The Virgin and His Majesty

by Robyn Donald

  Heat flamed through her at that subtle pressure; she dragged in a painful breath, only to find it imbued with the potent aphrodisiac of Gerd’s faint body scent—pure, charged masculinity. She was becoming aroused, readying herself for a passion that would never be returned, never be appeased.

  And then Gerd drew back and she felt the distance between them like a chasm.

  Determined to break the sense of connection, the feverish hunger, she said bleakly, ‘You know Alex better than I do. My mother banished him to boarding school before I was born, and we rarely saw him.’

  ‘He told me you’re having difficulty finding a job.’

  Startled, she lifted her head, parrying his coolly questioning survey. ‘For someone on the opposite side of the world from New Zealand you certainly keep your finger on the pulse,’ she said forthrightly. ‘Yes, the downturn in business has meant that inexperienced commerce graduates are in over-supply, but I’ll find something.’

  ‘Surely Alex could fit you into his organisation?’

  ‘Any position I get will be on my own merits,’ she told him abruptly.

  ‘I’m flattered you allowed him to pay your way here. He said he had to almost force you to accept the offer.’

  Her brother had dropped in on her the day she got the invitation, and when she’d told him she couldn’t afford to go, he’d lifted one black brow and drawled, ‘Consider it your next Christmas present.’

  She’d laughed and refused, but a few days later his secretary had rung to ask if she had a passport, and given her instructions to meet his private jet at Auckland’s airport. And her mother had applied pressure, no doubt hoping that a holiday among the rich and famous would make Rosie reconsider her next move—to find a job in a florist’s shop.

  ‘You might just as well be a hairdresser,’ Eva Matthews had wailed. ‘It was bad enough when you decided to take a commerce degree, but to turn yourself into a florist?’ She’d startled Rosie with her virulence. ‘Why, for heaven’s sake? Everyone says you’re clever as a cartload of monkeys, but you’ve done nothing—nothing at all!—with your brains. You were a constant disappointment to your father—what would he have thought of this latest hare-brained scheme?’

  Rosie had shrugged. Starting with the fact that she’d been born the wrong sex, she’d never been able to please her parents.

  ‘This is something I want to do,’ she said firmly.

  Her years at an expensive, exclusive boarding school had been for her mother. University had been for her father, although he’d made his disapproval clear when she’d chosen a commerce degree instead of something more academically challenging that would befit the daughter of a famed archaeologist.

  Neither of her parents had known that she’d always planned to work with flowers. The degree had been her first step, and during her holidays she’d worked in a good florist’s shop, honing her skills and a natural talent for design. A few months before the end of the university year the shop had closed down, a casualty of the recession, and, with the financial world on the brink of panic, now was not the time to set up. Even if she’d had the capital, which she didn’t.

  Rosie had discussed her situation with Kelt. He’d advised finding a job, saving like crazy and waiting for an upturn in the situation.

  Good advice. Her expression unconsciously wistful, she turned her head and watched him dance with Hani. They looked so perfect together…

  Just as Gerd and the Princess Serina had looked—a matching pair.

  ‘They are very happy together,’ Gerd said, an abrasive note in his words startling her.

  ‘Oh, yes, so happy. But who wouldn’t be, married to Kelt?’

  Kelt didn’t write her off as a lightweight or treat her as though she had the common sense of a meringue. A growing girl couldn’t have had a better substitute brother, but his marriage to Hani had taken something from the special relationship he and Rosie shared; he had other loyalties, other responsibilities now.

  Rosie had expected it to happen and she didn’t resent it, but she missed their closeness.

  Gerd asked laconically, ‘So what is your plan?’

  ‘Oh, take a look around, see what I can find,’ she said airily. ‘And what are your plans, now that you and the country have emerged from the year of mourning? What changes are you going to make in Carathia?’

  ‘Only a few, and those slowly. I didn’t realise you were interested in my country.’

