One Night Before The Royal Wedding (Mills & Boon Modern)

by Sharon Kendrick

  The powerful car pulled away to the sound of clapping and cheering from the assembled line of servants, but Zabrina’s heart was heavy as she began her journey towards unwanted destiny.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘SIR, I URGE you not to go ahead with this madcap scheme.’

  Roman’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed the worried face of the equerry standing before him, who was practically wringing his hands in concern as they waited in the forecourt of the vast railway station for the Princess to arrive. He wasn’t used to opposition and, as King, he rarely encountered any. But then, usually he was the soul of discretion. Of sense. Of reason and of duty.

  His mouth hardened.

  Just not today.

  Today he was listening to the doubts which had been proliferating inside his head for weeks now—doubts which perhaps he should have listened to sooner, if he hadn’t been so damned busy with the affairs of state which always demanded so much of his time.

  ‘And what exactly are your objections?’ he countered coolly.

  Andrei took a deep breath, as if summoning up the courage he needed to confront his ruler. ‘Your Majesty, to disguise yourself in this way is a grave security risk.’

  Roman raised his brows. ‘But surely the royal train will be packed with armed guards who are prepared to give their lives for me, if necessary.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘So what exactly is your problem, Andrei? Where is the risk in that?’

  Andrei cleared his throat and seemed to choose his next words carefully. ‘Will the future Queen not be angry to discover that the man she is marrying is masquerading as a commoner and a bodyguard?’

  ‘Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?’ remonstrated Roman icily. ‘For surely the moods of the future Queen are no business of yours.’

  His equerry inclined his head. ‘No, no, of course not. Forgive me for my presumption. Your wishes, as always, reign supreme, my liege. But, as your most senior aide, I would not be doing my job properly if I failed to point out the possible pitfalls which—’

  ‘Yes, yes, spare me the lecture,’ interrupted Roman impatiently as they made their way towards the red carpet where the Petrogorian train was sitting on the platform in all its gleaming and polished splendour of ebony and gold. ‘Just reassure me that my wishes have been understood. Are all the other guards up to speed about what they are to do?’

  ‘Indeed they are, my liege. They have been fully briefed.’ Andrei cleared his throat. ‘For the duration of the train journey from here to Petrogoria, you have taken on the role of chief bodyguard. A role to which you are well suited, with your expertise in the martial arts as well as your undoubted survival skills.’

  ‘Are you trying to flatter me, Andrei?’ enquired Roman drily.

  ‘Not at all, sir. I am simply stating the facts—which are that you are perfectly qualified to act as a bodyguard, for your strength and your sword skills are legendary. And that hitherto you will be known as Constantin Izvor and none of the staff will address you as sire, or Your Majesty. They have also been instructed that under no circumstances are they to bow in your presence or give any clue as to your true, royal identity.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And they also know that, along with a female servant, you will have sole access to the Princess.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘If I may be so bold, it is also a little strange, sire, to see you clean-shaven.’

  Roman’s lips curved into a smile, for this was a sentiment he shared with his equerry. He had worn a beard since he was nineteen years old and the thick black growth had always defined him, as had his thick black hair. Even when he had ascended to the throne four years ago, he had not conformed by cutting off the luxuriant mane whose ebony waves had brushed against his collar. The press often commented that it made him look like a buccaneer and sometimes referred to him as the conquering King, and he was not averse to such a nickname. But he had been taken aback by how dramatically a shave and a haircut had changed his appearance and when he’d looked in the mirror, he had been a little startled. He had noticed, too, that many of the palace servants had passed him by without recognising him!

  And hadn’t that sensation filled him with a sudden sense of yearning and sparked off this brainwave of an idea? He’d realised that this was his first ever taste of anonymity—and that, although it was sweet in the extreme, it was poignant, too. Like being given a glimpse of something very beautiful and knowing you would never see it again. Oh, he had travelled incognito before, especially if he was visiting one of his former mistresses in Europe, but he’d never pretended to be anyone other than a king before, and the sense of occupying the skin of a commoner was curiously liberating.

