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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.
