Protected by the Prince

‘Perhaps he’ll visit the archives to see how we’re getting on.’ No missing her colleague’s arch tone of enquiry. Not surprising given Alaric’s previous impromptu visits.

But he’d only come because he didn’t trust her.

Had he fretted all those weeks in hospital, wondering if she’d talked of what she’d found? The surveillance seemed to have stopped. She’d lost the claustrophobic sense of being watched.

‘I suspect the prince has more important things to do.’

Even she had heard the speculation about Crown Prince Raul’s delay in finalising his coronation, and how much time he spent closeted with his injured cousin. No doubt they were organising for Alaric to be crowned when he recovered.

He’d make an excellent monarch. Stoically she ignored the fact that his coronation would hammer the final nail in the coffin of her wishful dreams. Dreams that even his actions hadn’t quite managed to stifle.

Tamsin looked at her watch. ‘Time to pack up, don’t you think?’ She ignored her companion’s curious look. For well over a month she’d faced down blatant interest about her relationship with Alaric.

Only when she was alone in the room did she slump in her chair, her heart pounding at the thought of Alaric here, in the castle again.

His pain still haunted her. Her heart ached for him and all he’d been through. Once she’d believed she could help him. As if she…

She bit her lip. She’d done with fantasy.

These past weeks had been a hell of worry about Alaric and constant scrutiny from the curious. Yet she’d endured. She’d put up with the gossip and completed the initial period of her contract, determined to fulfil her obligation.

Did her resolve stretch to seeing him again?

Tamsin shot to her feet, too edgy to sit. They’d find someone to replace her when she didn’t renew her contract. Patrick perhaps. Strangely she felt no qualms about the idea of him here in what had been her territory.

She wouldn’t return to Britain. But there’d been that offer last year of a job in Berlin, and a hint about work in Rome. She’d delayed following up either opportunity. Her lips twisted as she realised it was because in her heart she wanted to be close to Alaric.

Pathetic! There was nothing to stay for. The sooner she moved on the better. Starting with a weekend in Berlin or Rome. Either would do.

Would it be easier to heal a broken heart in new surroundings?

Out of nowhere pain surged, cramping her body and stealing the air from her lungs. It took a full minute to catch her breath and move again.

Tamsin refused to acknowledge the fear that nothing would heal what ailed her. She felt a terrible certainty that the love she still felt for Alaric, despite everything, would never be ‘healed’.

‘The answer is still no.’ Alaric hobbled across the hospital room. He set his mouth against the pain when he moved too fast. ‘I won’t do it. That’s final.’

‘Do you think I liked the idea of an arranged marriage, either?’ Raul sounded weary. They’d been over this time and again. ‘It’s your duty, Alaric. If you accept the crown then you accept the responsibilities that go with it.’

‘Don’t talk to me of duty!’ Alaric’s clenched fist connected with the wall but he barely felt the impact. ‘I don’t want this, any of it. I’m only accepting the crown because, like you, I’ve been brought up to do my duty.’

Strange how things had changed since the accident. His fear of failure had dimmed. He no longer got that sick feeling in his belly at the thought of ruling the nation. He could face the idea of leadership again with equanimity, though being monarch wasn’t his choice.

In hospital he’d had plenty of time to think. To his surprise he’d realised how much he’d enjoyed the work he’d begun in Ruvingia. It had been satisfying solving problems and organising innovative community renewal. He’d like to follow through the improvements they’d begun in his own principality.

But as king he couldn’t be so hands on. His life would be all protocol and diplomacy.

At least he knew now he could face what was required of him.

What had changed? Even the nightmares had receded a little. Because he’d broken the curse of good luck that had seen him emerge unscathed from tragedy? Because he’d shattered his body and almost lost his life, proving his mortality? No, it couldn’t be that simple.

He’d been overwhelmed by the genuine distress of his people after the accident. The number of communities and groups who’d sent representatives had stunned him. They’d wished him well, and, as he recovered, sought his renewed input to their projects.