The Virgin and His Majesty
Cynicism tinged his deep voice. ‘Or did you just decide to shock your parents?’
She shook her head, stopping abruptly when her curls bobbed about in a childish fashion. ‘I wanted to come away from university with something concrete, skills I could use.’
Something that made people see past her outward physical attributes. Most people took one look at her and wrote her off as a flirtatious little piece of fluff.
On a cool note she finished, ‘And I don’t regret it at all.’
Gerd looked sceptical. The music swelled, and he caught her closer to steer her around a slight traffic jam of dancers ahead. Resisting the quick, fierce temptation to let herself relax against him, Rosie followed his steps.
Above her head he said, ‘You asked what changes I plan; in parts of Carathia change is treated with suspicion, so I’ll be treading carefully, but I intend to extend the scope and the range of education, especially in the mountain districts.’
‘Why education? What about health?’
Broad shoulders lifted in another swift shrug. ‘My grandmother concentrated on health services. They’re well-established, but not as fully used as they could be, especially in the mountains where superstition is still rampant and many people prefer to use the local wise women. When patients do finally present at hospitals, they often die there.’
Rosie nodded. ‘So I suppose they try even harder not to go near them.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And you think education will help? How?’
‘By giving children an understanding of science and some knowledge of the outerworld. Life in the mountains is still very insular, very remote. Children in the alpine villages have to travel to the bigger towns for secondary education, so most miss out. I want to take higher education—good higher education—to each market town.’
‘It seems logical,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘What’s the school leaving age?’
‘Thirteen. Far too young, but parents say they need them at home to help with farming, so any alteration will have to be managed with tact.’
Gerd felt her curls tickle his throat when she nodded.
Thoughtfully she said, ‘To change attitudes you need to corral them at school while they’re still open and receptive. How are you going to set up this system of a high school in every valley?’ She glanced up at him, wide blue eyes intent and serious for once. ‘I assume that’s what you’re planning?’
Gerd told her, sarfonically amused because he was discussing his plans for Carathia with the precocious, light-hearted girl-child who’d jolted him with the passion in her kisses—and his own violent and unconsidered response to them.
That summer three years ago had revealed that behind her sexy, laughing face lurked a keen, quick brain. He’d enjoyed their discussions, but her ardent kisses on the final night when he’d yielded to the forbidden temptation of her sultry mouth had reminded him she was far too young and innocent to do what he’d wanted to do—carry her off to the nearest bed and make reckless, sensuous love to her.
Thank God he’d rejected her open invitation. Etched into his brain was the sight of her kissing Kelt the very morning after she’d turned to flames in his arms. He’d realised then that she’d been using him as a substitute for the man she really wanted.
Did she still long for his brother? If her expression when she watched Kelt dancing with Hani was anything to go by, it seemed more than likely.
Kelt had always been there for her when her father was away searching for ancient civilisations, when her mother was off with the latest boyfriend. A beautiful woman with everything going for her, Eva Matthews wasted her life chasing some sort of rainbow fantasy of the perfect love. Judging by the stream of men through her university years, her daughter was doing the same.
Searching for a security she’d never known? Possibly. Trouble in a delicious little package?
Undoubtedly. But she was no longer naïve and inexperienced.
Above her froth of amber curls he sketched a humourless smile. He was acutely aware of her small, elegantly curved form in that sinuous dress, its colour reminding him of the beaches on his brother’s estate in New Zealand. Subtly glittering, the fabric made the most of her curves and narrow waist without clinging. In a room full of women clothed to impress, she stood out because she wore no jewellery at all, not even a ring on a slender finger.
A strand of hair snagged itself on his lapel, glittering in the light of the chandeliers. She jerked free and said, ‘Sorry about that. I did try for dignity, but my curls are uncontrollable.’
‘It would seem so.’ His voice sounded odd in his ears, and he frowned, fighting back a swift, elemental appetite, a headstrong physical goad that knotted his gut and dried his mouth.
Half smiling, she gazed up at him, dark lashes wide around the intense, gold-flecked blue of her eyes. ‘I straightened my hair once and it just hated it and went all lank and limp, so now I let the curls do their own thing.’
