The Bodyguard's Bride-to-Be

by Amelia Autin

  His argument was powerful, and one with which Marek was reluctantly forced to agree. Even if Tahra never forgave him for keeping this secret from her, he could not go against the king, could do nothing that would put any of the royal family in danger. “I understand, Sire.”

  “Good.” The king’s smile turned rueful, and the look he gave Marek was man-to-man. “If it is any consolation, I will have no easier time than you explaining my decision...after the fact.”

  He allowed himself to return the smile. “Small consolation, Sire.”

  “Yes, well...it is possible nothing will happen at the reception. We can but pray the attack will come when we are best prepared for it, but there are no guarantees. And if nothing happens, there will be nothing for you to explain.”

  Marek shook his head slightly. “I see your point, Sire, but I have already kept too many secrets from my fiancée. I will not add to the list by availing myself of that excuse. Besides, Sir Walter Scott said it best when he wrote, ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave/When first we practice to deceive!’ Trying to keep lies, half-truths and deceptions straight is too exhausting...and too demeaning to both Tahra and me. I have vowed there will be nothing but honesty between us from now on. Which means I will confess the truth...eventually.”

  The king’s smile deepened, and he made a fencing gesture indicating a hit. “A good policy to follow, and one I learned myself...but only after paying a steep price.”

  Then his smile faded. “One more thing before you go,” he said before Marek could leave. “I want your best, most trustworthy men guarding my son Saturday night. Lukas and Damon have convinced me I need them both on duty to watch over me,” he said, referring to Majors Branko and Kostya. “I have already spoken to Captain Mateja-Jones about who I want guarding the queen, and she assures me that in addition to the two bodyguards on duty she will also be there. Ostensibly as a guest with her husband, the US embassy’s RSO, but also to watch over the queen. Which relieves my mind of one great worry.”

  “Then I should also stay with the crown prince, in addition to his—”

  The king shook his head. “Miss Edwards needs protection, too, and no one is better suited to that task than you. I would not buy my son’s life by placing her life in jeopardy. But...” The king’s face was implacable. “My son is the key. The Zakharian Liberation Front cannot succeed in seizing power without him to cloak their actions. Let nothing happen to him, Marek.”

  “No, Sire. You have my word.”

  * * *

  Sergeant Thimo Vasska rode the train back to Drago, his thoughts in turmoil. On the one hand, he was glad he was being recalled to participate in what was being planned for Saturday. It meant a chance to redeem himself in Colonel Borka’s eyes. On the other hand, he still couldn’t shake the feeling he was being kept in the dark. That something was going on to which he wasn’t privy. It shouldn’t matter to a soldier—a good soldier didn’t question the reason behind his orders. He merely followed them to the best of his ability. But still...

  He sighed. He’d served his mandatory four years in the Zakharian National Forces and had left the military after working his way up to corporal and becoming something of a demolitions expert. Then he’d gone to work for a construction company and had made a decent living, until...

  Until he’d lost his job to a refugee. And he’d been recruited into joining the Zakharian Liberation Front, which had promised to put a stop to the flood of immigrants taking jobs from hardworking Zakharians like himself.

  In the first flush of zeal, he’d bought into everything he’d been told. He’d even come up with the idea for the bombs with the fléchettes in the knapsacks, an idea that had been seized upon with fervor. And he’d assembled the ten knapsacks that had been the Zakharian Liberation Front’s first blow for freedom, that had put the organization on the map, so to speak.

  But since then he’d had plenty of time on the eastern border to think about exactly what he’d done. Too much time. And he realized he’d let his anger and desire for revenge against one man—the man who’d taken his job—cause him to do what would have been unthinkable a year ago.

  But it was too late to turn back now, because he already had blood on his hands. All those who were dead or wounded because of the bombs he’d constructed—war or no—were on his conscience. Added to that, his deliberate attempt to kill the woman who’d seen his face the day he’d left the bomb at the preschool by bribing that nurse’s aide meant he was guilty as hell. No, he hadn’t been personally responsible for the aide’s subsequent death in police custody—Colonel Borka had ordered that. But her death was on his conscience, too.

