MAID FOR A PRINCE: (Book 1) (Point St. Claire, where true love finds a way)

by Robyn Grady

  A couple of minutes later, he was back carrying a plate of food. He set the plate on the table then pulled out a heavy chair. Grilled eggplant, zucchini, and potato filled with tomato and peppers. Her mouth began to water.

  After taking a seat, he poured wine. Helene swallowed two mouthfuls and flinched. “Sorry. Greek wine must be an acquired taste.” The bouquet was pine but the taste reminded her a little of her turpentine.

  He said that he’d already eaten a while ago, so she dug in, polishing off eggplant and potato while Darius sipped his wine and surveyed the silver-ribboned sea visible beyond the balcony. When she’d had her fill, she dabbed the corners of her mouth with a linen napkin and then glanced back down the hallway.

  “Is your goddess safely tucked away?”

  He gave her a knowing look. “Yes. She’s safe.”

  “Next week you’ll be able to take her home. Before you know it, she’ll have worked her magic and you’ll be married with your very own happy little family.”

  “A family. Yes.” He studied his wine. “I have every faith.”

  She arched a brow. “Maybe you already have a girlfriend waiting in the wings?”

  He shook his head then sat straighter. “Although there was a girl once, but she expected too much.”

  “A new palace?”

  “A kiss. I was eight and wise enough not to give in,” he smiled across at her, “even if she could bait a hook faster than any boy I’d known.”

  “So you were the one who got away.”

  As her grin softened, she glanced at the royal portrait and thought about lasting love and broken hearts.

  “Your parents must have been very much in love.” Hers had been, too. When Darius didn’t reply, she gently prodded. “You said your mother died of a broken heart.”

  “I meant that was how her death was reported by the media. Actually, she’d had an aneurism from birth. It was simply her time.”

  Still sad, but not nearly as romantic.

  She studied the portrait again. Everyone looked so happy.

  “My mother was a princess from the Middle-East,” Darius went on. “When she and my father met at a state dinner, he decided they were well-suited. A marriage was arranged. Even before she became queen, she stole the hearts of the people. She was refined and gentle and always kind.”

  “And your father?”

  Darius’s chin went up. “He was a strong leader. Duty came first.”

  From a child’s or wife’s point of view, Helene wasn’t sure that was such a good thing.

  “Will you marry out of obligation, too?”

  Sometimes she wondered whether that right someone for her was really out there. One thing she did know, though—she would never marry unless she was sure they would be happy together for the rest of their lives. Darius’s reply was good humored.

  “You don’t need to concern yourself with my love life, Helene.”

  “I only meant that marrying someone you weren’t in love with would be hard.”

  “Not as hard as putting your country’s peace at risk.”

  She remembered a story. “You’re talking about that rebellion all those years ago? A king married a commoner, right?”

  “In history’s eyes, it wasn’t that long ago. Not only was she not of royal blood, she was rumored to be carrying another man’s child. Not a single image of her survived that time, but she was reputed to be extremely beautiful as well as shy or perhaps haughty. She rarely went out in public. After the child was born, gossip and anger spun out of control. The palace was attacked. People died.”

  “Still—a hundred years ago…”

  “More recently, my own uncle made a similar mistake. The woman he fell for had been married before.”

  Helene deadpanned. “How shocking.”

  He shrugged. “There were protests. Unrelenting. Even violent. Finally my uncle abdicated and my father, the younger brother, was forced to step up.”

  But this was the twenty-first century. She was about to point out that even kings got a choice of how to marry these days, but Darius changed the subject.

  “So, you have a degree. Which university?”

  “North Rock, Maine. I majored in history.”

  She prattled on about her studies and her friends, bookkeeper-slash-wannabe actress Billy Slade in particular. When she mentioned Billy’s ongoing search for an heirloom stolen almost a decade ago, Darius scowled and nodded. Jewels and other valuables had been taken or destroyed during that rebellion a hundred years ago. But before he got too deep into the story, he stifled a yawn and pushed wearily to his feet.

