MAID FOR A PRINCE: (Book 1) (Point St. Claire, where true love finds a way)

by Robyn Grady

  As she slid her arm out, the base stayed behind, but a stray sheet of paper came out. One side was covered in writing—sentences penned in English. Rolling onto her back, Helene held the paper above her head and read the first line.

  The world had gone mad.

  She studied the edges of the yellowed page. It smelled old, too. She swept her hand under the wardrobe again and carefully extracted more sheets. Assembling them in some order, she moved to the window-seat and began to read.

  Chapter 8

  Darius sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tight as he stared at the safe and thought over the steps—or missteps—that had led to this point.

  While he respected the importance of tradition and valued the legacy handed down, his more educated side said that a block of stone—no matter how revered—could not influence whether sex between two people would bear fruit, so to speak. As much as he wished the condom had done its job, he’d been truthful with Helene. He didn’t regret a second of their time together. He wanted to be with her again.

  No point dwelling on maybes.

  He showered, dressed, and then ventured out to the kitchen. Helene was putting the final touches to a lunch platter. In her sleeveless shirt and shorts, she sent over a smile, but he caught a glint of wariness in her eyes. She grabbed two plates while he joined her behind the counter. He wasn’t hungry but to lighten the mood he put up a good front.

  “I’m starved.”

  “Boys like their food.”

  He collected the platter. “When I was very young I liked to hang out in the kitchen. One of the cooks would let me watch her bake and help a little.”

  “Bet she dished out a few treats along the way.”

  “My father was determined I should know about duty. Who I was and what was expected of me. But around that cook, I was just a kid who liked to lick the spoon. I’m sure she baked far more cakes than we needed.”

  He followed Helene down the hall and out onto the balcony, smiling at a flashback—a man laughing as they kicked a ball.

  “My uncle liked to indulge me, too,” he said.

  “The uncle who abdicated?”

  “He was a kind man. Patient.” There was a time Darius had wanted to grow up to be just like Uncle Galen. He’d been way less strict than his dad. “I loved Galen. So did my father. But when he renounced the throne, he was banished. No member of the family was permitted contact. I haven’t seen him since.”

  “All because he fell in love with a woman who’d been married before?”

  She set down the plates while he centered the platter. “People can be protective of their royals. There were rumors that she’d seduced my uncle in order to drain funds from our modest coffers to funnel to her ex-husband in Germany.”

  “Like you said. Rumors.”

  “Right. There’s no proof. But things got hairy.” Downright dangerous, in fact. “My uncle chose his personal life over his sovereign duty. It was up to my father to hold it all together.”

  After they sat down, he poured the wine.

  “I was in his office when he got word that a mob with guns had formed downtown.” Darius remembered that day vividly. The uncertainty. The fear. “My mother was out at the time. She got caught up in the crush. A special guard unit got her back safely. But after that, my father always made sure we understood. Never underestimate whispers that can turn into cries.”

  “Wait. Your uncle had left. Your father had stepped up to help. Why would anyone want to hurt your family?”

  “There was an element that saw my uncle’s mistake as a way to end Vasily rule forever.”

  She seemed to think that over. “I guess there aren’t too many absolute monarchies left.”

  He rubbed an ear. “I’m partial to them myself.”

  She leaned across to pop a blueberry into his mouth. “And you’ll make one very cute king. Word on the main island is you’re pretty special.” When he put his head down and gave a modest laugh, she laughed too. “You don’t believe me?”

  “I’m just thinking about my sister. In her eyes, I’m a tyrant.”

  “Teenage years are hard. And your sister’s lost both her parents. When my father passed away, I remember thinking that suddenly no one seemed to understand me. My mother was always nitpicking, always demanding that I listen. She didn’t understand that I deserved respect, too.”

  “I don’t try to take my parents place where Tahlia is concerned. I only want her to finish her education before getting sidetracked, thinking about boys.”

  “Um, sorry to tell you, but all teenage girls stress over make-up, clothes, hair, and boys—not necessarily in that order. How old is she exactly?”

  “Just turned eighteen.”

  “At that age, you want to stretch your wings, be your own person, to feel as if you can make your own decisions.”

  He placed food on a plate and passed it over. “She likes a boy. A member of my staff.”

  “Likes?”

  “She says loves.” Grunting, he filled his own plate. “Tahlia’s naïve. Little more than a child.”

  “That’s something my mother would say.”

  “A person needs more than butterflies chasing around in their stomachs to make a relationship work.”

  “My parents married at a young age and they were happy.” She shrugged. “Maybe your sister truly is in love.”

  “Young love comes and goes. An education lasts a lifetime.”

  She sat back. “Oh, dear.”

  He frowned. “Oh dear what?”

  “Haven’t you read Romeo and Juliet? The more you try to keep star-crossed lovers apart, the more they’ll fight to stay together.”

  He set his jaw. “Tahlia will go to university in England.”

  “Right. She’ll be safe from boys there.”

  “I don’t want her to make a mistake.”

  “Like your uncle made a mistake all those years ago?”

  Darius’s gaze sharpened. He knew what Helene really wanted to say.

  Like we made a mistake today.

