by Amelia Autin
Mara opened her eyes. Trace was there, bending over her, his bluer-than-blue eyes dark with concern. One hand was holding her wrist, feeling for the pulse there. The other hand was caressing her cheek with the exquisite gentleness that had once convinced her she was loved...but not anymore.
“Do not touch me—I do not need your help,” she told him coldly, struggling to sit up, to escape those lying hands. Although she’d just decided she had to return to the US to finish out the school year, she would never have sought Trace out, and would have done everything she could to avoid seeing him again. Courage was one thing. Masochism was another. Humiliation coiled inside her now as she remembered how she’d trusted herself to this man. How he’d seduced her into wanting him, loving him, all the while he was just doing his job.
And somewhere there were explicit photographs of the two of them.
Mara went hot and cold now just thinking about it. She had not been ashamed to let Trace touch her intimately when she thought he loved her. She had not been ashamed to touch him in ways she had never imagined she would want to touch any man, because she had loved him. Loving him, being loved by him, had made her feel blessed. Until he had told her there were photographs...
She closed her eyes as if she could blot out the memories by refusing to look at him, but she knew that couldn’t happen. She couldn’t escape her memories any more than she could escape this moment. When she had viciously hacked off her hair she had sworn no man would ever make her weep again. No man would ever make her ashamed again. And yet that was exactly what she was feeling now—scorching shame that made her want to weep and weep, until the shame was washed away. “Do not,” she said again, pulling away sharply from his hands.
Trace let her go and sat back on his heels. This close to her he could see the visible signs of her suffering, the ones her brother had also seen. Her green eyes could never be anything but lovely to him, but there was a bruised look around the skin there that told its own tale. And her face was somehow thinner than he remembered, little hollows beneath her delicate cheekbones. But it was her mouth that hurt him the most. Those lips that had once smiled lovingly at him were tightly compressed, as if guarding her from further pain. Guarding her from him.
My God, he thought, dismayed. What have I done? “Princess—”
“My name is Mara,” she said in a voice like ice, cutting him off. “Mara Theodora.”
Her words clanged in his heart like a death knell. Bitter divine gift, she’d told him once, believing that assessment of her worth. Then he’d made her believe differently, only to cast her back into that bottomless well of despair, thinking herself unloved and unlovable. The way he’d once thought of himself.
“No,” he said, his voice deep with emotion. “Not to me. You will always be my princess. The sweetest gift God ever gave a man.”
She closed her eyes and swallowed convulsively. “Do not,” she whispered, shaking. “Please do not.”
Her tortured plea to be left with the tattered shreds of her dignity intact ripped through him. “I know I hurt you, Princess,” he said softly, keeping his hands from her with an effort. “I didn’t mean to. I told myself I was protecting you...from me. I thought, ‘She’ll forget me in time. She’ll forget...and thank me for letting her go before it was too late.’” She made a small sound of pain, but he went on.
“I wanted to keep you. I wanted to lock you away and keep you forever—you have no idea how much I wanted that. But I couldn’t believe a woman like you even existed for me. Couldn’t believe there was a chance in hell of overcoming who you are, who I am.” He took a deep breath, but he knew it had to be faced. “And then there was the job I was sworn to do.”
She buried her face in her hands but she didn’t cry. It would have been easier for him if she had. “My job is as much a part of me as you are,” he said. “Guarding you...even spying on you...those were things my country asked me to do, and I did them. I’m not proud of spying on you, but I won’t apologize.” He hesitated, but he had to be honest. “I would do it again if I had to.”
Her body shook, and he gently touched her arm. “But, Princess, everything else I told you was a lie. Holding you, loving you, letting you love me—those were never part of my assignment.”
She shuddered. “But you let them take...photographs,” she whispered in a voice that trembled and broke on the last word, a voice that betrayed the depth of her humiliation.
“No,” he said, wishing with all his heart he had never let her believe that. “There were no pictures. That was a lie, too. Do you really think I could do that to you?”
She didn’t speak, and he wondered what else he could say to convince her. Trust, once lost, might never be regained. He cast about frantically in his mind. Then it came to him. “Do you remember the day we went to Mount Evans, when that tourist took your picture at Summit Lake?” A faint murmur of assent answered him, but she still refused to raise her face. “Do you remember how I made him give me the camera—how I erased the picture from the memory card and told him he was a dead man if he ever took your picture again?”
“Yes,” she answered in a tiny, muffled voice. “I remember.”
His voice was low and deep when he said, “If I wouldn’t let him have even an innocent picture, do you think I could let anyone take intimate pictures of you?” Slowly her hands fell away and she raised her face to his. Her expression told him she wanted to believe...but the uncertainty refused to be banished.
“That first day in my cabin...from the moment you told me there is no such thing as a bastard child, I knew I loved you. I fought it, but it was a losing battle. Then you gave yourself to me so sweetly, so completely. I knew I was the first man to touch you that way, and I wanted to make it so perfect for you. I wanted to give you that gift, so you would always remember your first time as a wondrous thing. So you would always remember me that way—as the man who gave it to you.”