  “You’ll need to excuse me. I’ve been up since dawn,” he said. “You’ll find suitable quarters down that hall.” He gestured to a separate hallway and said goodnight.

  Then, without a word about tomorrow, he disappeared again, and she was left alone in the soft yellow light with the family in that portrait peering down at her like a band of ghosts.

  The next morning, arriving back at the villa from a walk, Darius found Helene in the kitchen. Oil, crushed walnuts, milk, sugar, and half a dozen other ingredients lined the counter. When she glanced up from beating eggs, he hid a grin at the pat of flour on her cheek.

  She glanced down at the simple white shirt she wore that, given her height, served more as a dress. “I borrowed this from the wardrobe.”

  He preferred her in a bikini and sarong, but best not tell her that.

  “That room’s usually used by domestic help,” he said, strolling over. “You’d have found something different hanging in the closet if you’d stayed in my sister’s room. She’s a fan of jeans, the tattier the better.”

  “Your sister and I would get along then.” She reached for a sifter. “Hope you’re hungry.”

  When Darius had headed out this morning, he’d noticed the dishes were done and bits and pieces had been put away. Now Helene was cooking.

  He crossed over. After looking over the ingredients, he nodded at the cake pan. “Karidopitda?”

  “Gia, Alexio’s wife, taught me.” She added sugar, milk, and oil to the bowl.

  “You’re a good cook?”

  “I try.”

  Earlier, Darius had spoken with his Aide. Helene’s story regarding college checked out. After finishing high school, she’d enrolled and had completed a degree, and not in journalism. Helene Masters wasn’t a reporter. She was an ordinary woman caught up in his sudden change of plans.

  He’d thought about their situation all morning. Now he wondered if he ought to make another change.

  Standing this close, he could smell the lavender fragrance of her freshly washed hair. Lower down, her bare feet were clean of yesterday’s grime. Each toenail was painted iridescent pink, which stood out against her tan.

  “You said you work for your friend at his tarverna,” he said.

  “I serve meals and drinks, wipe down tables, sometimes mop floors.”

  “You like that kind of work?”

  “I like it more than painting gutters.” Holding the sifter, she squeezed repeatedly, and a mist of flour drifted into the bowl. “I love being with people, hearing them talk and laugh while they enjoy good food.”

  “How would you like to work for me?”

  She stopped sifting. “Work for you how?”

  “This week. Preparing meals. Tidying up.”

  She stared at him before a wry grin kicked up one side of her mouth. “You said yourself—no one is supposed to be here now but you.”

  “Nevertheless, you are here. And I’ve decided I could use the help.” He eyed the bowl and pretended to frown. “Or perhaps I should wait to taste your cake.”

  Looking dazed, she leaned a hip against the counter. “You want me to stay after all the trouble I caused?”

  “The path will clean up. That cave-in would have happened anyhow.”

  “But not with you right there, dodging the rocks.”

  “Perhaps it was a good thing I was there. More rocks could fall. If I
hadn’t gotten her out yesterday, the goddess might’ve been lost forever.”

  Absently, she touched first her chin then her cheek. She looked so funny, mulling over his offer, parts of her face dusted with flour. He should probably let her know.

  He indicated his own chin and cheek. “Flour,” he explained.

  She smeared away the patch on her cheek but kept missing the dab on her chin.

  “A little higher,” he said.

  Looking at his face as if it were a mirror, she tried again. Lifting her jaw with a finger, he stroked the spot with the pad of his thumb. As he brushed, he felt her gaze roaming his face—his own chin, his mouth. Then he recognized a telltale stirring in his blood, the kind of pleasant steady pull that left him wanting to lift her chin higher and graze that spot with his lips.

  After taking longer than was strictly necessary, his hand fell away. Her eyes were wide and her voice husky when she thanked him.

