Back to Claim His Crown
Autore
Natalie Anderson
Letto da
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Capitoli
18
CHAPTER ONE
‘IT NEEDS SEVERAL more stitches, Princess.’
Zara Durant gritted her teeth and remained dutifully still while the severe tailor secured her dress with surgical precision. She’d been standing for over two hours already but today everything needed to be perfect. If her bodice slipped and exposed her to a cathedral full of people, that would not be perfect—so it wasn’t too hard to summon patience while multiple hair and make-up artists hovered, occasionally swooping close to enact other minor adjustments. She’d unintentionally lost a little weight in the run-up. Her mother had been delighted this morning when she’d finally arrived in Monrayne and seen Zara for the first time in weeks. The brusque seamstress not so much.
Monrayne was the smallest but wealthiest nation on the Scandinavian peninsula, famed for its pristine alpine environment, gleaming palaces and glittering modernity. Zara had been stunned when she’d driven through the city for the first time just over a week ago. It was a snow globe perfect scene with its tall spires, ancient architecture and sparkling snow-capped surroundings.
Right now, as the emergency alterations were made to Zara’s dress, her too-proud mother, the Queen of Dolrovia, was taking her seat in Monrayne’s magnificent stone cathedral. Zara watched her mother’s sweeping entrance on the television screen that had been set up in her suite. Millions were watching the live stream, including her invalid father, King Harold, in his bedroom back in Dolrovia. Their much smaller, much less wealthy country bordered the Baltic Sea and her father had been deposed just over a decade ago. The revolution had been peaceful but complete—their titles were now purely honorific and almost the only thing that remained of their history. The only property they’d been allowed to keep was the crumbling castle deep in the lowland plains. The other properties, plus the art, jewels and antiques, had moved to public ownership. But, despite rejecting their Royal family, her country—indeed the whole world—was fascinated by Zara’s wedding today.
Clearly loving every moment, her mother imperiously acknowledged the hundreds of dignitaries, politicians, royals and celebrities who’d gathered in their finest couture to witness the Royal wedding of the decade—revelling in the resurgence of the kind of attention that had faded for their particular family a number of years ago.
Becoming powerless, penniless officially ‘ex’ Royals hadn’t been easy for Zara’s elderly parents, despite the fact the situation had been decades in the making. They believed it was because they lacked a male heir—nothing to do with their own denial of reality, their own continued excesses, their own failure to adapt to the modern world. They’d never imagined that their very late lamb—an unplanned, unnecessary, unwanted extra girl who’d rarely been allowed past the castle gate—would secure such an advantageous marriage contract. That there was interest in their dusty lineage once more was something they would make the most of.
So many citizens in Dolrovia were suddenly interested in the youngest princess, who hadn’t been seen in so long most had forgotten she even existed. She’d been stuck there in the countryside, caring for disinterested parents, while her much older sisters lived in the city. If Zara failed to show at the ceremony now there wouldn’t just be outrage but complete condemnation—and that was only from her parents.
It still didn’t seem real, but the fact was she was the bride in this spectacle. Furthermore, she’d not just agreed to this madness, she’d actively pursued the position. She was marrying the Crown Prince of Monrayne—the head of a Royal family most definitely still brimming with money, prestige and real power.
Not that she wanted these things. She wanted greater personal freedom, and that was far more precious. And it was that which she’d been promised. When born to a life like hers, one had to seize opportunities and strike bargains.
Now Zara stared at the stranger in the mirror. The hours taken to create this fairy-tale facade had been worth it. Her make-up was flawless. The diamond-encrusted hand-made lace covered her back and arms, hiding the unsightly pink mottling that smothered her skin when she was nervous. It also gave her a modest, innocent air, one they apparently considered crucial. She considered it archaic. But she gritted her teeth, determined to forget the mortifying questioning from the Crown Prince’s advisors and the utterly humiliating examination she’d subsequently endured before being deemed an acceptable bride.
‘I’m finished.’ The seamstress spoke in English, the second language that both nations shared and that Zara spoke fluently.
Moments later, Zara slowly followed one of the liveried footmen, allowing the attendants a final hyper-critical inspection as she passed. Despite their wafting air of disapproval, she was grateful for their frosty insistence upon perfection.