Gerd closed his mind against a swift, erotic image of her, sleek and golden and laughing against crisp white sheets, but the maddening questions refused to go away. Would she be as passionate as the promise of her soft, laughing mouth?
Hard on the heels of that came another question, even more insubordinate. Was she like this—provocative, tempting—with her lovers?
Of course she was. And now she was twenty-one and experienced, there was no need for restraint…
Chapter Two
GERD dampened down a compelling surge of desire to say remotely, ‘Although you affect to despise your hair, it’s very pretty. As I’m sure you know.’
Rosie should have been gratified; apart from that final crack about her hair—delivered with aloof kindness, as though she were ten—he had at least treated her like an adult.
Unfortunately, since they’d moved onto the floor she’d reacquired a taste for the danger and zest of crossing swords with Gerd. Like fencing with a tiger, she’d decided dreamily three years ago.
Her pulse rate skyrocketed when her glance skimmed the strong, boldly chiselled features, intimidating yet profoundly sexy. Now she understood why she’d always been attracted to men with a slight cleft in their chin and hawkish profiles.
Rapidly discarding her first impetuous response, she told him briskly, ‘I could say, just you try living with a head covered with red curls and see if anyone takes you seriously, but instead I’ll ignore your remark. I’ll bet you were born looking like a king.’
His smile was lazy, almost teasing. ‘I’m not a king, and it was meant to be a compliment.’
‘Then I’m afraid you’ll have to try harder.’
His eyes narrowed, and for a second—perhaps less?—something flashed between them, a brittle tension that robbed her of words and breath.
To her relief the music died away, and he released her and offered his arm. She rested her hand on it, feeling insignificant as he escorted her to where Kelt, Hani and Alex waited for her.
They were almost there when he said formally, ‘Thank you for coming, Rosemary.’
‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ she returned, smiling pleasantly at a dowager wearing a serious dress in satin and more pearls than was decent. Taking refuge in flippancy from the aching emptiness that threatened her, Rosie decided the only thing missing was a lorgnette.
She went on, ‘It’s been a truly amazing week. And the coronation ceremony was…’ She searched for the right words, finally settling on, ‘Truly awe-inspiring. Hugely impressive.’ And profoundly moving.
‘I’m glad you found it so,’ he said, his neutral tone revealing nothing. ‘You’re leaving the day after tomorrow, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’ She’d like to ask him what he’d planned for tomorrow night, but no doubt he had better things to do than entertain a nobody from New Zealand.
Kiss Princess Serina, perhaps?
When they reached the others they talked pleasantries for a few minutes until Gerd walked away, and at last Rosie could draw breath.
All she wanted to do was skulk up to her bedroom and hide there until she felt more…well, more herself.
But it was almost over. If she organised her life with care and some cunning she need never exchange words or glances with Gerd again. And when the wedding invitation arrived she’d produce a very good excuse for not attending—a broken leg should do.
Even if she had to break it herself.
From the corner of her eye she saw Gerd talking to the princess, and stiffened her spine. OK, so exorcising this unwanted hunger would take willpower and a rigorous refusal to indulge in daydreams, but she could manage that—she’d had a lot of practice.
The evening wore on. Resolutely keeping her gaze away from the person who held her attention, Rosie danced and laughed and talked and flirted with several interested men. By midnight her rigid self-control was beginning to take its toll and she allowed herself another longing thought of the bed waiting for her in the private apartments of the palace.
But when the ball ended, Alex told her casually, ‘Gerd’s asked us to his quarters for a nightcap. Just the family.’
No princess? Rosie banished a treacherous needle of excitement. ‘How kind of him.’
He lifted a brow and after an uncertain look at his handsome face she began to chatter. She loved her brother, but they had never known each other well enough to develop the sort of relationship that made for confidences.
It was definitely a family gathering—although Gerd seemed to be related to a lot of European royalty.
But no Princess Serina. Stifling an ignoble relief, Rosie refused a glass of champagne and accepted one of mineral water, then glanced around. The private drawing room was big, furnished with more than a salute to Victorian taste. It wasn’t all heavy furniture, however. Her gaze travelled to the large painting in a place of honour on one wall.
