A Royal Engagement: The Storm Within\The Reluctant Queen (12 page)

 

Lara woke slowly, aware that she was stiff and that her dreams had been wild pageants, complicated and emotional and much
too heavy. It took long moments to dispel them, to remember where she was, and why.

And then she looked out the window and wondered if she'd woken up at all.

The great valley of Alakkul, mystical and secretive, spread out before her—ringed by the sharp, snow-capped mountains on all sides. Her half-remembered homeland sparkled in the morning light, white snow and deep green fields, the rich browns and greens of the forests, and the deep crystal blues of the clear mountain lakes. From high above, she could see the remotest villages and the farmer's fields, the bustling towns and the bigger, busier cities, tucked into the foothills and spreading across the valley floor.

She did not merely
see
, Lara thought in a mix of elation and despair—she
felt.
It was as if a great wall within her, one she hadn't known was there, began to crack into pieces, to fall. Her eyes drank in the bright red flowers that spread across the high mountain fields like a boisterous carpet in the summer sun, so cheerful against the deep greens of the grassy meadows and the smoky blues of the far mountains. All of it seemed to resonate within her, as if she had been hiding all her life and only in this moment had stepped into the light.

You are being fanciful
, she cautioned herself, but the plane was dropping closer and closer to the earth, and she could not tell the difference between memory and reality—she could only feel. Too much. Much too much. The spires and steeples of the sacred city appeared before her, until they flew directly over the ancient palace itself, its turrets and towers arching gracefully toward the summer sky above.

Home
, she thought, and felt that word ricochet through her, leaving marks.

Lara found she was holding her breath, but even that could not seem to stop the great swell of emotion inside of her, that seemed to rip her into pieces. She could not tear her eyes
away, not even when the plane continued its inexorable descent and bumped gently down on the runway.

She could not breathe. She was afraid she might be sobbing and she couldn't even tell for sure, because her ears were ringing and she could not
think
—and the plane was taxiing to a stop and this was really happening. She was really, truly here, after twelve long years.

She rose in a daze, and followed the smiling air hostess out into the morning light. It was so blinding. So clear and pure. The high mountain air was so crisp. She walked down the stairs to the tarmac, and noticed almost distantly the way the people standing there reacted, bowing and crying out her name in their language. But her brain couldn't quite process what they said. What that meant. Her attention was on the view all around her—the mountains, the trees, the magical palace—all of it clearly Alakkul and nowhere else. She knew, suddenly, that she would know where she was if she was blind. She could smell it, sense it. Taste it. Feel it deep in her bones.

Home
, that voice whispered inside of her again, ringing through her. It shook her to the core. Changed her, she thought irrationally. Changed her forever.

It was only then that she heard someone else come down the metal stairs behind her. She turned, and there was Adel, broad and dark against the summer morning. His attention was entirely focused on her, and she felt herself burst into a riot of flames as he drew closer. How could he do that, she wondered helplessly, even now, when she felt both more lost—and more found—than she ever had before?

He stopped before her, and reached over to take her hand. She should stop him, she thought. She had not yet processed any of the things that had happened, what had passed between them, and yet she did not pull her hand away. She couldn't seem to do it. She couldn't seem to
want
to do it. How could she feel safe with this man, when she knew all too well that
was the one thing she was not? Once again, she was aware of the people standing at a respectful distance, all of them bowing again, some even sinking into deep curtseys. But Adel was beside her, his hand around hers, and she felt the panic inside of her ease. Just as it always had, even twelve years ago. As if he could make the world stop at his command. She remembered the feeling. She felt it now.

Adel raised her hand to his lips and then, impossibly, his dark eyes meeting hers for a searing moment, bowed his head over it.

“The King is dead,” he said in ringing tones that carried across the tarmac, perhaps rebounding off the looming mountain guardians of her childhood to lodge in her soul.

His dark eyes connected with hers, silver and serious, and made her stomach twist inside of her.

“Long live the Queen!” he cried in the same voice, and turned, presenting her to the assembled throng. There were flashbulbs. Applause. More bowing, and some cheers.

