thank you.” Disgust dripped from his words.

  There was a moment of silence before his mother finally replied, her voice dry as desert sand. “Saving one’s wife and child requires something a little stronger than a thank-you, Zayn. But, since you appear inclined toward hyperbolic oversimplification at the moment, I won’t be the one to argue with you.”

  Just as she had always been able to, his mother lanced the boil of his self-righteous anger, revealing his asinine behavior in the process.

  He brought his thumb and forefinger up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry.”

  His mother closed the distance between them and hugged him. “I accept your apology. I am sorry, too. I had no idea you felt that way.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  She shook her head. “No. It’s important. Your father would be the first to acknowledge that he put his loved ones before everything, but that’s what made him such a great king. He loved, Zayn. He loved so fiercely he was willing to sacrifice everything, over and over. But never you.”

  Zayn reeled. So many pieces of his family puzzle were rearranging themselves in a single instant that the very foundation of his identity shook.

  “We never told you before because—well, because it’s so complicated. There was so much we didn’t tell you. But the betrothal, at least, we thought would never become an issue. We were so sure you would find love long before the terms were up. As the date got closer we decided to tell you when you turned thirty-four. But then the assassination...”

  So much had happened in the six months immediately following his father’s death—his coronation, the discovery of his uncle’s plot, his uncle’s death, his mother’s departure. His memories of the time were hazy and dark, but one thing was becoming clear.

  “Father was right.”

  Frowning, his mother asked, “About what, dear?”

  Instead of explaining how this new information had shed light on the shadows of his narrative, chasing away the monsters he’d feared lived in their depths, he said, “I have to go back to Cyrano,” and kissed his mother’s cheek.

  His mother started. “Right now? But you’ve only just got here. And it’s so late.”

  But he was already making his way to the door.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THERE HAD BEEN no word from the King.

  The morning after he’d left Mina had waited in her office, sure he would come to make amends for the way they had parted.

  He had not.

  So she had walked purposefully to the staff office and found the King’s major domo and his assistant deep in discussion with the chef when she arrived. Each of them had looked up and straightened when they’d seen who stood before them.

  “Get me the King on the phone.”

  For the first time since toddlerhood, Mina hadn’t said please. He owed her an explanation and she wasn’t going to beg or wait for it.

  All three staff members had immediately bowed, working in unison to coordinate locating a phone, dialing, and placing it into her palm.

  And as the cold device had touched her skin, it had brought with it the realization that she was the Queen of Cyrano, with all her rights and privileges.

  It hadn’t been the Archbishop marrying her in the chapel, or wearing a solid gold mask to her debut ball, or visiting the private summer palace, or playing international stratagems that had made it sink in. It had been the fact that she could walk into a room and demand to speak with the King and have it be done.

  The line had rung. And rung. And rung. After the fourth ring, his voicemail had picked up, and his voice had been a slick lick of fire in her core, despite all her frustration.

  Mina had not left a voicemail. Neither had she let her mouth fall open in outrage, and nor had she made any noise to indicate how infuriated she was. Instead, she had sucked in a breath through flared nostrils, held out the phone to one of the three staff members, who had taken it with a slight tremors in his hand, and then she had turned and left the room.

  For dinner that night she had ordered every single one of her favorite foods, called up a priceless bottle of wine, and dined alone while watching period costume dramas, crying only at the appropriate plot points.

  And now, this morning, still with no sign of the King, she had returned to carrying out her duties, projecting an image of a warm and doting wife when in reality she was hurt and angry enough that she might have taken her own unannounced vacation.

  But, no, that wasn’t her. Regardless of how anyone else around her behaved, she would always live up to her own standards.

  She had kept her word, enacting every duty required of her as outlined in her schedule, which had included two video calls with heads of state and responding to a number of letters and requests.

  This evening, though, there was a shared event on their calendar. On national television.

  A public reunion after his abandoning her was perhaps poor planning on his part, but after her failed attempt at reaching out to him she hadn’t been willing to try again. She had some pride.

  And she had something else, too. It was strange and powerful and new, but she recognized the feeling that coursed through her for what it was: rage.

  Shaking her head to clear it of thoughts of him, Mina turned to d’Tierrza. “Roz and her team aren’t due for another hour,” she said.

  D’Tierrza smiled. “So you expect them any minute?”

  “Exactly. Though for the life of me I don’t know why she seems to delight in catching me off guard so much. You’d think she’d want me cooperative.”

  “She wants you too confused to say no to her.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Mina asked—just as Roz and her team burst into the suite.

  Mina sighed, but only because she knew she would never get her answer now, rather than over the frenzy that was about to begin. She welcomed that. It was just enough of a distraction—and the only form of armor she had—to keep her mind off the fact that she would be in the same room with Zayn again in a matter of hours.

  Tonight, though, she dressed for herself—not for her husband, not for her role as Queen, not for academia, and not for her father. Just for her.

