‘How long do you anticipate we’ll be travelling for?’ she questioned.
He shrugged, a movement which served only to illuminate the powerful ripple of his shoulders beneath his silky shirt.
‘Fourteen hours at most, for the train will halt its journey midway, to allow Her Royal Highness a peaceful night of sleep,’ he replied smoothly. ‘We should reach the capital of Rosumunte before the sun is too high, where the people are already gathering to greet you.’
‘Good,’ she said, though the word didn’t register her sudden rush of nerves at the thought of crowds of people waiting to see her. Would they like her? Would they consider her worthy to be the wife of their King?
‘I trust you’ll find everything to your satisfaction,’ he said.
Zabrina forced herself to look around, trying to take in her surroundings and act as if she cared about them when all she could think about was him. She tried to acknowledge the splendid decoration. The walls were hung with pale lemon silk and several stunning oil landscapes, which she recognised as being of some of Petrogoria’s most famous beauty spots. Woven silk rugs were scattered on gleaming wooden floors, and on a polished bureau she could see plenty of writing materials, along with golden pens in a jewelled container. A bowl of fruit stood on a low table and the two sofas which stood nearby were littered with soft and squashy cushions. Through a carved archway was a door leading to what was probably the bathroom and, beyond that, a wide and sumptuous-looking divan bed, scattered with yet more cushions. The bedroom, she thought, painfully aware of the sudden flush of colour to her cheeks as she prayed the bodyguard hadn’t noticed.
‘This all looks perfect,’ she said, but suddenly all she could think of was how strange and alien it seemed. And how alone she was going to be for the next few weeks before the wedding—so far from home and away from everything which was familiar. She might moan about her family from time to time, but they were still her family, and right now they represented stability.
Constantin bowed. ‘In that case, I will take my leave of you, Your Royal Highness. Silviana is here to wait on your every need but if there is anything you discover you don’t have—’
‘I’m sure there won’t be,’ she said quickly.
‘Anything it is within my power to give you,’ he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘then please ring. At any time. I will be stationed directly outside your compartment.’
‘You will?’ questioned Zabrina nervously. ‘Right outside?’
‘But of course. Your welfare is my sole preoccupation and only a wall will divide us. Nobody will pass me to gain access to the Princess and I will remain awake for as long as the journey lasts.’ He paused, his voice dipping. ‘It is usually the custom for the chief bodyguard to eat meals with his or her royal subject.’
‘Really?’ she questioned.
‘But of course. I need to taste your food and make sure it has not been poisoned, or tampered with. Which is why I am proposing to join you for dinner this evening, unless you have any objections to that.’ Once again he flickered her a steely grey stare. ‘Would such a proposition be acceptable, Your Royal Highness?’
Zabrina’s mouth grew even dryer. She was expected to eat meals with him? She was expected to sit looking at his beautiful face, while all the time attempting to adopt an air of indifference? It sounded like a forbidden kind of heaven, made worse by the fact that Zabrina knew she shouldn’t be thinking this way. She was promised to another man, wasn’t she? That was the deal. She should be thinking about Roman and only Roman—beard or no beard. ‘Why?’ she questioned, playing for time. ‘Am I such an unpopular choice to be your queen that I am likely to be poisoned?’
‘Of course not.’ He gave the faintest wave of dismissal. ‘It is simply a necessary precaution. A safeguard, if you like, so that you will be delivered to the King unharmed.’
‘I see,’ said Zabrina slowly, but his use of the expression ‘deliver’ only reinforced the doubts she’d been experiencing earlier. Was that how everybody saw her—as a commodity? She supposed it was. She might be a crack shot who was fluent in four languages and thoroughly at home on the back of a temperamental horse. She might have devoted a huge portion of her time to working for women’s charities and trying to get more equality for them in her homeland. But none of these things counted for anything, not really. And perhaps it was that which made a sudden streak of rebellion influence her decision, even though she had vowed to herself she wasn’t going to make waves.
She could have told the autocratic bodyguard she wasn’t particularly hungry and was quite happy to miss dinner—both of which were true. She could have hidden herself away in here and not seen anyone until they reached Rosumunte. But she wasn’t going to. She glanced around at the sumptuous salon and suddenly it resembled nothing but a gilded cage.
Her gaze was drawn to the spring-like countryside outside—a blur of bright green as the train passed through. She was leaving her old life behind. When she returned here—and who knew when that would be?—it would be as the queen of a foreign country. One which had waged war against her ancestors in the past. And she was one of the spoils of that war. The modern-day virgin princess offered to the grisly king in exchange for a small chunk of his sizeable wealth.
Through the train window she caught a tantalising glimpse of an orchard at its very best. The branches of the trees were covered in thick white blossom, as if a mantle of snow had fallen on them. She found herself thinking of sunshine and birdsong and felt the sudden quickening of her blood.
Was it that which made her bold?
She was about to consign herself to a life of duty with the bearded King and, in essence, this was her last day of freedom. Surely she could have a little harmless fun before that happened? Would it be so wrong to mix socially with someone she wouldn’t usually have been allowed anywhere near? Constantin Izvor obviously knew her husband-to-be as only a loyal servant could—and certainly a whole lot better than she did. Perhaps she could subtly learn a few tips on how best to handle the powerful King.