“Adel…” But she didn't know what she meant to say.

“Welcome home, Princess,” he murmured, his hand warm around hers, his eyes dark gray, his mouth that familiar un-yielding line.

It made the hard knot of panic inside of her ease. She felt herself breathe in, felt her shoulders settle, as if he'd directed her to do so. As if he made it possible. Just as he'd done long ago, this not-quite-stranger. He bowed his head again, and that firm mouth curved slightly.

“My queen,” he said.

And, somehow, made all of it both real, and all right.

T
HE
funeral was an ornate affair, with priests and dignitaries and far too many eyes turned in the direction of the new Queen of Alakkul.

Lara sat in the great cathedral in the position of honor, with Adel close to her side, both of them outfitted in the finest Alakkulian garments. The fabric of her severe black gown felt rich and sumptuous against her skin, despite the fact the occasion was so grim. But she could not let herself think about that, not even as the assembled masses rose to sing an ancient hymn of loss and mourning and faith in the afterlife. She could only bow her head and try to calm herself. Try to breathe—try to stay upright. Beside her, Adel shifted, and briefly squeezed her hand with his.

She dared not look at him directly, no matter how his touch moved her—how it seemed to trickle through her veins, warming and soothing her. A quick glance confirmed he looked too uncompromisingly handsome, too disturbing in his resplendent military regalia, as befitted the highest ranking member of the country, save, she supposed with the still-dazed part of her brain that was capable of thinking of these things, herself. She was afraid that she would stare at him too long and disgrace herself.

As, of course, no small part of her wanted to do. Anything to avoid the reality of her father's death. Of the fact that this was his funeral, and she had hardly known him. Would, now,
never know him. She had hated the man passionately for almost as long as she could remember, she had gone out of her way to do so to better please and placate her mother, so why did she feel this strange hollowness now? Did she believe the things that Adel had said about Marlena? If not, then surely she should feel either some small measure of satisfaction or nothing at all?

The truth was, she did not have the slightest idea what she felt, much less what she
should
feel. How could she? She had been in this strange place, with its surprisingly fierce kicks of nostalgia and odd flashes of memories, for under forty-eight hours. She had been whisked from the airfield to the palace, her meager possessions placed carefully in a sumptuous suite she only vaguely recalled had once been her mother's—and soon augmented by the kinds of couture ensembles more appropriate to her brand-new, unwanted position. She had been waited upon by fleets of bowing, eager attendants, who were there to see to needs she was not even aware she ought to have. Her wardrobe. Her appointments. Her new, apparently deeply complicated life.

Her first official duty as the new Queen was this funeral. This sending off of a man who clearly inspired loyalty—devotion—from his people, and from the man who stood beside her now. Lara did not know how to reconcile the man they spoke of here, in hushed and reverent tones, with the monster her mother had conjured for her for so many years. She did not know how to feel about the disparity. She did not want to believe Adel's story of her mother's infidelity—but could not seem to put it out of her head.

She did not know how to feel about anything.

Her orderly, comfortable life in Denver was gone as if it had never existed. The only constant was the man at her side, and the only thing she knew she felt about him was a deep and abiding confusion. Her body still longed for him, in deep, consuming ways that startled her. Her mind rebelled against every
thing he stood for and his own designs upon her. And yet her heart seemed to hurt inside her chest when she pictured him as a child, forced to play war games in the royal palace, torn from his own family when he'd been hardly more than a toddler. It seemed to beat faster when she remembered their first kiss, her very first kiss ever, so sweet and forbidden, in a hidden corner of the castle ballroom when she had been just sixteen.

She did not have to examine these things more closely to know that she was undeniably, and disastrously, consumed with the man who had an intolerable level of control over this new life of hers.

The question, she asked herself as the service ended and the procession began, and he was still the only thing that she could seem to focus on, was what, if anything, did she plan to do about it?

