A Royal Legacy

by Danielle Bourdon

  Emily ran in and out of a small pretend kitchen, busy 'baking' pies and cookies and washing dishes. As tomboyish as she could sometimes be, Emily was nevertheless driven to play dollhouse on a regular basis. And, by all accounts, their daughter had grown into a spitting image of Chey. Long dark hair, lively blue eyes, same shaped face.

  Erick, the youngest, toddled through a tunnel maze, giggling and laughing and entertaining himself. At least they were preoccupied for now. Chey wasn't sure how much longer it would last. The kids were restless and wanted their daddy. Most of Sander's trips these days lasted no more than three to four days. He always came back to see the children and spend time if he had to leave soon after.

  “What, no surprise parties, no big welcome cake?” Sander's voice boomed from the doorway.

  Startled, Chey turned to see Sander, still in his camouflage gear and muddy boots, throw his arms wide to the kids. He crouched, preparing for impact. Elias was already running. Emily squealed and deserted her four layer (plastic) cake in favor of following in Elias's footsteps. Sander snatched each in an arm and lifted them while he laughed, pecking adoring kisses to their cheeks.

  The giggling, laughing Erick heard the commotion and tried to climb his way out of the tunnel, forgetting which way was out. An ear piercing squall let everyone know that Erick was not a happy little prince.

  Chey bit back amusement and started over to help her son find his way free.

  “I'll get him,” Sander said, pausing to kiss Chey on the mouth before stalking the maze of tunnels. “Fee Fi Fo Fum, I smell the blood of....Erick!” he boomed. Elias and Emily, arms around his neck, encouraged the 'giant' to find the baby.

  If only she had her camera. Chey groused at the lack, licking the taste of Sander off her lip. He smelled like the outdoors, like the wild. She loved seeing him wrestle with the kids, which he promptly did once he'd extracted Erick from the tunnel. The four rolled around on one of the mats, lavishing love on each other. Sander's booming laugh rang out again and again, sending a warm, fuzzy feeling through her belly. If there was anything she loved more than Sander, it was seeing him and their kids together. Sander was a father above all else, putting the children before his own needs and wants.

  Clearly, since he'd apparently come straight here from the hinterlands without changing or showering first.

  Finally, a half hour into the third tickle and wrestling match, Chey broke up the fun. She sent Elias off with the assistants for writing lessons and had Emily and Erick prepared for naps. Once the kids were gone, Chey faced Sander, reaching up to tug on the bill of his hat. His hair stuck out the bottom, no longer contained by a band.

  “Two or three days, you said...” She wasn't, couldn't, be angry. That didn't mean she would pass up the opportunity to tease him.

  He flashed a boyish grin and pulled her close by the hips. “I thought about you every second.”

  “Every second you weren't scouring the landscape for the enemy, you mean?” Chey snorted.

  He rumbled and bent to kiss her.

  Chey didn't care if he needed a shower, she kissed him until she felt his body respond. Then, then she released him. She knew their time was short. He had a meeting to get to.

  “Everything go all right while I was gone?” he asked, escorting her to the doors.

  Chey walked alongside as they headed to the upper floors and their bedroom suite. “Yes. The only major development was Konstantine's arrival late last evening. I haven't spoken to him yet.”

  “Urmas said he wishes to speak only to me. We'll see what he wants. I don't know if he'll stay another evening. If he does, we'll arrange a formal dinner later.” Sander broke away once they were in their suite. He stripped out of his clothes, boots first and pants next.

  Chey watched from her spot in a cushy chair. There was never a moment when she would tire of watching her husband move through the mundane task of undressing. She adored every hard inch, from his muscled thighs to his rigid stomach to the bulge of his biceps.

  He caught her looking and quirked a knowing smile her way.

  Chey wagged her brows, and didn't hesitate when he ticked his head toward the shower, a silent invitation to join him. She made a show of stripping out of her own clothes, too, heat sparking through her system at the blatant way he looked her over. Like he meant to claim her as thoroughly as he had before he left.

