Crowned: Gowns & Crowns, Book 4

by Jennifer Chance

  Fran smiled but she caught the queen’s underlying nervousness. “Do you not believe what they’re saying?” she hazarded.

  “Oh, it’s not that.” Catherine sat back in the large wing-backed chair, holding her glass of water with both hands. “I think they’re exactly right. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with Ari’s body or his brain. But his mind—well. You make a study of the mind. You know how complicated it can be.”

  “I do,” Fran nodded, though suddenly all her textbooks and journal articles and reports seemed woefully inadequate in the face of the queen’s pain. It was one thing to consider mental challenges in the abstract—or with strangers. But this woman was Ari’s mother. His recovery was intensely personal to her, and she needed answers, not theories. Answers that Fran couldn’t give.

  Catherine regarded her now over her drink. “What did he tell you?” she asked. “You two talked, right? He used to love to talk. It was one of his best skills in managing all the drama with the royal families, foreign delegates.” She swallowed, then leaned forward to trade her glass for a linen cloth. As she sat back in her chair, she lifted the cloth to her cheeks, whisking away the tears that had surfaced there.

  Fran watched her, her heart squeezing. She’d become a good reader of people over the years, and there was nothing in the queen’s manner but authentic sadness. Hope and loss and fear all entwined together, a constant chokehold on emotions that gave way with each scrap of positive news, only to clamp down anew with each setback.

  She made a decision. She wasn’t a doctor or an assigned caregiver. She was a friend giving aid where she could. The queen wasn’t a doctor either. So what she did with the information was her own decision.

  “Ari is trying to remember things,” she said. The queen went very still. “Not in front of the doctors though. In fact, he specifically asked me not to tell the doctors of his efforts.”

  “Why?”

  The question was sharp but reserved, and Fran nodded. She could trust the queen not to endanger her son, but also not to put him through unnecessary pain. “He’s resisting it—remembering,” she said. “His hands shake, he sweats, and he has terrible, blinding headaches. A searing pain that shoots through his head, is how he describes it. Like a flash migraine.”

  “He’s never had headaches before, not like that.” Catherine sat forward. “What does he recall that brings them on? Anything? Was he in some distress?”

  “It’s anything before the crash it seems. If he struggles to recall something during or after the crash, he’s calm—frustrated, because those pictures aren’t quite coming either—but calm. Even happy memories from his past, however, bring the negative reaction.” She demonstrated, putting her hands up to either side of her face and screwing up her expression with a wince. When she glanced up again, the queen was staring at her.

  “That poor boy,” she murmured, and despite herself, Fran smiled. Ari was in his late twenties, a grown man. But she’d never had children. She supposed that for a mother, children never grew up, not really. They were always a source of worry.

  For some mothers anyway.

  “Why didn’t he want you to tell the doctors this?” Catherine asked, recalling her.

  “I don’t think he wanted to be treated like a lab experiment,” Fran said, which made the queen snort. “But there’s something more to it, too. He wants to remember, to be a functional part of society again—and to find his family.”

  She nodded as the queen’s brows lifted. “Don’t think he’s not doing everything he can to make his way back to you,” Fran continued. “Family and his obligation to family is probably his driving force. He’s convinced they’re on the mainland, and he’s getting anxious to go back there. To find them.” She waved her hand in front of her face. “But he’s also nervous that whatever is keeping him from remembering is important. So he wants to continue trying to figure it out—but not in a way that might keep him stuck here. So that’s why he doesn’t want the doctors to know.”

  “Typical Ari,” the queen said, but she’d taken hold of her emotions once more, and was now staring across the room—not at Fran, but at some far, fixed point, echoing what Ari had done bare hours before.

  Like Ari, she made a decision quickly too. “We’ll not tell the doctors this. You’re under no obligation to do so, of course, and neither am I. If the episodes increase in frequency, or his reactions worsen, tell me. But for now we can honor his wishes to work through this on his own.” Her lips twisted. “He would have preferred that anyway. He was always fiddling around in that infernal plane of his, tweaking the electronics, testing new gear. But—” Her fingers tightened on the linen cloth in her lap. “I never thought that he would do anything truly foolish. Anything that might put himself in danger. He had so much responsibility—too much, perhaps. It simply never occurred to me that he might not be able to meet those obligations week in, week out.”

  She sighed a soft, broken sob. Fran knew the queen wasn’t really talking to her. She was talking to the shattered pieces of her own heart, working through her pain as best she could.

  “He fully plans to meet those obligations again,” Fran said gently, and the queen blinked at her, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

  Sorrow morphed into irritation in a blink. “I don’t care about that—”

  “Oh, I know. I know.” Fran lifted her hands in a soothing gesture, never stirring from the couch. “But Ari does. It’s a motivator for him. He may not know what had been required of him before, may think he simply needed to get onto the next job in his soldier-of-fortune list of things to do.” The queen’s glower crumbled a little. “That doesn’t change the fact that he wants to get back to it. He’s champing at the bit.”

  “Now that truly is the Ari I remember,” Catherine said, more color flooding back into her face. Color, and a hint of relief too. “Has he said anything about taking a boat? Leaving?”

