Читать книгу Capturing the Crown Bundle - Nina Bruhns, Caridad Piñeiro - Страница 19

Russell stopped whistling.

He had realized, as he headed back to his quarters, that if there were an heir to the throne, if this woman, Sydney Connor, really was pregnant with Reginald’s baby and if she could be found, then his coronation need not take place.

But, it suddenly occurred to him, if it didn’t, what then would become of his union with Amelia? Would it be terminated, annulled, rescinded, as if it had never happened?

It was obvious that the only reason their wedding had gone off on the preset schedule, without missing so much as a beat, was because King Roman was anxious to have the treaty between their two countries go forward.

In that light, things had not changed all that much since ancient times. Countries still needed to forge alliances in order to survive. The strong protected the weak, not of out any sense of altruism, but because of the stakes involved. Two countries together were stronger than either country was on its own.

If an heir suddenly surfaced, and the line was restored to King Weston’s house, then how would he, Russell, figure into all this? What would his role be? Would he even have a role, beyond that of political advisor? Since he would not be king, would Amelia’s father call for an annulment and have her—what, pledged to a child? he wondered cynically.

Or would King Roman place pressure on his old friend and have Weston take Amelia as his wife? That was a possibility he hadn’t even thought of until this moment. Weston had been without a queen these thirty years. The thought of having a beautiful young bride might be very appealing. It would go a long way to healing the wounds he now felt.

And where would Amelia weigh in on all this? Would she dutifully go along with whatever her father decided to do, for the “good of the kingdom?” Or would she ask her father to change his mind? To withdraw his negotiations? Would she demand not to be the pawn that she’d told him she felt herself to be in all of this?

He’d like to believe that she would, but he couldn’t in all honesty be sure.

They had spent a wonderful night together that had seemed even better, if that were possible, than their first night had been. But that had to do with attraction, with chemistry, with emotions, none of which mattered when it came to the ultimate matters of state.

Russell shook his head. There were too many possibilities, too many uncertain elements. Too many “ifs” crowding his brain.

His good mood faded.

He held off saying anything to anyone about Lucia’s findings for two days. And two nights. Two nights in which time and life were suspended as he found a perfect haven in the bed that had once been intended for Prince Reginald and his bride. The bed that was now his and Amelia’s. He made love with her as if he was savoring a very precious, very fragile gift, never once telling Amelia that all this might be fleeting.

And then, on the morning of the third day, he couldn’t put it off any longer. Slipping out of bed quietly in order not to wake Amelia, he quickly got dressed and left to see about business.

After first checking with Lucia to see if she had come up with anything further—she hadn’t—he went to see the king. It was time Weston was apprised of the situation. Once Weston knew, the situation would be, more or less, taken out of Russell’s hands.

His first loyalty had to be with the crown, Russell told himself, not with any feelings he might have. His was not to pick and choose, but to serve. If, after everything, it turned out that it was his destiny to be king, then so be it. But that eventuality might not ever take place.

And if that wound up costing him the woman that he had come to love with all his heart, that, too, was a matter of destiny.

Bracing himself for whatever the future had in store for him, Russell knocked on the door to the king’s private quarters.

“They can’t possibly think that we’re actually responsible for this.”

The protest, uttered in disgust, came from Nikolas Donovan. He was sitting on his small balcony that overlooked the sea, having breakfast alone. Only seagulls heard his words as he threw down the newspaper. A breeze ruffled the pages that came to rest on the round glass-top table. He hardly noticed.

The article that had stirred his ire dealt with the prince’s resent death. It was the fifth in as many days. His death filled all the papers. Articles examining his life, his foibles and addictions, his lineage, abounded everywhere. Ad nauseum. Even if he’d liked the man, which he vehemently didn’t, he would have been sick of him by now.

The article that had gotten to him dealt with speculation as to whether or not the cause of the prince’s final curtain call from life was the result of an accident, or intentional. And if it was the latter, whose intention had been followed? The prince’s or someone else’s? Had the prince, the article demanded self-righteously, been the victim of some kind of plot?

If it was the latter, the article went on to say, then perhaps attention might be well drawn to the Union for Democracy.

Slate gray eyes had grown dangerously dark as Nikolas struggled with his temper. Rising, he shoved his hands into his pants and stared out at the sea.

