The Prince's Bride Read online

  Count Fredrik handed them over silently.

  “Oh Lord, have you seen the time? Give me that blasted sash and let’s get going.”

  “Hair?”

  Jonas ducked to look in the spotted mirror and ran his fingers through his super-clean hair. It flopped forward, giving him a rakish bartender look that would drive the Crown Princess crazy. Oh well, she’d have to make do with the rest of the pantomime get-up, he thought. He cast a look of loathing at the shining black leather boots. “Someone really worked to get those sparkling, didn’t they?” And before Count Fredrik could reply: “OK, OK, no more complaining.” He flicked the medals into place, straightened and threw a mock salute at the image in the mirror. “Let’s go.”

  “Good choice. Seven minutes and counting.”

  Jonas started to run up the spiral stairs, then slowed. Count Fredrik had been badly wounded on his last tour of duty with the San Michele Army. The injury to his leg had stopped their climbing expeditions. Fredrik had never discussed it and Jonas had never asked. But now he wondered whether pelting up four flights of a spiral staircase in the old tower would cause him pain.

  “Shift,” said his friend, crisply. Which seemed to answer the question.

  Jonas settled the scarlet sash over his head and across his jacket with practised fingers. As they went, Count Fredrik’s cell phone beeped. He glanced at the screen.

  “The Crown Princess’s PA,” he said briefly.

  “Wanting to know where I am.”

  “That’s the – er – gist of it, yes.”

  Jonas laughed but he shook his head too. “The woman never gives up.” He stopped and turned, holding out an imperative hand. “Give.”

  Count Fredrik did.

  Jonas called the number back and said, “Please tell her Serene Highness that I understood that she wanted me on the battlements. That’s where I’m headed right now. Has there been a change of plan?”

  The flustered PA said no, she didn’t think so.

  “Thank you,” said Jonas with gentle courtesy and ended the call. He gave the phone back to the Count. “And now, for the last time this evening, I’m gonna run.”

  He powered up the rest of the stairs and made it onto the battlements a good five minutes before the Crown Princess arrived. Fredrik was not far behind.

  Crown Princess Anna came hurrying along the walkway from the eighteenth-century wing. Her floaty dress flattened itself against her legs in the spring breeze but her blonde hair was as rigid as a soldier on sentry duty. So was her jaw.

  Observing that, Jonas felt his heart sink. He took refuge in determined bonhomie. “Hi there, Anna. You see – I made it at last.”

  She showed her teeth. Even her dearest friend couldn’t have called it a smile. “Lucky me.”

  Ah. More contrition needed. “Really sorry I’m late. Major job in the office that needed closing tonight. Really.”

  She pursed her lips, unappeased.

  “And I had to clear the desk before my vacation,” Jonas said with just a hint of self-righteousness.

  Count Fredrik began, “The traffic –”

  Crown Princess Anna silenced them both with a viciously upraised forefinger.

  Count Fredrik’s face became a mask. He stepped back.

  She ignored him. Indeed, she hardly seemed to be aware that he was there at all. Horrified at the discourtesy, Jonas half turned to him but the Princess seized him by the princely sash and rapped out, “Have you memorized the guests you need to talk to?”

  Jonas abandoned bonhomie and contrition alike. Time for some straight talking, he thought. “No.”

  For a startled moment he thought she might even hit him.

  She ground her teeth. “Did you even read your briefing? Don’t bother to answer that.” She was already calling up someone on speed dial. “Celina? Will you be good enough to ask the Grand Duchess if she can spare you, please? Join me on the south battlements as soon as you can.”

  She ended the call and turned a basilisk stare on Jonas, inspecting him from head to toe. “At least you’re here now. And dressed. We shall just have to –” She broke off, her eyes narrowing sharply. “Sword!”

  Jonas chuckled. “It’s a party, Anna. Not the state opening of Parliament. I’m not going to be spearing prawn canapés at sword point. Why not just forget it? No one will notice, not with all the buttons and braid.”

  She rounded on Count Fredrik. “Where did he leave it?”