‘Kelt’s and my New Zealand grandfather,’ Gerd said from behind her. ‘Alex’s great-great-uncle.’
‘He’s very handsome,’ she said inanely. ‘More like Kelt than you.’
‘You’re intimating that I’m not handsome?’ he drawled lazily.
Colour burned along her cheekbones. Keeping her eyes on the portrait, she returned in her most limpid tone, ‘I’m forever being told that it’s only women who need constant reassurance about their attractiveness.’
His low laugh held a sardonic note. ‘Well avoided.’
‘All I meant was that your grandfather and Kelt have that northern-European look, whereas you show your Mediterranean heritage.’ And a drop-dead gorgeous set of genes he’d inherited—a strong-boned face emphasised by those raptor’s eyes and his powerful, longlegged physique.
‘Like most ruling families, the Crysander-Gillans have a very mixed heritage. The original founder of my house was a Norseman who arrived here with a group of Vikings via Russia some time in the tenth century. They stayed, and imported princesses from almost every country in Europe and the occasional one from considerably further away.’
Well, Princess Serina wouldn’t have far to come! Her family lived in exile on the French Riviera. Rosie’s heart contracted. ‘I like this portrait,’ she said swiftly. ‘He looks…utterly dependable, yet dangerous.’
Gerd smiled and said something in a language Rosie recognised as being Carathian. ‘That’s an old Carathian proverb—A man should be a tiger in bed, a lion in battle, and wise and cunning as a fox in counsel. The Carathians believe that my grandfather met that standard.’
Rosie kept her attention religiously fixed on the painted face. ‘He looks all that and more. How did the ancient Carathians know about tigers and lions?’
He drawled, ‘There used to be lions in southern Europe, and people from the Mediterranean got around—remember, Alexander the Great marched as far as India. I imagine those who made it back arrived home with stories about tigers.’
‘Was Carathia part of Greece originally?’
‘No, although as a state it began with a band of Greek soldiers who lost a battle a thousand years or so before the Christian era and fled this way. They found this valley, and helped the local tribespeople against an attacking force sent to control the pass. For their endeavours they were rewarded with Carathian brides.’
‘I hope the brides approved,’ Rosie observed tartly.
‘Who knows?’ He sounded amused.
Rosie’s heart did a ridiculous flip. If those ancient Greeks had been anything like Gerd their brides had probably been delirious with excitement.
Gerd went on, ‘Over the years various of my ancestors acquired the coastal region and its offshore islands.’
‘How?’ she asked, intrigued by the long history of the small country.
‘Usually by conquest, sometimes by marriage.’
She asked curiously, ‘How many languages do you speak?’
‘Kelt and I grew up speaking both English and Carathian as first languages. We’ve learned a couple more along the way.’
‘I’m very impressed by the way people here switch from language to language without any effort. It makes me feel very much like a country cousin.’
‘Languages can be learnt. Besides, you know the one everyone understands.’
Startled, she swivelled her head to survey his face.
His eyes were half-closed, his chiselled mouth curved in a smile that hit Rosie like a charge of electricity. ‘Your smile speaks the most fundamental language—that of the heart.’
‘Thank you for such a pretty compliment,’ Rosie said hastily, furious because her hot cheeks revealed her astonishment. ‘I don’t think it’s true, but I’d love it to be.’
Brows raised, Gerd said, ‘You’re embarrassed. Why? I can’t believe no other man has told you that your smile is a most potent weapon.’
More than a little wary, she said, ‘Actually, no.’
Men tended to concentrate on her more physical attributes.
Relief seeped through her when a manservant came up. Gerd looked down at him and the servant said something in a low voice. After Gerd’s nod the man went across to the windows and drew back the heavy drapes to reveal the starry burst of a swarm of skyrockets.
Charmed, Rosie joined in the soft murmur of appreciation around the room.
‘The Carathians enjoy firework displays and have organised this,’ Gerd said as the wide French windows were opened.
Everyone trooped out into the warm night onto a stone terrace. ‘Come here, Rosemary,’ Gerd said, making a space for her so she could see easily.
