Capturing the Crown: The Heart of a Ruler

This was entirely unacceptable, Amelia thought. It was not only thoughtless and rude, it was beyond insulting. Was he deliberately absent in order to publicly embarrass her? Was this a sign of the things that were to come? Or was he just out to show her how superior he was to her?

Amelia looked over toward Russell, her eyes reiterating Madeline’s question. If anyone would know of the prince’s whereabouts, it was Carrington. But she saw the duke move his head from side to side, silently telling her that he was just as much in the dark about Reginald as she was.

This was not good, Amelia thought. None of the princesses in the fairy tales she had grown up reading were ever stranded by their prince.

Maybe because he’s not really your prince.

The band began to play. Amelia shut the voice in her head out. She carefully came down the narrow metal steps. Despite the din of the crowd, she could swear she heard the click of her heels as she made contact with the metal over and over again. And with each step she took, she heard the same tattoo being struck.

Run. Run. Run.

Except that there was nowhere to run to.

The king and his entourage approached, meeting her halfway. Stepping forward, Weston embraced her, then kissed her soundly first on one cheek and then the other. Finished, he stood back and beamed at her.

“Welcome, Princess.”

There was warmth in the monarch’s eyes, but there was something more there, she realized. There was just a hint of discomfort.

The king was embarrassed that Reginald wasn’t here, Amelia thought. He was embarrassed for her and for the realm. She took heart in that.

In his mid-sixties, King Weston appeared to be in the prime of his life. Distinguished, he looked like a man at least ten years his junior. Six feet one inch tall, with a strong build, he had a full head of silver-gray hair and kind blue-gray eyes. Amelia had always liked him. She fervently wished she could have felt the same way about his son.

Stepping to the side, he gestured, presenting her to his people. “Welcome to your new home.”

After a push from her mother, a little girl of no more than six approached with a huge bouquet of flowers. The little girl held it up as high as she could, offering the bouquet to her. There were carnations, perfect specimens of pink and white, mixed with several other delicate flowers that Amelia knew were native to Silvershire.

When Amelia accepted the bouquet, the little girl curtsied, then stepped back and buried her face in her mother’s skirt, suddenly shy.

Amelia bent down to her level and said, “Thank you.”

The little girl half turned her head toward her again and offered a small, hesitant smile.

Rising to her feet, Amelia looked at the throng that had gathered to see her. “Thank you all for coming,” she said, raising her voice in order to be heard. “I’m very happy to be here.”

In response, the crowd cheered and clapped. All except for a cluster of people over on the side. There was almost a militant appearance about them, even though they were all wearing civilian clothes. There was a dark-haired young man dressed in black, standing in the center. He seemed to be the rallying point around whom the others gathered. Behind him was a banner that loudly proclaimed Down With the Monarchy. Seeing it was a shock.

So, she thought, this is not quite the paradise the king wants me to believe it is.

It took her a moment to realize that Madeline was at her elbow. “Didn’t realize you were an actress,” her friend whispered to her, barely moving her lips.

“Every princess is,” Amelia responded in the same low whisper. The smile she’d summoned remained on her lips as she looked out on the crowd. Turning toward the king, she nodded toward the small cluster of dissenters. “Who are they?”

“No one you need concern yourself about,” Weston replied dismissively.

“That’s the Union for Democracy,” Russell told her. “Nikolas Donovan is their leader. He would be the one you see in front.”

All she could see was Russell. But she was a princess and knew she had to conduct herself as one—as if nothing was crossing her mind but the information he was telling her, as if her pulse was not accelerating, even now. “Are they dangerous?” she wanted to know.

“Peaceful,” he countered.

She nodded. “I hope they stay that way.”

“I won’t have them ruining this occasion,” the king told her firmly. He extended his arm to her. “If you’ll permit me, Princess?”

Amelia slipped her arm through his. “Of course.” As he led her to the long, sleek, black limousine that was to take them back to the palace, she inclined her head toward his and asked the question she could no longer keep back. “Where is the prince?”