  The Head of Security stayed inscrutable. “I will organize a search.”

  “No. You,” said Crown Princess Anna, shaking with temper and not inscrutable at all, “will go and get it. Now.”

  There was a dangerous silence. Then Count Fredrik, expressionless, clicked his heels and went without a word.

  All desire to laugh had left. Jonas was cold with anger. He said crisply, “May I remind you that Fredrik is not only a national hero, he is also the Head of Palace Security and paid by the state? You can’t send him on your damn errands, like a pageboy. One: it’s discourteous. Two: you’re exceeding your authority.”

  The Crown Princess blinked and spluttered as if someone had thrown water over her. “How dare you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I dare. What’s more, you know perfectly well I’m right.”

  She could barely speak. “You. You. You. No, you’re not right. You’re not right about anything. You’re no use at all. Not to San Michele. Not to the family. You’re a parasite and a passenger.” The venom was unmistakable.

  Jonas flung up a hand to stop her. But Anna had clearly been working on her sense of grievance for a long time. She launched into a diatribe, part of which she could hardly get out, her words tumbling over each other. But far too much of it had clearly been well rehearsed.

  He listened, expressionless.

  He was irresponsible, selfish and arrogant, she said. He did exactly what he wanted to do, and the hell with anyone else. He had no sense of duty. No appreciation of how lucky he was. Oh, he might have joined the family firm but he never pretended that he enjoyed it or tried to hide his indifference to practising law.

  “Carlo says your heart isn’t in it,” she threw at him. She was clearly quoting the Crown Prince verbatim.

  Jonas winced. Carlo was not only his much loved older brother, he was also head of their legal practice.

  “I think you’ll find you’ve said enough.”

  But, having brooded on her brother-in-law’s iniquities for the best part of a busy day, the Crown Princess was on a roll. She continued in the same vein, shaking her head so violently that her iron-steady hair started to fly with the force of her invective.

  “... I’ve been doing my best to interest the international film industry makers in San Michele ever since your father made me head of the Film Council and ...”

  Jonas had had enough. “You’re not head of the Film Council,” he said very quietly. “You’re the Royal Patron.”

  “... you do nothing to support me. Nothing.” She stopped dead, staring. “What do you mean?”

  “You know no more about the film industry than I do.” His voice was even but very clear. “You’re just a bossy busybody who likes giving parties that film stars come to. You don’t run anything – except everybody else ragged.”

  Her mouth moved silently as if she were still yelling at him, though no sound came out.

  “You should apologize to Count Fredrik when he returns. And then, for God’s sake, get a grip. San Michele doesn’t need you running round like a charging heifer, scaring the life out of anyone who might get in your way.”

  Before she could find an answer there was the clip of high heels on the walkway and his grandmother’s assistant hurried round the corner. She was carrying a leather belt with an ornate buckle that he ought already to be wearing. And the sword.

  Oh hell and damnation, thought Jonas. He was already beginning to regret letting himself be carried away. Yes, the way Anna had treated Count Fredrik was outrageous. But all
he’d needed to do was point that out and let her common sense do the rest. What on earth had possessed him to get into a slanging match with the woman?

  And then to have Celina find them glaring at each other like a couple of drunken sailors brawling on the waterfront! Celina! One of the few people in San Michele he felt close to these days. The woman who, if his best friend Jack hadn’t seen her first, he would have wined and dined and dated and maybe even married, with a fair wind behind him and a little luck on his side.

  He felt ashamed. And that made him even angrier.

  “Thank you,” he said savagely, almost wrenching the sword out of Celina’s hand. He refused all help, flinging the sword belt round the waist of his jacket and jerking the complicated clasp together with a ferocity that brooked no resistance from mere metal. He settled the red sash ruthlessly back into place and glared round. “So what do I have to do?”

  Celina had brought a list. She looked uncertainly at the Crown Princess, but when Anna stayed silent, she consulted it and read, “Cocktails at sunset on the battlements.” She looked up. “Actually the stewards are already herding – I mean directing – the guests this way.”