  Tonight, she and the King would appear together on the Jasper Caspian Show—the most popular late-night show in all of Cyrano—and tonight, and for evermore, she would be herself.

  She caught the makeup artist’s eye. “Tonight, I want to be as flawless as you.”

  Sabine laughed, the faintest pink showing on her cheeks as the only sign that she had taken the Queen’s words in. “Impossible,” she said dismissively—only to ruin the effect with a wink and the words, “But I’ll get you damn close.”

  Mina turned to her wardrobe next. “This will be my biggest audience yet. I want to show the world the everyday Queen Amina, while also looking breathtaking. And I want comfortable shoes. Can you make that happen?”

  Catriona snorted and rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that exactly what I do every time?”

  Mina laughed, shaking her head as she turned to her hairdresser. “Down and free tonight,” she said. “I’m tired of tying myself in knots and shrinking myself to fit. Big hair—don’t care.”

  Byron smiled warmly, showing full teeth. “Great minds, Your Majesty.” Then he inclined his head toward her, adding a small flourish with a twirl of his comb.

  Finally, she came to Roz and her assistant. “How did I do?”

&
nbsp; Roz snorted, the sound dry for all that it was nasal. “You managed to get your point across. Passable. An autumnal seventies theme will tie everything together. You’re going to charm the nation tonight.”

  Coming from Roz, that last declaration might as well have been a tearful embrace.

  Mina raised an eyebrow. “And here I was, thinking I’d done that with the Queen’s Ball.”

  “Pish. You stunned them then. Absolutely stopped them in their tracks with just an image. Tonight, they’ll see you alive, moving, speaking, breathing—your darling, refreshing, self on full display.”

  Mina winked at Chloe, Roz’s assistant, before saying, “Be careful, Roz. All that praise might go to my head.”

  Roz’s voice crackled as it rolled out as casually and slowly as sagebrush. “Keep in mind that ‘refreshing’ can get old.”

  D’Tierrza smothered a laugh from wherever it was she had faded into the background and Mina pretended to be offended when, really, she was nearly as content as she had ever been.

  In all her years of research, Dr. Amina Aldaba would never have predicted that here she would stand, in a palace, surrounded not by colleagues, but by true, real friends. An unexpected rag-tag bunch they might be, but they were real.

  Make-up came first. Once again, Sabine used colorful powders to draw out the gold and green flecks in Mina’s eyes, but this time, rather than smoky, the palette the woman chose held tones which could only be described as down-to-earth—rich, deep browns, buttery tans, and shimmering cream.

  Wardrobe came next, and Mina pulled on the soft, snug-fitted cashmere sweater they had picked out for her. The sweater was the color of ripe pomegranates and had a simple and elegant wide crew neck. It was paired with a pleated midi-length A-line skirt in the same color, and a thin tan leather belt that cinched her at the waist. The espadrilles that went with it were gorgeously comfortable, as well as flattering, and immediately became Mina’s favorite royal footwear.

  Her hairstylist left her hair down, using his comb to add mountains of volume and his curling rod to define and touch up individual curls here and there. The highlights he had given her before combined with the artfully tousled curls to make her look simultaneously natural, sexy, and straightforward all at once. She couldn’t have asked for better.

  When she looked in the mirror, she finally saw herself. Queen Mina. Not boxed-up Dr. Aldaba, and not the bursting star of Queen Amina. Just simple, lovely, honest, and kind Queen Mina. A common woman of the highest quality, showcased as much by the open expression on her face as by the top-tier fabrics she wore.

  Her face was, if not flawless, near perfection. Light and breathable, her makeup looked like it was barely there, even as it highlighted and sculpted her features, emphasizing her eyes and lips in a way that made her blush at her reflection.

  Her eyes reflected not just her recently revealed beauty—beauty that even she could appreciate now—but also the intelligence that she had worked so hard for.

  She wasn’t merely a pretty distraction for her nation. She wasn’t merely a brilliant scientist—or even just a gifted linguist and scholar. She was a multifaceted queen, not only fit, but ideally suited to the job.

  She had even almost earned the love of her King. She’d known it in the desperate way he’d held her the night before he’d left.

  And now, like the straw and smoke they were, her hollow attempts at mental bolstering faltered and dispersed, and she was left standing in front of a mirror, about to join Zayn for an interview, to sit beside him under the public’s scrutinizing gaze, knowing that she had offered him everything she had and he had refused it.

  But she didn’t let any of that show on her face. The people around her had worked too hard to make her look pretty for her to let them down with a frown.

  Nothing got past hawk-eyed Roz, though. Catching Mina’s eye in the mirror, the woman said, in an overloud voice, “Since it’s late-night, we wanted to go with something earthy and sensual while remaining well within the bounds of propriety. With your perfect height and coloring that obviously meant updated nineteen-seventies casual glamour.”

  Mina’s smile finally reached her eyes. “Obviously.”

