A Royal Marriage of Convenience Page 8

  As he was. She had style, he thought, the sort of style that couldn’t be taught. They’d had people come into the firm who’d lacked people skills, and no amount of training had given it to them. It required genuine interest in the person they were talking to. It could never be feigned.

  ‘She’s a lovely young woman,’ an elderly man said to him, and he realised that he’d turned to glance at Rose and maybe watched for longer than he’d intended. Well, why not? The farmer was watching her too, and his face showed he was as appreciative as Nick was.

  ‘She’s a damned sight more attractive than her sister,’ the old man said, and that brought Nick up with a start. There were factors here that he hadn’t yet met—threats? Their escort had disappeared. The powers that be would be uncomfortable with what was happening right now, he thought. What would they do?

  ‘Please…’ It was a young man, just arrived on a shabby motor-scooter. He had a camera slung around his neck. Beside him was an intense-looking young woman with pad and pencil.

  ‘We had a call,’ the young man said. ‘To say you were here.’

  ‘Lew and his friends run a newspaper,’ the old man said.

  ‘It’s supposed to be illegal,’ someone else said. ‘Only the government can’t shut it down because they don’t charge. It comes out as two or four pages every month.’

  ‘With things the government don’t want us to know,’ someone else added.

  So he and Rose were interviewed, a professional, insightful interview that Nick realised was sympathetic to the people’s cause. The journalist wasn’t interested so much in Nick and Rose as what they intended to do. She was interested in them as a means to lessen the plight of the men and women around them.

  As was everyone else. As the interview progressed, the crowd around them fell silent. Someone signalled the musicians to put aside their instruments. Every ear was tuned to what they were saying. As Nick outlined the changes in Alp d’Azur and Alp d’Estella—their neighbouring principalities—and their hopes that the same changes could be made here, there was a ripple of approval through the crowd.

  Finally the reporter tucked her notebook in her jacket, smiling her approval. Interview over. Now for the photographs.

  ‘Dance,’ someone called. ‘That’ll make a great photograph.’

  The musicians obediently struck up again, but not in the lively folk music they’d been playing. They played a slow waltz so the photographer would have time to focus.

  Once more Rose was in his arms.

  ‘We’re doing okay,’ he murmured into her hair as he led her round the grassy makeshift dance-floor. No one else was dancing—all eyes were on them.

  ‘I know,’ she said, but she sounded uncomfortable.

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘I’m thinking…It feels weird.’

  ‘The whole situation?’

  ‘Dancing with you.’

  He paused, lost his timing, made a recovery. The youth with the camera was moving around them, taking shots from all angles.

  ‘It feels okay to me,’ he said cautiously. ‘You’re not a bad dancer.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, but she didn’t smile.

  ‘So what’s weird?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You just said…’

  ‘I know what I said,’ she snapped, and concentrated on the dance for a little. But she didn’t need to concentrate.

  ‘Um…Rose?’

  ‘Yes?’ She sounded seriously annoyed.

  ‘I’m not sure what I’ve done wrong here.’

  ‘You haven’t done anything,’ she said crossly. ‘That’s the trouble.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘It doesn’t make any sense to me either.’

  ‘No.’

  There was a moment’s silence. Another circuit of the dance ground.

  ‘You’re very good,’ she said at last, stiffly, and he thought about that for a bit, aware that it behoved him to tread cautiously.

  ‘At dancing?’ he asked at last.

  ‘At this,’ she said. ‘At the political bit.’

  ‘I was thinking the same thing about you.’

  ‘No, but you’re smooth,’ she said. ‘You do it like a professional. I don’t know how much it means.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s occurred to me that I’m not really sure who you are,’ she said. ‘You’re like a piece of veneered furniture, polished on the outside, but what’s underneath?’

  ‘Wormwood,’ he said promptly, and felt her smile.

  ‘I don’t think so. But you’re so…smooth.’

  ‘And that worries you?’

