Alaric nodded. ‘That was common practice.’ Power was guarded through alliances with other aristocratic families.
‘At one stage there was a gap in the direct line to the Maritzian throne. The crown couldn’t pass from father to son as the king’s son had died.’
Her words flayed a raw spot deep inside him. A familiar glacial chill burned Alaric’s gut. The knowledge he was a usurper in a better man’s shoes.
That he was responsible for his brother’s death.
‘There were two contenders for the throne. One from Prince Raul’s family and…’ Her words slowed as she registered his expression. Some of her enthusiasm faded.
‘And one from mine?’
She shifted as if uncomfortable, but continued.
Two rival princes from different branches of intertwined families. A will from the old king designating one, the eldest by some weeks, as his successor. A tragic ‘accident’ leading to the accession of the alternate heir and a desperate decision by the dead prince’s widow to send her newborn son to safety far away. The suppression of the old king’s will and a rewriting of birth dates to shore up the new monarch’s claim to the throne.
It was a tale of treachery and the ruthless pursuit of power. But in his country’s turbulent history, definitely possible.
How was it possible she’d found such a contentious document?
The likelihood was staggeringly remote. For centuries historians had plotted the family trees of the royal families in each of the neighbouring principalities.
Yet her earnestness, her straight-backed confidence caught his attention.
Obviously she’d found something. This woman was no one’s fool, despite her up-tight demeanour. He remembered reading her CV when she had been recommended for the job of assessing and preserving the archives. Multiple qualifications. Glowing references. Her first degree in her teens and a formidable amount of experience since then.
It was tempting to believe this was a mistake, that she’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. Yet she didn’t strike him as a woman prone to taking risks.
‘You’re not pleased?’ she ventured, her brows puckering. ‘I know it’s a shock but—’
‘But you thought I’d be thrilled to become king?’ His words were clipped as he strove to suppress a surge of unfamiliar panic. He had to fight the rising nausea that clogged his throat.
He shook his head. ‘I’m loyal to my cousin, Dr Connors. He will make the sort of king our country needs.’
Alaric succeeding in his place would be a nightmare made real.
Hell! The timing couldn’t be worse. The country needed stability. If this was true…
‘Who else have you told?’ Alaric found himself on his feet, towering above her with his hands clamped on her chair arms. She shrank back as he leaned close.
In the flickering firelight she looked suddenly vulnerable and very young.
The pounding thud of his heartbeat slowed and he straightened, giving her space.
No need to intimidate the woman. Yet.
‘I haven’t told anyone.’ Wide eyes stared at him from behind those ugly glasses and a twist of something like awareness coiled in his belly. ‘I had to tell you first.’
The tension banding his chest eased and he breathed deep. ‘Good. You did the right thing.’
Tentatively she smiled and he felt a tremor of guilt at having scared her. Even now one hand pressed to her breast as if her heart raced. He followed the rapid rise and fall of her chest. An unexpected trickle of fire threaded his belly as he recalled her feminine softness against him.
‘When I get the test results back we’ll know if the papers are what they seem to be.’
‘Results?’ He stilled. ‘What tests are these?’
‘There are several,’ she said slowly, her expression wary. Alaric thrust his hand through his hair, fighting the impulse to demand she explain instantly.
Instead he took another deliberate step away from her and laid his forearm along the mantelpiece. Immediately the tension in her slim frame eased.
‘Would you care to enlighten me?’
She blinked and blushed and for a moment Alaric was sidetracked by the softening of her lips as they formed an O of surprise. She looked charmingly female and innocently flustered in a way that threatened to distract him.
An instant later she was brisk and businesslike. ‘I’ve sent pages for testing. We need to know if the parchment is as old as it appears. That it’s not a modern forgery.’
She’d sent papers away? Who had them now? This got worse and worse.
‘Plus the style of the text is unusual. I’ve sent copies of some pages to a colleague for verification.’
‘Who gave you permission to do this?’ His voice was calm, low, but with the razor edge honed on emergency decisions made under fire.