 

Much later, after King Azat had been interred in his final resting place beneath the stones of the ancient mausoleum and all the polite words had been spoken to all the correct people, Lara found herself still in her new, stiff black gown, standing awkwardly in one of the palace's smaller private salons.

Across from her, framed by the gilt and gold that graced every spare inch of the walls and floors and ceilings of this fairy-tale place, looking every inch the new King, Adel poured himself a drink. He did so with his customary masculine grace, and Lara could not understand why even something so simple, so mundane, as this man splashing amber-colored liquor into a crystal tumbler should cause her blood to heat. He turned to look at her as if he'd felt the weight of her gaze, his expression that same watchful, careful calmness that she knew all too well by now.

Knew, but could not quite read. Why should that make her heart speed up in her chest?

Lara felt as awkward and as stiff as the fussy room they stood in, as the elegant gown she still wore when she longed for
something more casual, more comfortable. Her hands moved restlessly before her, plucking at the fabric of her long skirt. She could not seem to keep still. She wandered the edges of the small salon, stopping before the great windows that looked out over the ancient city, all the spires and rooftops gleaming white and blue as the sun dipped toward the western mountains. It looked indescribably foreign to her eyes, and yet some part of her thrilled to the sight, as if she was as much a part of the landscape as he was. As if it was in her blood.

“They cheered,” she said, not knowing she meant to speak, not knowing her voice would sound so insubstantial. She swallowed, and reached a hand toward the window, the glass cool beneath her reaching fingers. “When we were in the car, heading back here. Why would they do that?”

“You are their princess, now their queen,” Adel said, his even voice filling the small room, pressing against her ears, and burrowing beneath her skin. “The last of an ancient and revered bloodline, the daughter of a beloved ruler now lost to them. You were stolen away from them when you were just a girl. They celebrate your safe return to the place you belong.” He paused for a moment. “Your home.”

She looked over her shoulder at him, not knowing why she trembled, why his eyes seemed so sure, and yet managed to make her feel so raw inside. She wanted to speak—perhaps she wanted to scream—but nothing moved past her lips.

“They adore you,” he said.

“Not me.” She shook her head, swallowed. “Some idea of what I should be, perhaps, but not me.”

 

He heard the dark, wild panic in her voice, and moved toward her, though he had promised himself he would not touch her again. A promise he had already broken repeatedly. In the cathedral. In the car. In the endless reception. He, who held his vows to be sacred. And still, he moved behind her, set
ting his untouched drink on a side table and letting his hands come to rest on her shoulders.

“It becomes easier,” he murmured, close to the perfect shell of her ear, the tempting, elegant line of her neck.

“How do you stand it?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the city outside the windows, as if one of the most beautiful views in the kingdom disturbed her. “All that…expectation?”

She sounded torn. Terrified. And he wanted to soothe her. He wanted to kiss the panic from her body, make her forget herself and the demands of her station. But he could not afford that kind of misstep. Not now, when the King was buried and gone. When so much remained at stake.

“We will marry at the end of the week,” he said gruffly. “There is no time to waste.”

He felt the shock move through her body, like an electrical current.

“What is the hurry?” she asked, turning so she faced him, not seeming to notice that his hands remained on her, sliding down to hold her upper arms in his palms. “Surely what matters is that I am here. Must we force all of these changes into only a handful of days?”

Her voice caught slightly on the word
changes.
He hated himself for pushing her, but he had no choice. He had been bound over to his country so long ago now he no longer remembered any other way. There were far greater things than the hurt feelings of one woman to worry about, even if it was this one, and far more important things to consider than his abiding desire to comfort her. There was much more at stake than these quiet moments that he knew, somehow, he would never get back.

But he had never had any choice.

“The ceremony will be in the cathedral, as tradition demands,” he said as if he had not heard her. She frowned up at him. He found himself frowning back at her, a surge of sudden, unreasonable anger moving through him, though he
knew it was not her he was angry with. “Will you fight this, too, Princess? Will we see who wins this latest battle? I should let you know that I am unlikely to be as easy on you as I have been. My patience for these games of yours wears thin.”

