Chey bit her tongue. She tried to tell herself that stress made Natalia abrupt but the cold reality was that the Princess was a high class bitch. Standing from her seat, Chey pivoted around it for the door, done with the entire mess. Whatever sympathy she'd experienced waned in the face of such hostility.
Sander stepped around the ottoman, cutting Natalia's pacing off. He put his face a few inches from hers and said, “If you ever use that tone with her again, I'll pack your bags myself.” Sander didn't wait for a reply. He broke off and paced after Chey, catching her just as she departed the room.
Where Chey had started to close the door gently, Sander swung it home with a frame rattling bang.
Chapter Six
“Here, let me,” Chey said. She put her fingers on Sander's tie and loosened the knot. This was a ritual she was coming to appreciate more and more.
Sander dropped his hands, looking down at her from his lofty height. “Thanks.”
“You don't have to thank me. I like to do it.” She worked the tie off and flipped it aside for now. “How are you going to arrange the meeting?”
“I'm thinking. I don't want to just shove her in a room with him alone—I won't. But all of us standing around watching will be awkward and Bashir might balk.” Sander scanned the ceiling of the bedchamber, then stared out the windows. Finally, he returned his gaze to her face.
“Maybe we can plan something at lunch time. Pretend it's informal, that way we can all be there and keep an eye on things, but Bashir and Natalia can have their conversation.” Chey divested Sander of his jacket and the shirt next, equally uncaring where she draped them.
“Like what?” he asked, distraction in his voice. He lifted a hand to trace the edge of her lip with his thumb.
“...a tour of the castle? Maybe they weren't given one last time,” Chey said. His distraction proved to be her own. She nipped his thumb on the second pass and set her hands on the bare skin just above his hips. For now, she left the pants in place.
“We could do that. Then sit down to lunch and see how things go.”
“Yes. It gives Natalia an out if she needs to retreat, rather than taking the tour off the castle grounds or something.” The tips of her fingers slid along the inside of Sander's waistband, wringing a shudder from him. Chey liked it so much she did it again.
“Set it up for me tomorrow, will you? Contact Urmas with the details,” he said.
“Consider it taken care of.” Chey watched his mouth descend, slow and intent.
In his pocket, the cell phone went off.
Cursing roundly, Sander straightened and shoved a hand in to fetch the phone. Putting it to his ear, he said, “Yes?”
Chey waited it out, hoping he wouldn't be called down to some emergency meeting or another.
“What? Tell him to fly up here, I don't have time to go down there,” Sander said. He looked annoyed and frustrated.
Chey wondered who 'he' was.
Exhaling, Sander said, “All right, all right. Seven o'clock? --formal? Are you serious? We'll be there.” He ended the call and tossed the phone on a nearby chair.
Chey arched a brow, waiting for him to tell her what the call was about.
“Paavo wants all of us—the brothers and their significant others—to come down to his holding tomorrow evening,” he said.
“Where is his holding?”
“The main one is in the back country. I have no idea what he's up to, but apparently it's a 'formal' event.” Sander set his hands on her hips and started to steer her toward the bed.
“Does he do that often? Call for formal events?” she asked, stepping out of her shoes as they went.
“No. I guess we'll have to find out when we get there.”
“Meanwhile, I know just how to pass the time.”
. . .
Chey walked down the upper hall, fingers pushing an earring through her lobe. Delayed from accompanying Sander by an unexpected bout of morning sickness, she hurried to the stairs and descended to the main floor. Although he'd stayed behind, thoughtfully patting her brow with a cold cloth, she'd sent him on so he wouldn't be late meeting with Bashir. By the time she reached the great hall, she found Bashir, several of his attendants, Mattias and Sander hovering in the middle of the room engaged in quiet conversation. She could only imagine what was being said.
“Pardon,” she said to the gentlemen, excusing her tardy appearance.
Bashir looked her up and down with a critical eye and inclined his head.