She felt the king stiffen, saw the smile on his lips grow just a little brittle around the edges. Clearly this was a sore point. And then she understood that by not being here, Reginald was not only insulting her, but the king, as well. He paused as they came to the limousine. “No one knows.”

The driver hurriedly opened the door for them, then stood back.

“I see,” she murmured, slipping into the limousine first.

The king followed, taking his seat beside her. By rights, Russell should have come next, but he stepped back, gesturing for Madeline to get into the vehicle before him. Madeline gave him a wide, appreciative grin before ducking her head and taking the seat opposite Amelia.

Manners before protocol, Amelia thought. In her heart, she knew that it would have never occurred to Reginald to surrender his position and allow Madeline to get into the vehicle before him. She could hear his young voice taunting her.

When we’re grown, you’ll have to mind me and do everything I say. You won’t have a choice.

He’d been a dictator even then. Was he one now? Was she going to find life with him unbearable? She strove not to let depression absorb her thoughts, strove not to think beyond the moment. She should be relieved, not insulted, by Reginald’s absence, she told herself.

The king’s bodyguard closed the door and the vehicle began its journey to the palace, less than five miles away.

Progress was slow. People lined both sides of the streets, waving frantically even before the limousine passed them. Some held tiny Silvershire flags. A few clutched both the flags of Silvershire and Gastonia, symbolizing the merger of the two kingdoms. The mood was festive.

Everywhere but within the interior of the limousine.

Amelia sat closest to the window, waving to the faces of her new people. Though she tried not to focus on it, the significance of the prince’s continued and very glaring absence from the scene weighed down on her.

This didn’t bode well for the marriage, she thought, her smile never faltering. But then, she had already sensed that. Otherwise, she would have never invited Russell to her bed, no matter how drawn to him she felt.

Hers was not destined to be a fairy-tale marriage, Amelia reflected sadly, struggling to accept what she knew was her fate. Still, she continued waving and smiling at the people who wished her well and who were already, from all appearances, taking her to their hearts.

All except for the small band of dissenters.

Chapter 7

Discreet questions as to the prince’s whereabouts were asked once the limousine arrived at the palace. But no one seemed to know where Reginald was. The king’s anxiety continued to mount even as he prepared to attend the gala being held at the palace in honor of Princess Amelia’s arrival and the young royals’ upcoming wedding.

The hours slipped by. The prince was nowhere to be found.

Russell frowned to himself, returning his cell phone to his pocket. Reginald wasn’t answering his personal phone. Voice mail picked up immediately, which meant that the prince had shut off his phone, something he was prone to doing whenever he was busy gratifying his sexual appetites. Dutifully, Russell informed the king that his son couldn’t be reached.

On the advice of his chief counselor, King Weston changed the theme of the celebration at the last moment to center exclusively around the princess who had come to join together the two kingdoms.

Outwardly, the mood at the party was festive, but beneath the thin layer of gaiety was an underlying knot of tension. Because they cared for their king and had taken to the princess, everyone at the affair pretended that there was nothing wrong.

As he stood back and observed the guests, Russell was convinced that the prince’s glaring absence was the talk of every small gathering he saw at the celebration.

At least Amelia was a hit, Russell thought fondly. But then, how could she not be? Coddling the scotch and soda he had been nursing for the last half hour, Russell smiled to himself. The change in Princess Amelia had been incredible. It was hard to believe that this was the same young girl who’d been the target of his practical jokes whenever he’d visited Gastonia.

Taking a sip from his glass, he felt the liquid spread a deep, burning sensation through his chest, warming everything in its path. It was the same sort of sensation he experienced each time he now looked in Amelia’s direction.

All evening, Amelia continued to be the center of attention. At the moment Russell watched her engage several of Silvershire’s leading businessmen in conversation. The perfunctory smiles on the men’s faces quickly changed to looks of interest. Russell knew for a fact that the princess, in addition to being fluent in five different languages, had a business degree to her name. The five languages put her four and a half up on Reginald, he thought with a touch of cynicism.

