But Zayn didn’t believe it for a minute.
Logical though it might be, the idea was uncharitable to the man his father had been, and about as far out of character and respect to the relationship they’d shared as this whole betrothal fiasco was in the first place.
Whatever the circumstances had been, his father had not conned his way onto the throne. King Alden and Queen Barbara’s had been a great love. The intensity of it had gone so far as to be a frequent distraction from rule, in Zayn’s opinion. But his father had insisted that their passion set the tone for the nation, energizing its transition from a European backwater into the next most-desired off-the-beaten-path destination.
It was hard to believe that the same man would—either strategically, or under threat—bargain his son away.
So how in God’s name had he ended up married to a stranger? And why had his father kept the betrothal from him?
The betrothal agreement was dated just weeks before Zayn’s birth, witnessed by the former Archbishop, Henry Innocence, and signed by both Zayn’s and Mina’s fathers. Curiously, their mothers’ signatures were absent.
With nothing more to offer than that, the current Archbishop, Samuel, had raised his palms pacifyingly and said, “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. The late Archbishop made no note about the betrothal in his diary entries. I scoured the entire year’s worth myself.”
Nothing about the situation made sense, and no one could explain. Indeed, logic had taken its leave of the situation from the moment Zayn had approached Archbishop Samuel with his list of prospective brides.
Each of those women would have brought something of advantage to Cyrano.
Daphne Xianopolis came with access to excellent Mediterranean Sea trade routes. Françoise La Guerre was a princess in her own right, and marriage to her would have opened up the potential for stronger diplomatic ties to continental Europe. And Yu Yan Ma would have been the most fabulous prize. Connection to her father would have given him power enough to propel Cyrano into the world of international trade.
Zayn had merely intended the Archbishop to vet the list for any potential religious challenges before he made began making approaches. Instead, he’d learned that he was otherwise engaged.
“What do you mean, I’m ‘already taken?’” Zayn had demanded.
The Archbishop had smiled, as if the situation were a delightful joke, and repeated, “You are affianced, Your Majesty. You have been since before you were born.”
“That’s impossible!”
But it had not been impossible. The archbishop had shown him the official document, signed, witnessed, and filed—binding in every way—and Zayn had been forced to acknowledge the truth.
Dr. Amina Aldaba would bring nothing of value to Cyrano. As far as he could discern, she was nobody. She came from simple people of Moorish descent. Her father had been eighth generation Cyranese and had first a soldier, then a farmer—not the kind of man who entered his unborn child into a royal betrothal.
Like all natural-born Cyranese men, her father had served in the military for mandatory service at eighteen. Unlike most, he had re-enlisted for another three terms of service, earning enough money to purchase a small villa at the edge of the city. City permit records showed that he had then converted two courtyards into farm plots and taken to life as a vendor at the city’s famous daily market. A few years later he’d married Elke Meyer—a woman who had arrived in Cyrano on a student visa.
The couple had married in the courthouse and had one child. They’d lived as a family until the father’s death thirteen years later. Nowhere in that timeline was there any record of their family’s path crossing with the royal line. Not in service, not in friendship—nothing that would suggest a closeness that might brook the future joining of their families that was constitutionally binding.
And so Zayn had Dr. Amina Aldaba for his Queen—a woman who had spent her life absorbed in academia, developing no practical skills for queenship.
She would need to learn everything from scratch, and there was no way he could keep her out of the limelight long enough for her to master the ins and outs of public life. Undoubtedly, she would embarrass the Crown along the way.
With her over-starched headmistress aesthetic and easily ruffled feathers, it was obvious she was better suited to that scientific advisory position on the council than the throne. At least in that role she would have had something to recommend her. Zayn had scoured her research and found her work insightful. He could see why Parliament had approved her interview.
In the role of scientific advisor, she would have been perfect.
There was nothing to recommend her for the role of Queen.
A protest against the thought rose from some vague, primal part of his mind. She didn’t exactly havenothingto recommend her. That much was clear, even with the atrocious packaging.
Her eyes were astonishing—a shade of green that Zayn had never seen before, falling somewhere between that of the sage that grew in the dry upper reaches of Cyrano’s hills and the new spring grasses that grew in the meadowlands.
And her gaze had depth—enough that it was easy to fall into it, like a moss-lined crevasse in a mountain forest.
Her skin, too—a satiny brown that glowed warm and bright wherever the light touched it—was notable. Smooth and clear, it virtually demanded to be caressed.
Like her skin, her hair, too, hinted at softness, even shellacked and tightly braided as it had been. The color of her hair had reminded Zayn of the brown beaches of the island palace, its chocolatey brown and natural highlights calling to his mind the island’s long stretches of pristine coastline, dappled with dancing ribbons of sunlight streaming through the woods.
Her eyebrows were a shade darker than her hair, thick and fierce over her magnificent eyes.
Her coloring was that of the Mediterranean landscape, come to vibrant life in the form of woman. He sensed that the rest of her—everything she hid beneath her over-sized and over-starched office wear—would be just as vibrant and bountiful.