At least, that was what Zabrina told herself.
Just as she told herself it had absolutely nothing to do with the bodyguard’s steely eyes and hard body.
‘Yes, I suppose that will be okay,’ she said carelessly, and then turned away before he saw the telltale flush in her cheeks.
CHAPTER THREE
AS HE STOOD outside the ornate door of the Princess’s carriage, Roman felt the powerful thunder of his heart. His throat was dust-dry and his body tense as the train hurtled towards the vast forest which divided Albastase from Petrogoria. He felt excited, yes, but the familiar, blood-pumping sensation of desire which raced through his body was one which filled him with foreboding.
Because Princess Zabrina had thrown his thoughts into disarray and caused him to feel more than a little apprehensive. And, try as he might, he couldn’t dispel the feeling that he had been short-changed. That he had somehow been misled about what to expect from his future bride.
He had anticipated a little more modesty from the virgin princess. For downcast lids to cover those forest-green eyes—not a challenging stare to be slanted in his direction, which had made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He found himself wondering if he had imagined the powerful sizzle of lust which had passed between them. Or had that simply been wishful thinking on his part—because he had looked at her and wanted her and suspected that she wanted him too, because women were never able to resist him? Had he misinterpreted her acerbic response as one of flirtation, when in reality she was genuinely irritated by him—hard as that might be to believe? He curved his lips into an indulgent smile. He would not judge her too harshly. Of course she wouldn’t have been flirting with him—she would have known perfectly well that any such flirtation should be reserved solely for the monarch to whom she was promised.
But in a way, the fact he was having to ask these
questions justified what he was about to do—for what better way to observe his future bride than through the invisible cloak of the humble servant? And when he revealed his true identity to her, he would do it in such a way that could not possibly offend. Even if she was piqued by his elaborate charade, any displeasure would quickly be smoothed away. He would charm her and shower her with the priceless gems he had brought with him and which were currently concealed within his carriage. Because jewels were always a reliable bargaining tool. He had observed the way women behaved with priceless and glittering baubles and doubted his bride-to-be would be any exception.
And he knew this princess was financially astute. Hadn’t she already negotiated a fairly hefty personal settlement for herself within the terms of the marriage contract, which his lawyers had expressed some anxiety about? But her greed did not repel him. Instead, it reassured him. This marriage was nothing but a business deal and the Princess recognised that, too.
He rapped on the door and Silviana opened it. Of course she did. Did he really imagine that Zabrina herself would fling it open and ask him inside? He watched as the servant’s brow creased above the line of her veil, and wondered if she was resisting the desire to curtsey to him. Probably. She knew his true identity but was too well trained to offer anything but a polite nod of greeting. Roman smiled. His equerry had obviously done his job well in warning the staff not to ‘recognise’ him. He glanced across to the other side of the room where a table had been set for dinner, right next to the window and the dusky countryside which was hurtling by. Pale, fragrant roses stood at the centre of the linen cloth and pure white candles had already been lit, casting flickering lights which contrasted with the darkening sky outside.
It was, he realised suddenly, a very romantic scene and now he found himself wondering if that was such a good idea.
Was he worried that temptation would assail him?
‘The Princess will be with you shortly,’ Silviana said. ‘She is getting ready for dinner.’
He nodded, lifting the palm of his hand in a gesture of dismissal. ‘Excellent. You may leave now, Silviana. We will ring the bell when we wish the meal to be served and after that I wish to be alone with the Princess for the rest of the evening.’
She hesitated for no more than a fraction of a moment but Roman had seen it and raised his eyebrows at her in arrogant query.
‘Was there something else, Silviana?’
‘No, no, not at all, Constantin Izvor,’ she said hastily. ‘Please. F-forgive me.’
But Roman barely registered the servant’s stumbled apology or her silent departure. He was much too preoccupied by a growing sense of anticipation—an expectation which was allowed to mount during the thirty long minutes it took for Zabrina to arrive.
He was not used to being kept waiting. Nobody would dare make the King cool his heels in contemplation, and Roman quickly discovered he was not over-fond of the experience. He had often secretly wondered what it would be like to live as an ordinary man but was fast discovering that perhaps he had been guilty of sentimentalising a life of obscurity. Because this was boring—standing to attention while Zabrina took all the time in the world to prepare herself for dinner.
During the hours which had passed since she had closed the door on him earlier, he had allowed himself to fantasise about what she might choose to wear tonight. Was she dressing in one of her fine gowns to dine with him? he wondered, unable to prevent the sudden drying of his mouth. Would the soft rustle of silk precede her, and that tanned skin be complemented by the framing of lavish lace and satin? He felt the heavy beat of desire as he imagined her parading around her bedroom in a variety of different outfits, which banished his boredom just long enough to ensure he was genuinely lost in thought when, eventually, he heard a sound behind him. But there was no rustle of silk or waft of fine perfume as he turned round to survey his future queen.
