by Day Leclaire
Without shoes, she barely cleared his shoulders. She tilted back her head and a waterfall of silky black hair swirled around her hips. “I’d have scratched their eyes out. Kicked. Screamed.” She shrugged. “Merrick taught me how to defend myself.”
“Yes, it worked so well with me.” He deliberately caught her wrists in his, as he’d done earlier, holding her with ease. “And I didn’t even have a knife.”
He scored with that one. She flinched as though she could still see those knives gleaming in the moonlight. Hell, he could still see them. Wickedly serrated. Purposeful. Glittering with the promise of serious injury, if not death. The thought of them scoring her tender flesh made him want to howl in fury. She wouldn’t have stood a chance against the three who’d been chasing her, even if they hadn’t been armed.
Something of his thoughts must have shown in his face and for the first time she did appear intimidated. “Let go, Brandt.”
“Make me. Prove you could have defended yourself against even one man.”
Instead of fighting him, she stepped forward and rested her forehead against his chest, leaning into him. “You’re right. I couldn’t have.” She sounded exhausted. “Let me say it again. Seriously, this time. Thank you for saving my life. I do know that if you hadn’t been there, tonight would have ended far differently.”
Her words hit like a blow, succeeding where defiance never would have. Releasing her wrists, he forked his fingers deep into the rich mass of her hair and tilted her head upward. The moonlight caught in her eyes, turning them iridescent. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. I’d never forgive myself.” His mouth tilted to one side. “I doubt your family would, either.”
Instead of pulling free, she continued to stand within his grasp, her body locked tight against his. “Do you know that I was madly in love with you when I was a child?” she asked him with an impulsiveness he’d always found disconcerting. “Wildly, crazily, deliciously in love, or as much as a child can be. Crazy, huh?”
For the first time that evening his features relaxed and a found himself smiling. “Were you now?” Unable to resist, he traced the curve of her cheek with his thumb. The smooth, creamy skin proved as soft to the touch as it looked. “You always were a reckless child. I’m not sure much has changed since then.”
“Maybe not,” she conceded with a shrug. “One thing’s changed, though.”
“And what’s that?”
She grinned up at him. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a child anymore.”
He couldn’t help it. His gaze wandered over her, taking in the short, spangled dress, wishing he could do more than look. He wanted to gather her up and carry her back to the hotel. Even more, he wanted to strip away that handful of silk and bare her. Touch her. Take her. No matter how wrong it might be. He did none of those things, allowed none of what he felt to show in his expression. Gently, he set her away from him.
“You’re right,” he murmured. “You are all grown up. But this isn’t the time or place. Let’s get you to your hotel.”
“Okay.”
Instead of stepping back and continuing on toward the Carlton, she tilted her head to one side and held him with those clear mountain-lake eyes, eyes that reflected a desire so strong, it roused the most primal instincts he possessed, instincts that demanded he take what she so blatantly offered. Take here and now, giving no quarter. How he managed to hold himself in check, he never recalled.
Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm once again, she gave him a final verbal shove, one that shot him straight over the edge. “So, tell me, Brandt,” she said as casually as though they were discussing the weather. “When and where would be the right time and place? I want time, date and location, if you don’t mind. I want to finish what we’ve started.”
The memory faded and Brandt forced himself to watch his bride drift toward him while the pipe organ thundered out the processional, as though volume could drown out what everyone gathered today whispered—that this ceremony was little more than a farce. His gloved hands collapsed into fists before he forcibly relaxed them.
Those whispers were all too accurate, not that it made him any happier about the situation. As for his memories of Miri and those amazing weeks together, they were just that. Memories. Bittersweet moments-out-of-time that were no longer possible and never could be again. He fixed his attention on his bride and kept it there. He couldn’t afford to lose focus, not when so much depended on him.
Princess Alyssa approached, not a scrap of her visible beneath a traditional Verdonian veil of lace and tulle. Just as well, all things considered. All he needed to make this travesty complete was a bride weeping her way through the ceremony, something Angela, the mother of the bride, was handling quite capably, thank you very much.
The organ music continued even after the bride had reached his side, creating an awkward few minutes. Finally, it died away and the ceremony began. The minute Alyssa opened her mouth to whisper the vows being forced on her, Brandt thanked divine intervention for her voluminous veil. She didn’t sound at all like herself, whether from anger or tears he couldn’t quite tell, but he’d just as soon not have to witness either one.
When his turn came to speak his vows, he did so without hesitation in a calm, carrying voice that held not a scrap of emotion. Duty didn’t require emotion. And he did have a duty. A burdensome one. To the principality he governed. To the country he loved more than himself. But especially to the people of that country.
No matter how much he might wish this bride were someone far different than Alyssa Sutherland—in fact, a woman almost her polar opposite—that choice had been taken from him when he received the reports about the Montgomerys’ malfeasance. They’d stolen from Verdonia, from the country they’d sworn to protect. After that, there had been no other choice available to him except this one. And he’d fulfill his responsibilities, no matter how distasteful he found them.