Monrayne’s palace was far larger and more opulent than her castle on the verge of collapse and it was ridiculously easy to get lost in. The portraits which had once hung in the main atrium, but had since been sequestered in the furthest wing in which she’d been confined for this last week, had been way-finders for her. The first depicted the late Queen Kristyn and King Lucas on their wedding day. The second was of their only child, Prince Lucian. As always, Zara’s glance lingered on the young man. His arresting gaze always caught her attention—those pale blue eyes, that winning smile, the heart-stopping handsomeness for ever young. The portrait had been painted when he was only sixteen—two years before his tragic disappearance in a diving accident a decade ago.
Zara had barely been thirteen but she remembered the global outpouring of grief and shock when it had happened. The frantic searches in the Mediterranean had gone on for weeks but his body had never been recovered. He’d been immensely popular, the dreamy Prince Charming of billions of girls all over the world. The elite boarding school he’d attended had been oversubscribed fifty times over as every wealthy family on the continent and beyond had tried to get their daughters alongside him in class. His mother, Queen Kristyn—already widowed—hadn’t recovered from the loss and had died within days of the young man’s death.
And now Zara was about to marry Lucian’s cousin Anders, who’d become the new Crown Prince of Monrayne on Lucian’s passing. He would be crowned King in just a few days when he came of Monraynian regal age on his twenty-fifth birthday. Their wedding today was merely the first of an elaborate series of celebrations, each bigger than the last.
The wedding. The birthday. The coronation.
She’d not been Prince Anders’s first pick. His uncle, Garth—currently Regent of Monrayne—had discreetly visited her parents’ castle. Her sisters had dropped everything and made one of their rare visits home to welcome him ‘properly’. His query had taken them by surprise. That he was quietly searching for a suitable bride for the Crown Prince had sounded like something from the last century. Mia, the eldest, had politely explained that she was already in a serious relationship, while Ana had also declined, noting that at thirty-three she felt too old for Anders.
That was when Zara had stepped from the corner to volunteer. She’d stunned everyone. But while she might be ten years younger than Ana, she was old enough to make up her own mind. She was capable of far more than either her parents or her siblings knew.
Garth—who’d unsurprisingly forgotten her existence, given her cloistered life—had assessed her with calculating eyes and, to everyone’s astonishment, had immediately agreed.
He’d admitted later than he’d not realised she would be there. To the world she was still the late arrived child, the much younger sister of the two beautiful princesses who’d embraced Dolrovia’s democratic revolution while their parents had been forced to retreat from public life and curb all excesses.
Of course, there’d been caveats before complete agreement of the marriage contract. There’d been requirements to complete, including that absolute awkwardness...but then there’d been acceptance and surprising speed. It was less than two months since that initial meeting.
The terms were simple. She couldn’t overshadow her future husband—no problem, given she disliked publicity and didn’t court self-promotion. She was more than happy to stand supportively in the background. Because in private there could be more freedom than she currently had. She would be able to support charitable causes close to her heart and she might actually earn some respect from her family—but an element of freedom from them at the same time. Because she wasn’t precious to them, in fact the opposite. Expected to be dutiful while being ignored and ill-educated at the same time, this was the only acceptable escape from the castle-bound life they’d prescribed for her.
Yet as she entered the eight-horse-drawn crystal carriage that would now take her to the cathedral, doubt almost devastated her. She breathed deeply, telling herself her nerves were only because she was the focal point for millions of people. She wasn’t used to the spotlight. But today would be the worst. It would only get easier. She would remain in the background after this moment because the King had primacy. She’d be the safe option Garth had said they wanted.
Ten minutes later the carriage stopped outside the cathedral. She swallowed back nausea. She felt very alone. But then she’d been alone almost all her life.
Neither of her sisters were her bridal attendants. Mia and Ana had left home when Zara had been young. They rarely visited and when they did it was only to emphasise Zara’s ‘duty’ to her parents and how perfectly her life suited her. So when Garth had decided that a bridal party of delightful children would be the thing, Zara had readily agreed. She didn’t mind that she didn’t know the children nor got to choose anyone else. She had few personal friends. So now she carefully held the stunning bouquet, maintained the smile the stylists had made her practice for hours and followed the assortment of sweet-looking offspring of favoured courtiers in petite silk dresses and sailor suits. Everything looked perfect. Even her. It was quite the miracle.