  “Guess I’m messy in the kitchen, too,” she joked.

  “We can deal with that. What’s your answer?”

  “Let’s see. Start on my journey back to Maine and reality, or stay on a beautiful isolated Mediterranean island doing light duties for a prince?” She laughed. “I think I’d have to pay you.”

  “Then we have a deal?”

  She stuck out her hand and they shook on it. When his hand came away covered in flour, Helene’s eyes rounded and those same fingers covered her mouth.

  “It’s not too late to change your mind,” she said.

  He went to the sink, brushed off his palm, then headed straight out. He didn’t want to stand there contemplating the best way to brush the flour from her lips.

  Chapter 5

  On the third day, Darius returned late in the afternoon to the villa. The main room and kitchen were empty. Then he heard water pipes working. Helene was running a bath. Having walked around the island for hours, sounded like a fine idea.

  After a cool shower, he wrapped the towel around his hips and strolled out into his bedroom. Automatically, his gaze landed on the vault. Every day he brought the figurine out and enclosed her again before leaving his quarters. Back at the palace, she would also be safely locked away. By the time he needed to return her here to this island, that cave would have been cleared and reinforced. But more and more, Darius balked at leaving the figurine alone in that dank chamber again.

  He could have workers sign confidentiality agreements, but he feared the cave’s location would be leaked. Suspicion behind the reason for the reinforcement would no doubt spread. Perhaps the press would pick up on rumors, sniff around, ask questions. Despite a regular sea patrol to keep the island safe, it was a miracle the cave and its hidden treasure had remained a secret this long.

  Stepping into pants, Darius recalled what Helene had said days before. These were, indeed, different times. His people enjoyed modern conveniences, modern points of view. They were well-educated and aware of the world. Society had evolved.

  But traditions were valued and maintained because they provided some sense of stability in an unpredictable world. Customs and beliefs were central to identity. To national pride. The mystery surrounding the goddess and her powers, which were linked to harmony and longevity, was important. Still, was it time to tweak logistics and perhaps release the figurine from her confinement as Helene had suggested?

  Walking over to the figurine, Darius thought of his father. The late king had taught his eldest never to underestimate lessons from the past. The riot that had cost so many lives a hundred years ago was a perfect example.

  When Darius had told Yanni Kostas of his decision to keep Helene on the island, his friend and advisor had subtly reminded him of tradition, too. Darius had acknowledged Yanni’s concern, but he had no regrets where Helene was concerned. He still spent the majority of his time here alone in reflection, and he appreciated her help with chores like meals. And, yes, he appreciated her company during down time, too. Hiring some help now didn’t compare with tampering with tradition. With possibly removing the fertility figurine from this island forever.

  Then again, the figurine and her powers were myth as far as the masses were concerned. Only four people in this world knew for certain she actually existed. In essence, he was the only one who stood between what had always been and change. Between listening to common sense or bowing to superstition. The goddess might not be able to cast a spell, but she was a treasure that deserved to be protected and preserved in twenty-first style.

  Surely, after that cave-in, his father would agree.

  Closing the door, he moved into the main room. Helene was still in her quarters, so he put on some music. In the kitchen he found a platter of olives, cheese, bread, and meat, as well as karpoozi—watermelon.

  On the balcony, he placed the platter between the settings Helene had arranged on the table. Balcony torches were lit. In the middle of seeing to the wine, he caught a movement out the corner of his eye. He turned around―and almost fumbled the carafe.

  A woman stood framed by the arched doorway, looking for all the world like a Grecian goddess. Her flaxen hair was swept up in a classic style. Her dress would tempt a priest to break his vows. The ankle-length silk gown lay draped expertly around her breasts and fell from the high-cinched waist in perfect folds to her dainty, unadorned feet. A glittering palm-sized pin in the shape of a dolphin secured the fabric at one side while the other shoulder remained delectably bare.