  “Where’s your uncle now?” she asked.

  “Living in the States.”

  “Happily married?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Three cheers for love.”

  “Not when it costs a man his kingdom.”

  “I’m sure your uncle is happy with the kingdom he resides in now.”

  He drummed a set of fingertips on the table. This woman was like a dog with a bone.

  “We have three days left here,” he said. “Let’s pretend politics and family don’t exist.”

  A teasing smile eased across her face. “So you’re just a regular guy taking some time off from the beat.”

  “Just a regular guy.”

  She raised her glass. “Well, here’s to boring obscurity.”

  But as they drank, for the first time in his life Darius truly wondered how it would feel to lead an ordinary existence, to set sail on an adventure as Helene had done—as his uncle had done, too—and have no real plans for ever coming back.

  Thankfully Helene changed the subject.

  “Darius, your mother liked to read,” Helene said, digging into her meal. “Did she like to write, too?”

  “You mean like a journal?”

  “Or her own stories.”

  “Not that I recall.”

  Helene nibbled thoughtfully on some cheese then changed the subject again. “I might go down to the stables later and try to clean up the rest of that paint.”

  He grinned. Wait a minute. “Why did you want to know whether my mother wrote?”

  “No reason.”

  He reached over and caught her hand. “Try again.”

  “Well, this morning, after I left you, I kind of broke something. Actually, I think it was already broken. Or maybe it was a hidden lid. Like a trap door in reverse.”

  He inwardly groaned. Again? “Something’s broken?”

  “The bottom of the wardrobe in my room. That shell I
brought back rolled underneath, and when I tried to rake it out…” She pushed to her feet. “I’ll show you?”

  She led him through into her quarters and crossed to the window seat. Offering over a few sheets of yellowed paper, she sat down.

  “Darius, read this.”

  ᵿᵿᵿᵿᵿ

  The world had gone mad. Leandros slapped away hot ash that drifted from a ring of burning pyres then grabbed a man rushing past. Ahmet was a well-respected merchant who dealt in fine cloth. Today his gaze was wild and, his garments were stained with soot and blood. Fisting his hands into the older man’s shirtfront, Leandros spoke fervently to his eyes.

  “How long have they been gathered?”

  “Since the early hours.” Ahmet growled, a sound drenched in venom and disgust. “Our king has disgraced his ancestors. He will bring misery upon us all. None here will sit on their hands while he flouts our laws to satisfy the whims of his whore.”

  Ahmed spat at the dirt, shook himself free, and continued up Sangros Hill while pockets of chanting beat at the air like a drum.

  Nearby a young boy wept for his mama. Scooping up the child, shielding his tear-stained face from the ash, Leandros set his jaw and pushed on. Behind soaring walls and ornate gates, a regiment of the royal guard stood erect with white-gloved hands poised on sabres and their expressions set beneath military cap. More guards sat mounted on horses that snorted, shied, and danced around.

  Jostling and shoving, Leandros craned to see more over the palace’s turrets. Finger by finger, panic closed around his throat and squeezed. Where was the rest of the guard? Mutinied? Or perhaps inside the palace itself, a final bastion protecting lives they’d pledged to honor and defend.

  Greeks were superstitious. Their nature was to watch for signs to appease the gods—to sacrifice. In Tierenias, female sexuality in its purest form was revered but not when the power was abused.

  “There’s my boy!”

  A woman who took in laundry for a wage broke through the rabble and swept her child from Leandros’s arms.

  “Take him home,” he shouted over the din. “It isn’t safe.”

  “And who is safe in times such as these? We mustn’t cower. We must right the wrong, and quickly.”

  The boy pleaded, “Mama, please, home.”

  But the woman only glared at Leandros through wings of frazzled hair and eyes dark with hate. “Spain was first, then Russia and Turkey. Now it is our king’s turn to fall.”

  Although many believed the baby to be the fruit of another man’s loins, their king had nonetheless married and accepted his bride’s child as his own. Coffers had been stripped to fund the marriage ceremony’s gold-plated carriage as well as a ring studded with priceless jewels. Like ripples from a stone dropped mid-stream, rumors had spread, every minute growing louder. It was written that should a Tierenias king marry outside of appropriate pedigree, consequences would befall his house as well as the people of this Aegean twin-island state. There had not been the plagues or endless famine of which the laws spoke, but last week some unknown beast had slaughtered a flock of goats. Four days ago, three male infants had died of no apparent cause.

  Now as that woman and her child disappeared into the crowd, Leandros scanned the expressions of his friends, people he’d known all his life. With news of more global conflict adding fuel to this unrest, panic as well as indignation lined every face.

  Who had not lost in the Great War or in those wide-spread massacres in Asia Minor? And yet as the calls for blood rose louder, Leandros could think of only one life that mattered now—one soul with midnight hair and adoring crystalline eyes whom he cared for more than his own life.

  Over past months they’d met beneath the shroud of late evening to talk, to kiss, to pet. Three nights ago, they’d dropped their clothes upon the pebbles and had run into the waters of a secluded bay. Beneath the claw of a shiny new moon, they’d swirled in the cool, locked in each other’s arms as they’d whispered and laughed and all the while touched. When he’d bounced her up, her legs had latched around his back and, sighing, she’d pressed in dangerously close.