Her eyes, her lovely green eyes told him she did remember it the way he’d intended, despite everything, so he went on. “Then you let me give myself to you. Oh God, you touched me as if I were a priceless gift, and I...” His voice was husky with emotion, and for a moment he couldn’t continue. “You gave me your trust. Do you have any idea what that meant to me? You were like a dream of perfection. My dream. My princess.” His eyes held hers steadily. “There are no pictures except in my memory.”
She closed her eyes for a moment and a sigh shuddered out of her, and when she looked at him again, her eyes swimming in tears of thankfulness, he knew she finally believed him. “After you left...after I drove you away...I had nothing,” he went on. “I didn’t even have the certainty that I had done the right thing...for you. Because I realized then it was all me—the whole time I thought I was protecting you from me, I was protecting myself from you. I can’t explain it, but it’s the truth. I just didn’t realize until afterward. But cutting you out of my life didn’t protect me—you were always there in my heart. And in my dreams. I couldn’t escape from loving you, and I realized deep down I didn’t want to. I was just afraid.”
He thought for a moment, considering, and then discarding her brother’s warning not to tell her the truth of how he’d arrived here. He wouldn’t lie to her ever again. “Then your brother had me kidnapped and brought here.”
“Andre?” He saw the returning doubt in her eyes, the sudden suspicion. “Oh, why did he do it?” she cried softly. “Now it is even worse...”
Trace rose slowly to his feet, staring down at her. “No,” he told her. “He did the right thing.” Later he would tell her about the plane ticket he’d already purchased. Later he would tell her other things, too, the thoughts that had run through his head as he stared at his gun in the desolate emptiness of his cabin—the place he’d first realized he loved her, the place that had become like a tomb to him without her there. For now, something inside tore loose and set him
free to let her see him as he truly was. No defenses. No secrets. In fluent Zakharan he said, “For such is the will of God that by doing right you may silence the ignorance of foolish men.”
She gasped.
Still in Zakharan, he told her, “I was that foolish man,” letting her see his pain. “Too ignorant, too blind to see what your brother was wise enough to know—that the only truth that mattered is I would gladly die to keep you safe. Now and always.”
He reached down and pulled her gently up into his arms. She came willingly. He pressed her head against his shoulder, letting her hear the thud of his heartbeat, letting her know his own uncertainty where she was concerned. He switched back to English. “If you can still love a man so blind, Princess, if you can still trust him...”
Her voice was muffled against his shoulder, but he heard her clearly. “I do,” she whispered on the edge of tears. “I always will.”
Later he would marvel at how easy she had made it for him. Later he would wonder why she still loved him after he’d caused her so much pain and humiliation. Later he would be awed and humbled that she still trusted him so completely. For now all he could do was be grateful.
“Then come back to Colorado with me. Marry me. Build a life with me. Teach me—” He swallowed hard. “Teach me how not to be so afraid of losing the most precious thing in my life I make it happen.” His voice dropped a notch. “And then...when you’re ready...let me give you children we will both love and cherish the way children should be loved and cherished. The way I love and cherish you. Always. In all ways. I swear I will never again give you cause to regret loving me.”
“Yes,” she said, raising her face to gaze into his eyes. Her green eyes were alight with the blazing fervency of her love. “Oh, yes.”
* * *
King Andre Alexei IV stood on his private balcony overlooking the formal gardens that encircled the palace, watching as his beloved sister walked in the moonlight arm in arm with the man she loved along one of the winding, snow-dusted pathways. The twinkling lights of the sleeping city of his birthplace, Drago, shone in the distance, lights that didn’t dim the silvery starlight from above.
She is free, he told himself thankfully. Mara is finally free after all these years. I did it. I brought her out of the darkness into the light just as the first Andre Alexei did with his beloved Eleonora. But not alone—I could not have done it without his help. I could not have done it without the help of a man who by his own words is an American bastard who does not even know his father’s name.
He had told McKinnon no more than the truth that afternoon—he had deliberately engineered this by sending Mara to America, praying he was doing the right thing. And for once God had answered his prayers. Mara was finally free of the past, finally free of the malignant shadow cast by their father.
A touch of bitterness crept in as the king wondered what it would take to free himself in the same way. Wondered if his one-time threat to his father would be realized after all—that the unbroken line of Marianescus ruling Zakhar for over five hundred years would be broken. Wondered if he would ever have a son to follow in his footsteps as son had followed father since the first Andre Alexei had ruled Zakhar in the sixteenth century. Must I pay forever for one mistake?
His expression settled into determined lines. No, he resolved. Now that Mara is free, I am free to seek my own salvation—or my own hell. Everything is ready. Everything is in place. The waiting is over. Now I will act.
He breathed deeply, letting the strain bleed out of his muscles, and cast one last lingering glance at the lovers below him before walking back through the French doors of his balcony and closing them firmly behind him. He wasn’t there to see as Mara and Trace stopped abruptly, turned toward each other, and their two shadows blended into one.
Epilogue
Mara thundered across the open Colorado landscape on Suleiman’s back, then took the fence flying, not slackening her pace for an instant. The sound of another horse just behind her made her bend over Suleiman’s neck and urge him to even greater speed. “Come on, boy!” she whispered in Zakharan, though she knew he couldn’t hear her, not at this speed. The cool October wind slashed across her cheekbones—if she wasn’t wearing her riding helmet her hair would be flying wildly, blinding her.
