by Trish Morey / Caitlin Crews / Nina Harrington / Raye Morgan
Kate threw her arms around her dad, hugging him even tighter. ‘Thanks. That’s what I needed to know.’
Then the chauffeur was holding the door open. Gemma had already skipped out of the car, and was waiting patiently with Kate’s bouquet of yellow roses, fragrant freesias and white frangipani, which Simon had sent over to the house the day before, after sending the local florist into raptures.
‘Are you ready to tell Simon how much you care about him?’ Tom asked and smiled, and Kate felt her shoulders relax a little as he hooked her arm over his. ‘I think you have both waited long enough for this moment. Don’t you?’
She managed a brief nod before turning to grin at Gemma, who was far too excited and impatient to wait any longer. And then Kate looked into her dad’s face for a second, before straightening her back and lifting her chin.
In an instant Kate had stepped out of the car and was standing in the warm sunshine, looking up at the impressive grand old cathedral. She was surrounded by light and noise and the clamour of people cheering and bells ringing and the steady beat of African drums and hornpipes.
This ancient place must have seen some remarkable celebrations and ceremonies over the centuries—but surely none more unique than this very special wedding.
Two of the musicians from Simon’s village were standing on either side of the huge carved stone entrance to the cathedral, each holding a cow horn and blowing into the end of the horn with swollen cheeks to create the most remarkable fanfare of music this cathedral had ever heard. Their necklaces and bright striped bandanas were somehow perfect in the bright June sunshine.
Suddenly a band of Ghanaian drummers and dancers emerged from inside the cathedral, and as Kate and Tom approached they started dancing and singing with such joy that Kate’s heart sang.
Then the ancient doors of the cathedral swung open, and with one final squeeze of her dad’s hand Kate walked slowly into the majestic church. Far above her the organ played ‘The Wedding March’, and somehow the combination of drums and horn-playing and organ music came together to create a magical combination of traditional English and African wedding music.
The dancers from Simon’s village were first in line, followed by the drummers, all dressed in brightly striped woven fabric, and the whole group danced and moved and shuffled into the long aisle of the church which stretched between the entrance and the altar.
The music soared higher and higher into the carved stone roof of the cathedral, blending with the organ sounds and echoing back into the church.
Then the pace of the music changed, and the horn players and drummers started to sound faster and louder, and on each side of the aisle people started swaying to the music with a joyous rhythm.
Gemma walked proudly in front of Kate, carrying a smaller version of her bouquet, her body swaying to the wonderful beat of the drums.
The congregation rose as one, shuffling chairs and benches, all attention focused on Gemma. It had taken a lot of persuasion to convince her that a white net floor-length skirt with a Ghanaian fabric belt was the perfect outfit for a teenage bridesmaid. But Kate needed only one bridesmaid, and this was Gemma’s day almost as much as it was hers.
The emotion was almost too much for Kate to stand as the wave of music swelled around her.
Kate was grateful for her father’s arm as she stepped slowly forward, and for the first time in her life she felt beautiful, loved, adored and admired.
She looked out through her flowing silk net veil and could see two tall, proud figures standing next to the altar in front of her.
The dancers and musicians parted to each side and there he was, the remarkable man who wanted her to be his bride, achingly resplendent in his royal robes. His toga was of the finest cloth, woven just for this occasion. The golden sash crossed his chest under the clothing, matching the rich gold amulets on his arms. The polished glittering metal reflected back coloured light from the huge stained-glass windows which brought a whole spectrum of colour and light into the stone walls.
His crown was black, with gold emblems, and standing next to him was the principal King of the village and his attendants, standing tall and proud with their golden standards, heavy necklaces and medallions. But it was Simon—her Simon—who shone brighter than anyone else.
His happy smile beamed out as Tom took the final steps towards the altar and placed her hand in Simon’s, and who looked into her face with such love and happiness that it made her head spin with joy.
He claimed her as his own as the warm sun outside the cool stone building shone through the stained glass, as the organ music blended with the drums and hornpipes. He lifted her veil and sealed their marriage with a kiss so tender and loving that she knew more than at any other time in her life that she had made the right decision.
He was the King and she was his bride and they would make a new home together in Africa. This was the life she had longed for. This was the life she had promised herself over all the years of struggle and fear and doubt and regret. It had all been worth it. She was ready to start her new life with the man she loved. Her husband and her King. It was time to begin the most exciting adventure of her life and she could hardly wait.
EPILOGUE
A SPECIAL report from the Hampshire Times Magazine:
A small African village welcomes its very special new Queen
Queen Kate O’Neill Reynolds might come from a small Hampshire village in England, but the computer scientist and her family now have a new home in Ghana.
In January this year her then fiancé Simon Reynolds was crowned King of a tribal kingdom after spending years building on the work started by his late father to establish a technology centre in the Volta region of Ghana.