  “A boat? No.” Fran’s focus sharpened. “That would be bad, I thought. He’d be recognized.”

  “Yes and no.” The queen tapped a long finger to her lips, regarding Fran shrewdly. “If he was traveling with us, then yes, of course. He’d be noticed immediately. But his hair is far blonder than it was when he left, and his skin is darker, almost swarthy, after a year of working in the sun. He shaved when he first arrived, but his beard is already growing back in. If the two of you went into the city—it could be the breakthrough he needs. And the entire Garronia National Security Force would be there as well as the palace guards, all the doctors and our entire extended family, should something go awry.”

  “The two of us—into the city?” Fran lifted her brows at her. “Your Highness, you barely know me.”

  “Nonsense,” Catherine flapped her hand. “You and your friends were all carefully vetted by Stefan ages ago.” She beamed at Fran as she warmed to the idea forming in her mind. “I know everything about you I need to, dear, don’t you worry about that.”

  The morning of a new day was now hours old, and Francesca hadn’t yet made an official appearance. She was close, though, so that was progress.

  Ryker watched from the rooftop of the guest villa he’d been given, using the stargazing telescope affixed to the decking to focus in on the trio well up the cliff-side walk. Francesca was there, appearing slightly frazzled as she waved her hands, clearly in some kind of argument with Stefan and Nicki. From the expression on Stefan’s face—mild amusement—she wasn’t telling him anything of great import.

  She definitely wasn’t making any gesture that would indicate she was telling them that Ryker had spent most of the previous afternoon hyperventilating in her arms.

  That lunacy needs to stop, he thought grimly, swinging the scope around to the second location of interest for him, the marina. As usual there were no more than a few vessels docked. Two large speedboats, a mini-yacht, and a sailboat. In the time he’d spent on the island, he’d seen but one man working on that sailboat, and he was there again now.

 
And damned if Ryker didn’t think he knew him, somehow.

  The reaction to the sailor was similar to the one he’d had with Stefan. There was an immediate headache and pain, yes. And a curious surge of panic. But it was nowhere near the intense agony he experienced when he tried to focus on far more innocuous memories like flowers or…well, his family.

  He focused again on the man, who was cleaning the sailboat for what Ryker thought was easily the fifteenth time. He was burly, heavily muscled, but he worked with a focused efficiency that made Ryker think of the military. Had he met the man there? He didn’t think the big man was a direct relative, they didn’t look enough alike.

  It would make sense that Stefan had called in one of Ryker’s friends, though Ryker couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t brought the two of them face to face. This morning’s round of doctor visits had gone exactly according to his plan. He’d been affable, upbeat, and had responded to all the doctors’ questions with his full attention, neatly steering them away from questions about what he recalled of his family. Any questions about the accident were easy enough to handle. He simply focused on what had occurred after he was in the water, once he’d ejected from the plane. That was also a hazy murk, but there were no attendant headaches with such thoughts. It was only when he tried to remember what happened immediately prior to the accident or malfunction or mistake—whatever he’d done to lose control of his plane—that his mind went sideways on him.

  “What are you looking at? Is that a telescope?”

  Francesca’s bright, sunny call startled him, and he took his eye off the scope to peer over the roof railing. Sure enough, she was standing in front of his guest villa in a light-colored tank top and short pants, her hands forming a sun visor as she gazed upward.

  “The marina,” he said, affably enough as he glanced up the road. Stefan and Nicki had disappeared over the ridge. He wondered if they’d realized he’d been spying on them. “Want to take a walk?”

  “Of course! Nicki and Stefan apparently are going to test her rock climbing abilities on sheer walls over open water, and that’s not something I need to see.” Francesca frowned, examining the side of the villa. “Actually, I wonder if there are bikes here…”

  She was still rooting around in the small shed by the house when Ryker exited the villa, and one bike already leaned against the stucco wall. He regarded it dubiously. “That looks older than I am,” he said, and she laughed from inside the shed.

  A moment later she emerged pushing a second decrepit bike. “I get the feeling visitors to this island aren’t big on cycling.”

  “Too hilly.” He peered beside her and his brows lifted. “There’s a motorbike though. That’s probably a better option for the return trip anyway.”

  He strode past her as she stepped out of his way, then she backed up several steps when he pushed out the bike a minute later. It was a newer bike but meant for sturdiness, not speed, with a long, heavily padded seat. “You ever ride?”

  Francesca nodded, but there was no denying the immediate wariness in her expression. She didn’t glance his way, but focused on the bike. “Long time ago, yeah. Not usually on back though. I may not be a great passenger.”

  Her words struck him a little oddly, but Ryker didn’t have time to puzzle out why. He didn’t know how long the man on the sailboat would be there, and if he was someone who remembered him from his old life…

  “You up for a ride?”

  “Sure,” Francesca said, easily enough. Had he imagined her reticence before? He didn’t think so, but now she appeared content as she pushed the old bicycle back into the shed. She leaned the first one against the wall, then moved out of Ryker’s way as he pushed the second one in. For a moment, they stood in the shadows of the small shed, the two of them too big for the space. Before he could capitalize on the opportunity, however, Francesca ducked around him and stepped into the sunshine, strolling away with deceptive casualness.