  He didn’t care where Helene had found that outfit. He was only glad she had.

  Blindly he set the carafe down as she moved toward him. With each step, the split in her gown parted enough for him to catch a glimpse of shapely leg.

  “I found these bits and pieces in a drawer. I guess maids like to dress up, too. I hope no one minds.” She lifted and dropped that bare shoulder. “I was sick of shorts and baggy shirts.”

  He tried to speak. Instead he cleared the knot from his throat at the same time she spotted the food.

  “You didn’t have to bring that out,” she said, coming nearer.

  “I’d have to do more if you weren’t here.”

  She popped a plump olive in her mouth but rather than take a seat, she moved to the balcony rail. He followed.

  “I like that music,” she said.

  “It’s a Cretan lyra.”

  “I’ve heard it before. A man sometimes plays one in Alexio’s taverna.” She faced the sea. “I wish I could play an instrument. I’m hopeless at reading those black dots and squiggles. Reading history was always much more fun.” Leaning on the rail, her attention shifted from the peaceful view to meet his gaze again. “What did you study in college?”

  He’d been examining her profile—pert nose, dimpled chin, the slender slope of her neck. Now he refocused.

  “I went to university in England. Studied business. Economics. History too. The palace library on the main island has some interesting volumes about these parts.”

  She nodded but didn’t presume to ask if that was an invitation to check out the library books firsthand, which was good because seeing her in this moonlight, in that dress, his thoughts were a little scrambled. He might have said yes.

  He had enjoyed their evenings together, listening to the sea and hearing her chat on about her life in America and how fascinating she found this part of the world. Darius found her fascinating. She was easy to talk to. She made him laugh. She helped him relax.

  He simply liked her being around.

  If Helene knew, she might blame his interest in her on the fertility figurine and her mesmerizing powers. Myth said that the goddess could inspire deep—even mindless—desire between a couple, particularly here on this island. But he had no intention of losing his heart, even if he had thought about testing some physical waters. Tonight, the idea of bringing Helene close was way too tempting.

  “I found a book in the study here,” she was saying. “A classic written in English.”

  “My mother loved to read.”

 
Helene was quick to add, “I was careful to put it back exactly where I found it.”

  “You’re welcome to anything here, Helene.”

  “You’re not worried I’ll destroy something?”

  He gave her a censuring look. The only thing he was concerned about—the goddess—was safely locked away.

  She gazed out over the slopes. “I recognize the olive trees and pines, and all the fruit trees in the orchard. But what’s that big green one over there?” She nodded at the nearby monster.

  “A hickory.” Darius leaned both forearms on the rail. “There’s a Greek myth surrounding them. The story grew over time but the original version involves a woman named Carya.”

  Helene thought for a moment. “I don’t recognize the name.”

  “Among other things, Carya was a virgin.”

  She bit her lip. “Not the sacrificial type, I hope.”

  “Not exactly.” He shifted to face her. “Dionysus, son of Apollo, visited King Leon and fell passionately in love with one of his three daughters,” he explained.

  “Carya.”

  He nodded. “Dionysus left the court but when he returned for her, Carya’s sisters tried to stop her from leaving with him. As punishment for their jealousy, he drove the sisters mad. Then he and Carya escaped together. Later, when she died, Dionysus turned his beloved into a tree.”

  “Why?”

  As Helene gazed out at the hickory, he became more aware of the rise and fall of silk draped over her breasts. “I suppose a tree can still breathe,” he said. “Can still feel.”

  A breeze picked up. Nearby, a torch threw sparks and Helene moved back. To shield her, Darius skirted around to stand close on her other side.

  “It’s said that when Dionysus and Carya first kissed,” he went on, “all the birds in Greece began to sing.”

  The silk of her dress, moved by the breeze, fluttered back against her body. Every curve and peak beneath was thrown into tantalizing relief. When his gaze met hers again, her eyes were glistening. He tried to read the emotion there.