With a start he realized the brief ceremony was drawing to a close, the benediction gravely intoned over their bowed heads. Next came the traditional declaration of their union, words of permanence that held endless complications. “From this day forward, until the end of your reign on this earth, may you forever and ever remain husband and wife.” A pause followed, a pointed acknowledgement of the pragmatic nature of the ceremony just performed, before the final words of the ceremony were pronounced. “Your Highness, you may kiss your bride.”
Brandt reached for Alyssa’s veil, but she took an unexpected step backward, her hand pressed to her middle. “Please,” she whispered. “I don’t feel well. I think I’m going to be sick.”
Perfect. The perfect end to a perfect wedding. Just as well. He had no more desire to kiss her than she had to kiss him. As a way out, illness worked fine for him. He turned to the congregation with a calm smile. “My bride knows Verdonian tradition well. She has requested that I unveil her in private, so I’m the first to set eyes on her as my wife.”
There was a wave of uncertain laughter drowned out by a recessional more thunderous than the processional. Offering his arm to Alyssa, Brandt escorted her down the aisle, through the vestibule, and into the sun-dappled courtyard. Off to one side, a small wooden doorway stood ajar and, without waiting for an escort, he led her into the tunnel that ran from chapel to palace.
“Hold on just a few minutes longer,” he murmured. “We’ll get you to your room.”
“Thank you.”
The words echoed strangely in the tunnels, softening the broad American tones that normally flavored her voice. He couldn’t help comparing it to a different sort of accent, still American-born, but with an underlying hint of a Verdonian lilt. Teasing. Impulsive. Filled with laughter. Just the sound of it had broken through layers of pomp and circumstance, allowing him to feel human, if only for those brief days he’d spent on Mazoné.
The tunnel emerged at a central courtyard in the palace and he escorted Alyssa—his wife, he forcibly corrected himself—to a doorway
that connected the courtyard to a corridor not far from the suite of rooms he’d given her, rooms that adjoined his own. She would have disappeared inside without a word or backward look, if he hadn’t stopped her with a hand to her shoulder.
Alyssa froze beneath his hold. “Don’t” was all she said.
“I know you want an explanation.”
She spun to face him, her illness apparently forgotten, assuming she’d been feeling sick in the first place. “Yes, I would.”
“And I also explained that I couldn’t give you one. Not yet. I’m sorry, Alyssa.”
He could feel the frustration radiating off her. “So am I. You must want to be king very badly.”
Hell. He should have known he couldn’t keep that quiet. “Who’s been speaking to you about that?”
“No one. I just assumed…”
“You claimed not to know anything about Verdonia’s political situation,” he cut in. “Or was that a lie?”
Her hands wrapped themselves in the folds of her gown, betraying her nervousness. “It’s just something one of my bridesmaids said,” she murmured. “I don’t understand how marrying me will accomplish your goal to be king, but apparently it does.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Why don’t you uncomplicate it?”
He stilled. Up until now Alyssa had always been soft-spoken. Almost timid. The only time she’d confronted him had been out of concern for her mother’s safety, one of the more despicable methods he’d used to coerce Alyssa into this travesty of a marriage. Though it was something he’d spend the rest of life regretting, he deliberately shoved the memory away, compartmentalizing it for another time, after he’d met his duties and obligations.
She must have realized she’d said something wrong because she edged away from him, pressing her back to the door. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I’m not feeling well and I’m upset.”
“You deserve to know, Alyssa.” He reached past her, trying not to take it personally when she flinched from him. “Go on in your room and rest. I’ll send your mother to you.”
“No! Please don’t bother her.”
Now he was certain something was wrong. His eyes narrowed. “You’ve done nothing but ask to see her since you arrived. Now that you can, you don’t want to?”
“I…I—”
“Alyssa? Baby?” Angela appeared at the far end of the corridor and hurried toward them. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, er, Mom. I’m fine.”
Brandt shoved the door open and gestured to the two women. “Why don’t we go inside where we’ll have a little more privacy.”
Since he had both women together, he’d take the time to explain as much as he could about the current political situation in Verdonia. He signaled to a pair of his men stationed nearby. Immediately, they took up positions on either side of the doorway.
Once closeted inside Alyssa’s suite, he regarded his wife and mother-in-law. The two stood next to each other, speaking in soft murmurs. To his consternation, Angela looked ready to burst into tears again. She kept darting swift, apprehensive looks from him to her daughter and every scrap of color had fled her cheeks. Hell. What a predicament.
Crossing the room, he tried not to take offense when the two stiffened in alarm. He caught the trailing end of Alyssa’s veil and lifted it. “Here. Let’s get this off you. I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable without it.”
Three
“No!” Miri snatched the veil from Brandt’s grasp. “Don’t.” She backed away, tripping over the hem of her gown in her haste. “I’d rather keep it on.”
His eyes narrowed in blatant suspicion. He sensed something was wrong, and if she didn’t act fast, he’d figure it out. She was amazed he hadn’t already. Some problem must have him preoccupied, otherwise a man as intelligent as Brandt would have put two and two together by now.
Angela had known instantly she wasn’t Alyssa. It had only taken two words for mother to tell an imposter from her daughter. Thank goodness Brandt didn’t know his wife quite so well. And thank goodness he’d given the two women a few seconds for private conversation. It hadn’t given her much time, but it had been long enough to reassure Angela that her daughter was safe and beg the poor woman to remain silent about the switch.