  As he awaited Zabrina’s arrival, Roman could sense his aide’s surprise showing little sign of evaporating and maybe that was understandable, because he was aware he was behaving in a highly uncharacteristic way. For years he had thought nothing of his long-arranged marriage, for such unions were traditional in royal circles, such as his own. In fact, the only time the convention had been broken had been by his own father, and the disastrous results had reverberated down through the years. It was a mistake he was determined never to replicate, for his parents’ short-lived marriage had been enough to sour Roman’s appetite for anything defined by the word ‘love’.

  His mouth twisted. Only fools or dreamers believed in love.

  He knew he must wed if he wished to continue the noble line of Petrogoria and it was sensible to select a wife who would fit seamlessly into her role as his queen. Just as he knew that the odds were better if his intended bride was also of royal blood—and this marriage had been brokered many years ago. He would acquire the hugely significant Marengo Forest, and Zabrina’s homeland would be bankrolled in exchange. It was a deal designed to satisfy the needs of both their countries and, on paper, it had seemed the perfect pairing. In fact, for many years it hadn’t even impacted on his personal life, for he had enjoyed brief relationships with carefully selected women who were chosen for their discretion as much as their shining beauty. His arranged marriage had just been something which was there in the background—like a string quartet playing quietly during a state banquet.

  Yet lately, the thought of his impending nuptials to someone who supposedly ticked all the right boxes had started to give him cause for disquiet. A wedding which had always seemed an impossibly long way ahead seemed to have arrived with indecent speed. He had started wondering what kind of woman Princess Zabrina really was and the rumours which had reached his ears about her offered him no reassurance. It was said she was a little too fond of her own opinion, and at times could be feisty. It was also said that she was a rule-breaker and there were claims that she sometimes disappeared and nobody knew where she was. And mightn’t that create a problem going forward? Because what if the virgin princess proved to be an unsuitable candidate to sit by his side and help rule his beloved country, and raise his children?

  He swallowed and his throat suddenly felt as raw as if it had been lined with barbed wire.

  What if she was like his own feckless mother?

  A bitter darkness invaded his heart but instantly Roman quashed the feeling. Instead he concentrated on the rather faded gleam of the Princess’s Rolls-Royce as it made its stately approach onto the station forecourt, its Albastasian flag fluttering in the light breeze. Soon he would no longer have to rely on conjecture and he would discover what kind of woman Zabrina really was. Beginning with her appearance—which up until now he had only ever seen in pictures in which she often appeared to be glaring suspiciously at the lens, as if she didn’t like having her photo taken.

  And there she was. The car door was opened and a woman stepped out, the tip of her silver shoe contrasting vividly against the scarlet carpet which streamed in front of her like a rush of blood. She moved rather awkwardly in her silken gown as if she was
uncomfortable within its rich folds, and Roman felt a sudden unexpected rush of adrenalin as he surveyed her in the flesh. Because she was...

  He felt the inexplicable thunder of his heart.

  She certainly wasn’t what he’d expected. Small of stature and very slim, she looked much younger than he’d imagined, although he knew for a fact that she was twenty-three—a decade less than himself. But right now she looked little more than a girl. A girl with the cares of the world on her shoulders if her sombre expression was anything to go by, for there were lines of worry around her full lips. Her smile seemed almost forced as he began to walk towards her, though surely that could not be so, since she must have been aware that there were countless women who would have wished to be in her situation.

  Who would not want to marry the King of Petrogoria?

  As he grew closer he could see that her skin was glowing—unusually so—and his eyes narrowed. This wasn’t the protected flesh of a pampered princess who spent most of her time beneath gilded palace ceilings. In fact, she had the high colour of someone who was far more comfortable being outside. He frowned, because didn’t that feed into some of the gossip he’d heard about her? Yet he noticed that her eyes were an unusual shade of deepest green—as dark as the tall trees of the Marengo Forest, which would soon be his—and that they widened as he came to a halt in front of her. They were beautiful eyes, he realised suddenly. Rich and compelling, with a flicker of innocence in their depths. Quelling the brief stab of his conscience at what he was about to do—because surely one day they would laugh together about this—he executed a deep bow and stepped forward.

