The Royal Affair

by Barrett, Gail

  “How do you think you got it? They gave you that medallion at birth. And they’ve been trying to find you ever since—checking orphanages, adoption records, death records. But they didn’t know where you were.

  “But I did,” he continued, cutting off her protests. “Thanks to your role as the Leopard. I knew it couldn’t be a coincidence that the Leopard had an antique medallion of Parvati, the same as the missing princess. And you were Roma, you were an orphan, you lived in Kintalabad—all the pieces fit.”

  Maya glanced at Deven’s furious face, then back to Singh. “You’re wrong.” He’d definitely lost his mind.

  “The woman in California is an imposter,” Singh said. “An orphan they chose to replace you when you disappeared. Whether you believe it or not, it’s true. You’re the princess, the last of the Roma line. And that line dies with you tonight.”

  He was right. She didn’t believe it. But crazy or not, Singh did. And he fully intended to kill her. Cold sweat moistened her spine.

  “She has to die,” Singh said to Deven. “You must know that. Only when she’s gone can the prophecy be fulfilled.”

  “Prophecy?” Deven scoffed.

  “Yes.” Singh’s gaze locked on Deven. Seizing the distraction, knowing this could be her only chance, Maya inched away from the cliff.

  But his gaze swiveled back. “Not another step, Princess.”

  She froze, her pulse pounding. Deven flashed her a warning scowl. She understood. Singh was completely unstable, unpredictable. He could shoot her at any time. But she couldn’t just stand here while he killed them and took that crown.

  Singh’s gaze swiveled to Deven again, and the lines of his face suddenly softened, turning almost fond. “You found the crown. You found the princess, even if you didn’t know who she was. You did everything I’d hoped.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Deven demanded.

  Singh made a clucking sound. “You don’t really think you escaped me that night? I let you get away. And I’ve been watching you, following your progress ever since.”

  Maya frowned, trying to make sense of this twist, confused by the pride in Singh’s voice. She understood why Deven was after Singh—he wanted revenge for his mother’s death. But why did Singh care what happened to Deven? Why had he followed his progress? What was she missing here?

  “We recruited you, trained you,” Singh continued. “When the time was right, we brought you here.”

  “You set me up.”

  “I tested you. I needed you to prove your worth, to make sure you were worthy before I could tell you the rest.”

  “Worthy?” Deven’s voice dripped with scorn. “Worthy of what?”

  “To lead. To become the king.”

  “King.” He sounded appalled.

  Maya felt just as stunned. She’d never heard anything so bizarre. Singh had invented a fantasy, some sort of royal intrigue involving Deven and her.

  “King of the Order of the Black Crescent Moon,” Singh said. He ripped open his shirt, exposing the black tattoo on his chest.

  The crescent moon with the sinister slash.

  Her gut went sick at the sight. Did he head that vile organization, the group responsible for thousands of deaths?

  “It has all happened, just as it was foretold,” Singh said. “And now our people will take their rightful place and rule the world.”

  “Rightful place?” Maya scoffed, unable to contain her outrage. “You’re nothing but cowards, murderers, killers of innocent people.” And this despicable man was the worst. He’d abused children, women, condemned them to lives of unspeakable hell. “And you’ll never succeed.”

  “Oh, but we will. We have the crown. With its power we’ll get all the treasures back—the treasures your people stole from us.”

  He raised his gun, aimed right between her eyes. “I’m the king, descended from pure, royal blood. But this is my final act. I’m not the king revealed in the prophecy. The royal astrologers studied the signs…”

  He looked at Deven. “It’s you. You are the destined leader. You’ve proven yourself. You found the princess, the crown. When she dies tonight, the prophecy will be complete. It’s all yours, the treasures, the power.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “You don’t have a choice.”

  The men stared at each other, fury pouring from Deven, a wild excitement coming from Singh.

  Maya looked from one man to the other, unable to miss the terrible tension, still confused by why Deven mattered to Singh. She was missing something—something vital.

