King and Kingdom (14 page)

It read:
Sander. Things aren't what they seem. We desperately need to talk. Your sister has threatened to have me arrested if I don't leave Latvala and has banned me from ever returning. Please listen to me. I know you sent me to Seattle, and maybe I deserved a cold shoulder for allowing that man to maneuver me outside when I felt so woozy from the wine. But I don't deserve not to be heard out. He drugged me. I'm sure of it. Something is going on. If I can't contact you today, please think on what I've said and find me in Seattle. Give us the chance you fought so hard for. I love you. Chey.

She hoped it wasn't too dramatic. But it
was
honest, and she thought he needed to know what his sister was up to. Chey only hoped Sander hadn't been an agreeable participant in the plot to send her home again.

Vogeva was much the same as when they left it. The wharf was still being sorted through by local officials as well as ones from Kalev. Volunteers had made the trip to help clear the mess, though the snow wasn't helping with clean up efforts.

Wynn drove slower down a side street. The main thoroughfare had been closed down in preparation for the Royal's arrival. Parking in a small lot behind a merchant store, Wynn cut the engine and exhaled a long breath.

“You did good,” Chey said, patting her best friend on the shoulder. “So you still think the best place to wait for the entourage is that little bar a few spots up from the cafe we usually sit in?”

“I think so. Just in case someone mentioned to that girl's people that we've been visiting the cafe. I'd hate for them to find us there and haul us out before you have a chance to talk to Sander.” Wynn smiled, then pulled the keys out of the ignition. “I'd pull that beanie down a little more, too, and try to stay undercover. People might recognize your face.”

“I've got it.” Chey put the note back in her coat pocket and flipped the collar up high on her neck. She'd chosen a cream colored peacoat with navy accents on the lapels and cuffs to wear with jeans. Tugging on the matching beanie, unsure just how much more it might disguise her than yesterday, she opened the door and disembarked.

Wynn climbed out her side and closed her door with a rusty thump.

Wary and alert, Chey hunched down into her coat and traversed the pathways until they crossed the street to the other side. It was snowing again, though the flurries spiraled down slow instead of fast. Taking the route behind the line of shops, they approached the bar from the back. Most of the businesses had either side entrances or back ones where more parking was available to customers.

The interior of the gloomy pub provided seating along one entire wall, with three booths up near front windows overlooking the street. A bar ran the length of the right side, with a mirrored back that made the area seem bigger than it actually was. Beams arched up to a point in the high ceiling, adding a rustic flair to the otherwise spartan décor. After procuring mugs of coffee, the girls sank down into a booth near the front window to wait. So far, only four other tables were occupied, indicating people were waiting until closer to the time the Royals were scheduled to arrive, or had chosen other places to hole up.

“You feeling okay?” Wynn asked.

“I guess. Nervous, you know? I'm not sure what to expect.” Chey made sure not to stare out the window so that she was easily seen from the street. No sense advertising that she was ignoring Natalia's direct order to leave the country.

“We have about an hour and a half before they're due to make an appearance,” Wynn said after checking her watch.

“At least it's comfortable in here. It won't be a hardship to wait,” Chey said. A potbelly stove in the back corner spewed enough heat to keep the pub decently warm.

“We've even got stuff to read. And they're in English.” Wynn picked up a few newspapers and a tabloid some other customer had left on the booth seat. She slapped them down on the table and plucked the top one off for herself. Laying it open in front of her, she propped her temple in her hand and started scanning through.

Chey glanced at the pile, then stared at the wall beyond Wynn's head. Her mind was too busy with thoughts of Sander to be preoccupied with news she'd probably already seen on the television. The accident was still the most talked about story around.

An hour crept by. Chey, then Wynn, took bathroom breaks and ordered another round of coffee. More people trickled into the bar, as well as other establishments along the row of shops. A few lined the walkways in anticipation, bundled in heavy coats, boots and hats to ward off the snow.

On the third newspaper, Wynn paused at a story on the front page. She checked the date twice.

“What is it?” Chey asked, noticing the shift in Wynn's demeanor.

“See for yourself.” Wynn turned the paper around. There right at the top, was a black and white photograph of Princess Valentina and Sander Ahtissari. They were separate pictures situated side by side. The headline, however, left no doubt as to the content of the article.
The Prince Chooses A Bride.

Chey rubbed her forehead and skimmed the story. In summary, it said what she expected it to say. That Sander had chosen his intended for marriage. The wedding, as Valentina had predicted at the hotel in Monte Carlo, was in the spring. This was cause for celebration, obviously, for the citizens of Latvala.

“They really aren't making this very easy on you,” Wynn finally said. “I have to admit—if it was me, I'd probably throw in the towel. How are you going to fight that off?”

“Sander and I already talked about this. We knew there would be obstacles. He made it clear though when he saw her at the hotel that he hadn't agreed to anything. Their
people
had, but Sander had not. Apparently, he changed his mind, or the council went ahead and printed it anyway.” Chey wouldn't put anything past them if this was the outcome they really desired. She turned the paper over and tossed it down on the seat so she couldn't see the picture.

For once, Wynn was silent.

Chey met her eyes across the table.

Wynn sipped at her coffee, then glanced out the window. “Should we go outside soon and wait on the sidewalk with everyone else?”

“Probably. Sitting in here won't do me any good.” Chey sipped her coffee as well, preparing herself mentally for the coming meeting.

“We want to get a good—oh crap. Is that them, already?” Wynn set her cup down with a thump.

Chey looked out the window, mug at her lip. Five black Hummers cruised down the street, tires kicking up bits of snow that had fallen since the plows cleared the road. Each one slanted into an open parking space that had been left open for Royalty.