It seemed that there was nothing, Russell thought with more than a little pride, she couldn’t accomplish if she set her mind to it.

She was charming the pants off everyone, Russell noted. God knew that she had certainly done that with him. Even before they had spent the night together.

He felt a pang stirring within him, born not of guilt but of need. It was followed by a wave of anger. The prince should be horsewhipped for standing her up this way. Reginald had known about this gala, known that it was to have celebrated their upcoming marriage. How could he do this to Amelia?

The very thought of the marriage, of Amelia being intimate with Reginald, made something in the pit of his stomach rise up in his throat. Russell took another sip to wash the taste of bile from his mouth.

He had no business feeling like this, no business feeling anything beyond a mild pity for whoever officially graced the prince’s bed. But he couldn’t help himself. This was personal. It would always be personal no matter how much he wanted to divorce himself from the situation. He realized that his hand was tightening around his glass and he forced himself to relax his grip.

Were this another time, one of intrigue and secret pacts, when daggers rather than words were used to settle matters of discord, he might have been sorely tempted …

To what? To kill Reginald?

No, Russell thought, murder wasn’t his way. And it certainly wasn’t an option, even if he were the kind of person who thought nothing of killing whoever got in his way. It wasn’t an option because Russell had always prided himself on his loyalty to the crown, and Reginald was the future king of Silvershire.

Which meant that he had to be loyal to Reginald, no matter what. Even though, despite all of his and the king’s efforts, Reginald would undoubtedly turn out to be a bad king. But whether Reginald was or not, it was not a matter for him to take into his own hands.

Just as he shouldn’t have taken Amelia into his hands, into his arms, Russell thought. That he had was his cross to bear. In silence.

He figured the almost bottomless longing he felt would make him pay for his transgression every day of his life. Even now, watching the princess as groups of men and women gathered around her, he felt himself wanting her more than he could recall ever wanting anyone before.

Hell of a cross to bear, he thought darkly, taking another drink.

“So where do you suppose he really is?”

The question came out of nowhere, as if echoing his thoughts. Glancing to his side, he saw Amelia’s lady-in-waiting, Madeline. He’d been so lost in his thoughts and in observing Amelia from what he’d initially thought was a safe distance—quickly learning that there was no safe distance when it came to being around Amelia—that he hadn’t heard the princess’s friend approach.

From the little he had seen of her, Madeline struck him as being very honest and straightforward. By no stretch of the imagination could the lady be called shy or retiring. She was outspoken and seemed a perfect match for Amelia.

For the princess, he upbraided himself. He had to stop thinking of her by her given name and just keep reminding himself that she was the princess. And would be, in a matter of weeks, his queen. Continuing to regard her as Amelia was out of order.

He inclined his head toward Madeline, pretending he hadn’t heard her. “Excuse me?”

Madeline gave him a look that said she knew that he knew what she was talking about. But for form’s sake, she elaborated.

“The prince,” she enunciated precisely, wishing she could grind the man between her teeth, as well. “Why isn’t he here?”

Russell paused. Protocol dictated that he say something in the man’s defense. That he tell this woman of less-than-royal blood that it wasn’t any of her concern what the prince did, or didn’t do, or where he was at any given moment. But he was far too modern in his thinking for that. And he liked the fact that Amelia had a friend to help her at a time like this. A friend who could be open.

You’re her friend. Except that, because of what had happened between them, he couldn’t allow himself to assume that role any longer. People would talk. He wanted nothing to sully her reputation. Nothing.

This was a very sticky situation they found themselves in, he thought ruefully.

“I don’t know,” he told Madeline honestly. And then, because he felt he could trust the young woman, he added, “This behavior is pretty reckless, even for the prince.”

Madeline had put her own interpretation to the prince’s no-show. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking on her part. “Is this his way of saying that he won’t go through with the marriage?”

That had never been in jeopardy, Russell thought sadly. “Oh, the prince’ll go through with the marriage. There’s too much riding on it for him not to. He might be reckless, but he’s not brave enough to oppose his father in matters that really count.”

