Stepping into the Prince's World

by Marion Lennox

  After a moment’s hesitation Raoul backed away from the stage, stepping down into the main hall. He didn’t want any attention to play on him. After all, this was his grandparents’ night, and he even found it within him to be grateful that Claire had backed into the wings, out of sight. The focus was on his grandparents—as it should be. The time for him to claim Claire would follow.

  Around him the guests were listening with polite attention, laughing when the King meant them to laugh, applauding when it was appropriate. The men and woman in the orchestra behind the King were all attentive too. They were giving this pair of beloved monarchs their due.

  He had a sudden vision of himself and Claire in fifty years, doing the same thing.

  It wasn’t going to happen.

  He glanced at his grandmother and found she was staring straight at him. He winced and turned his attention elsewhere. To the orchestra on the raised platform behind the royals. Men and women in demure black, riveted to the King’s words.

  Except one. A young man seated behind the drums. The man seemed to be searching the crowd. Looking for someone?

  His attention caught, Raoul followed his gaze and saw the man’s eyes meet one of the guests. A man in his mid-forties was standing not far from Raoul. He was formally dressed, as a foreign diplomat, and he was standing alone. There was nothing to make him stand out from so many similar guests.

  But the man was watching the drummer, not the King, and as the drummer’s gaze met his he gave his head an almost imperceptible nod. Then casually—oh, so casually—he reached down as if to adjust his shoelace.

  And then he straightened, his arm outstretched...

  A glint of metal...

  Years of military training had made Raoul’s reactions lightning-fast. Act first—ask questions later. That was the training instilled for when lives were at stake.

  Raoul, ten feet from the man in question, dived like lightning and brought him down in a tackle that pinned him to the floor.

  The pistol in the man’s hand discharged—straight into the polished floor. But that wasn’t the only threat. He knew it wasn’t. He held the man, pinned him down hard, and looked desperately up at the stage as he yelled. ‘Security! Drummer on stage!’

  And as the dark-suited security officers streamed in from the foyer, where they’d been banished, he was remembering a letter. It had been pointed out to him by Henri. It had been addressed to the Queen...

  If you don’t follow our orders we’ll kill the King and take you as our prisoner for ransom. You might as well pay the money now. It’ll save you grief...

  There’d been a similar threat—and a tragedy—in another country a couple of years back. Their security chief had been worried enough to talk to the Queen, asking permission to bolster his team. He’d wanted to increase the royal security presence within the ballroom.

  ‘You can do what you want after the ball,’ the Queen had said fretfully. ‘I won’t have my ball marred by a room full of bodyguards.’

  He’d then shared his concerns with Henri, who’d come to Raoul. ‘Please...talk to your grandmother,’ Henri had told him, and Raoul had. But with no success.

  ‘You’re not in charge yet,’ the Queen had told him. ‘This is our ball. You won’t bring a woman of our choice. We won’t have your bodyguards.’

  ‘They’re not my bodyguards, Grandmama. They’re yours—to keep you safe.’

  ‘There is no threat in my kingdom.’

  But of course there was—and it was here. It was real. A diplomat wouldn’t have faced a body-search. He’d have been able to conceal a gun.

  We’ll kill the King and take you as our prisoner...

  There were two threats here, and he’d only disarmed one.

  ‘The drummer on stage!’ he yelled again to the men approaching.

  ‘Nobody move!’ a voice shouted out—icy, cold, vicious.

  And Raoul twisted and stared up at the stage.

  The drummer had launched himself in from the wings and grabbed the Queen. She’d been standing beside the dais while her husband spoke. The man dragged her back towards the wings, and at her throat he held a vicious, stiletto-type knife that looked as if it might have been concealed in a drumstick.

  And Claire was there as well. At the sound of the gunshot and Raoul’s sharp command she’d edged out from the wings.

  She was right behind the drummer.

  * * *

  The three of them might well have been alone on stage. The men and women in the orchestra were slightly removed from the main players. The King was standing stunned on his dais.

  There was the Queen and her assailant—and Claire.

  The drummer was hauling the Queen further back, and as he did so he glanced behind him. He saw Claire.

  He flicked her a glance that took in the swirl of her amazing skirts, her low-cut neckline and the gorgeous tiara set in beautifully coiffured curls. His glance was contemptuous—a momentary summing-up that said she was nothing of importance. She was the dirt the media had been speaking of. She was something to be safely ignored.

  He had his knife to Queen Alicia’s throat and was tugging her backwards.

  For the moment Queen Alicia was refusing to move, digging in her toes, dragging passively, surprisingly fierce for someone so elderly. ‘Let me go,’ she ordered, in a voice as imperious as her regalia.

  ‘Shut up!’ the drummer snarled, and then as the appalled hiss from the ballroom faded to stunned silence he raised his voice. ‘One move from anyone and I’ll kill your Queen. If she’s so precious, stay where you are. She’s coming with me. And you...’ He turned to Raoul. ‘Let my friend go.’

  Raoul was at the far end of the ballroom. He was with the security forces. They had the diplomat in their grip.