  ‘You see, I find you incredibly attractive,’ she said.

  As dance conversation that was a real show-stopper. His feet faltered.

  ‘Do mind your steps,’ she said kindly. ‘The photographer’s documenting your every move.’

  ‘I’ve never been told before…’

  ‘That you’re incredibly attractive? I find that hard to believe.’

  He was back in step now, and found himself smiling, responding to her laughter. ‘It’s a guy’s line.’

  ‘A pick-up line,’ she agreed. ‘That’s why I thought I ought to say it.’

  ‘You’re trying to pick me up?’

  ‘The opposite.’ They turned right by the youth with the camera, and she beamed into the lens. ‘It just occurred to me, then, watching you.’

  ‘Watching me dance?’

  ‘No, watching you talk to everyone. Watching you make people smile. Watching you make people believe that you’re sincere and that you have their best interests at heart.’

  ‘That’s a problem?’ he said cautiously, and she nodded.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You want to tell me why?’

  ‘Because I’m starting to believe you. And it doesn’t help that you dance so well.’

  ‘You want me to dance badly?’

  ‘I don’t know what I want. All I know is that we’re being forced to spend time together as a couple and it’s starting to scare me. And because you’ll be used to dating and I’m not…’

  ‘I’m losing the thread here,’ he said, and she looked exasperated. How they could be holding a personal conversation in the midst of such an audience was beyond him, but Rose was speaking to him as if they were completely alone. As if whatever she was talking about had to be said urgently. It had to be said now.

  ‘I met Max in second year of vet school. I was just turned twenty and my mother had just died. Max was my second-ever boyfriend. My first was a guy called Robert who I fell for because he had a really cool sportscar. But that’s it, my dating history, so brief you could write it on a postage stamp.’

  ‘I’m still not following,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘You don’t have to follow,’ she said, and sighed. ‘That’s it. I just want to make it clear that I’m not the least bit interested in a relationship, so even if I do laugh at anything you say, and even if I do find you attractive, then it’s up to you to call a halt. Use a bucket of cold water if necessary, but please, let’s not let this relationship go any further than it already has.’

  ‘No,’ he said blankly. ‘Right.’

  ‘Yeah, and I can tell you think I’m forward,’ she said. ‘Or scatty, which is just as bad. But I do need to say that I’m not the least bit interested in a relationship. I’m not saying never—that’d be extreme, and I might want to stick my toe in the water in later life. But not for at least five years. I want freedom. Absolute freedom.’

  ‘Just so I know,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For my information.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So no hitting on anyone, then?’

  ‘You can hit on anyone you like. Just not me.’

  ‘But we are getting married, right?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s got nothing to do with the rest of it. I’m sorry,’ she said, suddenly contrite. ‘I’m sure you don’t have
the slightest intention of showing interest in me, so I sound really dumb and really gauche, and totally out of order. So I’ll shut up.’

  ‘Um…right.’

  So what was that all about—the chemistry between them, the way she felt in his arms?

  Was she feeling this too—almost overwhelmed?

  Maybe it was a good thing to bring it out in the open, he thought cautiously. He didn’t want relationships either.

  Did he?

  They danced on, but they were now no longer alone. The cameraman had finished, and the makeshift dance-floor was filling as other couples joined them. The last of the light had faded, but lamps had been hung in the trees, making the setting incredibly beautiful—the warmth of the late-spring night, the rippling of the river, the moon rising over the cliffs.

  Incredibly romantic.

  He should dance with someone else, he thought as they danced on. It was a bad thing only to dance with Rose. It went against everything she’d just warned him about. But she felt so…

  So indescribable.

  It was okay to dance with her, he told himself almost fiercely. She hadn’t suggested changing partners. She wasn’t wanting a relationship, so he could relax. He could marry her with no fear that she’d cling, and he could hold her right now, just as he was doing, without her fearing that he was making a move. He could savour the soft, yielding curves of her body. He could smell the citrusy fragrance of her hair.