  Had he made her nervous by standing too close to her? Yesterday she’d seemed completely at ease with him…then again, yesterday she’d been cast in caretaker mode because of his memory flares. He wasn’t in pain today, and he didn’t need her help.

  Not yet anyway.

  Silently, Ryker shut the shed doors, then returned to the bike. Though he needed Francesca for what he planned next, he didn’t like the idea of her thinking that she was some kind of babysitter. Because that’s certainly not how he saw her. And he’d much rather imagine her viewing him like a man, not a charity case.

  One thing at a time, though.

  “Wonder when the last time was this thing was ridden,” he said, leaning the bike away from him. He checked the tank. “Plenty of gas.”

  “Kick start, so easy enough to determine.” Francesca considered him, her expression assessing. “I assume you can ride?”

  He considered that. “Feels like it,” he said. Then he shot her a grin. “Wanna see?”

  “I’m serious,” she laughed. “No headaches as you imagine the process to start the bike or shift gears? No anxiety?”

  “Nope.” Ryker swung his leg over the bike and with a smooth motion, then braced the bike with his right foot and leg while his left foot found the kick starter with an unerring sense that it was the right move for the bike. Almost like he’d ridden it before, though nothing else on the island felt that predictable.

  Sure enough, the motorbike roared to life, and he scooted forward slightly on the seat. “Can I give you a lift?”

  “You sure you have your license?” Francesca teased, but re-opened the storage shed and a moment later returned with two helmets. She handed one to Ryker, ignoring his rolled eyes, then donned hers. She arced a leg over the seat, settling in behind him. “It sounds a little rough.”

  “God only knows how long it’s been since it’s been ridden,” he nodded, twisting to scan the back of bike and the smoky exhaust. Everything looked more or less right and sounded more or less right, though. So he supposed he could trust it. And he didn’t want to wait another minute up on the ridge, when the man with the boat could finish his chore and leave. “Hang on tight,” he ordered.

  Francesca did without complaint. She slid her long, slender arms around his waist, and locked hand and arm together. “Warn me when you—hey!”

  Ryker gunned the motorbike, and Francesca’s laughter matched his as the thing took off in fits and starts, smoke blowing percussively out of the tailpipe for a few yards until the machine evened out. Then he was rolling down the street, gradually picking up speed until Francesca’s hold around his waist tightened in earnest.

  “Roads are easy,” he called over his shoulder. “Not too steep.”

  “Focus!” she shouted back and he grinned, then opened up the throttle a little more. This high on the ridge, the wind was strong enough to blow the sun off their skin, and he roared down the narrow access road, past the primary guest villa.

  If his doctors were watching him from inside, well…let ‘em look, Ryker thought. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was simply a man taking a spin on a motorcycle with a pretty girl, with no particular place to go.

  If he played his cards right, they wouldn’t know he was gone until he’d reached the mainland.

  Chapter Five

  Fran allowed herself to relax a fraction as Ari proved that, amnesia or no, he could manage a motorbike that was little more than a souped-up scooter. This wasn’t anything like the muscle bikes she’d grown up with at her father’s bar, but the feel of the wind in her hair still threatened to take her back to those days. She focused hard on the rocky landscape and open sky, so different from the concrete, grease and corrugated metal that had surrounded her when she’d last heard motorcycles roaring to life.

  She’d left that life behind a long time ago, that and a half-dozen others in quick succession. Those lives had served their purpose, getting her farther away from her past and helping her convince others she could do more, be more. By the time she’d entered college as an independent stu
dent on a full ride scholarship, she’d done everything she’d needed to become Francesca Simmons.

  She wasn’t about to screw that up now.

  The queen might trust her to babysit Ari as he struggled to find himself again—literally—but that would happen sooner or later. Probably sooner, if her sense of Ari’s progress was right. She’d spent the evening reading the documents the doctors had provided to the royal family. Ari was healthy, his mental and physical responses all in line. He wasn’t remembering who he was because he didn’t want to remember. That, coupled with his strong feelings toward protecting his family, spoke to a memory that he firmly believed would threaten those he loved most. He’d keep chipping away, though. He was too stubborn not to, from all accounts.

  She straightened as they cruised around the last corner of the long road, and the rocky tree-lined hills gave way to the marina, with its white-washed buildings and cheerful boats bobbing on the now-gentle waters of the Aegean. The prettiest craft was a sailboat with a tall mast, and with a thud of panic Fran recognized Dimitri Korba half-hanging off the boat, scrubbing away.

  Ari stopped the bike, and Fran leaned forward quickly. “The road keeps going around the bend.” She pointed. “Why not see where it leads?”

  “Maybe,” Ari said, and he moved to get off the bike, leaving Fran no choice but to hop off first. He dropped the kickstand and headed toward Dimitri.

  Fran’s first instinct was to try to haul Ari out of harm’s way, but she instantly rejected that idea. She didn’t want to seem like she had an agenda and besides: Dimitri Korba was a decorated, battle-hardened captain of the Garronia National Security Force. He should be able to think on his feet.

  Even coming face to face with the best friend he’d thought was dead.