  “Herding was just fine,” said Jonas darkly.

  Anna’s look flamed him. He ignored it.

  Celina said diplomatically, “I passed them on the stairs. Siri Fair is the actress to look out for. I’ll send drinks over and then you and she are going to have to stand and chat by the turret wall, so you can be photographed against the setting sun.”

  Jonas was speechless.

  Celina consulted her briefing notes again. “Her production company is considering making part of her next movie here in Liburno.”

  Jonas found his voice. It was deceptively affable. “So I’m here as a prop in a photo shoot, am I? That explains the sword.”

  That broke the Crown Princess out of her marble calm. “For God’s sake don’t make a fuss, Jonas.” She sounded really alarmed. “We needed a Prince Charming tonight. You were the best available.”

  There was moment of total disbelief.

  And then Jonas dropped his head in his hands and laughed helplessly.

  Chapter Two

  Life is full of new experiences, thought Hope Kennard.

  Three weeks ago she had been on top of the world, managing a ski chalet in the French Alps, working for people she liked and trusted, doing a job she was good at, busy, responsible and competent. Two weeks ago she had been unemployed and homeless and, what was worse, with her capacity for trust in tatters. Again.

  And now here she was in the Republic of San Michele, which she had never heard of a week ago, notionally house sitting but in practice running therapy sessions for a one-girl dog. The (mainly) German shepherd had gone into mourning when his owner, eleven-year-old Poppy Anton, had been swept off on a family sailing holiday. The other family pets had happily gone along too but Moby (named for Moby Dick, an animal he resembled only in his massive size) was seasick. Hope’s role was to exercise him frequently and try to keep his mind off his broken heart.

  Moby had melting brown eyes and an unerring sense of direction when it came to the biscuit tin. The family, sailing down the Dalmatian coast, tied up in a different port every evening. And every morning Poppy got up before anyone else in the party, took herself to a café with Wi-Fi, and chatted to Moby over her breakfast.

  This morning was no exception. The kitchen laptop thrummed into life. Moby stopped looking at the biscuit tin and jumped onto one of the long kitchen benches in front of it and sat to attention.

  Hope leaned across him and tapped the green telephone icon on the screen. At once Moby shoved her aside and barked twice. The screen swirled a bit and then Hope, peering past Moby’s massive shoulders, saw freckles, braces on teeth and the unmistakable plaits tilted at an impossible angle.

  “Good morning, my lamb,” crooned Poppy.

  Moby made crooning noises back.

  They talked in their private language until Moby was satisfied. Then he shifted enough to allow Hope to slide onto the bench beside him and see the screen properly.

  “Good morning, Hope,” said Poppy, beaming like sunlight.

  She’d soon dropped the polite and proper “Ms Kennard”. These days Poppy and Hope were acknowledged allies.

  And they worked well together, Hope thought now. She reached for the biscuit tin, ready for their morning ritual.

  Poppy waved her croissant in front of her smartphone. Moby’s tail began to wag furiously. He put his front paws on the table and gave an imperious short bark. Poppy broke off a corner of the pastry as Hope slid a biscuit out of the tin. Poppy looked off screen right, raised her arm and mimed a throw. Moby leaped off the bench jumping and giving little barks in his excitement. Hope immediately tossed the biscuit so that it sailed over Moby’s head.

  He turned and raced after it, his claws clicking as he skidded on the polished floor.

  Poppy laughed in delight. “Gets him every time,” she said fondly.

  “Very rewarding,” said Hope. She was not just talking about the dog. More and more Poppy was reminding her of herself as a schoolgirl – too quiet, a little lost, only truly at ease with her beloved animal friend.

  In Hope’s case it had been a pony: fat, contrary and stubborn. He never came when she called but when he eventually deigned to trot over and accept his bridle, he would nuzzle her hair and blow down her T-shirt and she’d loved him. Until one day her father decided she had outgrown him and he was sold.