Nikolas Donovan was the head of the Union for Democracy, an anti-monarchy organization that had been in existence only a short amount of time, about five years. But in that time, he was proud of the fact that no one had resorted to any kind of actual violence.

Unlike the monarchy, he thought darkly.

It was because Silvershire was not a democratic state that his own parents had been killed when he was a baby. Killed by the man who now sat on the throne, he’d been told by his uncle. Uncle Silas, his father’s brother, had raised him from the time he was a baby. It had been Silas who had drummed into his head, for as long as he could remember, that power belonged to the people, not to one person solely because of the accident of birth. Silas advocated a complete overthrow of the monarchy.

For his part, Nikolas was working to have a gradual change come about. If nothing else, his group wanted to get a stronger voice in the government. So that self-absorbed narcissists like the late Prince Reginald did not pose a threat to the common man.

His handsome features became almost dark as Nikolas’s thoughts turned to the late prince. He’d known Reginald personally. They were the same age and had, Reginald by privilege and he by the sweat of his brow, attended the same schools together. Their paths at Eton and Oxford had crossed on occasion. But for the most part, he was absorbed in his studies and Reginald had been too busy bedding anything that moved.

Even back then, he had been a man with a mission. That mission had been, and still was, to bring a better form of government to his country.

However, that mission hadn’t included killing the present-day crown prince, no matter how much he personally loathed and despised the man.

That the prince was dead evoked no sense of sorrow from him. Nikolas was certain that, had Reginald ascended to the throne, he would have abused his power, just as he had abused it as a young man at Oxford. There was no question in his mind that the country was definitely better off without him.

Russell, Duke of Carrington, the man who stood next in line, whose marriage to the Princess Amelia of Gastonia earlier this week had all but solidified the man’s position in the scheme of things, was a better choice from what he knew of him, but still not the ideal one. The ideal choice would have been no king at all, because Silvershire deserved to be a democracy. A democracy where the people had a say in the government that ruled them.

He would go to his grave believing that.

In the last year, he had pulled out all the stops, urging anyone who would listen to join the movement, to make it bigger, stronger. A voice to be reckoned with. Presently, it was mostly comprised of people his own age and younger. The generation that had come before, ironically, his parents generation had they lived, believed in tradition, in maintaining the status quo. But they did not have as much at stake, as much to lose, as the younger generation did.

As he did, Nikolas thought. His generation was not complacent, would not go gentle into that good night like obedient sheep. Moreover, it was his dearest, heartfelt, fervent desire to avenge the death of his parents and make King Weston step down.

And have no man of royal blood step up to take his place.

He and his organization had stirred things up when they could, making people aware that they should demand a voice, a choice. The Union for Democracy had caused disruptions whenever they could to wake people up. But killing was another matter. He would have thought that had been made abundantly clear to anyone who knew of the group.

That the rumors even hinted that he and his followers were behind the prince’s death was ridiculous. But he knew how these things spread. Knew, too, that it didn’t take much to set people off against one another.

Though he didn’t like the idea, he knew that he and his followers were going to have to be prepared for the worst.

Nikolas left the rest of his breakfast untouched as he went inside to see about getting together with his key people and making sure that the word went out that the Union for Democracy had nothing to do with the prince’s death. Though he always advocated the mind over the sword, there was no place for martyrs in his plans. They had to be ready to fight if it came down to that.

In another town, the man whose neighbors knew him as Silas Donovan smiled to himself as he read the same article. It had begun. The unrest, the discord he’d hoped for, had plotted for and nurtured, was beginning.

He’d waited a very long time for this. Forever, it seemed. But revenge was finally taking form. Revenge against the man who had ruined his life. Who had taken his birthright. And the instrument he would use to bring it all about was a very personal one. When all was revealed, the significance would not be lost on Weston.

He could hardly wait.

Weston was grieving now. The so-called monarch would grieve even more very soon.

Silas Donovan began to laugh to himself. Anyone who would have heard him would have shivered from the malevolent sound.

King Weston looked at the young man before him for a long moment before finally responding. Grieving, still saying goodbye and unable to make himself give the order that would allow the autopsy to take place, the monarch was having trouble processing the information he had just been given.

It meant that he didn’t have to say goodbye to his son. Not completely.

“A child, you say?”