  “Tell your lover the rest,” Singh prodded. “Tell her!”

  Deven slowly swiveled his head. His eyes locked on hers—and the haunting bleakness in them rocked her heart.

  “I told you my mother took something Singh wanted.” His voice turned raw. “It was me. He wanted me. I’m his son.”

  Chapter 15

  Deven watched Maya’s face fill with shock and disgust as she recoiled from his news. He’d expected her to despise him. Singh was a sick, vicious man. Of course she’d turn from him, repulsed.

  And now she had an even greater reason to detest him. Singh was the king of the Order of the Black Crescent Moon, her people’s hated enemy.

  And he was that enemy’s son.

  Hardening his jaw against a wave of self-loathing, he stared at Singh, the evil man who’d sired him—the man whose blood ran through his veins. And in Singh’s cold, flat eyes, Deven saw everything he despised.

  Everything he feared he could be.

  This was the man who’d murdered his mother, destroyed countless innocent lives. And now he planned to kill the woman Deven loved.

  “Do it,” Singh urged him, sounding almost gleeful. “Kill me and seize the crown. Make the prophecy come true.”

  Deven’s pulse thundered with the need for vengeance. Cold fury slammed through his blood. This man had set him up. He’d followed him, drawn him into his network, manipulating him all these years.

  And even now he was controlling him, forcing an impossible choice. If he killed Singh, if he succumbed to the hatred seething inside him, he would turn into what he most feared. He would fulfill his genetic destiny and become like Singh.

  Worse, the moment Singh died, Deven would inherit his heinous kingdom by virtue of his bloodline and become king of the Order of the Black Crescent Moon.

  Singh had backed him into a corner. If he killed Singh, he would become him.

  And if he didn’t, Maya would die.

  His hand trembled on his pistol. His blood roared in his skull. The darkness pulled at him, blurring his vision, the primitive fury compelling him to act.

  He drew a deep, shuddering breath, willing himself not to surrender, not to succumb to the urge. Long seconds passed. His body shook.

  But he didn’t yield. He wasn’t his father after all.

  Then the terrible irony struck him. Maybe he wasn’t like Singh—but the Order had to end tonight.

  Which meant he had no choice.

  Singh had to die at his hands.

  Resolve settled inside him. He allowed himself a final glance at Maya, the woman he’d always loved. She stood like a warrior in the moonlight, her dark eyes flashing, her chin raised in proud defiance. And a deep pang of longing seeped through his heart.

  He didn’t know if she was the princess, but he could believe it. She battled to save the downtrodden, to rescue those most abused. She was a crusader, an avenger—a true noble in every way.

  Thousands of years of royal blood could very well flow in her veins.

  Her eyes met his—her courageous, determined eyes. His heart splintering, he drank in the sight of the woman he yearned for, the woman he could never have.

  But then she stepped closer to Singh, telegraphing her intention, knocking the breath from his lungs. She was going to save him—give him time to take down Singh—by sacrificing herself.

  His gut clenched. Horror blazed through his nerves. “Maya, don’t!
”

  But she lunged forward. Singh’s gun barked. She screamed, slumped to the ground, and Deven’s heart slammed to a halt.

  He jerked up his gun, blinded by the need to avenge her. But before he could shoot, Singh turned and hurled himself over the ledge.

  Deven gaped at the now-empty ledge in horror. Singh hit the ground with a thud.

  An awful hush filled the night.

  Deven stood paralyzed, staring at the space where he’d been, too shocked, too stunned to move. Singh had killed himself to fulfill the prophecy, to make Deven the dreaded king. And Maya…

  He raced to her, fueled by panic. A black stain pooled the dirt where she lay. Her face looked as white as the moon.

  Frantic, he knelt, checked for a pulse. She was breathing—but barely.

  “Maya.” He jerked off his shirt and pressed the wadded cloth to her shoulder, desperate to stanch the bleeding. But there was so much blood….

  “Maya,” he begged. “Don’t die on me. Please don’t die.”

