One Night Before The Royal Wedding (Mills & Boon Modern) Page 4

  And then the strangest thing happened and it took her completely by surprise. A dark streak of something she didn’t recognise shot through her body like a sweeping arrow and Zabrina felt her chest tighten as she imagined the bodyguard with another woman in his embrace.

  Hugging her.

  Kissing her.

  She swallowed as he reached for the bell, realising that the emotion was one of jealousy and that she’d never felt it before. It unsettled her even more, because surely to feel such an emotion about a servant was very, very wrong. ‘I wonder, could you also organise something to drink for me?’ she croaked.

  ‘But of course. Is something the matter, Your Royal Highness? You look...’ His steely eyes narrowed, as if he was suddenly remembering it was not his place to offer his opinion on how she looked. ‘I trust you are not ill?’

  ‘No, of course I’m not ill and nothing is the matter. I would just like a drink, if that’s not too much to ask!’

  She saw his brow darken with what was almost a scowl, before he replaced it with a bland smile.

  ‘Of course, Your Royal Highness. Your wish is my command. Might I offer a little wine, perhaps? I could recommend a superb Petrogorian vintage, ma’am. Some say it is even finer than the finest of French wine—though obviously the French themselves are not among that number!’

  Zabrina rarely drank alcohol—not even on high days and holidays—and, much as she longed for something which might help ease the terrible tension which was spiralling up inside her, she knew it would be foolish to accept a drink from Constantin Izvor. Because alcohol loosened the inhibitions—didn’t it?—and instinct was warning her that was the last thing she needed to do right now.

  ‘International comparisons between alcoholic beverages do not particularly interest me, if it’s all the same to you,’ she answered coolly. ‘But I would like a drink of water.’

  ‘Certainly, Your Royal Highness,’ he said, a nerve working in his cheek as he rang the bell, as if he were having difficulty dealing with her testy orders. A manservant answered his summons and took the order, reappearing moments later, carrying drinks on a silver platter, before silently exiting the room.

  She watched as Constantin poured sparkling water into a glass, lowered his head and sniffed it as though he were judging a fine wine and then solemnly sipped.

  ‘Perfect,’ he murmured, filling another crystal goblet and handing it to her, and as he did so his fingers brushed against her skin.

  And Zabrina could do nothing about the shiver which whipped over her body, even though it angered her. Because wasn’t it insane that such a brief touch could make her breath catch in her throat? How could something so small and so meaningless make her want to sit there gazing at him in rapt and eager wonder? She was behaving like a love-struck schoolgirl! Lifting up the glass, she took a mouthful, but even as the cool liquid quenched her parched throat all she could think about were the bodyguard’s lips, which were gleaming in a way which was making her feel strangely stirred-up inside.

  It was worrying.

  It was more than worrying.

  She was on her way to marry another man and all she could think about was the one standing before her.

  More servants appeared, carrying plates and covered dishes, which were placed on the table, and once they’d gone Zabrina shot him a questioning look. ‘You have dismissed the rest of the staff?’

  He shrugged. ‘The train carriage is relatively small, ma’am, and I suspected you would feel more relaxed if you were not being observed by your new subjects. Does my action not meet with Your Royal Highness’s approval, for I can immediately rescind it if you would prefer?’

  ‘No, no. That all sounds perfectly...reasonable.’ She risked a glance into those pewter eyes and was immediately beguiled by their smokiness. ‘Shall we sit?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I would prefer to stand. And after I have sampled each dish, I will serve you.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ said Zabrina hastily, terrified that she had broken some unknown rule of food-taster’s etiquette. ‘Thank you.’

  Roman watched as she rose from her position on the sofa and slid onto one of the dining chairs, but as she shook out her napkin and placed it on her lap he thought she looked uncomfortable. As well she might, he thought grimly. She had casually invited him to sit opposite her—as if he were her equal! His mouth hardened. Was this how she regularly conducted herself when dealing with servants of the opposite sex—or with men in general? Were they unsuitably relaxed about such matters as correct social distancing, back at her palace in Albastase?

  Briefly, he wondered if his judgment of her was unnecessarily harsh. He knew he possessed certain strong views about women and he knew, too, their source. But being aware of his own prejudices didn’t mean he was going to blind himself to his future bride’s obvious deficiencies!

  He took his fork and ate some wild rice studded with pomegranates and pine nuts, and afterwards heaped a small amount on her golden plate, thinking that her tiny frame could surely not accommodate a larger portion than that.

  He watched as she put a few grains into her mouth and found himself fascinated by the movement of her mouth as she chewed. It would be no hardship to kiss those soft lips, he thought, with a sudden fierce rush of desire, for he had not been intimate with a woman for well over a year, despite the many invitations which had come his way during his last royal tour. But he had resisted any such overtures, no matter how tempting they had been, aware that it would be unfair to the woman he was soon to marry if he had indulged in any pleasures of the flesh so close to their wedding.

  But as a result, his sexual appetite was highly honed and keener than he could ever recall and he seemed to be growing harder by the second.

  He cleared his throat. ‘A little more, Your Royal Highness?’

