by Amelia Autin
“Oh, is that... I didn’t realize. You mean he wrote it himself?” Ani nodded, and Tahra picked up the second envelope, much in the way someone would pick up a tarantula. What could the king be writing her about?
Dear Miss Edwards, she read. I have already officially thanked you for saving those schoolchildren by sending letters to your president, the State Department for which you work and your ambassador here in Drago, a copy of which was delivered to you by my wife, Juliana. But that is merely the beginning.
By now you should have received an invitation to a reception in your honor this Saturday, which is Zakhar’s way of expressing its gratitude and deep appreciation for your bravery. Please know that invitations have been sent to the US ambassador and the regional security officer at your embassy. I have every reason to believe they will attend.
The queen and I would also like to extend our personal invitation to you and a guest for a private dinner with us before the reception. My wife speaks very highly of you, and I am looking forward to furthering our acquaintance.
Sincerely, Andre Alexei Marianescu, by the grace of God, King of Zakhar.
“Wow.” That was all Tahra could think of to say. And she knew she would cherish this personal note from the king even more than the official letter that had probably already made its way into her personnel file.
And now she had another reason to call Marek. Because just the idea of dining with the king and queen made her weak in the knees. The shyness that had plagued her all her life, which she’d always had to struggle to overcome, returned in full force. But she wouldn’t feel shy if Marek was with her. “You are the bravest woman I know,” he’d told her. “You have a warrior’s heart.” She didn’t need him in order to be those things. But she needed him to believe she could be those things. A fine distinction, but a clear one.
So as soon as Ani left, Tahra found Marek’s name in her contacts...and hit the button. But his home phone rang and rang, until the answering machine picked up. She didn’t bother leaving a message because there were two other numbers for Marek in her contacts—work and cell. She didn’t want to interrupt his work, so she dashed off a text to his cell phone. Then sat down to eat her rapidly cooling breakfast.
She’d just bitten into a scone slathered with butter and strawberry jam when her cell phone rang, and she swallowed quickly. “Hello? Marek?”
“Good morning, mariskya. I missed you yesterday.”
“I missed you, too.” She wanted to ask why she hadn’t seen him, but she wasn’t going there. She was going to trust him. She was going to believe he had a very good reason why...as well as a very good reason why he couldn’t tell her about it. So she hurried to state, “I wanted you to know I’ve remembered something else.” Then proceeded to tell him everything she’d discussed with Alec. “Alec says it’s a good sign, and I think he’s right.”
The sudden silence at the other end puzzled her, until Marek said, “You called Alec before you called me?”
The stiff way he spoke might have slipped right by some women, but not Tahra, and she realized it bothered him she hadn’t called him first. “Only because I needed him to confirm I was right about his being the most honest man I—” Oops, she thought suddenly. She hadn’t meant that as a jab at Marek, at the tangled web of lies and half-truths he’d told her since she’d come out of the coma. Nor had she meant it as a jab at him for the secret he’d kept from her until after he’d asked her to marry him.
She’d gotten past those things. Hadn’t she?
“I understand.”
Just two words, but she heard the pain underlying the stoic way they were uttered, and she rushed to say, “No, I don’t think you do.”
“Yes, I do. And you are right. Alec is the most honest man I know, too. He would never stoop to deception...especially not with the woman he loves.”
“Stop that,” she ordered, practically snapping her words off. “You did what you thought you had to do...to protect me. Right?”
She could hear his breathing accelerate. “Yes,” he finally admitted in a low voice.
“So stop acting like a...” At first she couldn’t think of something to liken it to, then she said, “Like an early Christian martyr.”
That got an unexpected chuckle out of him. “Is that what I am acting like?”
“Yes. No. Not really. Well, sort of. But it’s an exaggeration.”
There was a smile in his voice when he said, “I am glad we could clear that up.” Which made Tahra smile, too. “Is there anything else, mariskya, besides the wonderful news that your memory appears to be returning? Because much as I love hearing your voice, I have a staff meeting in twenty minutes, for which I must prepare. And Colonel Marianescu is not a man to accept excuses for being late.”
“Just a couple of things.”
“And they are?”
She’d never—as far as she could recall—asked a man to be her date for any reason. But if she wanted to take charge of her life... “Well...there’s this reception next Saturday.”
“Yes, I know. A reception in your honor, which is well deserved. Invitations have been sent to more than five hundred guests.”
She faltered. “Five hundred?” Her courage failed her for a moment as she imagined facing that many strangers...all there to meet her. But then she took a mental grip on herself. You can do this, her new, stronger self insisted. So she forged ahead. “And the king has invited me to have dinner privately with the queen and him before the reception.”
“Another honor.”
“Yes, well...the invitation is for me and...a guest.” Just spit it out, she told herself. “I was wondering if...”
“You are asking me for a date? Is this the new Tahra? The Tahra who wishes to do the proposing?”