  If he could turn back the clock—but he could not. So all he could do was carry out his new orders. Kidnap the crown prince and force the king to accede to the Zakharian Liberation Front’s demands to close the borders, to let no more refugees enter and to expel those who were already here. That, at least, would be some small reparation to his fellow citizens for what he’d done.

  Then and only then would he be free...to make his peace with God.

  Chapter 19

  “The queen sent you these to wear tonight,” Ani told Tahra, holding out what couldn’t be anything but a jewelry case, one that looked as if it came from a previous century. Ani opened the case and sighed in pure delight, delight that was transferred to Tahra when she saw the contents, too.

  “Oh, my gosh. Those are gorgeous!”

  “Let me, miss. It would be difficult with your cast.” Ani reverently took the sapphire-and-diamond necklace from the case and slipped it around Tahra’s neck, fastening it quickly. Then she picked up one matching earring and affixed it to Tahra’s left ear before doing the same to the right. “Oh, miss, they are perfect with that dress.” She tugged Tahra’s arm to guide her to the old-fashioned cheval mirror in the corner of her bedroom so she could see for herself.

  Ani is right, Tahra told herself as she turned from side to side. They’re perfect. The necklace and earrings were just the finishing touch needed. The dress had a full back with a standing collar and three-quarter sleeves but was open-necked in the front. The necklace looked as if it had been made to match the dress, displayed to advantage by the artistically cut neckline and Tahra’s pale skin. And the earrings—dangling clusters of sapphires and diamonds—caught the light every time she moved her head.

  Ani had arranged Tahra’s long, dark hair in an elegant, upswept hairdo Tahra would never have been able to do herself, even without the cast. And when she saw the final product—hair, dress and jewelry—she realized she really did resemble her older sister, Carly. The queen had been right about that after all.

  A knock on the door to her suite caused Tahra’s heart to skip a beat and had her gaze sliding to the clock on her nightstand. “It’s Marek,” she whispered to herself, but Ani heard her.

  “You stay here, miss,” Ani ordered. “I will let him in and put him in the sitting room. Then you can make a grand entrance.” With that she bustled out.

  Tahra took one last look at her reflection in the mirror, then placed her left hand over her pounding heart. “It’s just dinner,” she reminded herself. “Dinner with the king and queen. Followed by a reception with five hundred guests staring at me.”

  But Marek will be there, a comforting voice in the back of her mind reminded her. You can do this.

  She raised her head and tried to channel Carly’s supreme self-confidence. No question the dress helped. Not to mention the necklace and earrings represented a small fortune—assuming they were real. And they looked real. More than that, though, they added to the image she wanted to present. Elegant. Sophisticated. Assured.

  She was still feeling all those things when she walked into the sitting room and saw Marek standing in front of the fireplace with his back to her, wearing what was obviously a dress uniform—navy blue with a silver belt around his
waist—complete with a ceremonial sword at his side. She must have made a slight sound, because he turned at her entrance. And the expression on his face was worth the price she’d paid for the dress.

  He whispered something in Zakharan she couldn’t translate, and he appeared frozen in place. He breathed suddenly when she walked toward him, paused and slowly rotated so he could get the full effect. His reaction gave her renewed confidence.

  “I think you like my dress,” she teased.

  “What dress?” At first she thought he was teasing her in return, but then he added in all seriousness, “I see the dress, yes. And it is stunning. A perfect foil for you. But it is the woman inside it who takes my breath away. A woman who knows she will be the most beautiful woman at the reception tonight.”

  “With the queen there?” Tahra asked skeptically, moving close enough so she could rest her hands on Marek’s shoulders and look up into his eyes.