  ‘No, no. That was plenty.’ She surveyed the selection of platters before her with a rueful smile. ‘Especially as there appear to be several other courses to follow.’

  He allowed himself a brief smile. ‘Indeed there are.’

  She lifted her head to look at him and, in the flicker of the candlelight, he was aware of feathery shadows on her honeyed skin, cast by her long lashes. ‘Look, why don’t you sit down for the rest of the meal, Constantin?’ she said. ‘It’s hurting my neck to have to look up at you.’

  Roman hesitated, but not for long, because it was a temptation too powerful to resist. It was a break with protocol, that much was true, but since he was planning to surprise her by revealing his identity before too long—and festooning her with a king’s ransom in jewels—surely it wasn’t too heinous a crime. Carefully, he removed his sword and put it within reach, before lowering his frame into the seat opposite hers. Then he forced himself to try and concentrate on the food he was tasting, rather than thinking how much he would give to free that magnificent mane of hair from its constricting ponytail and see what it looked like when it was tumbling down over her shoulders. But he comforted himself with the knowledge that it would not be too long before she was in his arms and in his bed. A few short weeks until their wedding and they could enjoy the legal consummation of their royal union. And if in the meantime, fuelled by his fierce hunger for her, that time passed with unendurable slowness, well, that wouldn’t be the end of the world, would it? For wiser men than he had written that deprivation was a sure-fire guarantee of pleasure.

  He forced himself to return his attention to the meal. Thin slivers of cold fish came next, accompanied by a leafy salad, soft with buttery avocado. She ate this with a little more interest and Roman experienced a small pang of compassion as, gradually, he saw her narrow shoulders relax and some of the tension leave her face and her body.

  ‘You haven’t eaten in a while,’ he observed.

  She looked up from her plate, her eyes narrowed and wary. ‘How can you possibly know that? Are you a mind-reader or somet
hing?’

  ‘That is one gift I suspect would be a double-edged sword,’ he said drily. ‘No, it’s simply instinct. In the past I have commanded an army and can always recognise the signs when the men are hungry.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He shrugged, and as she continued to look at him curiously, he elaborated. ‘Food is a necessity. A fuel, not a luxury, Your Royal Highness—although women often regard it as the enemy. And you need to eat. You’re slim enough not to have to diet to get into your wedding dress and your brain and body need nourishment, especially when you consider what lies ahead.’

  She put her fork down and he could see her lips pressing in on themselves. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll skip the lecture,’ she said. ‘Though when I want advice on dieting or nutrition, I’ll be sure to come to you.’

  ‘Forgive me for my presumption.’

  She bit down on her lip, as if she was itching to say something but trying very hard to hold her words back.

  Which made Roman curious. Curious enough to let the silence between them grow into something very real and somehow brittle. He could feel a renewed tension in the air. He could see the distress clouding her forest-green eyes and all of a sudden the words came sliding from her mouth, even though he had not prompted them. Words he had not been expecting to hear, delivered with soft venom, as if she were excising a painful wound and needed all the poison to spill out before she could be healed.

  ‘But what if you have no appetite?’ she questioned in a low voice. ‘What if you have barely been able to face food for days, because of the fate which awaits you?’

  ‘To which fate do you refer, Your Royal Highness?’ he questioned steadily. ‘Surely your destiny is one which any princess would envy. Are you not about to become queen of one of the richest lands in the world and to marry its most powerful king?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, I am,’ she flared, putting her fork down with a clatter as she jumped to her feet. ‘But unfortunately, that’s the problem.’

  ‘Problem?’ he probed, his brow furrowed with confusion.

  And now all semblance of protocol had disappeared and the face she turned towards him was both mulish with pride and pink with passion. ‘Yes,’ she breathed. ‘A problem to which there is no satisfactory solution, for all my high-born position in life. Because I am being forced to marry a man I have no wish to marry!’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ZABRINA WAS SHOCKED to find herself on her feet, staring across the table at Constantin Izvor as the train continued its swaying journey through the countryside. No, that wasn’t quite true. She wasn’t shocked. She was horrified.

  Horrified.

  Had she really just announced to the King’s chief bodyguard that she had no desire to marry his esteemed boss?

  Yes, she had. Guilty as charged.

  So now what?

  Trying to smooth her scrambled thoughts and work out how to get herself out of this bizarre situation, she walked over to the window to survey the darkening landscape outside. High up in the indigo sky the moon was nothing but a thin, almost unobtrusive slither, which meant that you could see the blaze of thousands of stars which bathed the countryside, illuminating the blossom-covered trees with an unworldly silver light. It was the most beautiful scene she could remember seeing in a long time, yet it felt unbearably poignant. She thought about the same stars shining high over her palace in Albastase and her brother and sisters assembled there, and was surprised by another wave of homesickness which swept through her.

  But she couldn’t be a coward. She must face the music she had managed to create all by herself. She had just committed what was, in effect, an act of treason. And if Constantin Izvor was determined to denounce her to his boss—which he was perfectly entitled to do—then she would have to accept her punishment and her fate.