  Raoul had the gun in his hand. The sound of its explosion was still reverberating through the horrified throng. He raised the gun and then lowered it, watched helplessly as the security officers did the same.

  The drummer was holding the Queen hard in front of him. To shoot risked killing her. There was nothing he could do.

  ‘Let him go!’ the drummer snarled again, talking directly to Raoul. ‘Now!’

  There was no choice. Raoul gave a nod and the security officers let the man go. The man started to move up through the crowded ballroom, shoving stunned aristocracy aside.

  And Claire’s mind was racing. In a minute she’d have two of them on the dais, she thought. In a minute they’d have the Queen outside, in their hold. Raoul was powerless.

  A minute...

  She needed a second.

  And the voice of her sensei...

  She glanced out at Raoul, one sweeping glance in which their eyes met for just a fraction of a second but the message she gave him was powerful.

  And then she had to ignore him. She had to move.

  Now.

  She kicked off her ridiculously high, ridiculously beautiful shoes and in almost the same movement lifted her voluminous skirts high. She raised her gartered knee as high as she could and with the heel of her bare foot slammed a yoko geri side-kick with lethal force into the back of the assailant’s knee.

  She’d only ever done this in training. She’d only ever known it as practice, and she’d certainly never done it while dressed in a corset and ballgown.

  ‘Do this and you’ll rip ligaments, or worse,’ her sensei had told her. ‘The first rule of Karate is not to be present. Where there is trouble, you are not. But if you’re ever trapped in a life-or-death situation this will cause extreme pain and do enough serious damage to give you time to escape.’

  And there was no doubt that was exactly what she’d done. The guy screamed and started to drop.

  There was still the knife. He could kill the Queen if he dragged her with him, but years of tra
ining, years of knowledge and practice were flooding to her aid. What followed was almost a reflex action. Even as the guy buckled she had his knife arm by the wrist and was pulling it back, her other hand pressed against his elbow, pushing forward. She pressed hard with both hands and the guy screeched in pain.

  ‘Drop it,’ she bit out as his knees hit the floor.

  Queen Alicia was crumbling with them, unbalanced by the change of pressure. The combined mass of royal skirts was making the entire scene surreal—where were crisp karate uniforms when she needed them?—but she was totally focused on her assailant.

  The guy’s hand jerked, still holding the knife. ‘You slut...’

  ‘I’m not a slut,’ she said calmly. ‘But I am a Third Dan Karate Black Belt. Drop the knife or I’ll break your arm.’ And she applied more pressure. Not so much as required to break it—at least she didn’t think so—but enough to have him screaming again.

  Enough to have the knife clattering harmlessly to the floor.

  She fielded it and kicked it under Alicia’s skirts—because who knew who was out there in the ballroom if she kicked it off the dais?

  And she kept on holding the guy’s arm, pushing him flat to the floor, with his arm still held behind him, because she didn’t know if the knife was all he had. And then she didn’t have to hold him, because Raoul was leaping up onto the dais with her.

  She glanced out over the ballroom and realised he’d got her silent message. The security officers had moved, obviously at Raoul’s command. The man he’d had to release had been grasped again.

  They had them.

  Security was suddenly everywhere. Control was theirs.

  The guy was underneath her. The last threat. And Raoul was with her.

  It was over.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  AT FIVE THE next morning Claire boarded her plane.

  Why not?

  There was no reason why not. The ball had ended in disarray. The security team hadn’t been prepared to let it continue. Who knew what else had been planned?

  The guests had dispersed, vetted as they left, their credentials finally minutely inspected.

  The Queen had collapsed in hysterics. Raoul had been taken up with security concerns, with coping with the ruffled feathers and nerves of the invited dignitaries, with the calming of his distraught grandparents.

  Apart from one brief, hard embrace when they’d realised the danger was past, Claire hadn’t seen him. She’d been whisked outside by the security people and Henri had appeared at her side and asked her if she’d like to use a salon in the palace to wait for Raoul.

  ‘I’d like to go home,’ she’d told him, and he’d nodded gravely and organised a car to take her back to her apartment. Because that was what he thought home meant.

  An hour later a slim figure in jeans and a windcheater had slipped out of her apartment, carrying her own baggage to the taxi she herself had arranged.

  And now she was on the plane, staring fixedly forward while she waited for take-off. White-faced but determined. What a way to end it. Maybe she should have waited, but her ticket was for this morning and there was no point. What had to be said had been said.

  Marétal to London. London to Sydney. In twenty-four hours she’d be back in the apartment she hadn’t been near for almost six months.

  She had work to do—she’d come to Marétal on a contract and she’d fulfil her obligations. The next few months would be busy. But she wouldn’t return to Marétal. Her report would be emailed. Raoul and his staff could use it or not.

  She felt ill.

  ‘Orange juice?’ A steward was moving down the aisle, offering refreshments. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s a slight delay in take-off. It shouldn’t be more than half an hour.’

  She closed her eyes. Half an hour. The beginning of the rest of her life.

  Raoul. How could she leave him?

  How could she not?

  She should be exhausted. She should sleep. But of course sleep was nowhere. She was still wired, still filled with adrenalin, still seeing Raoul heading towards the stage to help her. Still seeing the fear on his face.