Another fence loomed, and she threw her heart over it mere seconds before Suleiman took it in his powerful stride. Then she was pounding along the home stretch. Now the other horse—her wedding gift to Trace—was drawing closer, until the two horses were neck and neck, first one then the other in the lead. Half a furlong, she thought with a fraction of her brain as she lay herself almost flat against Suleiman’s neck and pressed her heels into his sides. Faster. Faster!
One last fence, which Suleiman and the other horse sailed over side by side, and then both riders were pulling up sharply as the stables came into view. Trace’s arm snagged her body as soon as they stopped, pulling her close for his fierce kiss. Mara’s heart had already been pounding from exertion, but now it kicked into overdrive as she gave him back kiss for kiss.
“You witch,” he whispered breathlessly in Zakharan between kisses. “God, you scare the hell out of me every time you ride Suleiman that way. But somehow you always come off unharmed.”
“Me?” she responded in kind. “What of you on Alexander? You take risks I would never dare, and you do not even wear a helmet. If you were thrown...”
He laughed and switched easily back to English. “Cowboys don’t wear riding helmets even if princesses do. You should know that by now.”
Mara laughed, too. She pulled away reluctantly and quickly dismounted, then removed her riding helmet with a tug at the strap, letting her hair tumble around her face. She led Suleiman into the stables, praising him as she went, and Trace did the same for Alexander. Twenty minutes later, their mounts groomed, fed and watered, Mara and Trace paused together to look back as they were walking out.
“You would think two stallions would never co-exist peacefully the way Alexander the Great and Suleiman the Magnificent do,” she said with a soft smile.
“Maybe it’s because they’re brothers. Or maybe it’s because they were raised together. Either way it doesn’t matter. I’m just thankful they do. Which reminds me, you never did tell me how you convinced your brother to sell Alexander to you.”
“He knew how much I wanted a horse for you equal to Suleiman in every way. What horse could match Suleiman except his own brother?” she said simply. “Perhaps I took advantage of Andre,” she added, a guilty expression creeping into her face. “He never could say no to me.”
Trace’s eyes softened. “Now why am I not surprised? I have the same problem.” Mara and Trace walked arm in arm to the main house, her riding helmet dangling by its strap from her husband’s arm.
Everything had fallen into place with amazing ease. They had been married for nearly ten months now, and the things Mara had so worried about—the money, the paparazzi, the tabloids—had somehow lost their significance. Trace took everything in his stride. He’d struggled with his pride, but had finally accepted there were some things Mara would always need because of who she was—the security of the estate in Boulder the king of Zakhar had bought for her was one of them. A household staff—a greatly reduced household staff—was another, as were bodyguards. Not federal agents. That really wasn’t necessary. And not Zakharian bodyguards, either. Just agents from a reliable Denver firm, licensed for concealed carry—there were still crazies out there, not to mention the threat still hanging over his head. Trace wasn’t taking any chances with Mara’s safety, so bodyguards were still a necessity. And her stables. Their stables, now. But other than that their life together was composed of simple, homey things.
Mara was still teaching at the University of Colorado; Trace was back working for the agency. They had agreed their jobs were off limits as topics of conversation
, but they had so much else to talk about they didn’t miss it. They were friends as well as husband and wife. Friends as well as lovers. The nearly ten months since their quiet wedding on New Year’s Day had flown by.
She smiled to herself as she ran a hand through her tousled hair, which had finally grown long enough to curl wildly around her face, trying to bring some order out of the chaos. “Don’t bother,” he told her. “I like it that way. Makes you look as if you’ve just tumbled out of bed. My bed.”
“Hah!” she teased him in English. “You would like that, yes?”
“Hell yes!” He pulled her roughly into an enveloping embrace as his lips descended on hers, and everything was forgotten for the moment.
* * *
Later that night Mara lay nestled in Trace’s arms beneath the covers, her frantic heartbeat slowing as she breathed deeply and nuzzled against his warmth. Would he always have this effect on her? she wondered. Would he always make her crazy with longing, then drive her wild until nothing else mattered but the release only he could give her? Let me always feel this way, she prayed. And let me never fail to thank God every day of my life for Trace’s love.
He had already brought her to completion once with his magic hands, just as he had their very first time. Now his muscled arm tightened around her shoulders and tugged until she lay on top of him. “Tell me again,” he said, his hands cradling her face.
“I love you,” she whispered, then repeated it in Zakharan. English was good enough for most things, but Zakharan was the language of love. Her love. The language of her heart.
He shook his head. “Not that. I know that. Tell me the other.” He spread her legs and fitted himself at the portal of her womanhood. And waited.
She smiled slowly at him in the darkness. “I am ready,” she breathed in Zakharan, knowing he knew exactly what she was talking about. “I am ready if you are. I will even give up riding as we did today if you will give me your chil—” She caught her breath sharply as he arched his hips and thrust smoothly inside her. Then she was riding a wild wave until it crashed thunderously upon the shore, taking her with it.