CHAPTER TWO
‘SIR, I URGE you not to go ahead with this madcap scheme.’
Roman’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed the worried face of the equerry standing before him, who was practically wringing his hands in concern as they waited in the forecourt of the vast railway station for the Princess to arrive. He wasn’t used to opposition and, as King, he rarely encountered any. But then, usually he was the soul of discretion. Of sense. Of reason and of duty.
His mouth hardened.
Just not today.
Today he was listening to the doubts which had been proliferating inside his head for weeks now—doubts which perhaps he should have listened to sooner, if he hadn’t been so damned busy with the affairs of state which always demanded so much of his time.
‘And what exactly are your objections?’ he countered coolly.
Andrei took a deep breath, as if summoning up the courage he needed to confront his ruler. ‘Your Majesty, to disguise yourself in this way is a grave security risk.’
Roman raised his brows. ‘But surely the royal train will be packed with armed guards who are prepared to give their lives for me, if necessary.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘So what exactly is your problem, Andrei? Where is the risk in that?’
Andrei cleared his throat and seemed to choose his next words carefully. ‘Will the future Queen not be angry to discover that the man she is marrying is masquerading as a commoner and a bodyguard?’
‘Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?’ remonstrated Roman icily. ‘For surely the moods of the future Queen are no business of yours.’
His equerry inclined his head. ‘No, no, of course not. Forgive me for my presumption. Your wishes, as always, reign supreme, my liege. But, as your most senior aide, I would not be doing my job properly if I failed to point out the possible pitfalls which—’
‘Yes, yes, spare me the lecture,’ interrupted Roman impatiently as they made their way towards the red carpet where the Petrogorian train was sitting on the platform in all its gleaming and polished splendour of ebony and gold. ‘Just reassure me that my wishes have been understood. Are all the other guards up to speed about what they are to do?’
‘Indeed they are, my liege. They have been fully briefed.’ Andrei cleared his throat. ‘For the duration of the train journey from here to Petrogoria, you have taken on the role of chief bodyguard. A role to which you are well suited, with your expertise in the martial arts as well as your undoubted survival skills.’
‘Are you trying to flatter me, Andrei?’ enquired Roman drily.
‘Not at all, sir. I am simply stating the facts—which are that you are perfectly qualified to act as a bodyguard, for your strength and your sword skills are legendary. And that hitherto you will be known as Constantin Izvor and none of the staff will address you as sire, or Your Majesty. They have also been instructed that under no circumstances are they to bow in your presence or give any clue as to your true, royal identity.’
‘Good.’
‘And they also know that, along with a female servant, you will have sole access to the Princess.’
‘Correct.’
‘If I may be so bold, it is also a little strange, sire, to see you clean-shaven.’
Roman’s lips curved into a smile, for this was a sentiment he shared with his equerry. He had worn a beard since he was nineteen years old and the thick black growth had always defined him, as had his thick black hair. Even when he had ascended to the throne four years ago, he had not conformed by cutting off the luxuriant mane whose ebony waves had brushed against his collar. The press often commented that it made him look like a buccaneer and sometimes referred to him as the conquering King, and he was not averse to such a nickname. But he had been taken aback by how dramatically a shave and a haircut had changed his appearance and when he’d looked in the mirror, he had been a little startled. He had noticed, too, that many of the palace servants had passed him by without recognising him!
And hadn’t that sensation filled him with a sudden sense of yearning and sparked off this brainwave of an idea? He’d realised that this was his first ever taste of anonymity—and that, although it was sweet in the extreme, it was poignant, too. Like being given a glimpse of something very beautiful and knowing you would never see it again. Oh, he had travelled incognito before, especially if he was visiting one of his former mistresses in Europe, but he’d never pretended to be anyone other than a king before, and the sense of occupying the skin of a commoner was curiously liberating.
As he awaited Zabrina’s arrival, Roman could sense his aide’s surprise showing little sign of evaporating and maybe that was understandable, because he was aware he was behaving in a highly uncharacteristic way. For years he had thought nothing of his long-arranged marriage, for such unions were traditional in royal circles, such as his own. In fact, the only time the convention had been broken had been by his own father, and the disastrous results had reverberated down through the years. It was a mistake he was determined never to replicate, for his parents’ short-lived marriage had been enough to sour Roman’s appetite for anything defined by the word ‘love’.
His mouth twisted. Only fools or dreamers believed in love.
He knew he must wed if he wished to continue the noble line of Petrogoria and it was sensible to select a wife who would fit seamlessly into her role as his queen. Just as he knew that the odds were better if his intended bride was also of royal blood—and this marriage had been brokered many years ago. He would acquire the hugely significant Marengo Forest, and Zabrina’s homeland would be bankrolled in exchange. It was a deal designed to satisfy the needs of both their countries and, on paper, it had seemed the perfect pairing. In fact, for many years it hadn’t even impacted on his personal life, for he had enjoyed brief relationships with carefully selected women who were chosen for their discretion as much as their shining beauty. His arranged marriage had just been something which was there in the background—like a string quartet playing quietly during a state banquet.
Yet lately, the thought of his impending nuptials to someone who supposedly ticked all the right boxes had started to give him cause for disquiet. A wedding which had always seemed an impossibly long way ahead seemed to have arrived with indecent speed. He had started wondering what kind of woman Princess Zabrina really was and the rumours which had reached his ears about her offered him no reassurance. It was said she was a little too fond of her own opinion, and at times could be feisty. It was also said that she was a rule-breaker and there were claims that she sometimes disappeared and nobody knew where she was. And mightn’t that create a problem going forward? Because what if the virgin princess proved to be an unsuitable candidate to sit by his side and help rule his beloved country, and raise his children?
He swallowed and his throat suddenly felt as raw as if it had been lined with barbed wire.
What if she was like his own feckless mother?