  And he did. Against the shower wall, with striking possessive intensity that rendered Chey weak-kneed and breathless. She knew by the pressure of his fingertips that he'd branded her with their imprint. Tomorrow, and the next day, there would be proof of this tryst on her skin.

  In the aftermath, she leisurely dragged a soapy cloth over all the muscles she so admired, and even let him wash her hair with a vanilla-raspberry scented shampoo that he stroked into her scalp with skilled fingertips. He had a way about it, a slow massage that made Chey want to melt into the floor. That he whispered endearments and risque things in her ear only added to the allure.

  Once they were both clean, Chey snatched a towel from the rack and dried off. In recent weeks, desiring change, she had lopped off six inches of hair. Instead of hanging more than halfway down her back, it now hung even with the top of her shoulder blades and was much less hassle to deal with. While rubbing the towel through the damp strands, she said, “You probably shouldn't have made your guest wait so long.”

  Sander ran a towel along his thighs with quick, efficient strokes. “Perhaps Konstantine should have given us more warning. Or, even come here to speak face to face the first time. He can wait an extra fifteen minutes.”

  “It's been more like an hour.” Chey couldn't help but smile.

  “And it may be another hour if you keep looking at me like that.” He arched his brows and tossed the towel to the hamper when he was through. Winking, he cut away for the closet.

  Chey reined in a sassy retort. If she challenged Sander, even in play, he might keep his word to make Konstantine wait another hour. Not that she would mind. She was anxious to find out what the king had to say, however, so she ceased flirting with her husband and, taking her time since she wasn't attending this particular visitation, began the process of readying for a dinner in which they might or might not have a new guest.

  She hoped, for the sake of everyone involved, that the visiting king wanted something other than requests for Latvala to engage with Imatra in battle.

  Chapter Six

  Sander descended to the main floor, giving the steel gray suit a final tug. His fingers smoothed the length of the deep blue tie as Urmas fell into step at his side and updated him on the latest. Which happened to be nothing he didn't already know. Konstantine refused to speak with anyone but Sander, one on one, regarding an immediate matter. Guards for both sovereigns waited just outside the king's parlor, standing watch despite the already heavy security.

  Sander entered the austere chamber which continued a more medieval theme rather than a palatial one. Instead of gilt trimmings and white walls, the colors were warm and rich, with heavy wood tables, brocade and chenille chairs, and paintings—fittingly enough—depicting Latvala's ancestors locked in battle with their adversary. Once upon a time, Latvala's warriors had fought for, died for, the independence of the country.

  Konstantine paced near the tall fireplace, where a small fire currently burned, looking at photographs with his hands clasped behind his back. He had dressed for the occasion: sharp black suit, polished shoes, crisp white shirt and a dark cloak that fell from his shoulders in dramatic fashion. Like Sander, he wore his brown hair tied back at the nape. In his early thirties, Konstantine kept himself in decent shape, although Sander discerned a softness in Konstantine's physique that suggested he did not do much in the way of serious activity. Here was a king who preferred to pass his rule down from the safety of his throne, rarely exerting himself unless it was on his terms and for fun. He had lean features and a sharp jaw that many women—if rumors were true—found irresistible. Sander had met Konstantin
e several times, in passing, but had never desired to make pacts or become allies.

  “Welcome to Kallaster, King Konstantine,” Sander said, standing on ceremony in these initial greetings.

  Konstantine turned from the mantel and fixed Sander with a somewhat serious stare. “Dare. If I may call you that--”

  “You have already, have you not?” Sander interrupted. He stood rather than take a seat, since Konstantine did not appear ready to relax any time soon. 'Dare', his nickname from childhood, was not typically used so casually by other members of regal society. Sander was sure Konstantine knew it.

  “Did your people not tell you that I have come on urgent business? I have been waiting hours.”