“That's them.” She set down her cup and slid out of the booth. Other patrons in the bar headed for the door and pushed out into the cold. Chey got on their heels; Wynn closed in behind her.

Three Hummers spit out security that fanned around the fourth. The men were dressed in all black, with heavy coats, boots, hats and weapons attached to their belts. Chey, standing just behind the first row of people, kept her eyes on the fourth car.

The doors opened. Mattias, Paavo and Gunnar got out. Resplendent in military uniforms, they looked sharp and solemn, considering the nature of their visit. Sander came last, his uniform a step up from the rest, with a royal blue sash across the front and silver double buttons holding the coat closed. Clean shaven, hair scraped back into a low tail, he wore gloves on his hands and a sober expression as he greeted the growing crowd with a crisp nod of his head. The Royal brothers marched along the street itself, flanked by their security. Another car had arrived at some indeterminate time with staff who carried wreaths in memory of the lost.

Chey knew this wasn't the time to call out Sander's name. She couldn't make a scene in front of all these people, especially when the men were so obviously set on a course.

The Mayor of Vogeva met the Royals at the end of the row of shops and saluted the brothers before shaking each of their hands. By this time, hundreds had turned out at the far end of the main street to watch the Royals pay their respects. The wreaths were lined up along an empty stretch of ground with the damaged wharf in the background and a podium someone erected for announcements to be made.

Chey stood half behind Wynn among the crowd, watching as the Mayor took the podium first. The Royals flanked him, two on each side, with their security making a loose circle around the whole. Chey didn't know what the mayor was saying, couldn't take her eyes off Sander. But she understood the gist, knew by the way a few women around her wiped their eyes that the Mayor was remembering the victims. He'd probably known some of them personally.

Sander stood tall, hands clasped behind his back, distinct in his slightly different uniform. He dominated the male population in sheer presence alone, even more so than Mattias who stood to his left. Chey's breath caught in her throat when Sander looked directly at her. She couldn't tell if he actually saw her, or if he recognized her, or whether she was just another pair of eyes in the crowd.

He took the podium next, his mother tongue slipping eloquently past his lips. The warmth and rasp of his voice over the speaker sent a chill down Chey's spine. Suddenly, the crowd surged with a cheer, several people's hands jutting up into the air. It surprised a twitch out of Chey.

Wynn glanced back; Chey shook her head. She had no idea what he'd said.

The wreaths were gestured to, and then the Wharf, before Sander closed out his personal remarks and stepped away from the podium toward the crowd. People stepped forward to shake his hand, some crying, others as sober faced as the Royals.

Mattias, Gunnar and Paavo all dispersed to do the same. The security seemed a formality; the Royals didn't look wary at all to walk among the people and share condolences and other quiet sentiment.

“This is it,” Wynn whispered over her shoulder, breath gusting white past her lips.

“He's making his way around toward us,” Chey replied. “I'm going to move forward when he's just in front of you.”

“Got it,” Wynn said.

Sander shook hands and stepped on, trading quiet words with people. The closer he got to Wynn and Chey, the more Chey fretted. She gripped the folded note in her gloved hand and held her breath as Sander came within touching distance.

Moving up shoulder to shoulder with Wynn at the last second, she extended the hand with the note trapped against her palm by her thumb. And then he was there, masculine and broad and heart-stopping.

He clasped her hand—and paused. Snow flurried from the sky, fat flakes that decorated the shoulders of his uniform. Chey locked gazes with him, her note crinkling between their palms. He'd saved her yesterday, why shouldn't she be here?

“Please read the note,” she whispered, giving his hand a squeeze. She wished they were skin to skin. The subtle scent of his cologne only enhanced his virility. “We need to talk, Sander.”

He stared, hand still caught in hers. Chey noticed one of the security paying more attention with Sander frozen in place like that. Taking initiative, Chey removed her hand from his and eased back a few inches.

“Meet me at the cafe in a half an hour,” he said. After meeting Wynn's eyes and giving her a curt nod, he continued along the line of people, shaking hands after tucking the note away.

Chey eased back and, with Wynn at her side, navigated her way through the throng toward the sidewalk running in front of the shops.

“It worked. Now you've got your shot to explain,” Wynn said, striding double time to keep up with Chey.

“Yes. I probably don't have very long to make my case, but this is more than I'd hoped for.” Chey headed inside the empty pub when she came to the door and found the first vacant table near the window.

Wynn sank down into a chair on the other side.

Now, all Chey had to do was wait.

. . .

“Ten minutes before he should be here. I wonder how he's going to manage that with so many people watching his every move,” Wynn said, gazing out the window.

The crowd had not dispersed much since they entered the pub.

“I don't know. As long as I can have a few minutes of his time, I think I can make him understand that something went wrong that night in Monte Carlo.” Chey, a bundle of nerves, rubbed her gloved hands together. This was her shot, her chance to get through to Sander and beg for more time to discuss things. In private, rather than a pub where anyone might see them.

The back door of the pub opened and closed.

“It's amazing no one recognized you,” Wynn added, tucking her hands down between her thighs.

“Yes. But they're not focused on me, they're focused on the tragedy.” Chey's gaze caught on Mattias when the crowd parted just so. She hadn't dared shake hands and say hello, but she realized she missed his friendship. Missed their conversations and how easy he was to talk to. If anyone could understand her plight besides Sander, it was him.

A pair of hands grabbed Chey by the shoulders. Another covered her lips with a cloth that smelled sickly sweet. Chey only had time to draw in a startled breath before the world went hazy past her lashes. She saw vague images of Wynn being hauled out of the booth before her whole world went black.