Now she knew he was teasing her. “Just say yes.”
“Yes,” he said promptly.
“That was easy.”
He laughed softly. “Is now the time to confess I can deny you nothing that is in my power to give you?”
And just like that her heart melted. As it tended to do whenever he was around. They still had issues to iron out—including Marek’s slight alpha tendencies. But their love would find a way, because they saw the world the same way. They cared about the same issues. Prayed for the same outcomes.
Which reminded her of the other thing she’d made a mental note to discuss with Marek. “I don’t mean to keep you. I know you have to get ready for your staff meeting. But I wanted to ask you about the Ibrahim children. How they’re doing. And if there’s any word on their parents.” When he didn’t answer right away, she said, “I...I didn’t know who else I could ask.”
“Did you not receive the card I sent you?”
Chapter 18
“Oh.” Tahra looked at her tray, and sure enough, there was a third envelope by her plate. She’d been so sidetracked by the invitation to the reception in her honor and the king’s handwritten note she’d completely forgotten it. She berated herself because there was her name across the front of the envelope in Marek’s incisive handwriting. She ripped the envelope open, pulled out the note card and read what he’d written there.
Dearest Tahra. I could not bring myself to tell you this in person because I know your tender heart, and I cannot bear to see you cry. If that makes me a coward, then so be it—I am a coward in this way.
Ominous opening words, but Tahra forced herself to keep reading.
I regret to inform you the Ibrahim children’s parents were positively identified as having perished in the fire. I have told Rafiq his parents are now with God, and he took the news like the man he will someday be. I would also have explained this to his little sister as best I could with a child so young, but Rafiq insisted it would be easier for Aaliyah to hear the news from him...in private.
Sudden tears blurre
d her vision, so that the words swam on the page and she could barely make out the rest.
I have spoken with the king, and as I knew he would, the king himself will make all arrangements necessary for the Ibrahim children to be cared for as their parents would have wished.
It is small comfort, I know, but rest assured the men responsible will be caught. You have my word.
Love, Marek.
Tahra was weeping silently by the time she reached the end. “Oh, Marek.”
His voice was rough. “I cannot bear it when you cry.”
“I’m not crying.” But she caught her breath on a sob that gave the lie to her words.
He muttered something under his breath in Zakharan that sounded suspiciously like a curse. Then said in English, “I should not have told you.”
“Don’t you dare even think that.” She struggled with herself, and eventually managed to get her emotions under control. “You promised, remember? No trying to shield me.” She had to make him understand. “Just because I cried doesn’t mean I’m not strong enough to deal with it—I am. I hurt for those children, okay? Because I know what they’re going through right now. I’ve been through it myself. And crying is how I deal with that kind of emotional pain—you’re going to have to learn to accept it. But I won’t fall apart just because I cried. I promise.”
* * *
“She should be told,” Marek announced. He glanced around the conference table. Then he fixed his steady gaze on Colonel Marianescu. “She should be told our plans for the reception.”
The colonel shook his head. “I think not.”
“It is not fair to her, sir. She should know this reception is not just to honor her, but is also a trap for the Zakharian Liberation Front. A trap baited with the king and queen, yes, but also with her.”
“Your personal involvement is coloring your perspective.”
Marek stiffened. “My personal involvement, sir, has nothing to do with it.”
“If the queen is not to be told, Miss Edwards cannot be told.”
Angelina spoke up. “And I must object to that, Colonel. The queen should not be kept in the dark, either. She will be furious—and rightly so—when she finds out I did not tell her of the danger in advance. It is even possible she will never trust me again.”
“Take that up with the king, both of you,” Colonel Marianescu said flatly. “This is his decision.”
Marek and Angelina exchanged glances, and she shook her head. He interpreted that to mean, this is not a battle we can win. He couldn’t just leave it at that, however, even though he’d received a legal order from his superior officer. But he could appeal to the king directly, without disobeying a command...because the colonel himself had said, “Take that up with the king...”
So he merely said, “Yes, sir,” and sat down. Already planning in his mind the arguments he would put forth to the king. Once upon a time Marek would never even have thought the king could be wrong—in anything—much less questioned his decisions. But not anymore.
* * *
Tahra sat in Queen Juliana’s sitting room, watching a private fashion show, Angelina perched on the arm of the sofa beside the queen. Tahra would never have approached the queen for advice about a dress for the reception, despite Ani’s recommendation. But Ani had pulled an end run around her—mentioning it to Daphne, the queen’s personal maid, who had mentioned it to her mistress, who had picked up the phone and called Tahra. Insisting in a charming way that it was no imposition at all, she’d love to do this. “It’ll be fun, Tahra, you’ll see.”
So here she sat, as formal dress after formal dress was presented for her delectation. She’d been a little nervous at first at this private showing, but the queen—who’d insisted Tahra call her Juliana—had soon put her at her ease.