  She met his eyes with a swift, dazzling smile. ‘Of course I am. Being related to the ruler of Carathia gave me immense prestige at school. I used to boast about it incessantly.’

  He held her away from him, examining her face. Bracing herself as a flame of awareness sizzled through her, Rosie met that intent eagle-amber gaze with cool challenge.

  The grimness faded from his expression, although his smile was narrow as a blade. ‘I don’t believe that for a moment. Why did you decide to become an accountant?’

  She wasn’t going to tell him about her love affair with flowers. ‘It just seemed a sensible thing to do. As I’m sure you’re aware, my father was hopeless with money—he spent everything on his expeditions—and my mother isn’t much better. I wanted to know how things worked in the financial world.’

  Cynicism tinged his deep voice. ‘Or did you just decide to shock your parents?’

  She shook her head, stopping abruptly when her curls bobbed about in a childish fashion. ‘I wanted to come away from university with something concrete, skills I could use.’

  Something that made people see past her outward physical attributes. Most people took one look at her and wrote her off as a flirtatious little piece of fluff.

  On a cool note she finished, ‘And I don’t regret it at all.’

  Gerd looked sceptical. The music swelled, and he caught her closer to steer her around a slight traffic jam of dancers ahead. Resisting the quick, fierce temptation to let herself relax against him, Rosie followed his steps.

  Above her head he said, ‘You asked what changes I plan; in parts of Carathia change is treated with suspicion, so I’ll be treading carefully, but I intend to extend the scope and the range of education, especially in the mountain districts.’

  ‘Why education? What about health?’

  Broad shoulders lifted in another swift shrug. ‘My grandmother concentrated on health services. They’re well-established, but not as fully used as they could be, especially in the mountains where superstition is still rampant and many people prefer to use the local wise women. When patients do finally present at hospitals, they often die there.’

  Rosie nodded. ‘So I suppose they try even harder not to go near them.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And you think education will help? How?’

  ‘By giving children an understanding of science and some knowledge of the outerworld. Life in the mountains is still very insular, very remote. Children in the alpine villages have to travel to the bigger towns for secondary education, so most miss out. I want to take higher education—good higher education—to each market town.’

  ‘It seems logical,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘What’s the school leaving age?’

  ‘Thirteen. Far too young, but parents say they need them at home to help with farming, so any alteration will have to be managed with tact.’

  Gerd felt her curls tickle his throat when she nodded.

  Thoughtfully she said, ‘To change attitudes you need to corral them at school while they’re still open and receptive. How are you going to set up this system of a high school in every valley?’ She glanced up at him, wide blue eyes intent and serious for once. ‘I assume that’s what you’re planning?’

  Gerd told her, sarfonically amused because he was discussing his plans for Carathia with the precocious, light-hearted girl-child who’d jolted him with the passion in her kisses—and his own violent and unconsidered response to them.

  That summer three years ago had revealed that behind her sexy, laughing face lurked a keen, quick
brain. He’d enjoyed their discussions, but her ardent kisses on the final night when he’d yielded to the forbidden temptation of her sultry mouth had reminded him she was far too young and innocent to do what he’d wanted to do—carry her off to the nearest bed and make reckless, sensuous love to her.

  Thank God he’d rejected her open invitation. Etched into his brain was the sight of her kissing Kelt the very morning after she’d turned to flames in his arms. He’d realised then that she’d been using him as a substitute for the man she really wanted.

  Did she still long for his brother? If her expression when she watched Kelt dancing with Hani was anything to go by, it seemed more than likely.

  Kelt had always been there for her when her father was away searching for ancient civilisations, when her mother was off with the latest boyfriend. A beautiful woman with everything going for her, Eva Matthews wasted her life chasing some sort of rainbow fantasy of the perfect love. Judging by the stream of men through her university years, her daughter was doing the same.

  Searching for a security she’d never known? Possibly. Trouble in a delicious little package?

  Undoubtedly. But she was no longer naïve and inexperienced.

