by Laurie Paige
Returning to the present, Ivy stared at the colors of the sunset lightly grazing the maple trees on the lawn and the alders closer to the creek that separated the residential complex from the golf course. The creek flowed into the Columbia River that had awed Lewis and Clark on their expedition. A much smaller river ran from the Lantanya mountains where the resort was perched down to the wine-colored sea where St. Ansellmo, the capital city of the island kingdom, lay against the shore.
She and the man who introduced himself as Max Hughes had wandered through the rest of the museum and taken tea in the garden there. They’d had the place to themselves. It had seemed as if they were the only people in the world as they talked. He’d admitted he liked to sketch the odd scene now and then, even to paint if he had time.
“Like Churchill,” she’d said, “something to relax you.”
“What do you do in your spare time?” he’d asked.
“Read. Go on long walks. Work on computer programs.”
That was when he’d questioned her about her work. She’d told him about Crosby Systems and her job in Lantanya. He’d been keenly interested and had asked a thousand questions. When she’d asked, he said he was in business, too, mostly as a consultant. His manner had been sardonic as he admitted that last one.
Consultant? Yes, if one stretched the definition of king. Maybe he was more of a figurehead than a ruler, though.
Not that it mattered to her. He’d walked her partway back to the resort, then had to leave for a meeting. She’d been disappointed as she wound her way up the steep slope to the castle-like building on a rocky promontory.
“I’ll see you again,” he’d promised, briefly lifting her hand to his lips.
And he had.
Hearing music from a car passing on the street, Ivy was thrust back into the recent past and that magic night….
A cool breeze blew off the sea and music that filled her soul wafted over her as she’d stood on the patio and observed the very last of the colors in the sunset sink into the sea. She’d been alone.
“Let’s not waste the music,” an amused voice said from the shadows.
A man, tall, with dark hair and eyes and a brilliant smile, stepped into view. Max held his hands out and she stepped into them as if they’d done this a thousand times before. The music rose and throbbed and they dipped and swayed to the notes, wrapped in the magic of it all.
When it stopped, they did, too. They dropped their arms, but didn’t move away.
“That was enchanting,” he murmured, his gaze warm and filled with laughter as he studied her.
“I feel like an enchanted princess,” she said, then looked at him quickly to see if she’d been too bold.
“And I, your devoted knight,” he murmured, a devilish light in his eyes. He executed a smart little bow.
On impulse she nodded regally, her mouth curling with laughter at their acting. And the fact that he’d returned.
“Your meeting, did it go well?” she asked.
He shrugged. “It is concluded.” His smile flashed again. “Please, Your Highness,” he begged, “give me some daring feat to perform so that I may show my devotion and my sorrow that I had to leave you this afternoon.”
She looked around the darkened patio, at the sky, then the capital city lying on the coast, its lights glittering like jewels. On a nearby trellis, she saw what she wanted.
“Sir Knight, there is one thing, a rose, the most perfect bloom of them all, that I crave, but it is out of my reach.”
“Show it to me and it shall be yours.” He dropped to his knee. “Or by my honor and my good name, I shall perish in the attempt.”
“Nay,” she whispered, held by the strong, sensuous line of his lips. “You shall not perish. I won’t allow it.”
“Then tell me where it is.”
“There.” She turned from him and the allure of his smile, of his eyes and the fires that now burned hotly in those dark depths. Pointing to the highest branch and the farthest rose that wafted beyond the stone of the patio’s walls, she waited breathlessly to see what he would do.
“An easy task,” he told her.
He leaped to a chair, a table, then the top of the wall. Without testing the support of the trellis, he stepped upon it and climbed upward, careful of the thorny vines. When he was as high as he could go, he leaned out…and out…and out…
For a moment it seemed to her that he hung between earth and air, attached to neither, as the land dropped sharply off the bluff where the resort was built. Then he deftly plucked the rose she’d indicated, leaped back to the wall, then onto the patio and, again kneeling on one foot, presented the prize to her.
When she hesitated, feeling it was too intimate a gift, he stood and moved close. “You cannot refuse,” he said in a low, husky voice, “when I have risked all for it. And for you.”
He removed the thorns from the stem and tucked the pure white rose into the bosom of her blouse.
“That is where it belongs, next to your heart,” he said in the same tone that sent sprinkles of stardust swirling down to the innermost parts of her.
The music began again, and they danced without speaking for a long time. From the town a clock struck the hour, a plangent vibration that echoed in her heart with each peal.
“Midnight,” she whispered.
“Must you leave?”
She shook her head and looked at her feet, half expecting to find glass slippers. He followed her gaze.
His chuckle made her laugh, too. “We are foolish together, but it is fun, yes?”
She nodded. They danced some more, then went inside for a late supper. Over the meal, they talked about everything. Their lives. Their early dreams. Then later ones. Their sorrows. His mother had died two years ago, his father last fall. Max had traveled the world since then, but there had been no escaping the mourning. He had loved them very much.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, taking his hand and pressing it to her cheek. “My parents are divorced, but at least I still have them both. And a stepmother.”