Sander accepted her against his side with one hand settling low on her spine. His eyes asked her if she was better. She nodded once, subtle and understated.
Noting that Natalia wasn't in attendance yet, she wondered if the girl meant to stand the entire group up. Bashir looked like he might become impatient any time by the way he repeatedly glanced toward the archway.
Then she was there. Natalia swerved into the great hall looking straight from a fashion magazine, high heels adding no less than four inches to her height. Attired in a short skirt of beige, cocoa colored sweater, and a complimentary scarf looped around her throat and shoulders, she strode up to the group with typical Natalia hauteur settled firmly on her features.
“Your Excellency,” Natalia said with a slight dip of her hip.
Chey muffled a groan of dismay when the distinct scent of liquor hit her nostrils. Natalia's glossy eyed stare confirmed she'd had a drink or two.
“Princess Natalia. You're looking stunning,” Bashir said, turning a smile on Natalia. “Will you do me the honor?” He extended the crook of his elbow, offering to escort her on the tour.
Natalia darted a startled look at Mattias, then back to Bashir. Her gaze fell to his arm as if she might outright decline. Stepping forward, she slipped her fingers through the small opening. “...thank you. Should we get on with it?”
Sander, lips pressed tight, led the procession into one of the secondary corridors where ancestral paintings stretched from end to end. Chey had seen these several times, but never tired of the craftsmanship of the art or the different clothing from bygone eras. As they strolled the hall, Sander took the time to explain a little about each King or Queen.
In between snips of information, Chey heard Bashir engage Natalia in conversation. Light topics regarding her history and bloodline. As far as Chey could tell without turning around to look, Natalia was on edge and growing more curt by the second. Some of her replies were as short as a yes or no. Now and then, Chey felt Sander's arm tighten around her, an indication he too sensed the tension.
Forty minutes later, when they exited the King's garden and started back toward the dining room for lunch, Chey thought the air might start crackling from Natalia's ill concealed hostility. And yet Bashir remained steadfast, escorting her as if the woman wasn't wound tight as a drum. He smiled, laughed once or twice, and murmured to Natalia as if they were already lovers.
Chey thought she knew why Bashir was so tolerant. Natalia, despite her sour disposition, was a beautiful woman. Her features were narrow and symmetrical, her eyes almond shaped and framed by thick, black lashes. Built slim but shapely, she didn't lack the assets to turn men's heads. Perhaps he was already imagining the children he might spawn with her. Maybe the challenge of breaking her tantalized him.
Taking their seats around the table, Chey whispered her thanks to Sander for getting her chair and glanced across to see Natalia shake off Bashir's touch before sitting. For the first time, Bashir's features skewed into a look of irritation.
As Mattias situated himself next to her, and Bashir's attendants took up places down the table on his side, Chey allowed herself to consider the future. A future of meetings and situations like these, where her ability to remain neutral would be tested like no other time in her life. She began to understand the advisers insistence that she attend etiquette classes, especially for someone not born to royalty. It went beyond culture shock to levels she wouldn't have guessed or imagined. In the position of Queen, she would be expec
ted to react in ways that could not come back to haunt her later. Once or twice, the rebel that lived inside her had wanted to chide Natalia for being a child and at the same time, dress Bashir down for forcing the exchange.
None of those things would go over well. At all. Not only would she give people something to whisper about, she thought Sander might look at her with disapproval, a thing she wasn't sure she could tolerate. He trusted and believed in her. Believed she could handle any event that came up.
Lost in thought, Chey became aware that Bashir had said something to offend Natalia. Glancing up, she tried to discern what it was that got under Natalia's skin.
“I'll choose my own food, thank you,” Natalia said.
“I thought to--”
“Well maybe you shouldn't think,” Natalia replied, cutting Bashir off.
Several of Bashir's attendants frowned.
Bashir, watching Natalia beside him, wore an expression of disbelief and offense.
“Why don't we have the platters brought out and we can choose what we want from there,” Sander said, tone neutral. Calm.