Sheer pleasure seeped through Rosie as she took her place beside him. The private apartments in the palace looked over the walls that had sheltered the people of the old town for centuries. Across the vast valley outlines of mountains reared black against a sky glittering with stars she’d never seen before.
But the stars were put to shame when more fireworks flared into life high above them, a depiction of the Carathian crown she’d watched the archbishop place on Gerd’s black head earlier that day. At that moment of crowning, of Gerd’s commitment to his country, a roar had risen from the crowds outside the cathedral who were watching the ceremony on big screens.
Recalling the fierce, unexpected sound echoing around the ancient stone walls, she took a deep breath. Something fragile and strange expanded within her, filling her with an almost painful anticipation.
Other displays of fireworks burst across the night sky, drowning out the stars. The royal coat of arms formed a triumphant pattern, followed by the emblem of the country—a lion rampant and then a cupped flower, pure white and beautiful.
‘The national flower of Carathia,’ Gerd told her. ‘It blooms in the snow. To the people it symbolises the courage and strength of Carathians.’
To Rosie’s horror her throat closed. Torn by an emotion she didn’t understand, she abandoned her usual flippant response. ‘I suppose in the past they’ve often needed that symbolism.’
‘Indeed they have,’ Gerd said, his tone so noncom mittal that Rosie looked up.
As though he sensed her regard he glanced down, his brows rising in a silent question when their eyes met. She suppressed a shiver and transferred her gaze to the flower, fading swiftly against the depthless darkness of the sky.
‘You’re cold,’ he said quietly.
‘No, not a bit.’ She flashed him a swift smile. ‘Just impressed all over again. This is an amazing place.’ ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it.’
Conventional words, meaning nothing. No fuel for dreams there, she told herself firmly, and pinned her attention to the display as once more the sky exploded into colour, this time a joyous, fiery free-for-all that eventually sank into darkness. A collective sigh seemed to whisper over the city, and in the silence someone not too far away started to play what sounded like a cornet or trumpet. The silvery, plaintive notes were unbearably moving in the quiet air.
‘A folk tune,’ Gerd said quietly, just for her. ‘A song of lost love.’
To Rosie’s utter horror, tears prickled at the backs of her eyes. She had to swallow to be able to say lightly, ‘Aren’t they all? The world’s literature and music is built on broken hearts.’
The notes died away into a momentary silence that was followed by an eruption of cheers and the sound of horns and whistles.
Half an hour later Rosie surveyed her bedroom, decorated to pay tactful tribute to the age of the palace without sacrificing comfort, and thought of the time she’d spent in Carathia.
Watching Gerd, sophisticated and formidable amongst the world’s elite, had emphasised as nothing else could the huge difference between them.
In New Zealand his heritage and position hadn’t seemed so important. He’d always been dominant, that formidable inbuilt air of confidence more intimidating than arrogance could ever be. No one, least of all his New Zealand relatives, had been surprised when the business enterprise he’d set up with Kelt had turned into an empire with ramifications all over the world.
But seeing him in Carathia had added another dimension to his depth and compelling authority, giving him a mystique based on his people’s affection and respect and trust.
Yes, she’d made the right—the only—decision. She wasn’t going to waste her life longing for a man who could never be hers.
Shivering a little, she eased out of her dress, climbed into pyjamas and got into bed. Normally she read for a while, but nothing about the book she’d brought with her appealed, so she turned off the lamp and courted sleep.
An hour later, still wide awake, she got out of bed and padded across to her window, pulling back the drape to gaze down across the city. Although the lights had dimmed, the Carathians were still celebrating their ruler’s coronation with gusto. She could hear singing, and recognised the sad beauty of the folk tune. Clearly it meant something important to the people of Carathia.
A sense of aloneness chilled her. Gerd belonged here in his palace above the city, and Kelt and Hani too, and Alex, although he possessed no royal blood, fitted easily into this gathering of the world’s elite and powerful.
Rosie Matthews, unemployed, from New Zealand didn’t.
Even the moon, she realised suddenly as she stared at it, was different—back to front from the one that beamed down on the other side of the world.