Russell had begun to think that perhaps the monarch hadn’t heard him. Since Reginald’s death, Weston had withdrawn into himself to the point that there were times when he seemed to shut out the rest of the world entirely. He was a changed man, changed completely from the genial ruler he had been.

“Yes.”

Weston took a breath, as if he’d been holding it, waiting for the right answer. “And it’s Reginald’s?”

Russell wanted to be completely honest with the king. That meant not giving the man any undue false hopes. “We’re not sure of that yet. Ms. Cordez has managed to find only a handful of e-mails from the woman. It’s going to take some time to put all the pieces of the puzzle together. And then, of course, there’ll have to be DNA testing to substantiate her claim.”

“Of course.” Weston nodded. But the look in his eyes had become eager. It gave him a shred of hope, of something to hang on to. “Does anyone know who and where this woman is?”

“We know who, or at least the name she was using.” The king looked at him, waiting. “Sydney Connor,” he told the monarch. “But as to her whereabouts, again, we’re not sure.”

“Find her,” Weston ordered.

The directive “immediately” was understood. Russell began to withdraw from the suite. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Wait.” Already at the door, Russell obediently turned around and waited for the king to speak. “You said something about ‘the name she was using.’” The king furrowed his brow, concern marking his features. “Why wouldn’t she be using her own name? Do you think this might be some kind of deception?”

The question struck Russell as odd. The king was usually sharper than this. “Your Majesty knows that royalty has always been the center of intrigue. Nothing is ever what it seems.”

Eyes that were red-rimmed from tears met his. “You are.”

Russell smiled. In all his years of service, and in the years that had come before that, when he had been Reginald’s “chosen friend,” he had not once ever lied, not once tried to present anything but the truth. “Thank you, Your Majesty, but I am the exception.”

The king laughed at the simple remark. And then his features sobered until they bordered on grave. The monarch looked at him. “You realize that if there is a child and it is Reginald’s and a male, then you won’t be the next ruler of Silvershire.”

Again, Russell inclined his head. The smile that was on his lips was not forced. It rose of its own volition. “Yes, I know.”

A man completely devoid of ambition was rare. “And that would be all right with you?”

That would be perfect with him, Russell thought. Aloud, he said, “You might recall, Your Majesty, I never wanted to be king.”

Weston was aware of that, but circumstances bring about changes, and desires flourish even in desert terrain.

“That is not what I am asking.” The king paused. “Thirty years ago, I didn’t want to be king, either. Not with as much resistance as I witnessed you originally display, but I had made peace with the fact that Vladimir would be king once King Dunford passed on the crown. Even though I didn’t feel that Vladimir had the best interests of the people at heart, he would have had my allegiance.

“However, after my protests had been overridden and King Dunford gave the crown to me, I discovered that I liked being the king. Liked having the reins of the country in my hand. Liked the thought that perhaps I was helping the people I was serving. I knew in my heart that Vladimir would abuse his power, place himself first instead of in the service of his people, so initially I took it as my obligation.”

For a moment, Weston allowed his thoughts drift to another time, a time when his hair was dark and his body firmer. When there had been a wife by his side and anything was possible.

“And eventually,” he continued, looking at Russell, “I was glad I did. Eventually, I came to enjoy my lofty position. It is seductive in its own right, being king,” he confided. “Now things are in place for your coronation and I want to know, if this child does exist and we do find it, how are you going to feel?” When Russell said nothing, Weston supplied a word for him. “Cheated?”

“Relieved,” Russell finally countered after a moment had passed. “I have never in my life wanted to be the center of attention. I always did much better when I was allowed to work off to the side.”

But the king heard only one thing. “There’s hesitation in your voice, Carrington.”

He couldn’t dispute that. But he wasn’t hesitating because he wanted the crown. Not for its own sake at any rate. “I was wondering…”

“Yes?”

There was no delicate way to broach this. Russell felt almost transparent as he asked, “If I am not to be king, will my union with the princess be annulled?”

The question caught Weston by surprise. “I hadn’t thought of that. Under the circumstances, I don’t believe so, but it would have to be discussed with King Roman.” And then the thoughtful frown disappeared, to be replaced with a tickled laugh. “Forgive me, Carrington, but this is placing the horse before the cart. If there is a cart. If there is a horse,” he added with a hopeful note.