When Kate and Simon married, in an extraordinary cathedral wedding in Hampshire in June, their very special guests included the village’s paramount King and his entourage. They had been so impressed with Kate’s dedication and commitment to their area that the King decided to bestow this unique honour on Mrs Reynolds.
Kate Reynolds then travelled to Ghana and was made Queen, before Kings, chiefs and elders from across Ghana, together with her father Tom, younger sister Gemma, and hundreds of citizens, colleagues and well-wishers.
In a tradition known as the Enstoolment Ceremony Queen Kate received blessings before being presented with her official tribal clothing—golden slippers, a very special Kente woven toga and a golden crown, before feasting and dancing late into the night in one of the largest celebrations to be held in the area for many years.
It is understood that Queen Kate has already begun her royal duties by working on a new school for handicapped children in the district.
The Prince’s Forbidden Love
RAYE MORGAN
About the Author
RAYE MORGAN has been a nursery school teacher, a travel agent, a clerk and a business editor, but her best job ever has been writing romances—and fostering romance in her own family at the same time. Current score: two boys married, two more to go. Raye has published over seventy romances, and claims to have many more waiting in the wings. She lives in Southern California with her husband and whichever son happens to be staying at home at the moment.
Raye Morgan’s most recent novel is
Crown Prince, Pregnant Bride,
which was available in February.
Dear Reader,
Weddings are wonderful—white lace and promises. Summer and spring weddings are the best with bridesmaids in pastel colors and pictures taken on wide, sweeping lawns. What might be even better? Royal summer weddings, of course. The gowns are even more elaborate, dripping with crystals and seed pearls and antique Victorian handmade lace. The men all look so dashing, like a casting call for Cary Grants. The tiny flower girls are so adorable with their baskets full of petals. But best of all—there are princes and princesses everywhere. Magic!
Why do we love royalty? I think we catch royal fever from fairy tales we hear as children. Those princesses rarel
y get caught mopping floors or doing dishes— unless named Cinderella. They spend their time getting fittings for ball gowns and dreaming that someday their prince will come. And when he shows up, the adventures and romantic intrigues begin! The entire production captures the imagination and sends it into the clouds.
And then we grow up and read the tabloids and realise those royal people aren’t so different from the rest of us after all. In fact, they often seem so much worse! Still, they’re royal. That sets them apart, and the dream that starts in fairy tales lives on.
I hope my story captures the dream for you.
All the best!
Raye Morgan
This story is dedicated to Kirsten, our own princess
CHAPTER ONE
CROWN PRINCE ANDRE RASTAVA of the Royal House of Diamante, rulers of Gemania, was bored, and when he got bored he tended to get restless. The noise of the crowd in the casino was giving him a headache, and he found himself shrugging away the caresses of the exotic lady who had draped herself up against his body like a sleazy silk scarf.
What was her name again? It didn’t really matter. Lately the women had become as interchangeable as all the other decorative items in his life. He couldn’t tell one from another.
“Your Highness?” the croupier nudged, waiting for his call.
He glanced back at the roulette wheel and shrugged, pulling his tie loose and shoving back the sleeves of his Italian suit.
“Let it ride,” he said, his voice hoarse. It hardly mattered if he won or lost. He wasn’t really here for the gambling. Though few around him realized it, he had a far more dangerous game to play. That usually kept his attention razor- sharp.
But for some reason not tonight. Maybe it was the early spring heat wave coming in on the winds through the high mountain pass and numbing his senses. Or maybe it was the throbbing pain from the shrapnel that still lodged in his leg from the near miss he’d had in the explosion of his car the previous year. Or maybe he was just getting tired of this lifestyle.
He looked at the snifter of cognac that no one ever seemed to notice he seldom touched. It was all part of the show— just like the two young ladies who were his guests here this evening, just like the gaming, just like the setting. Just like the onlookers who didn’t know they were merely part of the audience to this play.
He looked out at them, at all the interested faces. Many of the men gazed at him with awe and a bit of envy. The women tended to smile as though hoping to catch his attention, even if for a fleeting moment. They seemed like nice enough people. Why were they watching him? For just a second he felt almost apologetic.
It’s all an act, people, he wanted to say. Don’t you get it?
But something happened that stopped that thought cold. As his gaze skittered through the crowd it met a pair of dark brown eyes that took his breath away. He knew those eyes. He knew that pretty, comical face with its sprinkling of freckles over the pert nose and its impatient pout.
But.it couldn’t be.
Shaking his head, as though to clear it of a fantasy, he closed his eyes and tried to erase her. But when he looked again she was still there, her blond curls like an enchanted cloud around her pretty face, her dark eyes blazing accusingly.