  Hope hadn’t even had time to say goodbye. Her father, infuriated by her grief when he was so excited to give her his wonderful present, had refused to discuss that matter. So seven-year-old Hope refused to have anything to do with the larger pony he wanted to buy her. He called it “the next step”. She called it treachery and went into mourning.

  Poor Daddy, he’d never understood about love, not even at the end, she thought now. At least Poppy’s father, initially dismissive of Poppy’s despair at the thought of a bereft Moby, now showed signs of learning.

  But neither of her companions noticed the undercurrent. Moby made short work of the biscuit and pounded back to the bench, ears pricked, quivering with anticipation.

  Poppy and Hope repeated the trick three more times. Only the last time Hope threw his rubber bone instead and Moby settled down to chew it contentedly in the corner. He never took his eyes off the screen though.

  “Still missing me,” said Poppy, her joy dimming.

  “He could do with a longer run,” said Hope. She had never been responsible for a dog before but her brother Max had two and had sent her a reading list on German shepherds. “I take him into the woods every day but it’s a bit of a routine. He may be getting bored. A whole day among some new trees would be even better.”

  Poppy looked wistful. “If we were home, Mother would take us into the old forest.”

  “Then I can take him into the old forest,” Hope said stoutly. She might not know much about dogs but she was learning fast and, unlike her fat pony, Moby came when she called.

  The little face on the screen was instantly anxious. “You need a permit. Dad has a family one because he’s a volunteer fire ranger but –”

  “Moby is family. And I’m in loco parentis, so I’ll count too.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Hope didn’t know about the forest by-laws but, in five years of working her way round the world, she had talked herself out of tighter spots than taking a dog into a forest on a slightly dodgy permit. “Yes.”

  She saw Poppy allowing herself to believe. “That would be so great.”

  Hope smiled at her. “Consider it done, then.”

  The Antons had good maps. Hope found the forest road without difficulty and Moby barked excitedly as she turned into the parking place. The air tasted as sweet and cold as champagne on ice as they set off, Moby tearing ahead and then racing back to her, almost dancing.

  But they came to a small clearing and the dog’s mood changed. He ran
round, peering behind trees and following small animal tracks, getting more and more frantic. It took Hope a while but eventually she worked out that he was looking for Poppy and couldn’t find her. Her eyes prickled. Ridiculous!

  “She’ll be back,” she said, knowing it was to comfort herself as much as the dog.

  He continued to search for ages. Hope sat down on an old tree stump and waited until he gave up. Eventually he came back, legs dragging, head down, the picture of misery.

  “Oh, Moby,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

  The dog slumped down onto his haunches, put back his head and howled at the sky.

  Jonas pushed his motorbike into the barn behind the Forest Rangers’ Centre. He had ridden out of Liburno last night in the small hours, in a cold rage at Hollywood, San Michele and most of all himself.

  It was not at all what he’d intended. But when he got back to his apartment he was so restless that he knew he’d never sleep, even though he should be exhausted. So he’d flung a few essentials into the canvas bag that he always took on the bike and set out for the forest. Two weeks of volunteering on forest conservation and a refresher course on fire watching should be enough to restore his equilibrium. Or at least he hoped so. He felt as if he were in a cage and if he didn’t stretch his wings in the air he’d die.

  He locked the bike and headed for the Rangers’ Building where he would be staying for the next two weeks. It was a simple structure: four Spartan bedrooms, a common room for socializing, a command centre for planning and training, and a big display space for educating everyone from tourists to schoolchildren in all aspects of the Great European Birch Forest.

  Jonas wondered whether he’d be staying there alone this time. Most of the Rangers and nearly all volunteers lived locally. Jonas himself was welcome because, after all his legal qualifications, he’d done a Masters Degree in wilderness conservation in the States. That meant he’d got practical experience too. Besides, his beloved godfather had been a lifelong Ranger. So he had a sort of family ticket, by proxy. But basically the Rangers were a close-knit group who regarded the capital as a foreign country and the thirty-seven miles of road between Liburno and the forest as a welcome obstacle to interspecies contamination.