“She doesn’t like you?” His eyes became dangerous.
“Oh, yes. She’s very nice.”
“But?” When she looked at him perplexed, he added, “There’s always more after such faint praise.”
“Well, she’s always been closer to my sister, Katie. Katie’s a year older than I am and my best friend. I’m the baby of the family. They treat me like a pet.”
He laughed at that and playfully patted her head. She snarled and pretended to bite his hand. Then they fell silent and simply observed each other over the flicker of the candle.
“I have a suite,” he finally said. “I will make for you the most delicious dessert. Will you come with me and let me serve you, sweet princess of the rose?”
She nodded.
He stood and took her hand, helping her from the chair, then they drifted up the marble stairs and along a silent corridor until they came to two magnificent doors carved with two lions raised on their hind legs, their forepaws touching as they gazed fiercely at the onlooker.
“Lions rampant,” he said, seeing her interest. “From the royal crest.”
“A crest, like a family crest, dukes and all that?”
“Or a king, yes. The lions depict a battle between two brothers of the same house. After nearly killing each other, they decided to join forces and save the kingdom from outsiders, hence the two lions.”
“Is that what happened in Lantanya?” she asked.
He nodded, then swung open one of the doors, disclosing an opulent room of crystal chandeliers, polished black granite and mirrors softly reflecting the view from every wall. She was speechless. Not even her father’s house was this grand.
“This is magnificent. Who are you?” she asked, knowing she must look like a wide-eyed naif.
“Just a man,” he said, turning her toward him and holding her lightly, carefully in his arms. “One who has been enchanted by moonlight and music…and one very special r
ose.”
She shivered at the intensity in his voice and looked away as the innate shyness possessed her.
“You are a shy princess,” he murmured.
“Yes. Katie and I are the quiet ones,” she explained, referring to her sibling. “We have two brothers, both older. Trent is CEO of the company. Danny…well, he’s been living in seclusion since too many tragedies took their toll on him.”
“I see.” He took her hand. “Now about that dessert.” Ivy was glad he picked up on the fact that discussing Danny was too personal.
In a kitchen that had more marble and polished granite than a museum, he prepared cherries jubilee. After flipping out the lights and setting the cherries aflame, he spooned the concoction over ice cream and set a large bowl in front of her.
“I can’t possibly eat this much,” she protested.
He handed her a silver spoon with the lion crest and took one for himself. “Not alone perhaps. I shall help.”
With her sitting on one side of a marble counter and him standing on the other, they ate spoonfuls of the dessert when the flames died and gazed at each other, their eyes saying more than the few words they shared. Soon the treat was gone.
When she started to pat her mouth one last time with the linen napkin, he caught her hand, then kissed her with the greatest tenderness she’d ever known.
Underscoring the tenderness was the passion.
She sensed it in him as a great force, a river that ran silently and deep, a part of his being, and she knew instinctively that it was more than desire, although that was there, too.
She gave herself to the kiss and to the passion and the desire…and to him….
Two
Maxwell von Husden, Prince Regent of Lantanya, was having a bad day. He’d had a bad week…month…in fact, the whole year had been rotten.
His restless gaze stopped on a vase of roses, white with a coral blush, fresh from the royal gardens.
Except for one night of splendor, he amended his earlier observation. That one night with the rose, as he thought of her to himself in the few moments of privacy he had before falling into an exhausted sleep, had been the one grace note of the summer, a gift he’d never expected. The gods had been kind—
A discreet knock on the door preceded the entrance of his valet. “Ready, Your Highness?” Ned Bartlett asked, looking him over like a mother with a youngster heading for his first day of school.
The man’s ancestors had served the kings of Lantanya, the third longest continuous monarchy in Europe after Britain and the Netherlands, almost as long as the kingdom had existed. And they were as thoroughly English as the British crown.
“Yes.”
Their eyes met in the mirror. Max recognized sympathy in the valet’s familiar gray eyes. Fifteen years older than his own thirty-three years, Bartlett was the only person alive who had witnessed the tears and sorrows of a young prince growing to manhood under the watchful eyes of his parents and the residents of the kingdom. The valet had been his most constant companion from the time he was six.
Taking a deep breath, Max let it out and with it the doubts and pain of what was to come. Today he would pass a life sentence on his uncle, his dead father’s half brother, and on the former minister of state, for high treason.
During the traditional year of mourning after his father’s death, the two men had planned a coup to take over the country before Max was formally crowned at the end of the grieving period. With the deed accomplished, they would then deny him reentry into the country.
Max had unexpectedly returned from eight restless, sorrow-driven months abroad a day before the attempt. That night, hired assassins had broken into his bedroom, planning to kill him.
Only he wasn’t there. He’d been at the resort, sleeping peacefully—his last night of rest in over six weeks—in the arms of the rose. The need to be with her had been stronger than the prickles of his conscience, urging him to return to the palace.
Staying with her had saved his life.
