Читать книгу The Lost Prince - Cindy Dees - Страница 6

When you’re a king, how you die is as important as how you live.

The unexpected thought distracted Nick long enough that he almost didn’t dive for cover in time. An explosion rocked him nearly off his feet, momentarily lighting the throne room’s white marble floors and colonnaded walls a gaudy shade of orange.

Kaboom!

That didn’t sound like another mortar. That sounded more like a shape charge in the vicinity of one of the ancient fortress’s heavy wooden drawbridges.

Dying at the hands of an enraged mob of soldiers was not high on his list of things to do with his life, dammit. But then, neither was being a king. Yet here he was, king for barely a week and about to die because of it. How ironic. Oh, he’d known his father was ill. But he’d still been shocked when the call came to his London flat that his father had succumbed to one last massive heart attack, leaving Nick sole heir to all his family’s titles and estates, including the principality of Baraq.

In retrospect, his impulsive decision to stay on in Baraq after his father’s funeral had been colossally stupid. But who’d have guessed he’d walk into a mess like this? What had he been thinking? It was one thing to be a fool. It was another thing entirely to die for it. Why were these guys so sure he’d be a lousy king, anyway? How could these strangers hate him so much? He’d only been on the throne a few days.

Of course, he’d just answered his own question. These Army officers kicking him off his throne were total strangers to him. He’d left Baraq with his mother when he was ten. Finished his schooling in England and only went home—although he didn’t even think of Baraq as that—when he absolutely had to. The last time he’d been back here was six years ago on the fiftieth anniversary of his father becoming king.

Who would have ever guessed his perfect life would come to this? It was a hell of an end for the most eligible bachelor in all of Europe.

Flickering light danced off the ceiling, announcing that a fire blazed in the garden outside. Nick wasn’t worried about the palace burning. Its stone walls were six feet thick and had withstood more than one assault by fire over the centuries.

An abrupt musical crash of breaking glass made him turn and look out from behind the massive throne. He saw several middle-aged men swing a priceless Louis XV chair and heave it out one of the room’s many tall windows, creating a jagged man-sized hole amidst a glittering shower of glass.

Indignant, he stepped out from behind the throne.

Nikolas Hassan Akeem el Ramsey, thirtieth ruler of the principality of Baraq, planted his fists on his hips and glared in disgust as his ministers jumped one by one out the window into the river below. They looked like so many rats abandoning a sinking ship.

Good riddance.

They were the idiots who’d run his ailing father’s country into this mess in the first place. It had taken him a matter of hours listening to their blathering and bickering to know why Baraq hovered on the edge of collapse. If only he’d had more time. Maybe he could have set the once peaceful and prosperous country to rights. But now it was too late. He was going to die a stupid, senseless death that he’d walked right into without ever getting a chance to lead Baraq into a better future.

Anger swirled through him sickeningly. Why hadn’t his father seen this crisis coming and done something to avert it? Why didn’t I come home from London sooner and see it myself?

He’d been so busy investing several large cash deposits in the Ramsey bank accounts in London, it hadn’t even occurred to him to go home to visit his ailing father. Hell, he’d even passed on visiting his mother at her palatial home in Barbados this winter.

Well, he was home now.

Kareem Hadar, his father’s oldest friend and only counselor with a speck of sense, moved toward him, apparently having opted not to join the rats in their midnight swim. The older man flinched every few steps at the bursts of gunfire now echoing from within the ancient stone walls of the fortress.

“Your Highness, you must leave,” Kareem urged.

Nick glared at him. That had been his exact thought moments ago, but hearing it said aloud inexplicably irritated him. “I will not! I swore at my coronation that I would stand by Baraq and defend it from its enemies.”

Kareem replied urgently, “Your father is dead and this night’s battle is lost. If the war is to be won, you must survive. You are the only living Ramsey.”

Nick snorted. “Not for long. The rebels are inside the palace. They’ll find me in a few minutes, and you know as well as I do they’ll kill me on sight.”

Both men ducked as a deafening blast shook the room. An enormous chandelier plunged to the floor, shattering into a million pieces and throwing a rainbow of broken crystals across the marble tiles. The huge double doors at the far end of the long hall crashed open, and a phalanx of palace guards backed into the room, hard pressed in hand-to-hand fighting. The line slowly buckled, and Nick glimpsed the distinctive green camouflage of the Army rebels pushing inexorably forward through the light-brown khaki of the Baraqi royal guards.

Resolutely he turned around and walked up the shallow steps to his father’s throne. My throne, dammit. He pivoted deliberately and sat down. Time to die like a king.

From his excellent vantage point, he watched the fight, mesmerized by the slow-motion collapse of the last line of defense standing between him and death. He was startled out of his reverie when Kareem grabbed his arm with surprising strength and bodily dragged him off the throne.

Nick shouted over the din, “What are you doing? If I must die, I’m going to die on my throne!”

The older man put his mouth to Nick’s ear and shouted over the screams of soldiers, machine-gun fire and clash of bayonets, “Your Highness, there may be a way to avoid such a fate….”