Breathe. Walk. Slowly. Carefully. Evenly. Calmly.
It didn’t matter that she barely knew Anders. This was a political arrangement, not personal. There was plenty of time to get to know him. Yes, she was a little forlorn that he’d been too busy to see her this week. That there’d been no time for the two of them to be alone at all in their engagement. The many photos of them spread across the Internet had been the result of a single day’s shoot which had involved another massive array of make-up artists and stylists.
He didn’t turn to watch her walk towards him now. It was probably protocol. She ought to know, but she’d been so nervous at the rehearsals she hadn’t really heard the detailed explanations why all these things were done in such convoluted ways. Yet, despite their fondness for tradition, the courtiers had been unashamedly delighted that she had no escort to walk her up the aisle as her elderly father was too infirm. Apparently, it would give everyone an unrestricted view of her elaborate dress. Diamond-studded, it was a gleaming work of art and masked the fact that Zara was no true beauty but merely a smaller, less vivid rendering of her stunning elder sisters.
She counted through the music and took each careful slow step over the centuries-old stones beneath her feet. But just as she finally passed the halfway mark she heard another sound repeating behind her. It took a moment to realise it was other footsteps on the flagstones. Heavier ones, moving a touch faster than her own—catching up to her, in fact. She faltered. The bride was supposed to be the last to arrive. Should she pause and allow whoever it was to get themselves seated?
As she hesitated the organ stopped. Then the trumpets. She hadn’t actually made it all the way up the aisle, yet now the cathedral was abruptly silent.
Except for those heavy footsteps. They kept going.
She was a full ten feet short of where she was supposed to stop. But there didn’t seem a lot of point to keep going when the music had stopped as well. She looked towards Garth, the chief architect of this entire pageant and her advisor in all of this. To her astonishment, as she watched he changed colour—first turning pale before his skin was suddenly awash with red. It was only deep emotion that caused an uncontrollable reaction like that.
Garth didn’t meet her enquiring gaze but stared hard behind her, his expression aghast. Anders, her groom, finally turned. He didn’t so much as glance at her but also immediately fixated on the person coming up the aisle behind her. His jaw dropped but the rest of him stayed still, apparently transfixed.
She was being upstaged on her wedding day, even when wearing the world’s most ludicrously expensive wedding dress with its diamond-encrusted lace. It was so typical that she couldn’t get through this like a proper princess would. Not only was her title merely a superficial nod to placate her elderly parents, she didn’t have the education or the experience, nor the looks nor even the polish she needed to really pull this off.
There were hundreds of people inside the cathedral. Hundreds of thousands lining the streets outside. Yet it was eerily silent except for those footsteps. She straightened her shoulders and made herself turn.
It was a man. A mountain of a man. Tall and unbelievably broad-shouldered, his muscular frame dominated her vision. He simply consumed the space of the aisle. As she turned, he stopped walking—now only three feet away—and stared right back at her.
He was clad in full ceremonial attire—regal attire. Black trousers...starched white jacket. The scarlet sash across his shoulder emphasised the menacing breadth of him. His hair was cropped close in military fashion, making his facial structure prominent—high cheekbones, square jaw and a nose that looked like it might have been broken more than once. He had an incongruously full mouth but it was currently tightly held, while a jagged, puckered scar cut through his left eyebrow and into his eyelid. She suspected he was lucky to still see from that eye. He was motionless now but he emanated repressed energy—anger.
Her heart frantically shoved burning blood through her body. She felt entirely alight—as if she’d somehow spontaneously combusted yet was still standing. He said nothing. He didn’t seem to so much as breathe. But he stared back at her. The rest of the world blurred until she saw only him in the vast cathedral. It was as if they were utterly alone and then she felt the strangest compulsion to step towards him—to reach out, pulled by the emotion barely banked within him. She didn’t. She was too lost in the palest, iciest eyes she’d ever seen.
In fact she’d seen eyes that colour only once before. In a portrait hanging in the corridor of the palace she’d just come from.
In a portrait of a dead man.