Roman’s lips parted in disbelief as the Princess entered the salon.
Was this some kind of joke?
She had certainly changed from the embellished dress she’d had on earlier but she had not replaced it with something similarly splendid, or regal. No, she was wearing a pair of what he believed were called ‘sweatpants’, teamed with a loose top which effectively concealed her upper body like some kind of monstrous, flapping tent. She had removed the pins from her hair, too, but the intricate styling had not been replaced by a gratifying fall of lustrous unfettered hair. Instead, the thick brown locks were drawn back in a tight ponytail and she looked...
His brow furrowed. She looked like a woman leaving the gym!
She walked in and saw him and he observed the wariness in her eyes. ‘Oh,’ she said, with that same careless tone she’d used last time she’d spoken. ‘You’re here.’
‘Did you think I wouldn’t be?’
She shrugged. ‘I wasn’t sure.’
‘I said I would be eating dinner with you, Your Royal Highness.’
‘So you did. So you did. Well, you’d better stand at ease, I suppose.’ She flopped down onto one of the sofas and Roman noticed her feet were bare and for some reason his disquiet was replaced by a mounting indignation that she should be so studiedly casual in his company. Because although she was ignorant of his royal identity—surely she shouldn’t be so relaxed in the presence of a strange male bodyguard. Surely she shouldn’t be stretching her arms above her head so that he couldn’t help but be transfixed by the sudden pert outlining of her breasts beneath that horrible garment. Instantly, he looked out of the window and gave the darkening sky a searching scrutiny, as if scanning the horizon for potential threats. As if reminding himself that he was supposed to be guarding her and not running his gaze lustfully over her small and perfect body.
‘Are we waiting for something?’ she questioned.
‘Not at all. I shall ring for dinner immediately,’ he said, resenting the implicit order as he found himself noticing the curving sweep of her dark lashes which shuttered those amazing green eyes.
‘You know, I’m almost tempted to ask if we couldn’t have a sandwich or something instead,’ she continued, huffing out a small sigh. ‘At least that way we could cut the evening short.’
Again, people trying to limit the amount of time they spent with him was something Roman wasn’t used to. They usually hung on his every word until he took his leave of them, and he wasn’t enjoying the sensation of knowing she was there under sufferance. No, he wasn’t enjoying it one bit!
‘A casual snack would of course be possible, Your Royal Highness,’ he answered smoothly. ‘Though surely you need to keep your strength up for the long days of celebration and preparation which lie ahead? I am certain that the royal chefs would be deeply disappointed if you didn’t allow them to offer you a range of typical Petrogorian delicacies.’
The forest-green eyes were suddenly very direct. ‘And is that to be my role for the evening?’ she questioned quietly. ‘That I am to moderate my behaviour in order to please the catering staff?’
‘Of course not, Your Royal Highness,’ he said stiffly. ‘That was not what I meant.’
Zabrina saw the way the bodyguard’s jaw tightened with obvious disapproval and in a way she couldn’t blame him, because she probably was coming over as spoiled. But her behaviour was motivated more by self-protection, rather than petulance. She had been pacing her room restlessly ever since she had met Constantin Izvor at the beginning of this journey, glad to shut the door on him and mop her hand over her sweating brow. She had peeled herself out of her constricting gown and tried blaming that for the acute aching of her breasts and the increased sensitivity around the nipple area, which was making her feel oddly excited but deeply uncomfortable. She had convinced herself that if she dressed down in the comfy clothes she had secreted into her luggage without her mother’s knowledge then she would quickly feel as relaxed as she sometimes did when she was gathered together with her siste
rs and brother, watching American films and eating popcorn in the palace games room.
But she had been wrong.
Despite the slouchy pants and baggy top, all those feelings of earlier were still there, only more so. In fact, she had only to look at the powerful bodyguard for her heart to start racing as if she had been galloping her horse at great speed.
But it was wrong to feel this way about the brooding servant. She was on her way to marry another man!
Conditioned by years of inbred royal etiquette, she sat up straight, put her shoulders back, pressed her knees together, and smiled as she tried to ignore the fake intimacy of the candlelit scene beside the window. ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I am not quite myself. This whole situation is so...’
His steely eyes narrowed. ‘So what?’ he questioned, as her words tailed off.
She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘But—’
‘I said—’ her voice was cool now, and properly regal ‘—it doesn’t matter. And I meant it. Really, it doesn’t. So why don’t you order supper, Izvor, because the sooner you do, the sooner I will be able to retire for the night and you can go back to your guard post?’
It puzzled her that a look of faint irritation crossed his face and she wondered what on earth his agenda was. Was he so arrogant about his undoubted good looks that he found it hard to believe that a woman would want to cut short her time with him? Maybe she had been right in her initial assessment of wondering if his closeness to the King might have given him ideas above his station. Or maybe he was dating one of the chefs and determined that their culinary skills would be properly appreciated by the new Queen! Was that why he seemed so determined to have her eat an elaborate and possibly heavy meal when that was the last thing she wanted?
One Night Before The Royal Wedding (Mills & Boon Modern) Page 3