  Slowly, she turned around and lifted her gaze to his, but to her surprise the bodyguard did not look outraged. In fact, judging by the implacable expression on his devastatingly handsome face, he didn’t even seem particularly shocked by what she had just blurted out. Just curious—the way she imagined someone might look if they had just been handed an envelope written in a hand they did not recognise.

  ‘Look, can you forget you heard that?’ she began falteringly. ‘I was...overwrought. It must have been a lack of blood sugar—like you said.’

  ‘Or not?’ he negated.

  She looked at him in surprise. ‘Not?’

  ‘In my experience, people don’t just say things they don’t mean. You clearly have some concerns—and concerns should always be addressed. So why don’t I ring for these dishes to be taken away, while you go and sit down over there and compose yourself?’ His grey eyes narrowed as he lifted the bell and rang it. ‘And then perhaps I can put your mind at rest for you.’

  He was gesturing towards one of the sofas on the opposite side of the salon and, once again, Zabrina thought he was behaving almost as if he were the host, rather than a member of the royal household! But by then a fleet of silent servants had arrived and were taking away all the used dishes, extinguishing candles and lighting soft lamps around the carriage, and by the time they had quietly shut the door behind them, she started thinking quickly. Wondering how she could possibly redeem herself in the light of such an inappropriate outburst, she sank onto the sofa he had indicated, thinking how blissfully comfortable it felt after being seated on that rather hard and ornate chair. Suddenly, the atmosphere seemed attractively inviting and intimate. She found herself wishing that the rest of the world would disappear and she could just stay in here, with him, protected and safe from the world. Wasn’t that a bizarre thing to be thinking at such a time?

  And now Constantin Izvor was moving across the silken rug towards her—this time not apparently requiring any invitation from her—and he sat down on the opposite end of the sofa and turned his head so that she was caught in the penetrating spotlight of that steely gaze.

  ‘So,’ he said, his accent sounding pronounced and thoughtful. ‘You clearly have reservations about your forthcoming wedding.’

  She thought that was probably the understatement of the year. ‘Doesn’t every bride?’ she hedged.

  ‘May I ask why?’

  It wasn’t really a subject which should be up for discussion but there was something so...so approachable about the way he was looking at her that she found herself wanting to tell him, but something held her back. It would be far better to pretend they’d never started this conversation, wouldn’t it? She could dismiss him and he would obviously obey and next time she saw him she could act as if nothing had happened. But that wouldn’t work for all kinds of reasons. He would know what she’d said and he would either pass those words on to his boss, or keep them to himself. If he did the former she would be vilified, and the latter would mean there would be a big secret between the two of them which the King wouldn’t be privy to. And both those outcomes would be a disaster.

  So couldn’t she backtrack a little? Play up her natural worries about marrying a man of the world like Roman, and make out that they were nothing but the natural fears of any innocent bride-to-be?

  She lifted up her shoulders and felt her ponytail whispering against her back. ‘I realise it came out all wrong—’

  The brief shake of his head indicated his lack of agreement. ‘It came out the way it did because it was something you were feeling at the time. But please be aware that I am not planning to judge you, Your Royal Highness, for it is not my place to do so. Or to tell tales,’ he added coolly. ‘I am simply interested in your reaction and thinking that perhaps you need to get something off your chest. Certainly before you arrive at the royal palace,’ he concluded softly. ‘For I know it can be an intimidating place at the best of times.’

  ‘But I grew up in a palace!’ she defended quickly. ‘And I’m used to that kind of life.’

  ‘Perhaps you are, but no palace in the worl
d can equal the size or splendour of the Petrogorian citadel,’ he said, eyeing her with a shuttered look. ‘Look, why don’t you consider me like a priest in the confessional, knowing that anything you say to me is bound by the rules of confidentiality and will go no further than these four walls?’

  Anyone less like a priest, Zabrina couldn’t imagine—because surely holy men weren’t supposed to inspire thoughts of...of... She swallowed. Thoughts she didn’t understand properly, but which were bubbling away inside her and making her want to squirm uncomfortably beneath his seeking gaze.

  Yet hadn’t one of her initial thoughts on meeting him been that he would know the King better than anyone? What better person to allay her fears about her future husband and put her mind at rest, than Constantin Izvor?

  ‘I have heard that the King is very...ruthless,’ she said at last.

  His thin smile was followed by a shrug. ‘Some might say that an element of ruthlessness is necessary for any monarch and particularly for a man as successful as Roman the Conqueror. He has increased our country’s wealth by some considerable margin since coming to the throne, and brokered peace in a region which has a history of being notoriously unstable. As you know, Petrogoria has often come under siege from its neighbours in the past.’ He flicked her a candid look. ‘Including from your very own country, Your Royal Highness.’

  Zabrina nodded. She wasn’t going to defend the actions of her ancestors and their dreams of conquest—how could she, when they had planted the Albastasian flag on disputed territory, which they had claimed as their own and which was now being returned to its rightful owner?

  ‘I know all that,’ she burst out. ‘I just wish I wasn’t being offered up as the human sacrifice in all this! If you really want the truth, I wish I wasn’t getting married to anyone—but certainly not to a total stranger.’