Crowning His Kidnapped Princess

She smiled. Looking at him always made her want to smile. ‘If I was to have children with anyone, it would be you. Only you.’

His throat moved. After a long moment his mouth opened but a loud rap on the bedroom door interrupted the moment and in an instant the glow of emotion evaporated and was replaced by the same nerves she’d experienced just before she’d met Marcelo’s parents.

Marcelo noticed the immediate change in Clara’s demeanour. Fear rang large in her eyes and it crushed the urge to demand she put him out of his misery and tell him what she was thinking, about a real marriage and, now, about children. About having a family with him.

Now that he’d become accustomed to his own feelings on the matter, the thought of marriage and children: family, no longer made him want to run for the hills. Not when the wife and mother was Clara.

She’d kept him hanging for her answer for a week. Keenly aware of what she’d be giving up to be his wife for real, namely her future freedom, he’d vowed not to pressure her. He’d tried telling himself it would be no big deal if she turned him down—why would anyone voluntarily tie themselves to a royal institution in this day and age?—but the longer she’d kept him hanging, the tighter his guts had cramped.

But, he rued, even if they weren’t about to be the star attractions at a party filled with nobles, politicians and a smattering of celebrities, he couldn’t force her to commit to something she was still unsure of. He knew it. He’d seen it in her eyes before the fear had taken over.

‘You look stunning,’ he said gently, taking her other hand and bringing it to his chest. And she really did, wearing an elegant cream halter-neck dress that swished softly to her ankles, her hair swept off her face in an equally elegant chignon. ‘Every inch the princess.’

Her chest rose and fell raggedly and then the wide smile he’d come to adore so much beamed into his heart.

Squeezing his fingers, she said, ‘Come on, my prince. Take me to the ball.’

Hands clasped together, they left their quarters.

As they took the long walk through the maze of wide corridors to the stateroom the party was being held in, Marcelo wondered if Clara’s honesty had changed him in some way. When they’d first agreed to marry, he’d had no problems at all with making vows he didn’t intend to keep. Now, all he could think was that he needed those vows to be true. From both of them.

The enormous duck-egg-blue and gold-coloured stateroom had been decorated with an abundance of silver and gold balloons and decorations that glittered under the clever party lighting. Although this party was being hosted for diplomatic purposes, another way of reinforcing to the world that Marcelo had swept Clara from the Monte Cleure palace out of love, royal officials had gone to great lengths to create the illusion of a real engagement party. Clara hadn’t even thought of it as an engagement party until she saw the pile of presents carefully displayed on an antique table in the corner. In a week, she supposed there would be more presents for their actual wedding.

An hour into the party and Clara relaxed a fraction. What she found helped was reminding herself that all the people here were human just like her. Even the President. Even the King and Queen of Agon. Even the businessman currently believed to be the richest person on earth.

One thing she was particularly grateful for was the Queen taking her under her wing. Arm in arm, they circulated amongst the two-hundred-strong guests, introducing Clara properly and exchanging a few words before moving on.

And, as always, she was grateful for Marcelo. When the buffet opened—and it was a buffet like no other she’d ever had with its vast array of creative and colourful platters—she remembered the training she’d been given and ate dainty portions which, mercifully, he kept adding to for her.

Marcelo was a prince in every way.

Her prince.

The most exciting, unselfish lover a girl could wish for. Her personal cheerleader.

Her protector.

The man who suppressed such an intrinsic part of himself for duty and family. The reason she was so determined to master decorum and etiquette.

How could she possibly be torn about accepting the life he was offering, which was a whole life with him? A true lover. Children. A family. All the things she’d never allowed herself to want simply because it was akin to wanting smaller feet. Pointless.

And now Marcelo and the chance to create their own family was being dangled before her and she realised she did want it. She wanted it badly.

So why hadn’t she already snatched his hand off for it?

Another hour passed. Somehow she, Marcelo and Amadeo had been drawn into a group of people whose names she didn’t remember. Clara was careful to look interested, smile a lot and adopt the listening pose when anything was addressed directly to her. One woman brought up the topic of artificial intelligence and the next thing she knew a rabid discussion about the benefits as opposed to the dangers was under way.

‘What’s your opinion on the matter?’ the most vociferous of the antis asked her.

Remembering the one thing that had been drummed into her over and over, namely never give an opinion on anything, she replied, ‘Oh, don’t ask me! I was expelled from school at sixteen and left without any qualifications.’

The originator of the subject’s eyes widened before laughter rang out around their small grouping. Even Amadeo was smiling, but when Clara met his stare, there was something—a coldness—that sent unpleasant prickles up her spine.

Had she said the wrong thing?

She tried telling herself she’d imagined it, for every time their eyes met thereafter, there was nothing but the same warmth he gave everyone else, but she thought it wise to keep all talk to the minimum, and spent the next hour exhausting herself with the strength of her concentration.

‘Relax, bella,’ Marcelo whispered in her ear when they found themselves alone for the first time since the party started.

‘I’m trying but it’s so hard. I’m terrified of saying the wrong thing again.’

Before he could answer, Alessia joined them and swiped two glasses of the free-flowing champagne from a passing waitress. She handed one to Clara, who sipped at it. No way was she going to overindulge that night, not when she was fighting her motormouth with everything she possessed. It really didn’t need any stimulus, thank you very much.

As the evening had worn on, the music from the professional DJ—deliberately chosen to project a youthful image to the world—had steadily increased, tempting more and more people onto the dance floor. Clara kept experiencing nostalgia pangs, remembering school nights when Alessia would put her music on in their room and they would dance madly...

As if her nostalgia had conjured it by magic, a song came on that immediately made Clara and Alessia look at each other. It was their funky chicken song.

Excitement rushed through her, transporting her back to that nostalgic time as if she were right there, right now, and, without thinking, Clara quickly knocked back her champagne, gave her empty glass to Marcelo with a cheeky grin, then dragged a protesting Alessia onto the dance floor.

‘Come on, Princess Twinkletoes,’ she laughed, ‘You know what to do.’