As for the traitors, confusion at not finding the prince in his bed had destroyed the attackers’ plans and timing. The royal palace guards had seen the men and arrested them.
The next morning, upon his return, he and the guards, assisted by his security advisor, had arrested the main culprits, his uncle and the minister, and quelled the coup before it had a chance to get started, much less succeed.
During the past month, the culprits had been tried by the High Court, composed of the twelve lord mayors, each representing one of the twelve counties of the country. The three members of the Supreme Court had sat as judges over the proceedings.
Today was the last step—the formal sentencing. Only the king could do that since it was a case of high treason. His title was Prince Regent until the coronation ceremony, but he was the ruler and the job was his.
“Will I do?” he asked impatiently.
After Bartlett had pronounced him fit to be seen, he left his suite in the residential side of the palace and strode toward the justice chamber where much of the business of the kingdom was conducted. He glanced at a portrait of a sixteenth-century ancestor as he strode the long corridor separating the two areas.
That particular king had been beheaded by a trusted friend while they were having dinner in the king’s apartment. Again loyal officers had saved the day and the infant prince and, therefore, the kingdom.
“There, but for the grace of God and an ironic twist of fate, I almost went,” he murmured, his blood warming at the memory of that night and the woman who had been as stirred as he by their kisses.
A door opened to his left, and his security advisor, who’d been his roommate and best friend at university in the U.S., stepped out. Like Bartlett, Chuck Curland looked him over as if to detect any cracks in his armor.
“I’m all right,” Max said tersely, although he hadn’t been asked.
His friend opened a door with a digital security lock, something new in the palace. All outside doors had already been converted. Inside ones were next, particularly his quarters. Dead bolts and high-tech locks. In a palace that hadn’t been locked since being built two hundred years ago.
Max entered the armory and strapped on the golden jewel-encrusted sheath and sword of the head of state. He left off the sash with its brooches and badges of honor. This was not a ceremonial occasion, only a punishing one. The sword of justice represented that fact.
“Do I look regal enough?” he asked, his smile tinged with bitterness at the thought of what was ahead.
“Royal to the bone,” Chuck assured him, grasping his shoulder briefly.
Few men would have dared touch him, but Max knew the gesture from his friend was one of solidarity. He turned and walked into the Justice Chamber before he blubbered like a baby at the betrayal of his uncle and the minister he’d also trusted. Kings were not allowed emotion.
“All rise,” the sergeant-at-arms intoned.
The court and its audience rose as one, heads bowed, as he took his place on the high seat behind the three justices. When he was seated, the crowd sat, too.
The bailiff presented the case to the king.
“Has the jury reached a verdict?” Max asked. As if he didn’t know.
“We have, Your Majesty,” the lord high mayor said.
The sergeant-at-arms received the signed verdict from the mayor and delivered it to the senior judge of the Supreme Court, who silently read it, let his two cohorts see it, then presented it to the prince regent.
Max read the paper, then, setting his face to no expression, spoke, “Lord High Mayor, how find the jury on the first charge?”
“We, the jury, find the defendants guilty,” the man said.
“Lord High Mayor, how find the jury on the second charge?” Max continued the formalized ritual.
“Guilty.”
The third charge?
“Guilty.”
The fourth?
“Guilty,” the head of the jury replied.
M
ax experienced not satisfaction but a great sorrow as the men were found guilty on all counts—treason, attempt to murder a head of state, conspiracy to overthrow the rightful succession of the kingdom, use of violence against a member of the royal house.
Gloom settled in his spirit like great weights strapped to his soul. Through the high, stained-glass windows of the courtroom, the world seemed to darken.
Ah, rose, I need you.
“Is the court ready for the sentencing?” he asked.
“The court is ready,” the senior supreme justice told him. “The defendants will rise,” he instructed.
Max sentenced his uncle and the minister to ninety-nine years in prison. Even after their deaths, their remains would stay in the prison cemetery until the full ninety-nine years were up before relatives could claim the bodies.
The two captains of the Royal Dragoons who had joined them in the conspiracy were given life sentences with no chance of parole.
The two hired assassins, who were not citizens of Lantanya, had already been tried in a lower court and sentenced to life. The men would work at hard labor and have no chance of getting out for thirty years.
At the end of two hours it was finished.
When Max returned to his quarters, his dress uniform was damp under the arms and down his back from the tension of sentencing four men he’d known from birth to a prison routine filled with work and, when not working, isolation.
Their lives would be almost as lonely as that of a king.
Bartlett quietly entered and removed the used clothing. “Will you be needing anything further?” he asked in the gentle tones he’d always used when Max had been a child and suffered some bereavement to his young soul.
“No, thanks. I’ll take a shower, then ring for Chuck when I’m dressed. Perhaps coffee when he arrives?”
“Muffins and fruit would be nice, too,” the valet suggested. “You haven’t eaten.”
Max nodded. “Okay. Give me twenty minutes. And, Ned, thank you.” He wasn’t sure what he was thanking him for. Perhaps for his unspoken sympathy, or his eternal kindness, or for simply being here when things got tough.