  ‘Good morning, Your Royal Highness,’ he said. Only now he wished he weren’t masquerading as anyone—because wouldn’t his kingly status have given him licence to lift her hand and press those tanned fingers to his lips? To inhale the sweet scent of her skin and acquaint himself with her own distinctive perfume? He cleared his throat, struck by the sudden quickening of his blood. ‘My name is Constantin Izvor and I am the chief bodyguard who will be in charge of your safe passage to Petrogoria.’

  ‘Good morning.’

  Zabrina’s response was steady but inside she felt anything but steady. She inclined her head in greeting, mainly to hide her face, aware of a disconcerting cocktail of emotions flooding through her which she didn’t want the King’s servant to see. Her initial thought was that the chief bodyguard seemed a little too confident and full of himself and her second was that he was...

  She swallowed.

  The second was that he was utterly gorgeous.

  Her heart missed a beat. He was beautiful, there was no other way to describe him. And he was powerful. Strong. The most incredible-looking man she’d ever laid eyes on. Not that she had a lot of experience in that department, of course, but she’d certainly never seen anyone like him among the dignitaries at official functions, or the palace servants she’d grown up with.

  She tried not to stare but it was difficult, because he was better looking than any Hollywood heart-throb and all she wanted to do was to drink him in with her hungry gaze. Zabrina had been taught from birth never to maintain eye contact with anyone—especially not servants—but suddenly that seemed an impossible task. And, since she was surely permitted a closer look at the man who had been charged with her protection, she continued with her rapid assessment.

  Night-black hair was cropped close to his head and his skin gleamed, like softly buffed gold. His features were chiselled and exquisitely sculpted—the faint scar on his jaw the only thing which marred their even perfection. A silky cream shirt hinted at the hard torso beneath and close-fitting trousers were tucked into soft leather boots, emphasising every sinew of his muscular thighs and making the most of his sturdy legs. She could see a sword tucked into a leather belt—and, in his other pocket, the unmistakable outline of a handgun. These two weapons made him look invulnerable. They made her think of danger. So why was that filling her with a wild kind of excitement, rather than a natural wariness, which surely would have served her better?

  Remembering her instructions, she forced herself to look down again—as if it were imperative to study the nervous fingertips which were brushing fretfully over her silky gown. But his image remained stubbornly burned into her memory. She wished her heart rate would steady and that his proximity weren’t sending her senses so haywire. Senses which until now she hadn’t known she possessed. She felt raw. Vulnerable. Her body felt as if a deep layer of skin had ripped away from it, leaving her almost...naked.

  Yet as she lifted her gaze upwards once more, it was the bodyguard’s eyes which unsettled her most—because they were not so easy to look at as the rest of him. They were hard and cold. The coldest eyes she’d ever seen. Steely-grey, they cut through her like the sword which hung from his belt and were fringed by liquorice-dark lashes which made his gaze appear piercing and...brooding. Suddenly it was impossible to keep a flush of self-awareness from flooding her cheeks, making her shift from side to side in her silver shoes, wondering what on earth was happening to her.

  Because she wasn’t the type of person to be blindsided like this. The only time she could remember having had a crush on someone—and an innocent one at that—had been for her fencing tutor when she’d been just seventeen. Somebody must have noticed her clumsy blushes whenever he was around because the man had been summarily removed from his employment without her even having had the chance to say goodbye to him. Zabrina remembered feeling vaguely sad—a feeling which had been superseded by indignation that her life should be so rigidly controlled by those around her.