“I don't want to pick at food from a platter. You know I like it served on my own plate,” Natalia said.
“Natalia.” Sander's reply carried a clear warning.
Chey, without being obvious about it, glanced at Bashir to see if she could tell what he really thought of Natalia's truculent nature. She was beautiful, yes, but far from easy to live with. Perhaps Bashir had hit his limit of tolerance and would write the whole thing off. Chey couldn't tell what he was thinking beyond the scowl and affront he displayed. Whether he'd decided to ditch the idea of marriage to Natalia wasn't apparent.
Natalia exhaled and pushed to stand. “I'm tired of pretending. Your Excellency, I'm aware of why I'm here, and why you're here. It's just not going to work. My apologies, but I don't want to marry you.”
“Unfortunately, your father promised your hand. Signed a binding contract. And I've decided you would make a perfect third wife,” Bashir said, rising to his feet to meet Natalia's gaze head on. He lifted his chin, imperious, as if his word was law. The charm and tolerance he'd displayed so far melted like ice under a hot summer sun.
“Contracts, like rules, were made to be broken,” Natalia said, staring Bashir down.
Chey hadn't ever known Natalia to back down from a confrontation. Why should this be any different. She glanced at Sander, gauging his reaction. The King of Latvala regarded the interaction with a sharp gaze, remaining seated for now. Mattias as well observed without interrupting.
“Not this one,” Bashir said, using a softer tone. As if marriage to him was inescapable.
Giving Bashir a belligerent look, Natalia stepped around him and marched out of the dining hall. Chey decided it could have gone worse, considering Natalia's state of inebriation.
Bashir followed Natalia with narrowed eyes, cheek twitching. Several of the Crown Prince's advisers murmured low in their own language. Bashir answered and looked at Sander next, one brow arched expectantly.
“She doesn't want to marry you.” Sander stated the obvious in a bland voice. Reclining in his high backed chair, he had the air of a lounging lion.
“That is not the correct answer,” Bashir said. “The correct answer is: I'll get her to come around, your Excellency. I've decided she will become my third wife, and that you will honor your father's contract.”
Sander allowed an entire thirty seconds to creep by. Silence descended on the dining hall. Waiters stood by at the entrances, hands full with trays of drinks and appetizers. None dared to intrude on the standoff.
Finally, Sander said, “You might think you can order her around. Control her. But don't think for a second you can control me. Have your lawyers contact mine and we'll see who comes out on top, hm?”
Bashir gave Sander a mocking tilt of his head and exited the room with brisk steps. His attendants and advisers followed like ducks in a row, refusing to meet Sander's eyes or even say goodbye.
Rising from his chair, graceful and smooth, Sander brushed a hand down the front of his suit and glanced between Chey and Mattias. “Let's retire to the upstairs sitting room for lunch and concentrate on the upcoming meeting with Paavo. The council can deal with his Excellency.”
More than happy to retire to a more private setting, Chey abandoned her chair for the security of Sander's arm. With Mattias flanking, they headed to the 'royal' floor of the castle where they were sure not to be overheard or interrupted by visiting guests.
Glad for the reprieve, Chey put the Crown Prince from her mind and looked ahead to dinner with her soon to be brother-in-law.
Chapter Seven
Paavo's holding sat on a low hill overlooking a broad valley that seemed to stretch for miles. The castle itself, an older structure that had withstood the test of time, boasted four turrets at each corner, a high surrounding wall and an iron coat of arms on the wooden entry gate. This particular holding had a secondary wall and gate system they passed through after navigating the winding road leading up the hill. The limousine Paavo sent to the small helipad adjacent to the castle ferried the group to the front doors, where members of Sander's personal guard waited. A handful had arrived by car an hour before.
Ushered inside, Chey discovered a broad foyer, arching ceilings, stone walls and tall windows. Like Kallaster, Paavo's castle was more medieval in the making. Coats of arms decorated the walls between giant oil paintings depicting scenes of battle or portraits of ancestors. High beams criss-crossed over the ceiling and enormous rugs covered portions of the floor.