  Above her froth of amber curls he sketched a humourless smile. He was acutely aware of her small, elegantly curved form in that sinuous dress, its colour reminding him of the beaches on his brother’s estate in New Zealand. Subtly glittering, the fabric made the most of her curves and narrow waist without clinging. In a room full of women clothed to impress, she stood out because she wore no jewellery at all, not even a ring on a slender finger.

  A strand of hair snagged itself on his lapel, glittering in the light of the chandeliers. She jerked free and said, ‘Sorry about that. I did try for dignity, but my curls are uncontrollable.’

  ‘It would seem so.’ His voice sounded odd in his ears, and he frowned, fighting back a swift, elemental appetite, a headstrong physical goad that knotted his gut and dried his mouth.

  Half smiling, she gazed up at him, dark lashes wide around the intense, gold-flecked blue of her eyes. ‘I straightened my hair once and it just hated it and went all lank and limp, so now I let the curls do their own thing.’

  Gerd closed his mind against a swift, erotic image of her, sleek and golden and laughing against crisp white sheets, but the maddening questions refused to go away. Would she be as passionate as the promise of her soft, laughing mouth?

  Hard on the heels of that came another question, even more insubordinate. Was she like this—provocative, tempting—with her lovers?

  Of course she was. And now she was twenty-one and experienced, there was no need for restraint…

  Chapter Two

  GERD dampened down a compelling surge of desire to say remotely, ‘Although you affect to despise your hair, it’s very pretty. As I’m sure you know.’

  Rosie should have been gratified; apart from that final crack about her hair—delivered with aloof kindness, as though she were ten—he had at least treated her like an adult.

  Unfortunately, since they’d moved onto the floor she’d reacquired a taste for the danger and zest of crossing swords with Gerd. Like fencing with a tiger, she’d decided dreamily three years ago.

  Her pulse rate skyrocketed when her glance skimmed the strong, boldly chiselled features, intimidating yet profoundly sexy. Now she understood why she’d always been attracted to men with a slight cleft in their chin and hawkish profiles.

  Rapidly discarding her first impetuous response, she told him briskly, ‘I could say, just you try living with a head covered with red curls and see if anyone takes you seriously, but instead I’ll ignore your remark. I’ll bet you were born looking like a king.’

  His smile was lazy, almost teasing. ‘I’m not a king, and it was meant to be a compliment.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid you’ll have to try harder.’

  His eyes narrowed, and for a second—perhaps less?—something flashed between them, a brittle tension that robbed her of words and breath.

  To her relief the music died away, and he released her and offered his arm. She rested her hand on it, feeling insignificant as he escorted her to where Kelt, Hani and Alex waited for her.

  They were almost there when he said formally, ‘Thank you for coming, Rosemary.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ she returned, smiling pleasantly at a dowager wearing a serious dress in satin and more pearls than was decent. Taking refuge in flippancy from the aching emptiness that threatened her, Rosie decided the only thing missing was a lorgnette.

  She went on, ‘It’s been a truly amazing week. And the coronation ceremony was…’ She searched for the right words, finally settling on, ‘Truly awe-inspiring. Hugely impressive.’ And profoundly moving.

  ‘I’m glad you found it so,’ he said, his neutral tone revealing nothing. ‘You’re leaving the day after tomorrow, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She’d like to ask him what he’d planned for tomorrow night, but no doubt he had better things to do than entertain a nobody from New Zealand.

  Kiss Princess Serina, perhaps?

  When they reached the others they talked pleasantries for a few minutes until Gerd walked away, and at last Rosie could draw breath.

  All she wanted to do was skulk up to her bedroom and hide there until she felt more…well, more herself.

  But it was almost over. If she organised her life with care and some cunning she need never exchange words or glances with Gerd again. And when the wedding invitation arrived she’d produce a very good excuse for not attending—a broken leg should do.

  Even if she had to break it herself.

