A Bride for His Majesty s Pleasure

‘No one can dispute that you have that right.’ Max’s voice was clipped and sharp. He wanted to get her to reconsider, to tell her that he would give her all the money she could want if only—If only what? If only she would be the woman he wanted her to be?

Max had enough experience of the world to know that there were far more people who would do exactly as Ionanthe planned to do, were they in her shoes, than those who would not. He couldn’t blame her. Not really. If he wanted to blame someone then he should blame himself, for wanting her to be different, for wanting her to be the woman he had created out of his own need for her to be that way. And he didn’t want to admit that it was possible for him to love a woman who did not share his outlook on life or his fierce attachment to working for the benefit of others.

Ionanthe hadn’t deceived him. He had deceived himself.

Sitting alone in the castle library, Ionanthe closed her eyes to control the sting of unwanted tears. She hadn’t wanted to come back to Fortenegro, after all, or to fall in love with Max. But now that she was here she had a duty to her people. They were the ones who really deserved the fortune her grandfather had left to her. Blood money, in her view, tainted with the blood, sweat and tears of those who had worked all their lives to earn it for her family without getting anything in return.

Last night, discussing her plans with Max, she had felt buoyed up with hope and the joy of sharing her dreams with him. She had felt as though everything she longed to do was possible and achievable, because she had thought he felt the same. But now, this morning, with that joy stripped from her, she felt as though she had a mammoth task in front of her and she wondered if she would ever achieve it.

If the reality was that Max was opposed to reform, then what chance had she of seeing it happen even here on her own land? The old guard—the barons and the community elders—would oppose her every step of the way.

Had she forgotten that it was because of that that she had agreed to marry Max? She had known then that an island like Fortenegro, locked fast in ancient tradition and a paternalistic society, could only be reformed by a very strong man. Her

son. The son who would have to be what his father was not.

Then she had not cared about what Max was not, but neither had she known that she would love him, and that it would hurt her more than anything else ever had or ever would to know that there was this divide between them.

Max had gone out with the men to seek out a suitable Christmas tree. Ionanthe had watched him in the courtyard from the shelter of the kitchen, as he trod through the snow wearing an old pair of her father’s ski boots.

Some of the men who worked on the estate, summoned by Tomas, Marta’s son, had quickly gathered around him, making awkward semi-bows and tugging on dark tufts of hair exposed to the sharp wind as they removed their caps. They had responded to him, respecting him, respecting his natural air of authority, willing to let him take charge in a way they would never have done with her.

Wasn’t there a saying that the hand that rocked the cradle ruled the world? Women like Marta were the future; they and their children had to be.

How much did it cost to build a school? To provide it with teachers and equipment? To provide its pupils with further education, with university education? The Veritas Foundation was helping to build and finance educational projects every day of the week. Ionanthe longed for just a fraction of their expertise, and for the dedication and the wisdom of the mystery man who was responsible for it.

She could understand why he clung to his anonymity, but nevertheless she wished that she might meet him. To speak with such a man must be a little like sitting at the feet of a very wise guru.

Ionanthe got up from her seat and looked out of the window. It had started to snow again. The library overlooked the castle gardens, and the snow there was pristine and untouched.

Already she was missing Max. She left the library and, although she could have sworn it wasn’t what she had intended, for some reason she headed for the bedroom, frowning when she saw that the window was open. Snow had blown in and was covering the laptop case Max had left on the window seat.

Automatically Ionanthe picked it up, brushing the snow off with her hand as she did so. At the same time she accidentally dislodged some papers which must have been in the case’s outer pocket. As she made to push them back, Ionanthe glanced at them and then stiffened.

Very carefully she sat down and pulled the papers free of the case, her hands trembling as she read the report she was holding—a report on the mineral assets of Fortenegro.

The sick feeling within her intensified, making her shake with a mixture of mouth-drying nausea and a longing to run away like a child and hide from what she did not want to see.

But she was not a child. And no matter how hard her heart might pound, or how much despair she might feel, she had to read on.

Frantically Ionanthe flicked through it, searching for what she hoped she would not find even whilst somehow knowing that she would. After all, hadn’t this been what she had dreaded ever since Philippe de la Croix had told her about the coal mining consortium’s approach?

And finally there it was—a full-page map of the mountains, her mountains, showing quite clearly where the rich veins of mineral deposits lay beneath them. The salient facts were there in print, heavily underlined as though to remind the reader of their importance.

Was this why Max had married them both? First her sister and then her? Because he had known the value of what lay beneath the harsh granite? Did he, like so many others, value that more than he valued the rights of the people who lived on that land? More than he valued her and what they might have had together?

She couldn’t cry. She had gone beyond that. But inwardly she was weeping hot tears that blistered her heart and would leave it forever scarred.

She had been a fool, of course; she had known from the start—from that first sharply dangerous and sweetly alluring spark of reaction to him which she had felt at their first meeting and then denied—that her feelings would lead to this pain. Hadn’t she tried to guard against her own vulnerability by giving herself a higher purpose in agreeing to marry Max than merely her own safety and that treacherous spark? Shouldn’t she have stuck to the path she had chosen then, and ignored the fatal temptation to stray from it? If she had, then what she had just read would only have strengthened her resolve to help her son to be a very different man from his father. If she had, then right now she would be feeling justified and vindicated in her choice of action, not guilt-ridden and heartbroken. She had no one but herself to blame.

Oh, but she hurt so badly—quite literally sickened by the incontrovertible evidence that Max was not worthy of the love and trust of either her or, more importantly by far, his people.

Given free choice she would have fled then, as fast and as far as she could, seeking somewhere to hide herself away from her pain. But she could not do that. She must stay and face what had to be faced for the sake of those who could not protect themselves. She must stay and stand between Max and his plans. She was the only person who could, since the land belonged to her. She must not allow him to seduce her into giving away her people’s rights in the same way that he had seduced her into giving him her love.

The door opened and Max came in.

‘I think we’ve found you your tree, but you’d better come and inspect it before we bring it in,’ he began, only to stop when he saw the report Ionanthe was holding.

‘You’ve been through my papers?’ he accused her.