Shown to an upstairs chamber after splitting off from the others, Chey found it to be a suite of rooms with an attached bathroom and large closet. Sander paid little attention to his surroundings, as if he'd seen it all too many times before. Every castle was a new adventure for Chey, who was endlessly charmed and fascinated by the intricacies and mystery of the structures.
After unpacking a few items and checking her dark pantsuit in the mirror—a more formal outfit than the one she'd worn to the disastrous luncheon—she exited the chamber with her fingers hooked under Sander's elbow. They ran into Mattias coming out of a suite not far from their own, and finished their descent in his company. He, like Sander, wore a sharp suit of black with a crisp button down beneath. Each man wore a complimentary tie and polished shoes.
Once, when Chey glanced over, she caught Mattias giving Sander a specific look. She wasn't sure what it meant, only that the men were communicating on sub-levels, reading each other's expressions and eyes with old familiarity.
A long wooden table capable of seating more than twenty guests was the center feature of the dining hall. Candles threw flickering light across glittering china and crystal waiting before each chair. Vases of flowers decorated side tables against the walls, adding a touch of whimsy to an otherwise barbaric setting.
Paavo, also in a suit, stood at the head of the table with a glass of red wine in hand. Carefully groomed, as was his wont, he toasted the others as they arrived. Built more like Mattias than Sander, Paavo cut a lean yet athletic figure, dark hair combed away from his angular face.
Gunnar and Krislin entered last, also having changed into more formal attire, and took the seats indicated by placards with names.
Chey whispered her thanks to Sander after he saw to her chair, and noticed that Paavo had put himself in the end seat. She supposed it was tradition for the man of the house to take that position. For some reason, she expected Paavo to forgo that honor and instead give it to the King. Sander sat next to her a moment later, appearing unaffected that he'd been placed on Chey's other side. He reclined in the chair in that way he had, one elbow propped on the arm, blue eyes assessing the gathered before landing on his brother.
Gunnar and Krislin sat across the table next to Mattias, with Paavo's intended, Aurora, to Chey's right. The chess pieces were in place.
What a cynical thought.
As at the fitting, Aurora remained withdrawn, quiet. She
didn't meet anyone's eyes, didn't give out more than a nod of greeting. There was something somber about her posture, the set of her lush mouth.
No one gave any explanations for the tension, and Chey didn't ask.
Paavo remained standing. “Thank you all for coming on such short notice. As you might guess, there's a reason I've requested a private audience with you. But first, let's eat.”
Paavo toasted the group a final time, sipped from his glass, and sat down.
Several courses of succulent food were brought by the staff, one after the other, advancing through the meal with steady progress.
Chey took note of the silence among siblings while she ate. She had the distinct sensation that Sander was merely biding his time, going through the motions so they could get to the point of the visit. Even Aurora and Krislin had little to say to each other. Everyone appeared preoccupied with one thing or another, thoughts far from whatever Paavo had planned. Refusing cherry cheesecake dessert, Chey took another sip of water and relaxed into her chair, trying to focus on current events and not get caught up in the drama of the Crown Prince and Natalia.
When Sander set a hand on her thigh under the table, she covered his knuckles with her palm and squeezed, enjoying the texture and heat of his skin.
Finally, once the dishes were gone and wine glasses had been refilled, Paavo sat back in his chair and surveyed the group. His gaze landed and stayed with Sander, blatant and assessing. Sander returned the direct look, waiting Paavo out.
Chey glanced between brothers, then at Mattias. She read a smile in the squint at the corners of his eyes as well as a growing intensity he didn't bother to hide. It was her first indication that this evening's 'event' might be more serious than she first anticipated. What did Paavo have up his sleeve?
“Are you going to sit there and gloat all night, brother, or are you going to get to the point?” Sander sounded unimpressed by Paavo's tactics.
The King Takes A Bride (Royals Book 4) Page 6