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Pride blossomed in his soul as she kept her chin tilted and her back ramrod straight as she walked from the bottom of the stairs to the waiting car. She was, Mateo acknowledged with a deep tremor of satisfaction, fit to be his queen.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE WORLD BLURRED by as Rachel sat in the sedan and it sped along wide boulevards, the sea glittering blue on the other side of the road, palm trees proudly pointing to an azure sky.
Since exiting the plane, Rachel had felt as if she were disembodied, watching everything unfold as if from far above. She couldn’t possibly be sitting in a luxury sedan with blacked-out windows, an armed guard travelling before and behind and a man set to be king brooding next to her, on her way to an actual palace?
It had been utterly surreal to walk down those steps and see the guards bowing to Mateo—and her. She’d seen their impassive faces and recognised the look of people well trained to keep their expressions to themselves. Had they guessed she was Mateo’s bride, their next queen? Or did they assume she was some dowdy secretary brought along to take dictation? That was what she would have assumed, if she’d been in their place.
As much as she was trying to keep from getting down on herself, Rachel had to acknowledge the struggle was real. Her trouser suit was five years old and bought on the bargain rack, because she’d never cared about clothes. She had no make-up on because when she tried to use it, she looked like a clown. Her hair hadn’t been cut in six months at least. Yes, she was definitely feeling like the dowdy secretary rather than the defiant queen.
‘If I’d known I was going to become a queen this week,’ she quipped to Mateo, ‘I would have had my hair cut and lost a stone.’
He turned to her, his expression strangely fierce, his face drawn into stark lines of determination. ‘Neither is necessary, I assure you.’
She eyed him sceptically. ‘Didn’t you mention a team of stylists and beauticians waiting at the palace to turn me into some kind of post-godmother Cinderella?’
‘It doesn’t mean you need to change.’
Rachel glanced down at her trouser suit. ‘I think I might,’ she said. ‘At least this outfit.’ She didn’t want to dwell on all the other ways she might need to change, and so she chose to change the subject. ‘So what is the royal palace like? Besides being palatial, naturally.’
A small smile twitched the corner of Mateo’s mouth. ‘And royal.’
‘Obvs.’
‘It’s five hundred years old, built on the sea, looking east. It has magnificent gardens leading down to the beach, and many beautiful terraces and balconies. You will occupy the Queen’s suite of rooms after our marriage.’
‘You need to stop saying stuff like that, because I feel like I’m living in a fairy tale.’
His smile deepened as he glanced down at her, aquamarine eyes sparkling. ‘But it’s true.’
‘And where will I be before our marriage?’ Which was now in six days, something she couldn’t let herself think about without panicking.
‘A guest suite. But first, remember, my mother wishes to meet you.’
‘Right away
?’ Rachel swallowed hard. ‘Before anything else?’
‘It is important.’
And terrifying. Rachel tried to moderate her breathing as the car sped on, past whitewashed buildings with terracotta roofs, flowers blooming everywhere, spilling out of pots and window boxes. She gazed at a woman with a basket of oranges on her head, and a man with a white turban riding a rusty bicycle. Kallyria was a place where the east and west met, full of history and colour and life. And it was now her home.
The reality of it all, the enormity of the choice she had made, slammed into her again and again, leaving her breathless.
After about ten minutes, the motorcade drove through high, ornate gates of wrought iron, and then down a sweeping drive, a palace of sparkling white stone visible in the distance. It was a combination of fairy-tale castle and luxury Greek villa—complete with terraces and turrets, latticed shutters and trailing bougainvillea at every window, and Rachel thought there had to be at least a hundred.
‘Welcome home,’ Mateo said with a smile, and she nearly choked. She felt as if she were caught up in a riptide of officialdom as she was ushered out of the car and into the soaring marble foyer of the palace, a twisting, double staircase leading to a balcony above, and then onwards. A cupola high above them let in dazzling sunlight, and at least a dozen staff, the royal insignia on their uniform, were lined up waiting to bow or curtsey to Mateo.
‘My mother is waiting upstairs, in her private parlour,’ Mateo murmured, and, taking her by the elbow, he led her upstairs.
‘Mitera?’ he called, knocking on the wood-panelled door once, and when a mellifluous voice bid them to enter, he did.
Rachel followed, her knees practically knocking together. What if Mateo’s mother didn’t like her? What if she looked at her and wondered why on earth he’d chosen her as his bride? His queen?
The woman rising from a loveseat at one end of the elegant and spacious room was exactly what Rachel had expected, even though she had never seen a photograph of Agathe Karavitis.
She was tall and elegant, her dark blonde hair barely streaked with silver drawn back in a loose chignon. She wore a chic silk blouse tucked into wide-leg trousers and as she came forward, a welcoming smile on her face, her arms outstretched, she moved with an unconscious grace. Rachel felt like the dowdiest of dowds in comparison, and she tried not to let it show in her face as Agathe kissed both her cheeks and pressed her hands between her own.