  But what she was experiencing now was the very opposite of innocent. There was a distracting tightening of her breasts and the pulsing of something honeyed and sweet at the base of her stomach. A faint film of perspiration broke out on her forehead and she thought how horrified her mother would be to see her princess daughter sweating like a labourer.

  ‘Is there anything Her Royal Highness desires before we set off?’ Constantin Izvor was saying.

  And sudden Zabrina was angry at the nature of her jumbled thoughts. Angry at the way her stomach was fluttering with butterflies. With an effort she composed herself, drawing her shoulders back, and determined to inject a suitable note of command into her voice. ‘There is nothing I desire, thank you, Izvor. And since I see no reason for further delay, I suggest we get going. We have a long journey ahead of us,’ she said crisply, perfectly aware that her observation was actually an order and hoping her brusque words would shatter the debilitating sense of torpor which had suddenly enveloped her.

  The bodyguard looked slightly surprised—as if he wasn’t used to being spoken to like that—which alerted Zabrina to a couple of possibilities. Was his employer, the King, especially tolerant with his staff? she wondered. Was Izvor one of those tiresome servants who seemed to think that the trappings of royalty were theirs, too—simply by association? Well, he would quickly learn that he needed to keep his distance from her!

  ‘Certainly, Your Royal Highness,’ he drawled. ‘The train is ready to leave. You have only to say the word and I will ensure we are quickly under way, for I am your most obedient servant.’

  Something about his words didn’t quite ring true and the hint of a smile playing at the edges of his lips made Zabrina feel as if he were actually mocking her, but surely he wouldn’t dare do that? Anyway, why was she even giving him a moment’s thought, when Constantin Izvor was nothing more than one of the many cogs who kept the royal machine smoothly rolling along?

  ‘Good. Consider the word given. Let’s go!’ With a quick nod, she began to walk down the red carpet and as the brass band began to play the Albastasian national anthem, Zabrina was surprised by the powerful wave of homesickness which swept over her. From now on she was going to have to listen to the Petrogorian version and, although she had learnt the words by heart, it was not nearly so tuneful.

  Constantin Izvor leap
t onto the train in front of her, but she refused the helping hand he extended, with a firm shake of her head. Admittedly, it was a very big and old-fashioned train, but she was perfectly capable of negotiating her way up the cumbersome steps into the front carriage without any assistance from the dashing bodyguard. Why, she had spent her life leaping onto the backs of horses which made most people quake!

  Yet the thought of him touching her filled her with a disconcerting burst of something which felt like excitement. Why could she suddenly imagine all too vividly how it might feel if those strong fingers tightened around her much smaller hand with a firm grip?

  Slightly hampered by the abundant folds of her dress, Zabrina hauled herself up onto the train where a young woman was standing, waiting to greet her. With her blonde hair cut into a neat bob and wearing a simple blue shift dress, she looked more like a member of an airline cabin crew than a royal Petrogorian servant. Constantin Izvor introduced her as Silviana and Zabrina smiled, unable to miss the bodyguard’s flicker of surprise when she replied in fluent Petrogorian.

  ‘You speak my language well,’ he observed, on a deep and thoughtful note.

  ‘When I am seeking your approval, I will be sure to ask for it!’ Zabrina answered coolly and for some reason Silviana winced, as if she had said something untoward.

  ‘I will be sure to remember that in future, Your Royal Highness,’ the bodyguard replied gravely. ‘And in the meantime, I will escort you to your salon.’

  She followed him along the narrow corridor until he threw open a door which led onto a lavishly appointed salon. Zabrina nodded and walked inside but, annoyingly, the bodyguard showed no sign of leaving. He was still standing on the threshold, his steely eyes gleaming, as if he had some God-given right to dominate her space and disturb her equilibrium. Zabrina wondered if she should formally dismiss him—yet the stupid thing was that, despite his presumption and his undoubted arrogance, she was strangely unwilling to see him go. It would be like closing the night-time shutters on a spectacular moon—you wouldn’t be sure when you’d see all that beauty again.