  He loved her. She knew he loved her. And to be loved by such a man...

  Such an impossible man.

  There was a stir among the passengers and she opened her eyes and glanced out of the window. There were two dark limousines, their windows tinted to anonymity in the dawn light, driving onto the tarmac. They stopped and a security contingent emerged from the second car—suited men, armed, dangerous.

  Where had they been last night?

  And then the door of the first car opened and out stepped...

  Raoul.

  Raoul in jeans and T-shirt, carrying a rough canvas duffel. Raoul looking every inch not a royal.

  There was fierce talk between the men—remonstrance? But Raoul simply shook each man’s hand and then turned and looked up at the plane.

  She shrank back. If he was here to take her off the plane...

  She wouldn’t go. She couldn’t.

  She sat head down, scarcely daring to breathe, but nothing happened. She couldn’t see the door from where she sat. There was a murmur of interest from the passengers forward of her and then nothing.

  ‘Prepare for take-off...’

  Nothing more was said. She ventured a peek out of the window. The cars were gone.

  The plane turned its big nose ponderously out to the runway, the taxiing complete.

  She closed her eyes as the plane gathered speed and then they were in the air.

  Marétal was left behind.

  ‘Would you like a facecloth?’ An attendant was moving down the aisle, doing her normal thing, business as usual.

  She offered the facecloth to Claire and Claire buried her face in it.

  ‘Hi,’ said a voice behind the attendant—a voice she knew so well. ‘Do you think that when you’re all washed up you can cope with a visitor?’

  The seat next to hers was empty. Of course it was.

  That couldn’t just be a coincidence, she thought as Raoul sank down beside her, and amazingly she even found space to be indignant. The plane was almost full. How had he managed this?

  He was royal. Being royal opened doors.

  ‘Very nice,’ Raoul said approvingly as he sank into the business class seat. ‘I’m back in cattle class. I had to be ever so charming to the staff to be allowed up here.’

  ‘You’re in Economy?’ As a first statement it was pretty dumb, but then dumb was how she was feeling right now.

  ‘Your travel is funded by the Royal Family of Marétal,’ he told her. ‘I’m funded by me. And I’m unemployed. We unemployed people need to watch every cent.’

  It was too much to take in. ‘Why...why are you here?’ she managed, and for answer he simply took her hand.

  ‘You saved the life of the Queen of Marétal. Someone has to thank you. I got busy, and when I had time to look around you were gone.’

  ‘I had a plane ticket.’

  ‘So you did.’ His hold on her hand tightened. ‘As it happened, so did I.’

  ‘You...?’

  ‘You don’t think I’d let you go all the way to Australia without me?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ she snapped. She was tired, confused, and starting to be angry. ‘Raoul, this was never the plan. Go away.’

  ‘It’s a bit hard to go away now,’ he said, peering out of the window to the night sky. They were now thousands of feet high. ‘I believe I’ve burned my bridges. Henri’s cleaning up the loose ends in Marétal. I’m here with you.’

  ‘Henri...’

  ‘He’s good,’ Raoul told her. ‘He’s the new administrator of the country. I’m unemployed.’

  Unemployed...

  He t
ook her breath away. He was looking endearingly casual, in jeans and a tight T-shirt that showed every muscle his army life had toned. He was starting to look a bit unshaven. The difference between now and when she’d last seen him was extraordinary.

  Unemployed?

  ‘I’ve quit,’ he told her, settling in. ‘This is very nice indeed. How long do you think they’ll let me sit here?’

  ‘As long as you want. You’re the Prince,’ she snapped.

  He shook his head. ‘Nope. I need a new title. I’ve been Prince Raoul. I’ve been Lieutenant Colonel de Castelaise. Now I need to be just plain mister. Mr de Castelaise? That sounds wrong. Monsieur? Yes, but I intend to be an Aussie. Any suggestions?’

  She had no suggestions at all. She could only stare. If she went back behind her facecloth again would he disappear? This felt surreal.

  She was starting to feel as Cinders must have felt when her coach had turned back into a pumpkin. In the middle of the road surrounded by orange pulp. Stranded.

  Hornswoggled.

  ‘You can’t...just resign,’ she managed at last, and Raoul nodded, thoughtful.

  ‘That’s what I thought. I couldn’t see how I could. But when it got closer to losing you I didn’t see how I couldn’t.’

  ‘Your country needs you.’ Her voice was scarcely a whisper.

  ‘That’s what I believed, too,’ he told her. ‘But over the last few weeks I’ve been looking hard at how our country’s run and seeing things in a different light.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’m not sure I do either,’ he told her. ‘Not fully. But what I do know is that my grandfather wasn’t born to rule. Yes, he was the heir to the throne, but his head was always in his books. His parents despaired of him. His country despaired of him. But then he did something amazing. He met and married my grandmother. She wasn’t what you might call a commoner—she was Lady Alicia Todd—but she was just the daughter of a country squire and she had no pretensions to royalty. But she married my grandfather, she took up the reins of the country, and she’s been a superb monarch. She’s fading now. She’s ceased to move with the times, but she’s still awesome. She’s still the Queen.’