“That’s a lovely fabric,” Juliana said when a floating chiffon number in variegated shades of misty rose made an appearance. “Don’t you think so? And the color is perfect for you.”
“Yes but...isn’t the neckline a little...low?”
The queen’s eyes twinkled. “It would be if you were built on voluptuous lines—which you’re not—or had no figure at all. Which isn’t the case. And that dress will look even better on you than it does on the model. Don’t you think so, Angelina?”
“What?” Angelina seemed a little distracted, but then she said, “Oh, yes, absolutely.”
“But it looks a little...I don’t know...more like a bridesmaid’s dress than a killer evening gown,” Juliana stated. “Let’s see what else there is.”
Several more garments passed in review, none of which caught Tahra’s fancy. Then she and Juliana both spotted it at the same time. “That’s the one,” the queen murmured.
Tahra was speechless, but inside she was saying, Yes, yes, yes!
“Try it on,” the queen insisted.
When she did, Tahra knew it was perfect—and she wanted to see Marek’s eyes when he saw her in it. Sophisticated, but not brazen. Elegant, yet sexy. The sapphire blue color made her skin translucent, and the sequined fabric clung in all the right places, making it look as if she’d been dipped into the dress—but in a classy way, not trashy. The gown made a definite statement about the woman who wore it. Shy Tahra would never have even tried it on, deeming it too...something. But the new, self-confident Tahra?
“How much is it?” she asked, craning her neck to try to locate the price tag.
When Angelina found it and told her, Tahra winced. Then she gazed at herself in the mirror once more, and knew that even if she had to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the rest of the year, Marek was going to see her in this dress.
* * *
Marek had plenty of time to regret his decision to see the king, to argue his case for telling Tahra everything planned for Saturday evening. He’d arrived extra early for his appointment—God forbid he should be late!—and was forced to wait almost half an hour in the outer office, thinking and rethinking his arguments.
“Captain Zale?” The king’s appointments secretary stood in front of him. “The king will see you now.”
The king was sitting behind his desk, talking with Major Lukas Branko—one of his two favorite bodyguards—but he stood to greet Marek when he walked in.
“That will be all, Lukas,” the king said. He smiled his faint smile. “I think I am safe with Marek.”
“Yes, Sire.” The major rose and cast an assessing eye over Marek before heading for the door, as if he thought the captain was a potential threat...despite the king’s assurance. Marek was one of very few men who could go armed in the king’s presence—which he was—and he didn’t blame Major Branko one bit for being extra cautious. Still, he couldn’t help but be amused, even though he presented nothing but a serious, unsmiling, professional face to the major, and then to his sovereign when they were alone.
“Have a seat,” the king invited as he reseated himself behind the desk. “What can I do for you?”
“I would prefer to stand, Sire, if it is all the same to you.”
That drove the smile from the king’s face. He leaned back in his chair with a slight creak of leather and said, “That sounds ominous.”
Marek shook his head. “That is not my intention, Sire.”
“I take it this has nothing to do with my son.”
“No, Sire.”
Marek drew a deep breath, but before he could speak the king said, “Then it must be about the plans for Saturday’s reception—and my order regarding the secrecy around them.” When Marek raised his eyebrows in surprise at the king’s perspicacity, the king smiled again. “My cousin mentioned you were not happy about keeping your fiancée in the dark.”
“She should be told, Sire. As should the queen.” He hesitated. “Three years ago I would have agreed with you. Even two years ago. But Angelina�
�Captain Mateja-Jones—taught me a few things about women and their abilities, as I think you are well aware. Those lessons were hard-won, Sire—I will not deny it. But I cannot believe the king whose first proclamation upon ascending the throne granted women the right to serve in the military, the king who subsequently maneuvered the Privy Council into allowing women to serve in combat, thinks women cannot be trusted to keep a secret. His own wife among them.”
The king steepled his fingers, then touched them to his lips as he considered this. Finally he said, “It is not that I think women cannot be trusted to keep a secret—Captain Mateja-Jones is proof of that. And it is not that I think my wife and your fiancée cannot act as if the reception is nothing more than a way to honor Miss Edwards—the queen especially. She was a brilliant actress, as you well know.”
“If not that, then what, Sire?”
The king sighed. “Major Stesha reminded me we do not know who is a member of the Zakharian Liberation Front and who is not.”
“You cannot think—”
“Of course not. The queen would risk her life to save me...and has already done so. I would trust her with anything. As for your fiancée, her actions that day speak for themselves. No, Major Stesha’s point is that traitors could exist inside my household, and we have no way of knowing...yet. Every person working inside the palace could be a member of the Zakharian Liberation Front. Even the bodyguards.” The king’s eyes were as cold as Marek had ever seen them. “Which is why we must limit knowledge of our plans on Saturday to a select few. Every person added to the secret is one more person who could accidentally slip up and say something that would mean nothing to someone who is innocent, but would betray us to someone looking for the smallest sign.”