  He could…lose himself?

  But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. This was a weird interlude before reality raised its ugly head again—and here it was. Reality in the form of sirens, many sirens, the gentle lamplight overpowered by a score—maybe a hundred—vehicle lights.

  Motorbikes and cars. A convoy.

  Armed men.

  The music and the dancing stopped. The men went swiftly to their horses, and the women ushered their children behind them, back to their individual modes of transport. Moving into protection mode.

  A chauffeur climbed out of the leading car—a magnificent Rolls Royce—and ushered out its occupants. A man in a severe army-uniform. And a woman.

  Julianna. There was enough about her to tell him this was Rose’s sister, but where Rose looked what she was—a country vet—Julianna was a blonde beauty, a city sophisticate.

  Rose was still held loosely in his arms. They were standing in the midst of the abandoned dance area. He felt her stiffen as Julianna appeared.

  ‘It’s Julianna,’ she confirmed for his benefit only. ‘I’d guess this must be Jacques.’

  The big guns. The opposition.

  ‘Let’s do this optimistically,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘This is your sister. Go and tell her how exciting all this is. Don’t pre-empt trouble by expecting it.’

  But trouble was already with them. ‘Julianna,’ Rose said, smiling, taking his advice and moving forward with her hands outstretched in greeting. She was forcing a warmth Nick knew she was far from feeling.

  Julianna didn’t smile. The woman was magnificently groomed, in cream linen-trousers, a cream silk-blouse mostly hidden by a luxurious fur jacket, and with magnificently groomed blonde hair caught into an elegant chignon. As Rose approached her, Julianna held out exquisitely manicured hands—not in welcome, but as if to ward her off.

  ‘You’re not welcome,’ she said flatly, and Nick thought she sounded worried. Frightened, even. ‘I don’t want you here.’

  ‘Erhard said we’re very welcome,’ Rose said, forcing her voice to stay light. ‘He said this country is in trouble and Nick and I can help.’

  ‘This is none of your business,’ Julianna snapped. ‘Our father didn’t want you here, and neither do I. Jacques says you’ve entered the country illegally.’

  ‘We entered this country on the royal jet.’

  ‘Which was appropriated by unprivileged persons,’ Julianna snapped. ‘Jacques says you need to go back where you came from.’

  ‘And me?’ Nick asked, and stepped forward to hold Rose gently by the arm in a gesture that was as protective as it was proprietary.

  Jacques moved then, holding his wife’s arm in a similar gesture to Nick’s, but where Nick’s hold was gentle there was a hint of underlying violence in Jacques’ grip. He was a big man who looked accustomed to getting his own way, both within his own household and without.

  ‘Enough,’ Jacques said roughly. ‘The succession is already decided, and any attempt by you to come here is seen as an attempt to undermine the throne. We tried to stop the flight, but Erhard…’He shrugged. ‘No matter. His authority is at an end. My people will hold you in protective custody until we can arrange for your deportation.’

  There was a shocked hush. The crowd drew a little bit closer, as if to better see what was happening. Two couples facing off—a big man in a uniform designed to intimidate, and his beautifully manicured wife. And Nick, without a tie, in the driver’s borrowed jacket, flushed from dancing. Rose in her faded jeans and a soft cotton shirt that was thread-bare from too many washes. Her hair escaping from her braid. A princess?

  Deportation…

  ‘You have no right to hold us in protective custody,’ Nick said lightly, but with a hint of underlying strength. ‘My papers are in order, as are those of Rose. There’s no reason to hold us.’

  ‘Hey, maybe it’s just my sister’s way of being polite,’ Rose said, standing so close to him she seemed to be using his body as support. ‘Julianna,’ she said, forcing her voice to stay light. ‘It’s great to see you. Julianna’s my sister,’ she told the assemblage, as if she was proud of the fact. ‘Does protective custody mean you’re promising to look after us, Julianna?’