To Russell’s surprise, the king let out a long, soulful sigh. “I still cannot make myself believe that Reginald is actually gone. I miss him, Russell,” he confided, his voice lowering to almost an intimate whisper. “Miss the thought of him, actually. Our paths did not really cross all that often these last few years.” The king waved his hand vaguely about. “I was always involved in matters of state and he was always out, doing something,” Weston’s mouth twisted in an indulgent smile, “unstatesmanlike I suppose would be the best description of what he got himself into.”

Russell felt for the man, but he knew that they had to move the investigation forward on all fronts. And the king had stymied one avenue. He began as gently as he could. “Your Majesty, about the autopsy—”

Momentarily lost in thought, in the possibility that Reginald had left behind a piece of himself, it took Weston a second to realize that Russell had allowed his voice to trail off. “Yes? What about it?”

Several people had put the question to him, asking him when the funeral was going to be held. The funeral couldn’t be arranged until after the autopsy was performed. “I think we need to attend to that.”

Weston looked away, gazed out the window, saw the years that had passed. “We will.”

“Sooner rather than later, sire,” Russell urged. “Arrangements need to be made for the funeral. I can handle that for you if you wish, but first—”

“I know, I know, the autopsy. Yes, you are correct, of course. I’ll give instructions about that presently, I give you my word.” Turning from the window, he looked at Russell again. “A baby, you say?”

Russell smiled indulgently, knowing that he would not be leaving soon. “Yes, sire, a baby.”

When Russell finally left the king’s quarters some twenty minutes later, he was concerned about Weston’s state of mind as well as the monarch’s general health. The king, always so robust, so vibrant-looking, suddenly seemed to be wearing his years heavily. Russell knew it was the shock of the prince’s death on top of his concerns about the state of unrest that was presently rocking Silvershire. The actions of the Union for Democracy had stepped up. Rumors of it coming to a head had been heard. He’d half expected something to take place during the wedding. The king had called in extra security around the palace just in case.

It seemed too much for one man to handle.

Reginald’s autopsy was the immediate matter that really needed to be seen to, but there was no way to overrule the king. At first the delay had been because he had wanted his son’s body to remain whole until after the wedding. Then the excuse was that he only wanted the royal medical examiner to perform the autopsy. Away on a short vacation, the doctor had turned around immediately and taken a flight back, only to be caught up in a temporary quarantine because two of the passengers on her return flight came down with a mysterious ailment. But she was here now, and still the autopsy was being delayed. He could only hope that the king’s common sense would finally prevail.

Maybe news of the baby would finally get the king to move forward. Thank God Lazlo’s operative was making some headway. The woman felt she was getting close to cracking the prince’s code, which would open up the rest of the files to them and perhaps give them a better insight as to who might have wanted not merely to threaten the prince, but to actually carry out that threat.

And then there was the matter of the blackmail. Who and what was behind that?

He had a dozen questions and so far, no answers. He reminded himself that patience was a virtue, but he wasn’t feeling very virtuous right now.

Amelia heard him before he even had a chance to enter the informal dining area within their quarters.

Her mouth curved. Strange how quickly she had gotten in tune with the sound of his steps. Her smile widened, its tributaries spreading out all through her.

Ironic, wasn’t it? This was the first time that she was actually happy to be the princess of Gastonia. Not that she didn’t love her country, but she could have loved it just as much if she’d been a commoner. But being the princess, with a princess’s obligations, had, thanks to a twist of fate, allowed her to marry the man she had always secretly loved. Even despite all those strange little bugs that had come crawling out of her bed and the water balloons that had come flying almost out of nowhere during his visits.

She felt just a fleeting pinch of guilt at being happy over Reginald’s death, but then, she had to be realistic. The man would have made an awful ruler. His personality, that of a self-absorbed hedonist, was cast and set. There was absolutely no reason to believe that ascending the throne would have made Reginald behave in any other manner than he always had.

On the contrary, it might even have made him worse. No one in Silvershire would have been happy, least of all her.

Well, no one, she amended silently, but the women Reginald took to his bed and rewarded with trinkets for their favors.

“Good afternoon, my husband. It’s about time you made a little time for me,” she joked as she turned around.

The smile on her face froze when she saw the somber expression on Russell’s face.