‘So what?’ she said into the night air, fragrant with scents she didn’t recognise. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself and at least get some rest.’
She must have slept for a few hours, because she dreamed—tangled images that had faded by the time she woke—but confronting her reflection the next morning made her inhale sharply and then apply cosmetics to banish the only too obvious signs of a restless night. Breakfast was served in her room, interrupted by a visit from Hani, who eyed her with concern.
Rosie pre-empted any query by saying firmly, ‘I was too excited to sleep much last night—just like an overwrought kid after a birthday party.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Hani said in the resigned tone of a mother who’d had to deal with just that situation. ‘But it was a great day, wasn’t it?’
‘It’s been a fabulous week,’ Rosie said in her airiest voice. ‘Like living in the Middle Ages, only with bathrooms and electricity.’
Hani laughed, but the glance she gave Rosie was shrewd. ‘You say that as though you’ll be glad to get back home.’
‘I will, but I’ll never forget Carathia.’ Or the man who now ruled it.
Hani said, ‘I’d like to go straight to New Zealand, but Kelt has a meeting with the head honchos from Alex’s firm in London, so we’re going there first.’ She gave a swift, lovely smile. ‘I’ll be interested to see how our little Rafi enjoys big cities.’
Hani was right—the sooner she got away from here the better, Rosie thought mordantly as she waved the family party off later that morning. Then she could stop being such an idiot.
Once back home she wouldn’t spend wakeful nights wondering when Gerd was going to announce his engagement to Princess Serina.
By telling herself bracingly that it was completely stupid to feel as though her life was coming to an end, she managed to give Gerd a glittering smile when they met later that morning. In her most accusing voice, she said, ‘Alex tells me you killed him while you were fencing before breakfast.’
Amused, he surveyed her. ‘For a dead man he looked remarkably energetic afterwards.’
‘He’s disgustingly fit.’ Rosie smiled, hoping it didn’t look as painful as it felt. Damn it, she’d get rid of this crush no matter what it took. ‘I didn’t know he was a fencer.’ In fact, she didn’t know much about her half brother at all.
Gerd understood, perhaps more than she liked. ‘He learned at university, I believe. He’s good. I believe you’re using today to visit the museum.’
Rosie nodded. ‘I’m looking forward to that, and afterwards I’m checking out the shopping area.’
‘Just make sure you don’t lose your guide—the central part of the city is like a rabbit warren and not many of the people speak English. If you got lost I’d probably have to mount a search party.’
His smile made Rosie’s foolish heart flip in her chest. He isn’t being personal, she told herself sternly.
He went on, ‘I’d like to show you around myself, but my day is taken up. I’m meeting my First Minister and then farewelling guests.’
Including Princess Serina? Rosie concealed the humiliating question with her friendliest smile, the one that usually caused Kelt to view her with intense suspicion. ‘Rather you than me,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’m going to have a lovely day.’
She did, discovering that Carathia’s national flower was actually a buttercup. New Zealand too had a mountain buttercup, and, strangely enough, it too was pristinely white.
How foolish to feel that the coincidence formed some sort of link between the two countries!
The shopping area displayed interesting boutiques and the usual big names; her guide, a pleasant woman in her thirties with an encyclopaedic knowledge of Carathia, did her best to encourage her to buy, but Rosie resisted, even the silk scarf exquisitely embroidered ‘by hand’, the shopkeeper told her, pointing out the fineness of the stitches. She held it up. ‘And it suits you; you have the same delicate colouring, the soft clarity of spring.’
‘It’s lovely,’ Rosie said on a sigh, ‘and worth every penny, but I don’t have those pennies, I’m afraid. Thank you for showing it to me, though.’
Her regret must have shown in her tone because the woman smiled and nodded and packed the beautiful, fragile thing away without demur.
Back at the palace she found a note waiting for her. Apart from his signature on birthday and Christmas cards it was the first time she’d seen Gerd’s writing; bold and full of character, it made her heart thump unnecessarily fast as she scanned the paper.
He hoped she’d had a good day, and suggested that they have dinner together at a restaurant he knew, one where they wouldn’t be hounded by photographers.