One sleek eyebrow rose as he stared back, curling his lip. He was letting her know from the start that he regretted nothing. She could take her complaints elsewhere. At least that was what he’d hoped to convey. But something in those soft dark eyes held him a beat too long. And suddenly he found himself sinking into her gaze in a way that caught at his breathing. Strange. He pulled away and blinked quickly. This wasn’t like him.
His number won again. A larger crowd was gathering, which didn’t help under the best of circumstances. His wide mouth twisted as he frowned and glanced at the croupier. The young man shrugged imperceptibly and appeared a bit bewildered. Prince Andre motioned to have his winnings collected and prepared to leave, ignoring the murmurings of the crowd and the entreaties of his two young female companions.
But when he rose and turned toward where he’d seen her she was gone.
Had he been dreaming? He scanned the room. No, he was still living in the real world. There she was, walking quickly toward the outer terrace that overlooked the lake, her honey-blond hair bouncing against her lovely back, the skirt of her yellow sundress swishing about her shapely knees.
He hesitated for another second or two. Was he sure it was Julienne? How could it be? His ward should be living under veritable lock and key in the mountain convent where she’d been ensconced for years now. The entire staff was under strict orders not to let her roam free. Was this merely a lookalike? A twin sister he’d never known about?
No matter. In any case, he had to check it out. He turned to leave the roulette table.
“Your Highness,” the exotic beauty was saying, reaching for him. “Please….”
“May we go with you?” her Scandinavian partner was asking plaintively. “We’re supposed to accompany you to—”
“Find Rolfo,” he said shortly, barely glancing at them. “He will see that you are taken care of. I have something urgent I must attend to.”
And he was off.
Princess Julienne was hurrying toward an exit, if only she could find one. She’d come up in an elevator, but now she was disoriented and wasn’t sure where it was. This had been a bad idea. She should have known better.
This entire scene was alien to her. She’d never been in a casino before. She hadn’t really been in a city before—at least, not for years. She was a convent girl. What had made her think she could come here and beard the lion in his den? She’d thought she would have the element of surprise, but she hadn’t realized he would have every other advantage.
He was so darn scary. Funny how she’d forgotten about that. Strength, power, and a casual disregard for danger seemed to exude from him like she’d never seen in anyone else. There was no way she could fight him. What had she been thinking? She wasn’t going to talk him into anything. She’d do better making a run for it.
A little part of her had hoped. She hadn’t remembered him as an ogre, exactly, and she’d thought she might be able to spark a little tiny flare of compassion in him. If she just had a chance to talk to him, face to face, surely….
But, no. She’d seen now how the land lay. There had been a time when she’d thought he cared about her, that he wanted her to be happy as well as useful to the crown. He was out of her life as far as she was concerned. He could just stay here with his fancy ladies and gamble and—
She stopped herself, biting her tongue as her gaze darted about, searching for a way back to the parking lot.
She’d left Popov, the driver from the convent, down below with the car. Dear, sweet Popov. He was the only person she could trust. Now … could she trust him to take her to the border and help her get across? Once she told him that was what she wanted, would he still be her only friend? Or would he become just as mean as everyone else?
She made one last attempt to find an elevator, but she’d lost track of where she’d come out on the floor, and besides, she was out on a wide terrace now. There were so many people, so much noise and color, with the blue waters of the lake shimmering behind it all. But ahead she saw an opening to wide, curving steps and she hurried forward, hoping to take them down.
The question remained—was he following her?
She glanced back over her shoulder as she started down the huge sweeping staircase to street level. There was some sort of commotion back on the casino floor. That only spurred her on, and she raced down the steps, leaping from one to the next, her heart in her throat. Her only hope was to make it back to the parking area and find her driver before anyone could catch her.
She was going to get away.
Prince Andre was finding it necessary to push himself through a growing knot of people who were gathering about the table, as though just watching him play would make them rich. He cleared them just as she disappeared down the
stairs, and by the time he got to the railing he could see that she was more than halfway down to the street. If she reached it before he caught her she would melt into the tourist traffic and be gone for good. He hesitated for barely a second. His impulse was to call out to her, but something told him she wouldn’t obey his commands and he might as well save himself the trouble.
He glanced at the wrought-iron decorative work that led from one window to another on the outer building walls. The thought of his bad leg only deterred him for half a second, and then he was up on the railing and reaching for the ironwork. A shift in balance, a lunge for a hand-hold, a leap of faith, and he landed, upright and poised, right in front of Julienne as she made it to the last step.
That brought her up short and caught her attention, and she stared at him, her eyes wide as saucers.
“Wow,” she said, thoroughly impressed.
The small crowd lining the upper railing sighed in awe as well, and a couple of them even clapped.
He managed to cover up the gasp of pain his leg gave him upon landing and glared at her.
“So it is you.”
She nodded, still thunderstruck by his Tarzan stunt. Funny, but that pretty much fit in with the way she’d always seen him—a bit larger than life. And it did appeal to her feminine senses.