Miri fought to regain her focus. Okay, one problem at a time. The most pressing concern was to distract Brandt while keeping her veil firmly on her head. “Please…I think I’m coming down with a migraine.” She did her best to mimic Angela’s voice, in the hopes it would sound similar to Alyssa’s. People had always thought Miri’s voice identical to her mother, Rachel’s, and often confused them on the phone. With luck, the same held true with Alyssa and her mother. Based on Angela’s amazed reaction, the attempt must have passed muster. “I get headaches sometimes when I’m stressed. Noise and light make them worse. The veil is actually helping.”
“Migraine,” Angela parroted, babbling nervously. “Please, she needs to keep her veil on.”
Judging by Brandt’s expression, he didn’t believe her excuse for a single minute. To her relief, he didn’t press the issue. With a shrug, he stepped back, giving the two women some breathing space. “If it makes you more comfortable to leave it on, that’s fine,” he said to Miri.
The gentleness of his voice had her blinking in surprise. Did he attribute her insistence that she remain veiled to fear? If so, she’d run with it. “Thank you. I feel so much better with it on.”
She shot a quick glance in Angela’s direction in the hopes of gaining some hint as to how to proceed. But the woman stood transfixed, staring in blatant panic, so Miri spun to confront Brandt. No, not confront. Clearly, that wasn’t typical of how Alyssa had dealt with him up to this point. She’d ask. Politely.
“Please, Your Highness. You promised to explain what’s going on to me and my mother.” She crossed to Angela’s side and took the woman’s trembling hand in hers. “Why did you force me to marry you?”
He folded his arms across his chest and contemplated the two women. “I need your mother’s assistance in order to get all the facts straight.”
Miri spared Angela a swift glance. She looked on the verge of passing out. “What does my mother have to do with any of this?”
“She needs to tell you who you are. You haven’t, have you?” he asked the older woman.
Angela shook her head, her breath escaping in a shuddering sigh. “She doesn’t know anything.”
“If I may?” He waited for her reluctant nod before continuing. “What your mother has neglected to tell you is that you were born Princess Alyssa Sutherland, here in Verdonia. You’re the daughter of Prince Frederick, who died a few years ago, and the half sister of his son, Erik. When you were a year old your mother divorced your father and left the country with you.”
Okay, if she were really Alyssa, she’d be surprised by this information. “Is this true?” she demanded of her “mother.”
“Yes.” Angela’s grip on Miri’s hand spasmed. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.”
“Why? Why didn’t you?”
Angela caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “I just wanted to start over. To leave my past in the past.” She shot a reproachful glare in Brandt’s direction. “That didn’t work very well.”
“No, it didn’t,” Miri agreed. “Which leads me to my next question. What has my heritage got to do with—” Her gesture encompassed Brandt and the palace around them. “With why I’m here and our marriage?”
He frowned as though debating what to say next. “Do you know anything about how Verdonia’s monarchy works?”
Miri hesitated and sent another quick glance in Angela’s direction, who hastened to answer the question. “I haven’t told her anything about that, either.”
Brandt nodded, as though not surprised. “I’ll see if I can keep this simple.” He crossed to the writing desk positioned in one corner of the room and helped himself to a piece of paper and pen. Drawing a rough map of
the country, he handed it to Miri. “Verdonia is divided into three principalities, each ruled by its own prince or princess. The northernmost principality—mine—is Avernos. The central one is Celestia, where your brother, Erik, most recently ruled. And the southernmost is Verdon and is governed by Lander Montgomery.”
“Go on.”
“Unlike most monarchies, we elect our kings and queens by popular vote from the three royal bloodlines, rather than allowing the crown to pass along hereditary lines. Until six weeks ago, we were ruled by King Stefan Montgomery. With his death, the people of Verdonia will choose his successor from the eldest eligible prince and princess of each principality.”
“Are you one?” She already knew the answer, but it seemed an appropriate question.
“Yes.”
“Am I?” Another reasonable question, one she’d neglected to ask Merrick and one he hadn’t thought to volunteer. Though perhaps he hadn’t known for certain.
Brandt shook his head. “Normally, your brother, Erik, would have been a candidate. But he abdicated his position immediately after King Stefan’s death. Though you’re qualified at any age to govern your particular principality—in this case, Celestia—you’re not eligible to rule all of Verdonia because you won’t be twenty-five at the time of the election.”
She’d heard about Erik’s abdication, if not the reason for it. A question for Merrick once she got out of here. “What I still don’t understand is why the marriage? You haven’t explained that part.”
“Since neither you nor Erik is eligible to rule Verdonia, the choice is between me and Lander Montgomery.” His dark eyes lost all expression, his voice taking on an emotionless quality. “Remember we’re dealing with a popular ballot. Our citizens tend to vote the prince or princess from their principality. That means Verdon will throw in with Lander, and Avernos with me. If it were just a contest between the two of us, Montgomery would win since the population of Verdon is largest. But there’s still Celestia to consider.”