  “There can be no comparison. Feature for feature, yes, Queen Juliana is more beautiful,” he admitted with the honesty she wanted from him—although not, perhaps, at this very moment, when she needed his reaction to bolster her self-confidence. He didn’t stop there, though. “But there is a beauty in you that will always outshine hers for me—because your beautiful soul is reflected in your face.”

  Tahra’s eyes were suddenly swimming in tears that threatened to spoil the job Ani had done with her makeup. But before they could spill over, Marek quickly handed her a clean white hankie. “You are not to do that,” he said, again without the slightest trace of anything but absolute seriousness in his voice. “You are not to cry when I tell you the truth.”

  Tahra choked on a laugh and dabbed at the corners of her eyes until she was able to safely blink away what remained of her tears. “I’ll try,” she said. “But no promises.”

  * * *

  Dinner with the king and queen wasn’t the ordeal Tahra had expected, for two reasons. First, the royal couple went out of their way to put her at ease with them. Second, Marek, who’d given her a little background as they’d walked from her suite to the private dining room where they were expected.

  He’d known the king as far back as he could remember, he told her. “He was three when I was born, so we were never as close as he is to his first cousin, who is only a year older than he is. I knew them then as Andre and Zax, of course—young boys do not care about such things as royal titles. But now I am careful to address them correctly. Zax prefers his military title, Colonel Marianescu, over his royal title, Prince Xavier. And since he is my commanding officer—he is head of internal security, as I have already explained—he addresses me as Captain Zale or Captain. As for the king, I would never address him as Andre, although he still calls me Marek. But I take that as a sign of affection, the way he calls Majors Branko and Kostya by their first names.”

  At Tahra’s puzzled frown, he added, “They are the king’s favorite bodyguards, and, in a way, his friends. I pity him in one sense. He has so few true friends, you see. Men he can trust enough to let down his guard. Zax, of course. Alec Jones. Princess Mara’s husband, Trace McKinnon. And the majors—he served with them in Afghanistan when he was in the Zakharian National Forces. That created an unbreakable bond of friendship.”

  With that, Tahra was no longer apprehensive about having dinner with Zakhar’s ruler. He went from being an august personage to a normal human being—one who couldn’t afford to have many friends—and Tahra’s heart went out to him. She knew what it was like to have an extremely small circle you could trust.

  “As for the queen,” Marek continued, unaware Tahra’s thoughts had strayed. “I have known her longer than I have known her.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  His eyes twinkled at her. “Ahh, but it does, if you knew the king assigned me to surreptitiously watch over her when she was living in Hollywood. Before she returned to Zakhar to film King’s Ransom and reunited with the king.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  He shook his head. “From the moment he ascended the throne, he sent me to command a team guarding her...without her knowledge or consent. Then he appointed me head of her security detail when they were married, which was when I was actually introduced to the queen.”

  “And I thought you were über-alpha,” she murmured. “But compared to the king...”

  Marek laughed. “Yes. He is somewhat...autocratic...where the queen is concerned. But he is a great king nevertheless.”

  For a moment it looked as if he was going to say something more, but he stopped himself, and Tahra was intrigued. But they arrived at their destination before she could ask him about it, and then it slipped her mind.

  Tahra saw Juliana first. The queen was wearing a gorgeous gown in lavender blue, but the overall effect was muted, as if she was trying to fade into the background. Which could never happen, but Tahra was touched Juliana was making an effort to not be the center of attention at the reception in Tahra’s honor. She was also quick to note the gown was cleverly designed to hide the queen’s expectant condition from prying eyes. “We haven’t announced it yet—we wanted to wait until after I pass my first trimester,” she remembered the queen saying at their luncheon, and realized, she won’t be able to hide it much longer.

  Then the king entered the room, wearing a dress uniform similar to Marek’s. She tried to curtsy when Marek introduced her to him, but it was a little awkward. While her dress was a sheath, it wasn’t so tight she couldn’t move, but having her right wrist in a cast stymied her—she couldn’t get proper purchase on the material.

