by Amelia Autin
Juliana nodded. “A couple of months ago. Another reception.” Her barely perceptible sigh informed Tahra the queen was not a fan of formal receptions, although they were a mandatory duty in her life now. “This one was at the Zakharian embassy in DC. She accompanied the man who’s now her fiancé, Senator Jones.”
“Carly told me about him...when she was here while I was in the hospital,” Tahra volunteered hesitantly. “And she said I flew home to meet him when they became engaged a couple of weeks ago. But I don’t remember him.” She rushed to add, “I know who he is, of course, the same way I know who you are.” She couldn’t help the bleakness in her voice when she added under her breath, “But I don’t remember him any more than I remember Marek.”
The queen set her plate down and took a seat at the table, then darted a quick glance at Tahra’s face and changed the subject. “You resemble her, you know.”
Tahra seated herself and shook her head. “Carly’s beautiful.”
“So are you.” She was as discomfited by the queen’s unexpected compliment as she had been by Ani’s. “Oh, I know you weren’t fishing.” Juliana laughed softly. “I know you well enough to know you don’t see yourself in the same league as your sister.”
“Carly is famous. Deservedly so.”
“Yes, and unlike me, she’s famous for much more than her beauty.”
“That’s not true!” Tahra said, putting her fork down and leaping to the queen’s defense. “You’re a wonderful actress.” Then she paused. “Or rather, you were before you retired. Two best actress Oscars and those Golden Globe awards,” she reminded Juliana, as if the queen needed reminding. “And you were fabulous in King’s Ransom.”
An expression Tahra couldn’t quite decipher flitted over the queen’s face. “We had this conversation before, too,” Juliana said softly, and Tahra realized what she was seeing was sadness on the queen’s part for her lost memory. “Almost verbatim.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t think of anything to add to that, so she picked up her fork with her left hand and resumed eating.
“That brings me to one of the reasons I wanted to lunch with you today. Andre,” she said, referring to her husband, the king, “and I are awed by your courage in saving those children. He expressed his own gratitude and appreciation via an official letter sent to the president, the State Department and the ambassador at the embassy.” She picked up a long white envelope that had been sitting beside her plate, with the official seal of Zakhar embossed in one corner, and handed it to Tahra. “This is a copy for your records. And when you’re fully recovered, Andre plans to hold a reception in your honor.”
Tahra stared at the envelope without opening it, then raised her eyes to Juliana’s. “I...I don’t really remember doing it.”
“But you did—do you know how many witnesses came forward to say what they saw you do with that knapsack?—and we can never thank you enough. Every parent would feel the same—that could have been my child in that schoolyard.” She touched a hand to her abdomen in an unconscious gesture, and Tahra’s eyes widened.
“Are you...? That is...” She fumbled for words to a question she wasn’t sure she should ask, and the queen nodded.
“We haven’t announced it yet—we wanted to wait until after I pass my first trimester—so please keep the news to yourself. But yes, by this time next year your fiancé will be heading the security detail for two royal children, not just one.”
“Oh, how wonderful,” Tahra gushed. Then shook her head. “I don’t mean for Marek, I mean for you and the king.” A smile curved her lips. “Another baby. That’s so exciting!”
“You love babies, I take it?”
Tahra glanced down at her plate, then back up at the queen. “I know it’s terribly old-fashioned. I know I should want a challenging career as my sister has in order to feel fulfilled,” she confided. “But all I ever wanted was to be a wife and mother.”
“There’s nothing more fulfilling than being a mother, Tahra,” the queen said gently. “Nothing.” Her unusual violet eyes glowed for a moment before turning mischievous. “And being a wife is pretty darn fantastic, too...with the right husband.” Her expression conveyed that her husband was the right husband for her...and Tahra immediately thought of Marek. She could so envision him as her husband. Not perfect. No man was perfect—no woman, either—but even though she couldn’t remember anything about him from before the explosion, his stellar qualities shone clear and bright. Not to mention the way he’d kissed her this morning. If that was the way he always kissed, she had no idea how it was remotely possible they’d never been lovers, because her body had ached in secret places, and her mind had surrendered completely to the—
“So what are your plans?”
She blushed, as if the queen knew where her thoughts had wandered. “I don’t really have any. I’m just following doctors’ orders and taking things one day at a time.”
The queen nodded her understanding and sipped at her water, which she was drinking in place of the excellent Montrachet that had been poured for Tahra. “That’s probably wise. Not easy for your fiancé, of course. Zakharian men are...” She cleared her throat. “A tad on the alpha side,” she said, tongue in cheek. “If you haven’t already discovered that for yourself.”
“A tad?” Tahra forgot for a moment she was chatting with the queen of Zakhar and answered the way she would have answered with one of her girlfriends. “Marek is über-alpha, not just a tad.” She snorted delicately. “And controlling. He thinks he knows best in everything.”
Juliana’s laughter pealed out. “Oh, tell me about it. Andre is just the same. It must be something in the blood. Zakharian men like to see themselves as masters of their fate, and Viscount Saint-Yves is no exception.”