  Her eyes opened. “Deven…” Her eyelids fluttered, and she went slack.

  Dread seized him. He pulled her into his arms and leaped up, desperate to save her, knowing he had to find help for her fast. But they were alone in the canyon, miles from civilization.

  A faint pulsing sound reached his ears.

  The helicopter. Singh’s men. They had to be close by.

  And thanks to their delusion, they believed Deven was their destined leader. They would now answer to him.

  He turned, hurried toward the stairs. He didn’t want Singh’s power, loathed everything it stood for.

  But he would bargain with the devil himself to keep Maya alive.

  Three days later, Deven still hovered beside Maya’s hospital bed in Kintalabad, refusing to budge from her side. He’d kept watch over her while she recovered from surgery, held her hand while she’d slept, soothed her when she woke up in pain.

  He’d found it impossible to let her go. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind kept torturing him with the terrifying memories—that bone-chilling race through the canyon, the hunt for Singh’s helicopter, the tense confrontation with his men—as Maya bled in his arms, her face so leached of color that he feared she’d already expired.

  But he’d used the crown to convince Singh’s men to help him. They’d made it to the hospital in time. And now her face had a healthier glow. Her shoulder was healing well. The doctors had removed the IV and taken her off the heaviest medications.

  And the time had come for him to leave.

  His gut churning, he took in her thick, dark lashes, the purple bruise fading to yellow on her cheek, and made himself acknowledge the truth. He couldn’t draw this out any longer. He had no excuse to stay, couldn’t keep putting his departure off. And he should leave now, before she awoke.

  He didn’t want to go. He loved her. He always had, always would.

  But he’d seen the disgust on her face when she’d learned his identity. He was the son of her people’s worst enemy, and he could never escape that fact.

  Even worse, it turned out that she really might be the missing princess. She didn’t know it yet, but the story was all over the news. Reporters had camped out in the hospital lobby. Security guards swarmed every floor.

  And if it was true, her life would change dramatically. She would have duties, responsibilities—a far more glamorous life.

  And she would have a family, people to care for her, just as she’d always dreamed.

  A sad smile lifted the corner of his mouth. She’d make the perfect queen.

  But he had no place in her royal life. She didn’t need him, wouldn’t want him. He would only remind her of all that was bad.

  He rose, inhaled around the thick lump constricting his throat, took a final look at her face. This courageous woman had tried to sacrifice her life for his—after he’d failed her in every way.

  Now he had to make this easy for her. He owed her that much. He couldn’t let her down again.

  His eyes burned, the pressure in his chest so massive, the yearning so fierce he couldn’t breathe. Then he turned, strode blindly toward the door, willing himself not to look back.

  It was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

  He longed for her, ached for her, wanted her with a desperation he couldn’t contain.

  But for her sake, he opened the door and left.

  Disoriented, Maya blinked at the sunlight streaming into the room. She took in the narrow hospital cot, the white blankets covering her legs, the gleaming, sterile floor. She pulled herself to a sitting position, stifling a moan as her bandaged shoulder twinged.

  And then she remembered. Singh’s gunshot. That searing blaze of pain. A helicopter. A plastic mask pressing over her face. Waking up during the night, seeing Deven sleeping in the chair beside her—his thick hair unruly, beard stubble darkening his handsome face.

  She swept her gaze around the room, but Deven was nowhere in sight. A sudden fear made her pulse race. She couldn’t have imagined him here. But where had he gone?

  Someone tapped on the door, and her hopes rose. “Come in.”

  But instead of Deven, a young woman entered the room, followed by two large men. “Maya Chaudry?” the woman asked.

  “Yes.” Maya frowned, unable to place her. The woman was young, about her age, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. And she was obviously Roma with her long black braid and sooty eyes.

  “Do you mind if we come in?”

  “No, but…” Maya eyed the two men with her. One was middle-aged, stocky, balding. The other was younger—probably in his mid to late thirties—ruggedly handsome and tall. He had a dangerous, rough-edged look.

