Princess's Nine-Month Secret

No.

‘Repeat yourself,’ Sheikh Zufar al Khalia, current occupant of the throne of Khalia, breathed softly at the short, bespectacled senior aide standing before him.

The man shrank back, very much aware that his King’s lowered, even tones were far worse than his bark. Not that Zufar al Khalia, much accomplished, master strategist and all-round frighteningly intelligent head of the exulted royal family, needed to lower himself to such unseemly actions as barking.

Marwan Farhat only managed to withstand his liege’s chilling tawny gaze for a handful of seconds before lowering his to the priceless Persian rug beneath his feet.

‘Now, Marwan,’ Zufar insisted.

‘We’ve been informed that your betrothed has disappeared, Your Highness. She’s not in her suite, and her maidservant thinks she’s been taken.’

‘Thinks? So there’s no actual evidence?’

‘Uh... I haven’t spoken to the servant myself, Your Highness, but—’

‘For all you know, my betrothed could be hiding somewhere in the palace, under the pretext of the foolish, pre-wedding nerves that normally afflict women on such a day, correct?’

Marwan exchanged glances with the other aides. ‘It is possible, Your Highness.’

Zufar heard the but not spoken, loud and clear. ‘Where is this maidservant? I wish to speak to her myself.’

The senior aide grimaced. ‘Of course, Your Highness, but I’ve been informed the girl is quite hysterical. I don’t think it will be useful—’

‘Useful?’ The cold disbelief trapped in his chest expanded. ‘Do you see what I’m wearing, Marwan?’ Zufar drawled in the soft, deadly voice that usually hushed his subordinates into fearful silence, as he rounded the massive teak desk that had previously belonged to his esteemed grandfather.

Marwan’s Adam’s apple bobbed again as he took in Zufar’s heavy burgundy-and-gold military uniform, complete with wide sash, epaulettes, and buttons made of solid gold. Where other men would have looked stiff and pompous, his King looked enviably elegant, his towering six-feet-plus height lending the uniform a regal stature few could emulate.

The accompanying cloak hung on its own specially made frame nearby. Together they formed the King’s ceremonial wedding attire, commissioned on his twenty-first birthday for this one momentous occasion. Zufar al Khalia had cut a commanding figure since he hit puberty, but on this day he rose above all men into an exclusive realm of his own.

‘Yes, Your Highness,’ he responded respectfully.

Zufar tossed the white gloves he’d been about to put on before he was interrupted onto the desk, and advanced towards the men. He had their attention, but he needed to make sure that not a single syllable that fell from his lips would be misconstrued.

‘Have you seen the dignitaries and heads of states currently making their way to the Imperial Room? The fifty thousand citizens who’ve been camping in the capital for the past seven days in anticipation of this ceremony? The three hundred journalists and innumerable cameras waiting on the south lawn to televise this ceremony?’

‘Of course, Your Highness.’

Zufar took a deep calming breath, certain that if he didn’t he would burst a blood vessel despite his supremely robust health. And that would be terribly unwise considering this was supposed to be his wedding day.

‘Tell me again why you think it would not be useful to discover the whereabouts of my betrothed as soon as possible?’

Marwan clasped his hands before him, a gesture of supplication that did nothing to appease Zufar’s rising temper. ‘A thousand pardons, Your Highness,’ he said. ‘I merely came to inform you that there might be a delay. Perhaps we can postpone the ceremony—’

‘No. There will be no postponement. You will find my betrothed immediately and this wedding ceremony will proceed as scheduled.’

‘Your Highness, the guards and all the servants have searched everywhere. She is not here.’

A red haze washed across Zufar’s vision. His collar began to constrict him, blocking his airway. But he didn’t raise his hand to undo a button or in any way indicate his discomfort.

He was the King.

Since birth, streams of instructors and governesses had drummed long-suffering poise and decorum into him, with swift and merciless punishment delivered for stepping out of line. As for rash displays of emotion like the bellow of frustration that bubbled inside him? Those came with a week’s banishment to the winter palace on the northernmost part of Khalia with nothing but the frozen mountains and endless reams of Latin recitals for company.

No, unfettered displays of emotion had been his father’s eminent domain.

For Zufar and his younger brother and sister, it had been an emotionless existence in the strictest boarding schools in foreign lands. And during the holidays when they were allowed home, they would spend hours being groomed into becoming the perfect ambassadors of the Royal House of Khalia.

On the rare occasion when his temper strained and attempted to get the better of him, like today, people took notice. And fled his presence at the earliest possible moment.