  “My apologies. Perhaps if you had given some kind of notice, you would not have had to wait. I was not anywhere near Pallan Island when you arrived.” Sander wanted to tell Konstantine that he was lucky Sander had returned when he did. Otherwise, the king might have been forced to return to Imatra empty handed.

  “The situation in Imatra has escalated since my last request to you. There has been another, larger attack. A military outpost was completely decimated by a Russian contingent. We lost ten more men. Not only that, I have received missives from a Russian commander that unless I allow Imatra to be absorbed into Russia's fold, they will wage war on my country.” Konstantine reached into the liner of his jacket, withdrew an envelope, and crossed the room to offer it out to Sander.

  Tensing when Konstantine reached for the inside of the jacket, Sander eased when nothing more sinister than a letter appeared. His instincts were working overtime. Accepting the envelope, he withdrew a folded letter and scanned the contents. He was not pleased at the news that another, larger skirmish had occurred. Committing the Russian commander's name assigned to the letter to memory, which did indeed state that Imatra had thirty days to respond to Russia's demands, Sander slipped the letter into the envelope and handed it back to Konstantine. Despite the letter and the newest attack, Sander was not convinced that it was time to send in troops. This situation was deteriorating rapidly and he needed to consider every angle, every option. If he'd learned anything in his position as king, it was to never act without first determining that he had all his facts in order.

  “Tell the commander you do not accept the terms and that you will release the demands to the media. Pressure from the international community will force Russia's hand and, in this instance, I believe they'll back down,” Sander said.

  Konstantine accepted the envelope, his jaw tightening at Sander's reply. “I do not think you understand what's at stake here. You do not see the bigger picture. If I acquiesce to their demands, then their next target will be Somero and after that, Latvala. They want control of the coast and we're standing in their way. We, all three of us, will lose everything if we do not make a strong defense here and now. The situation is immediate and dire. There is no time to waste.”

  “So you want me to send a few troops to help protect your border, which will result in more skirmishes and more deaths, when you might stop any advance at all if you simply expose Russia's agenda to the world.” Sander watched what appeared to be fear cross Konstantine's features.

  “It will do nothing except perhaps stall their attack by a few weeks, if that. They have made their agenda perfectly clear. They are coming, Dare, it's right there in black and white. It's in the blood on the ground of my country. Men have already given their lives.” Konstantine paced away from Sander, sliding the envelope into the interior pocket once more. He paused and turned to look back. “I'm not asking for a few troops. I'm not even asking for your whole army. I'm suggesting we come together to fight the threat as one. At least we stand a better chance.”

  “So in essence, you are asking for my entire army,” Sander countered.

  Konstantine lifted his chin an inch. “No, you misunderstand. I mean to merge Imatra and Latvala into one country.”

  *

  The ludicrous idea earned a bark of laughter from Sander. “Merge our countries? Have you lost your mind? And I suppose you'll reign supreme over us all, perhaps even delegating your siblings to take over my castles for the better good. Hm? Commandeer my armies, raid my vaults. You cannot be serious.”

  Konstantine frowned. “You take this too lightly. Who else do you think will come to our aid? And those countries that do will ask for much in return. Better that we band together so we will at least have a fighting chance.”

  Sander couldn't believe Konstantine's nerve. Either the man was attempting to do the same thing to Latvala that he claimed the Russian's were trying to do to Imatra, or he honestly saw no other way out of his perceived predicament.

  “Let me play your little game for a moment. Say we do merge. What of Somero, which sits smack between Latvala and Imatra?” Sander paced a few feet through the room but never took his eyes off Konstantine.

  “We approach King Thane with the same offer. Three become one. Imagine the strength we will have then,” Konstantine said.

  “I know Thane's reputation well enough to know that he will have the same answer as I do. What then? We cannot 'merge' with an entire country between us. What are your plans in that scenario?” Sander was losing patience with such nonsensical talk. He suspected Konstantine might be up to some other mischief here, or that his agenda was not as pure as he wanted everyone else to believe.