Madeline frowned, taking offense for Amelia who was too kind-hearted to voice her own offense. “And not coming here doesn’t count?” she wanted to know. “You know, someone other than Princess Amelia would have been humiliated.”

“She’s made of finer stuff than that,” Russell commented, looking in Amelia’s direction again.

Unintentionally, he caught Amelia’s eye. For a moment, they looked at one another from across the room and he could almost feel a communion between them. But it wasn’t anything that either one of them could acknowledge, even fleetingly, without consequences.

He looked away first, before anyone could see. Or so he thought.

“Yes,” Madeline agreed, noting what had just happened between the duke and Amelia, even if everyone else was oblivious to it, “she is.” Moving closer to Carrington, she lowered her voice. “Maybe the princess is also lucky. Maybe the prince will find that backbone every living creature is supposed to have and use it to sail away to Tahiti.” She flashed a smile at him. “At least, one can hope.” She ended her statement with a wink, then excused herself before drifting back over toward Amelia.

The princess’s lady had winked at him. Was that supposed to mean something? Was she flirting with him, or delivering some kind of a message?

God, but he did hate complications.

Turning away to refill the drink he had finally finished, Russell all but walked into a solid wall of a man. One of the king’s six bodyguards. This one was a tall, burly man who looked as uncomfortable in the tuxedo he was forced to wear as he would have been in a ballet dress fashioned with a profusion of tulle.

He gave a perfunctory nod of his head in place of a bow. “Excuse me, Your Grace, but King Weston would like to speak with you.”

“The king?” Russell looked around and saw that Weston was not anywhere in the ballroom. If the royals continued to disappear like this, he mused, Nikolas Donovan and his Union for Democracy would find that winning their battle took no effort at all.

“Yes. This way, please.”

They left the ballroom. Russell followed the bodyguard into the corridor and then to the king’s study.

“Here he is, Your Majesty,” the bodyguard announced. The moment that Russell crossed the threshold, the other man closed the doors behind him. Russell had no doubt that the man had positioned himself outside the double doors, barring anyone else’s entrance until the king was finished with him.

Alone, with no prying eyes to spy on him, King Weston allowed his smiling facade to fall away. He’d known Russell since the young duke and Reginald had played together in a royal, pristine white sandbox. He felt comfortable enough with Russell not to have to maintain a pose. The man was almost like his own son.

In some ways, he actually felt more comfortable in Russell’s presence than in Reginald’s. There was an honesty to Russell that was missing in his own son.

His frown went deep, almost clear down to the bone. As did his frustration and displeasure. “Where the hell is he, Russell?”

“I don’t know.” He was surprised to see that the king fixed him with a long, hard, penetrating look. “I would tell you, Your Majesty, if I knew.” He watched as the expression faded from Weston’s face. “But I’ve been gone these last few days,” he reminded his ruler, “bringing the princess back for the wedding.”

“The wedding.” Despair almost got the better of Weston as he threw up his hands.

Of late, the King had been battling the effects of what he took to be the flu. He felt feverish, at times dizzy, although he said nothing because he did not want the royal doctor fussing over him. But feeling the way he did, he was not up to Reginald’s latest display of inexcusable behavior.

“The wedding is taking place in three days. No, two and a half,” he amended. “Two and a half days,” he repeated.

Russell truly felt sorry for what he thought the king had to be going through. Every man wanted to point to his son with pride, not frustration. “I know that, Your Majesty,” he responded quietly.

“What if he decides to skip that, too, just like he skipped meeting her at the airport, just like he skipped attending the party in his and her honor?” The tension in the king’s voice kept building, fueled by ever-increasing agitation. “What if he doesn’t come? What am I to do then, marry the girl off to a piece of his clothing? Or to the royal sword?”

Though the situation was deadly serious, the question threatened to evoke a smile. Russell did his best to keep it at bay.

“Marriage by proxy has been done, Your Majesty,” Russell allowed.