A little chill ran down Tahra’s back, as if the name should mean something to her...but it didn’t. “Viscount Saint-Yves?” she repeated slowly, feeling as if something was right there on the outskirts of her memory, but try though she might, it wouldn’t appear. She shook her head in puzzlement. “Who’s he?”
Juliana’s mouth formed an O. After a pregnant pause she said, “I forgot you don’t remember.”
Tahra could add two and two. “Is Marek...Captain Zale...Viscount Saint-Yves? Why didn’t he tell me?”
Juliana cleared her throat. “That’s another thing about Zakharian men...most of them, anyway,” she explained. “Andre was that way when he was in the Zakharian National Forces, and woe betide anyone who addressed him as anything other than Lieutenant Marianescu when he was on duty! Zax, too. Prince Xavier,” she clarified. “Andre’s cousin, the head of internal security. He prefers his military title, Colonel Marianescu. So I’m not surprised Marek—Captain Zale—hasn’t mentioned it to you. Military service is a particular source of pride to Marianescus.”
Tahra gave up trying to eat with her left hand and laid her fork on her plate. “Wait,” she said with a mixture of bewilderment and denial. “What do you mean, military service is a particular source of pride to Marianescus? Marek isn’t a Marianescu.”
The queen hesitated. “Well...actually...he is. He has the Marianescu fingers, you know, and that’s a dead giveaway.”
Tahra just stared blankly. “The Marianescu fingers?”
“Hadn’t you noticed? It’s a slight genetic defect that marks many of the Marianescus—a crook in the pinkies of both hands. Andre has it. Zax, too. And my son inherited it from Andre.”
“But...”
“Apparently it’s a dominant gene, because it has come down through the centuries from the first Andre Alexei right through to the present day. Not every Marianescu inherits it. Princess Mara didn’t—her pinkies are perfectly straight. But Marek did.”
“But...” Tahra couldn’t seem to process that the man she thought was merely a captain in the Zakharian National Forces, and the head of the crown prince’s security de
tail, was in fact a viscount and related to the king.
“Marek’s grandmother on his father’s side and Andre’s grandfather on his father’s side were brother and sister. She married the Count of Mortagne, whose family name is Zale. Which makes Marek... Let me think.” The queen touched a finger to her lips as she tried to figure the exact degree of relationship. “If Andre’s father and Marek’s father were first cousins, that makes Andre and Marek second cousins? I think that’s right, because they share great-grandparents.”
“You mean I’m engaged to...royalty?”
Juliana shook her head. “Not exactly. Royalty doesn’t follow the female line, not in Zakhar. So Andre’s sister, Mara, bears the courtesy title of princess, but her son and daughter aren’t considered royalty and aren’t in the line of succession. The same goes for Marek. While one of his grandmothers was a royal princess, he inherited no title from her and he’s not in line to the throne.”
“But he is a...a viscount, you said. Right?”
“Right. He’s the oldest son of the current Count of Mortagne, and as such bears the title Viscount Saint-Yves.” Tahra’s confusion obviously showed on her face, because the queen smiled. “You’ll get the hang of it eventually. Who married whom, the role Zakhar’s nobility played in its history, et cetera.”
“You mean—”
“When you marry Marek, of course. But don’t worry about it now, just remember what I said. His military title is more important to him than his inherited title. The first one he earned. The other was merely a gift of fate.”
Tahra couldn’t take it all in. Had Marek told her all this before? Was that what he’d been referring to when he said he’d explained what mariskya meant at some point during the missing eighteen months of her life? His words replayed in her mind. “The first time I called you mariskya you asked me. But I would not tell you because you would not have understood. Not then. Only later, after I... That is, after we...”
It suddenly became exceedingly important to know. “What does mariskya mean?”
The change of subject didn’t seem to faze the queen, and a faint smile touched her lips. “It’s a Zakharian endearment, but there’s actually no direct translation.”
“That’s what Marek said,” Tahra whispered, almost to herself. Then her eyes focused on Juliana. “But it does mean something. Literally. Please tell me.”
“If that’s what he calls you, he should be the one to explain.”
“Please.”
Juliana appeared torn for a moment, then decisively shook her head. “Ask Marek. I will tell you this, though—Marianescus love once, then never again. It’s something in their blood, I think. In their DNA. If you’re his mariskya, you’re his once-in-a-lifetime love.” The breathtaking smile that wreathed Juliana’s face was the loveliest Tahra had ever seen. “And let me tell you from personal experience, that makes you a very fortunate woman.”
* * *
Tahra retreated to her suite after lunch to consider everything she’d learned from the queen. Especially the things Marek—her fiancé, the man she should know better than anyone—should have told her about who he was. She changed out of her dress into jeans and a sweater, then curled up on the daybed again, one hand tucked beneath her cheek...to ponder.
She hated that she couldn’t remember anything about Marek. She especially hated not knowing how he’d managed to win her trust, how he’d managed to break through the barrier she’d erected against all men after the attack that had devastated her. And what he’d done to make her fall in love with him.
Even more than that, though, she hated not remembering loving him. That wound cut deep. How could she forget the man she’d loved so much she’d agreed to marry him? It made no sense. And for a woman who rarely took risks, who always tried to play it safe, the loss of eighteen months of her life and the memory of the man who loved her so much he’d slept at her bedside in the hospital was devastating.