  By some miracle she remained a virgin still, although soon, Leandros vowed, he would have her, and for the rest of their lives. But not until he’d taken her far from here. Not until she was safe.

  Nearby, a youth—the fisherman Paulo’s son—shouted, “Look! On the balcony.”

  Leandros’s gaze flew up. High on a platform where kings addressed their subjects in times of celebration as well as despair, a shadowy figure opened the doors. Caught on the same sea breeze that fanned those pyre flames, sheer curtains billowed out and a woman appeared. She wore a simple white gown. A light veil covered her head. Desperate to see—hard bars eating into his temples, his cheeks—Leandros clung to the gate while a thudding pulse echoed in his ears.

  The air was hazy. She was far away. He couldn’t be sure. Was it her?

  Remembering the burning kisses and promises they’d shared, Leandros cursed himself a thousand ways. When he’d left to visit a neighboring island this morning, he ought to have taken her. They should have escaped together and—to hell with her royal duty—never come back. The woman seemed to float to the balcony’s farthest point before bowing her head, asking the mass to quiet down. When only the hiss and crackle from the pyres could be heard, the woman raised her arms to the churning smoke-filled sky.

  She held that pose for a long tense moment until the crowd breathed as one and Leandros’s splintered nerves began to break. When he couldn’t stand another second, when he was compelled to scale this gate and act, the woman removed her veil. Before he could catch the face, know for sure, she sent up a keening prayer then, toppling forward, threw herself off.

  Chapter 9

  When Darius was finished reading, he set the pages aside and ran a hand through his hair.

  “It’s about the rebellion a hundred years ago,” Helene said and he nodded. “Is there a Leandros in your history books?”

  “It’s a story, Helene.”

  “Based on a real event. Do you have any idea who wrote it?”

  “None.” His palm traced the top page lying between them now on the seat. The only clue was two initials: D.D. “This room has been used by staff for as long as I can remember, but I don’t know who slept here fifty years ago. A hundred.” He glanced at the wardrobe. “Is there more?”

  “I poked around. Through the drawers, on the ledge. All through the room. I thought the rest might be hidden behind a skirting board.” She looked up. “Or the ceiling.”

  He grinned. “You want me to rip the room apart?”

  “I meant this might be all there is.”

  He slid a fingertip over the initials at the top of the page. “I guess D.D. will stay anonymous and his, or her, story unfinished.”

  She looked longingly at the pages. What happened to Leandros? Who was the woman who had plunged to her death?

  The distant bray of a wild donkey filtered in and she glanced out the window over the sun-drenched landscape at the same time Darius found his feet.

  “Given we can’t solve that mystery, I vote we go.”

  “Go where?”

  “For a swim.”

  She glanced around the room again. Rummaging through the same places wouldn’t make more pages suddenly appear. And a swim with Darius did sound mighty good.

  She stood, too. “I’ll get my bikini.”

  “Don’t need one.”

  He grabbed her hand and they hurried down to the bay.

  They’d made love only hours ago. He’d seen her naked—every inch. Now, with a warm breeze combing his hair, he shucked off his shirt and stepped out of his pants. But Helene was biting her lip. There might not be anyone around for miles. Still, they were out in the open.

  Normally she was adventurous, but this was pushing the envelope.

  He closed the distance between them. “Don’t tell me you’re nervous?”

  “I’m allowed.”

  �
�What if I help?”

  She drew in a deep breath and then smiled. “I think I could deal with that.”

  Holding her gaze with his, he undressed her like he had that morning, only this time at a far less frantic pace.

  Then, like the couple in those pages, they moved into the water, letting the coolness swirl around them as their mouths and bodies slipped against each another. When she turned so that he could wind his arms under her breasts, he nuzzled her neck from behind. Beneath the water, his hands ran over her belly while overhead swallows darted and played. After a delicious few moments, he spoke against her hair.

  “I’ve been thinking about the figurine. It’s overkill taking her in and out of the safe all the time. If that cave hadn’t fallen in, she’d still be there, balanced on that ledge.”

  If he was thinking about letting her out of that safe and into the light, Helene was all for it.

  “I thought I could leave her out,” he said.

  “In your room?”

  “In the study, just off the main room. In three days she’ll be packed up and on her way back to the main island anyway.”

  A withering feeling fell through her. “This week’s going so fast.” She snuggled back against him. Only three more days…

  “Alexio will be missing you at his taverna.”

  “He’ll be happy it’s all worked out.”

  She hadn’t phoned or texted Alexio since the day she’d met Darius. Through his communication with the palace, Darius had assured her that Alexio knew about this arrangement. Somehow she didn’t think Darius or his office would condone a private discussion between Alexio and her about the prince’s decision to bend the rules and keep her on, which would explain why he hadn’t texted her back. Alexio wouldn’t want to get anyone into any more trouble.

  As Darius’s fingertips slid up one side of her throat, his bristled cheek grazed her temple and he asked, “When you get back, do you plan to stay on at the main island?”