“Yes, it has. During the Crusades,” the king retorted angrily. “What is he thinking?” The question was more of a lament than a demand for an answer.

Russell had been with the prince on more than one of his escapades and knew the pattern of Reginald’s behavior as the evening advanced. “Right about now, Your Majesty, since the prince is missing, I don’t imagine that he’s thinking much of anything.”

Weston’s pale complexion took on color. “Because he’s dead drunk?”

Russell deliberately kept his voice low, hoping to calm the king down. “That, too, I’m afraid, has been known to happen.”

The king shook his head, not in despair, but in final decision. He had indulged Reginald too long and too much. He had to put a stop to it and he would. Beginning now. The prince couldn’t be allowed to continue behaving like some rutting stag.

“Well, it can’t,” the king said with finality. “Not anymore. He has to learn that he has to grow up. Reginald’s thirty years old, for heaven’s sake.”

The king had begun to pace. Russell moved out of the way, giving the monarch a clear path. “Yes, I know that, too, Your Majesty.”

Weston paused abruptly, as if to gather himself together. His complexion, Russell thought, was much too red. If the king was not careful, he could talk himself right into a heart attack or a stroke. He’d heard rumors, although as of yet unsubstantiated, that the king’s health was not what it used to be. No doubt, Reginald and his reckless behavior had something to do with that.

The king crossed to him. They were of equal height. The king looked at him imploringly, not as a ruler but as a father. A father who had been pushed to the limit of his endurance. “I want you to find him for me, Russell.”

Russell didn’t want to make promises he couldn’t keep. “I don’t—”

The king held up his hand, not letting him finish. “You know his haunts, you know what he’s capable of and with whom.” A sad smile curved her lips. “Probably much more than I do. I pride myself on being informed, but there are some things a father doesn’t want to know about his son.” His eyes met Russell’s in a silent entreaty for understanding. “So I have no idea where to send one of my bodyguards to find him. But you would know.” He paused, waiting for some kind of confirmation. “Wouldn’t you?”

Even though he didn’t go there himself, he knew the different places that Reginald liked to frequent, some he wouldn’t even repeat to the king. “There are a few places I could go to look.”

“Then go. Look.” The words came out like shots fired from a gun, quick, independent and lethal. “And bring the prince back, even if he orders you not to.” Weston squared his broad shoulders. “You have my orders and I can still overrule the prince.”

But for how long? Russell wondered. Once Weston gave up the crown to his son, Russell had more than just an uneasy feeling that there would be no safeguards that could be applied to the unruly Reginald. There would be no one to stop him, at least, not officially. Russell foresaw only turmoil in the months ahead. The way he felt about Amelia had nothing to do with his fears for the realm.

He studied his monarch’s face. The king was an intelligent man. Granted he loved his son, but he had to see that Reginald wasn’t really fit to take charge, no matter what his chronological age. They needed more time to make him ready to assume his responsibilities. Until now, Reginald had only been playing at being a royal. He had taken on none of the duties that went with his position.

For heaven’s sake, he couldn’t even show up somewhere on time.

The words burned on his tongue. Russell couldn’t allow himself just to stand by and say nothing. But he knew the path was one that was lined with mines. He picked his way carefully.

“Perhaps, Your Majesty, you might reconsider the coronation ceremony,” Russell suggested tactfully. “Postpone the official shift of power for a little while until such time as—”

The king wouldn’t let him finish. He raised his hand, stopping Russell. “I understand what you are saying, Carrington, and believe me, I have had the same thoughts. More than once,” he added heavily. “But I can’t go against tradition. I can’t simply break rules when it suits me and expect others not to.”

Russell knew that by “others” the king was referring to the troublesome Union for Democracy. There had been efforts, ever since the group had organized five years ago, to suppress it, to try as subtly as possible to force the members to disband. But instead, it had only grown. Not by any large degree, but enough to deserve further close surveillance. They called themselves a peaceful group, but more than one so-called peaceful group had been known to become the center of violent eruptions. No one wanted to see that happen in Silvershire.