Her heartbeat jumped at the thought that maybe she would never remember, and a new ache stabbed through her. Not so much for herself, but for Marek. How heartbreaking for him to know himself forgotten. To know the woman he loved—who’d claimed to love him—had relegated him to a corner of her mind...and then lost him.
* * *
A rapping on the sturdy oak door again woke her. Unlike this morning, however, she hadn’t merely been dozing, she’d been fast asleep. And this time it took her longer to figure out where she was.
She opened the door and found Marek standing there, one arm propped against the door frame, drawing her attention to a physique that just begged for a woman’s hands to find out if he was as rock hard as he appeared. Everywhere.
She was so disconcerted by the thought that she blurted out the question foremost in her mind. “Why didn’t you tell me who you really are?”
Chapter 6
Marek froze. Had Tahra recovered her memory? Had she remembered he wasn’t really her fiancé, that she’d first accepted then rejected his proposal, all in the space of ten minutes...because he’d finally revealed the truth she was now accusing him of not having revealed when they’d first met?
He temporized, reaching out and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a deliberately intimate move. “What do you mean, mariskya?”
She impatiently shook his hand away. “And don’t call me mariskya.”
That didn’t bode well. He knew he should be thrilled Tahra had regained her memory. But he would have to think of something—fast—to keep himself in her life.
Then she added, “Unless you tell me what it means,” and Marek could breathe again. His conscience severely chastised him. How can you be happy she still does not remember? Just how selfish is that?
He ruthlessly suppressed the voice in his head and the questions it raised to consider another time. Then, because he couldn’t help it, he slid his arm around Tahra’s waist and pulled her closer for a kiss...on the cheek. But when she made that tiny, inarticulate sound he’d heard many times before—a sound that always accompanied her arousal—he lost his head and kissed her as he had this morning.
This time she kissed him back. Marek didn’t know if her body subconsciously recognized him and accepted she was safe with him, that he wouldn’t let things go too far, or if she was reacting to the here and now. Then he pushed those questions aside, too, and deepened the kiss, losing himself in the wonder of holding her this way.
When he finally released her, her rosy lips, flushed cheeks and erratic breathing gave him the satisfaction of knowing she was as aroused as he was. Perhaps her mind does not remember me...but her body does.
“How do you do that?” she whispered, her eyes still closed.
“Do what?”
Her eyes opened slowly, and she blinked at him as if she were drugged. “Make me forget where I am. Who I am.”
His voice dropped a notch. “Do not worry, mariskya. I never forget those things, so you can always rely on me to tell you. Where you are is in my arms. Who you are is the woman I love.”
The expression on her face softened, but she didn’t smile. “Please tell me what mariskya means. I need to know.”
Marek laughed under his breath, then kissed Tahra again, but lightly, briefly this time. “Let us sit and I will explain,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders and leading her to the sitting room sofa. When they settled, he was startled at first when Tahra automatically laid her head on his shoulder the way he loved. Then he realized this was another good sign. Her conscious memory might not know him, but her subconscious did. That knowledge thrilled him and also gave him courage.
“Before I tell you, you must understand this is an ancient Zakharan word. It is never used in the literal sense, not for...oh...at least three hundred years.”
“Okay, I get that.”
“It is always used in the figu
rative sense,” he added, stalling. “In essence, it means something a man cannot live without.”
Tahra raised her head to gaze at him, a smile in her eyes. “Now I really want to know.”
Marek cleared his throat, praying Tahra wouldn’t laugh or be offended or... Praying her reaction this time would be the same as last time. “It...ah...literally means...a man’s vital organs. Heart, liver, kidneys and such. Things he cannot live without.”
She didn’t laugh. And he could tell she wasn’t offended. But she didn’t say, “That’s so sweet, Marek,” as she’d said the first time he’d told her. Instead, the smile faded from her eyes and was replaced with a film of tears.
“What have I said to make you cry?” She shook her head and swallowed visibly as first one tear, then another escaped its banks and trickled down her cheeks. Each tear was like a dagger in his heart. “Please do not,” he pleaded, brushing her tears away with his thumb. “I cannot bear it.”
Her face crumpled and she buried it against his shoulder, weeping quietly. As if her heart was breaking. He gathered her close and did the only thing he could think of—he stroked her dark hair and pressed his lips against it, his own heart breaking for her pain that was also his. He didn’t know why she was crying, just that she was. And somehow he’d been the unwitting cause.
Words of comfort flowed out of him in a disjointed stream, followed by entreaties that she tell him what was wrong. “Hush now, Tahra. Whatever it is, please tell me so I can make it right. I cannot bear to see you cry this way.”
He might as well have saved his breath, because it was as if she couldn’t even hear him. But she clung to him in her misery, and that helped him immeasurably, knowing that whatever was making her weep, even if he was the proximate cause, she still sought comfort in his arms.
When her tears finally ceased, she murmured something into his shoulder he had to ask her to repeat. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered again, still on the edge of tears.
“For what, my darling?” he whispered back, his arms tightening infinitesimally.