  But where was Deven? She peered around the visitors, hoping to see where he’d gone.

  The woman stopped at the foot of the bed. “Oh, my.” She slanted her head. “You look just like her. Doesn’t she, Uncle Nicu?”

  The middle-aged man stepped forward, and Maya shifted her gaze to him. He studied her for a moment, and then a tender look softened his face. “She’s the spitting image.”

  Maya’s confusion grew. “I’m sorry, I don’t…”

  “I’m Dara Adams,” the woman said.

  The name clicked. Maya’s jaw turned slack. “The princess?”

  “Well, not really.” Dara’s smile widened, and her dark eyes gleamed with delight. “Unless I’m mistaken, you’re the real princess.”

  “What?” Maya gaped at her visitors. A laugh formed in her throat. “But that’s crazy. I don’t—”

  “I should explain.” The older man pressed his palms together in greeting. “I’m your uncle, Nicu Badis.”

  “My uncle? But—”

  “It’s a long story.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “Do you mind if we sit down?”

  “No, of course not.” Suddenly dizzy, wondering if she’d lost her mind, she lifted a hand to her head. Could Singh have been right? Was she related to these people? But how could she be?

  And where was Deven? She needed to touch him, feel his strength and support, find out his opinion on this.

  The woman pulled up a chair. The younger man stood behind her, his big hand resting possessively on her shoulder. And suddenly Maya realized who he was. Logan Burke. The half-Roma man the princess had met in Peru—and eloped with a few months back. The tabloids had been full of the news.

  Nicu took the chair on the opposite side of the bed. He leaned forward and cleared his throat. “I guess I’d better start from the beginning so it makes sense. The year you were born, Romanistan was in turmoil. Rebels were trying to stage a coup, and there were plots to assassinate our family. We tried to get the queen to go to England until you were born, to keep her safe, but she refused. And then she went into labor at the worst possible time. And she had complications. She nearly died.”

  “I brought a picture of her,” Dara said. She opened a large, manila envelope, pulled out a photo and handed it to her.

  Still not sure she was
n’t hallucinating, Maya took the photo from her. The visitors watched her with expectant eyes.

  She lowered her gaze to the picture, a professional portrait of the king and queen in their younger days—a wedding photo, she realized. The king wore a formal suit and flowered wreath, his handsome face beaming with pride. The queen was dressed in a red silk sari, adorned with golden jewels. Maya studied the woman’s face, and the room began to spin.

  The queen’s face looked exactly like her own.

  Her ears buzzed. Her head felt strangely light. She clutched the photo, wondering if she’d landed in another world.

  “A bomb went off,” Nicu continued. “Everything was thrown into chaos. We were afraid she wouldn’t make it, that none of us would survive.”

  He palmed his bald head, tugged at the collar of his shirt. “Your father—the king—and I decided we had to keep you safe to protect the royal line. So I took you to a convent. We planned to keep you there until the danger had passed. I put the medallion with you for luck.”

  Maya tore her eyes from the photograph, too stunned, too overwhelmed to speak.

  Nicu shook his head. “I had no idea what the medallion meant. None of us did. It was an old piece that had been in the family for generations, but the meaning had been lost. It was just a good luck charm—or so we thought.”

  Still incredulous, Maya found her voice. “I always thought it was lucky, too.”

  Nicu’s smile turned sad. “Maybe not lucky enough. Bombs destroyed the convent. You disappeared. We were frantic, desperate. We searched the city, tore the place apart. Your father…he was beside himself. I’ve never seen a man so distraught. But we couldn’t find you. We thought you’d died.

  “We couldn’t bear to tell the queen. She was so ill that no one believed she would recover. It would have been cruel to tell her the truth. We thought…we wanted her to die happy.”

  Dara leaned forward, a gentle smile touching her lips. “So they brought me in to take your place. I was an orphan.”

  Maya slowly shook her head, unable to absorb it all. It was like a television drama, certainly not real.