  From the corner of her eye she saw Gerd talking to the princess, and stiffened her spine. OK, so exorcising this unwanted hunger would take willpower and a rigorous refusal to indulge in daydreams, but she could manage that—she’d had a lot of practice.

  The evening wore on. Resolutely keeping her gaze away from the person who held her attention, Rosie danced and laughed and talked and flirted with several interested men. By midnight her rigid self-control was beginning to take its toll and she allowed herself another longing thought of the bed waiting for her in the private apartments of the palace.

  But when the ball ended, Alex told her casually, ‘Gerd’s asked us to his quarters for a nightcap. Just the family.’

  No princess? Rosie banished a treacherous needle of excitement. ‘How kind of him.’

  He lifted a brow and after an uncertain look at his handsome face she began to chatter. She loved her brother, but they had never known each other well enough to develop the sort of relationship that made for confidences.

  It was definitely a family gathering—although Gerd seemed to be related to a lot of European royalty.

  But no Princess Serina. Stifling an ignoble relief, Rosie refused a glass of champagne and accepted one of mineral water, then glanced around. The private drawing room was big, furnished with more than a salute to Victorian taste. It wasn’t all heavy furniture, however. Her gaze travelled to the large painting in a place of honour on one wall.

  ‘Kelt’s and my New Zealand grandfather,’ Gerd said from behind her. ‘Alex’s great-great-uncle.’

  ‘He’s very handsome,’ she said inanely. ‘More like Kelt than you.’

  ‘You’re intimating that I’m not handsome?’ he drawled lazily.

  Colour burned along her cheekbones. Keeping her eyes on the portrait, she returned in her most limpid tone, ‘I’m forever being told that it’s only women who need constant reassurance about their attractiveness.’

  His low laugh held a sardonic note. ‘Well avoided.’

  ‘All I meant was that your grandfather and Kelt have that northern-European look, whereas you show your Mediterranean heritage.’ And a drop-dead gorgeous set of genes he’d inherited—a strong-boned face emphasised by those raptor’s eyes and his powerful, longlegged physique.

  ‘Like most ruling families, the Crysander-Gillans have a
very mixed heritage. The original founder of my house was a Norseman who arrived here with a group of Vikings via Russia some time in the tenth century. They stayed, and imported princesses from almost every country in Europe and the occasional one from considerably further away.’

  Well, Princess Serina wouldn’t have far to come! Her family lived in exile on the French Riviera. Rosie’s heart contracted. ‘I like this portrait,’ she said swiftly. ‘He looks…utterly dependable, yet dangerous.’

  Gerd smiled and said something in a language Rosie recognised as being Carathian. ‘That’s an old Carathian proverb—A man should be a tiger in bed, a lion in battle, and wise and cunning as a fox in counsel. The Carathians believe that my grandfather met that standard.’

  Rosie kept her attention religiously fixed on the painted face. ‘He looks all that and more. How did the ancient Carathians know about tigers and lions?’

  He drawled, ‘There used to be lions in southern Europe, and people from the Mediterranean got around—remember, Alexander the Great marched as far as India. I imagine those who made it back arrived home with stories about tigers.’

  ‘Was Carathia part of Greece originally?’

  ‘No, although as a state it began with a band of Greek soldiers who lost a battle a thousand years or so before the Christian era and fled this way. They found this valley, and helped the local tribespeople against an attacking force sent to control the pass. For their endeavours they were rewarded with Carathian brides.’

  ‘I hope the brides approved,’ Rosie observed tartly.

  ‘Who knows?’ He sounded amused.

  Rosie’s heart did a ridiculous flip. If those ancient Greeks had been anything like Gerd their brides had probably been delirious with excitement.

  Gerd went on, ‘Over the years various of my ancestors acquired the coastal region and its offshore islands.’

  ‘How?’ she asked, intrigued by the long history of the small country.

  ‘Usually by conquest, sometimes by marriage.’

  She asked curiously, ‘How many languages do you speak?’