  “We make them listen,” Konstantine said.

  “You mean invade them, as you say Russia is threatening to do to you. No, absolutely not. My kingdom will not be a part of your sudden desire for take over. You dress your suggestions up in urgency, as matters of life and death, but where is the proof? I have seen a few photos—of which are suspect—and a letter I have not even confirmed is real. Do you have footage of the latest attack? Latvala will not 'merge' with any other country and that is my final decision.”

  “I have heard that about you. That you will allow your country to fall—which it nearly did with the scandals so many years ago—before you will take the action that best benefits Latvala. I say it's the fault of having a half blooded king as sovereign, a man whose iron fisted control knows no bounds. You've got the throne, even though it does not belong to you, and you will not give it up for anything. It may mean the death of your people but you're careless of consequence so long as you remain king. Here is my prediction: your arrogance will be your downfall.” Konstantine, full of agitated tension, pivoted toward the door.

  Sander stepped between the stalking king and the exit. If Konstantine wanted out, he would have to move Sander to do it. “It is not the mark of a king to threaten those who do not abide by his word, but the mark of a tyrant. Consider yourself warned, King Konstantine. I perceive a threat in your statement and should you move to strike against me, to—how did you put it—make me listen, I will not hesitate to defend my country with all due force. In your selfish attempt to overthrow two countries, your own may be attacked by more than one enemy at a time.”

  “This is not a take over. Have you not been listening? We are about to go to war! You've seen the letter first hand and yet you still balk when I offer a solution—the only solution—to give us a chance to win. Your children's lives--”

  Sander grabbed Konstantine by the throat and shoved him against the nearest wall. Decorum and etiquette be damned. Nose to nose, fury getting the better of him, he said, “Do not ever mention my children again. Breathe one word of threat and I will gut you where you stand. Am I understood?”

  “Guards!” Konstantine's shout came out as no more than a raspy whisper.

  Sander tightened his hold, fingers squeezing hard enough to feel the rapid pulse in Konstantine's neck. “Am. I. Understood?” he repeated, word for word.

  “Yes, yes.” Konstantine struggled against the hold, his face turning purple.

  Sander released Konstantine's throat but shoved at his shoulder, too angry to be diplomatic about 'escorting' his 'guest' to the door. He opened it and, with Konstantine choking and gasping, f
ollowed him into the hall.

  All hell was about to break loose.

  Chapter Seven

  Chey stepped into the main foyer just as a commotion broke out down one of the hallways. She twisted to see what the fuss was about, taking note of the sudden tension that swept through the castle security and the stalking stride of the oncoming men. The red-faced man in the lead, flanked by guards, looked furious. She guessed, by the cut of his clothing and the cloak—which was an odd garment in this day and age—that he must be Konstantine. Sander appeared not far behind, his own face a mask of controlled rage. Several advisors talked over each other to the point Chey could not detect what the problem was.

  Clearly, the meeting had not gone well at all.

  The group entered the foyer, more of Sander's advisors and guards coming from other hallways, drawn by the upheaval.

  “Escort King Konstantine to his helicopter and see that every man of his goes with him. He will not be staying, nor returning.” Sander's command came in a terse, clipped voice that brooked no argument.

  Chey darted a look at her husband's face, wondering what had gotten so under his skin. There were few things that could wrest this kind of emotion from him.

  Konstantine marched toward the doors, which two guards opened. The king paused at the threshold, backlit by the diffused pall of another overcast day. “You have made a grave mistake. Before this week is through, you will be groveling to take me up on my offer. Mark my words.”

  “Get him out of here,” Sander snarled.

  Chey struggled to conceal her surprise. She glanced between kings, with advisors and guards standing in a circle around them, watching the sovereigns trade glares. Konstantine departed with a flourish of his cloak, his men following close behind. A handful of Sander's own security shadowed the men, prepared to follow the king's orders to the end.