  “If anyone asks you who you’re wearing, tell them you don’t know. It’ll be nonchalant and more natural for you, since you’ll never remember if I tell you. We sent a press release—they can find the answer there.”

  “Should I be expecting that kind of question?”

  Roz snorted. “Of course. This is television. All they really care about is fashion and sex.”

  Mina blushed, the heat deepening the brown of her cheeks and setting off her makeup highlights charmingly. The aesthetician was really a magician.

  “Let’s hope not.” She laughed through it. “I’m better versed in biochemistry.”

  Roz waved her away. “Yes. Well, one can’t help one’s shortcomings...”

  D’Tierrza’s laughter bounced around the room, and the sound of it eased some of the squeeze around Mina’s heart.

  She squared her shoulders and turned to her two guards. “Shall we go?”

  Moustafa nodded, a faint smile softening the seriousness with which she did everything. D’Tierrza grinned like a fox.

  Roz draped a sleeveless cape over her shoulders, and handed her a small leather clutch that matched her belt.

  Mina turned to her team. “Thank you, as always. Your magic amazes me.” To Roz, she said, “You’re a queen-maker.”

  Roz rolled her eyes. “Of course I am. Now, go. And expect miracles.”

  Mina opened her mouth to ask a follow-up question, but d’Tierrza was already drawing her away.

  Stepping into the barrage of flashing lights, microphones and cameras was by far the most challenging thing Mina had done yet as Queen. There had been a red carpet and press at the Queen’s Ball, but nothing compared to the walk from her car to what was supposed to be the private entrance for guests on the Jasper Caspian Show.

  Perhaps it was the combination of royalty and television, but it was all Mina could do to keep a smile plastered on her face and answer the odd question.

  When someone shouted, “Who are you wearing?” she turned the plastered-on smile in their direction.

  “I have no idea,” she said. Just like Roz had told her to.

  “What’s your favorite sex position?”

  She was saved from acknowledging that question by reaching the end of the gauntlet.

  Once inside the studio, she closed her eyes, drawing in a long, slow, deep breath before opening them and looking around.

  Everything was painted black and, industrial as a result of form and function rather than design. Soundproofed walls separated the set and studio audience from what went on backstage, which mostly appeared to be men walking around with clipboards wearing dark, loose-fitting clothing and headsets.

  One such man, slender, pale, and young, with shaggy brown hair and a pair of dusty black cargo pants, met Mina and her guards at the door.

  “Right this way, Your Majesty,” he said as he ushered her toward a door set apart from most of the backstage traffic.

  She grimaced at his form of address, but appreciated the rescue. Inside, the room was a shock of cozy warm-toned beige and tan, with a coffee table set with a lovely bouquet of flowers and refreshments, and an arrangement of plush furniture.

  “We’ve prepared the green room according to your secretary’s instructions, but don’t hesitate to let us know if there is anything you need.”

  Unaware that she’d even given instructions in the first place, Mina merely nodded with the words, “Thank you.”

  The King had not arrived by the time the stage manager came to escort her, ready for her cue, so she walked onstage alone.

  The lights on the stage were too bright for her to make out the live audience, for which she was grateful. She didn’
t need to see the faces of the people she was worried about making a fool of herself in front of, on top of everything else.

  Though she couldn’t make them out in detail, she could tell that they, like Jasper Caspian, at his famous desk, came to their feet as she entered the stage. The stage band played the last chords of the national anthem as she took the seat nearest to Jasper’s desk, knees together, legs crossed at the ankles, as Roz had instructed.

  Angled toward him for their conversation, she got her first view of Jasper Caspian, up close and personal. The first thing that struck her was how large his head was. Not only was it slightly oversized for his frame, it was particularly round. Coupled with his large eyes, it made him look faintly like a cartoon come to life.

  Knowing it contributed to his visual interest and appeal, the biologist in her was fascinated.

  His hair was white-blond and...swoopy. That was the only word for it. Thick, silky, and swoopy. His eyes and eyebrows were deep brown, a startling contrast to the rest of his fair coloring, and the combination was likely what he owed his rise to stardom to.

  He studied her in return, his expression cunning as he took in every detail. And as the wild cheering of the audience settled, Jasper’s smile grew.

  When they’d finally sat down in their seats and quietened, he said, “I’d say let’s give the Queen of Cyrano a warm welcome, but any warmer than that and we’d be breaking our fire codes!”

  The audience laughed at his joke, but sedately, as he’d clearly wanted. Obviously he was an expert at managing the energy of a large group of people.

  Mina was impressed.

  “So, Queen Mina—that’s what they told me to call her, folks, we’re not being fresh—you’re finally here. The mysterious, multitalented woman who captured our King’s...heart.”

  The man imbued his pause with the energy of salacious wink and the audience ate it up.

  Mina couldn’t help the smile that spread across her own face, despite recognizing in him each and every class clown she’d ever had the challenge of teaching. It made her happy to think of any one of them finding their place in the world, as Jasper so clearly had.