For a moment she looked as if he'd slapped her. Her face whitened, then blazed into color. She pressed her lips together for a moment, and then her silvery eyes seemed to look straight into him. Through him.

“What is this?” she asked, in a calm voice that sounded eerily like his own. As if she'd learned it from him. “What are you not telling me?”

He did not know, in that moment, whether he wanted to strangle her or tumble her to the floor. He was appalled at the riot of emotion inside of him. He stepped back, forcing himself to let go of her. Making himself breathe and regain his own control.

He had always known he would marry this woman, that she was his. And he would make that happen, one way or another. The fact that he loved her, that he burned for her—that was incidental. It had to be.

“Many things,” he answered finally. “Did you imagine it would be otherwise? Have you shared all your secrets with me?”

Her wide eyes searched his, then dropped. He saw her pull in a steadying breath, and wanted to touch her—but did not.

“It occurs to me that I am already the Queen,” she said after a long moment, looking every inch of her heritage, her head held proudly, her inky black hair in that elegant twist. “While, if I am not mistaken, you must marry me to become king.”

“You are correct,” he said silkily, watching her closely, the warrior instinct stirring to life within his blood. Was that pride he felt? That she was a worthy opponent even today of all days? “Your ancestors have held the throne of Alakkul since the tenth century.”

Her head tilted slightly to one side as she considered him. “And what is to prevent me choosing a different king?” she asked in that soft voice that he did not mistake for anything but a weapon. “One I prefer to you?”

He felt himself smile, not nicely. Far stronger men had quailed before that smile, but Lara only watched him, her eyes blazing with a passion he did not entirely understand. But oh, how he longed to bathe in it.

Soon
, he told himself.
Soon enough.

“Theoretically,” he said, “you can choose any king you wish.”

She blinked, and then seized on the important part of what he'd just said. “But not in practice?” she asked.

“There is the matter of your vows and our betrothal,” he said. “Honor matters more here, to those people who loved you enough to cheer you in the streets, than in your other world. Breaking your word and defying your late father's wishes would cause a deep and lasting scandal.” He shrugged. “But you are American now, are you not? Perhaps you will not mind a scandal.”

“I think I'll announce to the world at large that the new Queen of Alakkul is in need of a king,” she said, her eyes bright, daring him. “Surely any number of suitors will present themselves. It can be like my own, personal reality show.”

She expected him to react badly, he could tell. But he saw the way her pulse pounded in the tender crook of her neck, and smiled.

“By all means, Princess,” he said. “Invite whoever you like to court you.”

“You don't mind?” Her voice was ripe with disbelief. “You don't think you're the better choice?”

He laughed, enjoying the way the sound made her frown.

“There is no doubt at all that I am the better choice,” he said. “But more than that, I am the only choice.”

“According to you,” she said, defiant and beautiful.

“No,” he said softly. He reached across and traced a simple line along the elegant length of her neck, smiling in satisfaction when she hissed in a breath and goose bumps rose. “According to you,” he said, his own body reacting to her arousal. “You have loved me since you were but a girl. You will again. Your body is already there.” He did not smile now—he met her gaze with his own, steady and sure. “You will not pick another king.”

 

That bald statement seemed to hang between them, making the air hard to breathe. Lara's stomach hurt, and her hands balled into fists.

“Why must I marry anyone?” she asked, her voice low and intent, growing hoarse with the emotion she fought to conceal, even as her body rioted, proving his words to be true no matter how she longed to deny them. “Why can't I simply be queen on my own?”

But Adel only shook his head, in that infuriating manner of his that made her itch to explode into some kind of decisive action. But then again, perhaps touching him was not a good idea.

“Why should I trust anything you say?” she threw at him, angry beyond reason, dizzy with all she wanted and would not allow herself. “You've done nothing but lie to me from the start!”

“I will do whatever it takes to secure the throne and protect this country,” he threw back at her. Did she imagine the hint of darker emotion in his voice? Flashing in his gray eyes? Or did she only
want
it to be there?