  But the king merely laughed—kindly—and said, “It is I who should be bending the knee to you, Miss Edwards. Bravery should always take precedence over an accident of birth.”

  “Oh. Well, I...” She fumbled for words to say after that but couldn’t think of anything. Then was secretly thrilled when the king gently raised her right hand to his lips and kissed the tips of her fingers, despite the cast on her wrist.

  Tahra’s enjoyment of dinner was assured when the king himself escorted her to the table, leaving Marek to accompany the queen. He entertained her with charming stories of her fiancé and his sisters and brothers when they were growing up—nothing embarrassing, just endearing. “He is the oldest of seven,” the king explained. “I always envied him that. I only had the one sister.”

  “Whom you adore,” the queen reminded him.

  “Of course,” the king replied, as if it went without saying. “But I would have loved being the oldest of so many, as Marek was. And he took that role very seriously.”

  “Is that where he gets his...umm...protective tendencies?” Tahra asked. “Especially toward women?”

  “No, that comes from being Zakharian,” the queen volunteered, throwing the king a saucy look. “Zakharian men are—”

  “Quick learners,” the king finished for her. He held his hand out to his wife, which she took with a tender, amused smile, and Tahra caught her breath in wonder at the unshielded love she saw in both sets of eyes. As if the world faded away when they gazed at each other.

  “‘Two hearts as one,’” Tahra whispered to herself, quoting from the queen’s last movie, King’s Ransom. “‘Forever and a day.’” The epitaph carved in Latin upon the tomb of the first king and queen of Zakhar, a phrase that expressed the eternal love they’d shared. Which...apparently...also applied to Zakhar’s current king and queen.

  She glanced over at Marek and saw the same expression in his eyes when he looked at her that was in the king’s eyes when he looked at the queen. Without even thinking about it, her lips parted and she mouthed, “I love you,” to Marek. Words she hadn’t said to him eight days ago when they’d made love for the first time. Words he deserved.

  A fire was kindled in his bright blue eyes, and there was an urgency in his face that told Tahra if they were alone he would have
taken her in his arms and kissed her until the world faded away for both of them. But they weren’t alone. And they not only had to finish out this dinner, they also had to attend the reception in her honor. Which meant it would be hours before they could be alone.

  Soon, she promised herself. All they had to do was get through the next four hours. And then...

  * * *

  From his vantage point a half mile away, Sergeant Vasska watched cars and limousines creep along the impressive drive leading up to the royal palace. The gates were thrown wide, but every vehicle was stopped at the gate, and two armed guards examined the invitation extended by the vehicles’ occupants while names were checked off against a list held by a third man.

  That wasn’t the only gauntlet a guest had to face. Metal detectors were set up at the three entrances to the Great Hall—the main one, which was always used, and the two side gates that were used for such a large crowd as tonight’s.

  But the sergeant wasn’t worried about the metal detectors. He and the two men with him weren’t intending to enter the Great Hall. And they certainly weren’t intending to enter the palace through the front gate. Once the gala reception was in full swing, he and his men would make their way through a back entrance and would be smuggled in disguised as palace maintenance men by two members of the Zakharian Liberation Front who truly were members of the maintenance crew. Once inside, one of the men with him would set off a diversionary bomb in another part of the palace—one the sergeant had constructed and had smuggled in earlier, a bomb that would make a lot of noise but would cause minimal damage...he hoped. The sound would cause panic in the Great Hall and draw off the guards...again, he hoped. While that was going on, he and the other three members of the Zakharian Liberation Front would make their way to the second floor and kidnap the crown prince.

  Then escape the same way they arrived. Unnoticed.

  * * *

  “It is time, Sire,” said the man Tahra recognized as Major Lukas Branko from when he’d accompanied her to her follow-up appointment at the hospital. Another man was with him, dressed exactly the same way—dark, formal suit, but with his jacket open, as if for quick access to a gun—and she wondered if this was the other major Marek had mentioned was one of the king’s favorite bodyguards, Major Kostya.