  ‘I…’ Julianna looked astounded. ‘You…’

  ‘You’re taking us to the palace?’ Rose asked.

  ‘Would protective custody mean a palace?’ Nick asked.

  ‘It might,’ Rose said. ‘Protection doesn’t mean dungeons.’

  ‘There’s dungeons in the palace,’ someone called.

  ‘Your sister surely wouldn’t put us in a dungeon?’ Nick said, forcing his words to sound lightly amused. ‘That’s hardly a family thing.’

  ‘We’re not a very close family,’ Rose said, sounding dubious.

  ‘Look, failing to send Christmas cards hardly deserves dungeons,’ Nick said. ‘Does it, Julianna?’

  ‘I’m the Princess Julianna,’ Julianna said, but she sounded worried.

  ‘And I’m going to be your brother-in-law,’ Nick said, sounding astonished. ‘Surely we don’t have to be formal in the family? You don’t want to call your sister Princess Rose-Anitra, do you? Which you’d have to if we wanted to be formal, as she’s just as much a princess as you are. Maybe even more as she’s the Crown Princess.’

  Whatever Julianna and Jacques had expected, it wasn’t this. The conversation included the crowd. There were cameras, and the journalist was taking furious notes. The journalist was backing into the crowd as she wrote, and the crowd was closing in around her, cutting her off from sight.

  The photographer was still shooting, and there were a few other cameras in view as well. This was being documented, whether Jacques willed it or not.

  And Jacques didn’t like it one bit. ‘This is a fiasco,’ he yelled, staring round him in impotent fury.

  ‘No, it’s a picnic,’ Rose said, clinging to Nick’s hand proprietorially. ‘These people have been really welcoming. But if you have other plans for us…’

  ‘Take them,’ Jacques growled, and the uniformed men moved in, surrounding them as if ready to seize them—or stop them escaping.

  ‘Hey, we’re coming, Julianna,’ Rose said, still sounding amused. ‘There’s no need for your men to make an effort on our behalf. Coming, Nick? I think we’re expected to go in that car.’

  And before anyone could stop her she’d tugged Nick forward and slid into the Rolls Royce.

  Nick slid in beside her. He was bemused, but his mind worked fast, and he was totally appreciative of what she’d done
. With one swift movement she’d given Jacques and Julianna an invidious choice. They could haul Rose and Nick bodily from their car and toss them into one of the black cars that had been following—where they’d been clearly intended to go.

  They could join them in the Rolls, intensifying the impression of family.

  Or they could use one of the black cars themselves.

  Nick sank into the soft leather of the Rolls, looked out and saw indecision on Jacques’ face. And fury.

  This was no game. They were playing for huge stakes here. Did Rose have any idea what she’d just done?

  The stakes were upped about a millionfold. Jacques was being forced to state his case right now. Should he treat them as undignified prisoners, when Rose had just reminded the crowd that Julianna was her sister? Should he treat them as equals by climbing into the car with them? Or should he follow calmly behind?

  Jacques looked apoplectic.

  ‘Come,’ Julianna said uncertainly, and tugged her husband forward towards the Rolls.

  ‘No,’ Jacques said, and sneered, slapping his wife’s hand away. ‘Let them go. Take them straight to the palace, as they said. Let them have their delusions of grandeur before they leave this place for ever.’

  And he slammed the Rolls’ door after Nick.

  ‘Hoppy,’ Rose said urgently, realising too late that her dog was still outside the car. ‘Please…Hoppy!’ she yelled.

  ‘Take them away,’ Jacques growled, and then, as Hoppy dived forward from where he’d been snoozing after a surfeit of sausages, Jacques drew back his booted leg and kicked him. Hard.

  ‘Drive,’ he yelled, and the car moved forward.

  ‘You realise we’re in trouble,’ Nick said. They’d driven in silence for three minutes, and it seemed he was the first to have found his voice again.

  ‘Hoppy’s in trouble,’ Rose whispered, sounding close to tears. ‘He kicked him.’