The King Takes A Bride (Royals Book 4) (11 page)

“Miss Sinclair? Also, did you want smaller floral sprays attached to the railing outside the church? Or just inside, on the pews?” Hanna asked.

“Just on the—no, actually, yes. Outside on the railing, too. Thank you.” Chey turned away from Hanna even as the woman started to blurt more questions.

“I'm sorry, Hanna. I've got to attend a meeting.” She gave the woman an apologetic look over her shoulder before striding on toward the media room where she knew Sander was preparing to make his speech. She didn't want to miss it dawdling over ridiculous details for the wedding. It wasn't that she didn't want their day to be perfect—there was just
so
much going on.

Chey entered the media room from a side door that would put her closer to the podium where Sander would be speaking. Unprepared for the number of people crowding the room, she stopped some distance from Sander when she felt the attention of the reporters shift her way.

Cameras snapped, lights flashed and a general buzz swept through the gathered. Chey didn't know if she was supposed to smile or not. If she smiled, would it be construed that she didn't take the news of the Latvala split seriously? Or that she didn't care? She settled for a small, cordial smile.

A moment later, Sander called for their attention. Flanked by Mattias and Gunnar, each dressed to the nines in immaculate suits and ties, he began his public address. Chey noted the sharp glint in Sander's eyes, the flex of a muscle in his jaw. Those signs indicated to her that he was keeping his temper at bay. She kept up with the conversation via a feed in English on the bottom of a television screen.

Sander went slow, enunciating each word. He had a general dismissive air about him, as if this ordeal was such a non-issue he shouldn't have to discuss it.

“As you may know, there has been a photo circulating through the papers this morning. It depicts Latvala split into separate regions. I'm here to lay any rumors or fears to rest—that photo did
not
come from my office, nor was it any idea of mine, Prince Mattias, or Prince Gunnar.” He paused, then continued. “It was the suggestion of Prince Paavo, one that my brothers and I reject. To divide the country is not in the best interest of Latvala and a concept we strongly disapprove of. I'm here to set the record straight,” he repeated. “Latvala will
not
be partitioned off into sections.”

A surge of questions flew from the reporters while cameras flashed and film rolled.

“Is there any truth to the news that a petition has been circulating?”

“What about the five thousand signatures?”

“Will there be riots if the petition signers aren't heard, and what do you plan to do with dissenters?”

“Does this have anything to do with the fact you're not legally allowed to rule, Your Majesty?”

“Reports are coming in from the back country that thousands more are waiting to sign the petition. At what point is the Monarchy required to listen to the people?”

Chey refused to let her surprise at some of the questions show on her face. Several reporters brought up Sander's right to the throne, their tones and questions bordering indignation.

“I've seen the petition. We're accounting for the signatures but it's going to take a while--”

“Does that mean you believe--”

“Excuse me,” Sander said to the reporter who cut him off, a steely edge to his voice. “Wait until I'm finished speaking before you interrupt with more questions.”

The reporter stood up and pressed the issue, cheeks red with importance. “Does that mean you believe some of the signatures were forged? Or that the names are fake? If so, what does that say about the Monarchy?”

Sander met the reporter's eyes and held them. A long, uncomfortable minute stretched in complete silence. Without saying a word, without shouting or getting unruly, Sander quieted the onslaught and made a few of the reporters squirm.

“It means we're covering all the bases. I'm not taking anyone's word, even my own brother, that the signatures are authentic. Listen,” he said, making a gesture with his hand. “Nothing has changed. If citizens riot and loot, they'll be arrested like any other day. A crime is a crime, period. This gives no one the right to assault anyone else, or an innocent business. If there are people unhappy with decisions made for this country, by all means, let us know. This policy has been in place for decades.”

If she didn't know better, Chey might have thought Sander was chiding the reporters as well as members of the public who complained no one ever listened. Yet he didn't quite take it there, treading a thin line between answering simply, and answering with attitude. It was effective, either way. The reporters were less aggressive during their next round of questions.

“If there
were
enough signatures, would the Monarchy consider splitting the country up?”

“No. I'm solidly against any division whatsoever. As I said a moment ago, it's our belief that dividing Latvala is not in the best interest of the country or its people,” Sander said.

“Does this mean there is dissension in the Royal family, that all the brothers cannot agree on a course of action?”

“There's dissension
now
,” Sander said with no small amount of wryness. It elicited a laugh from the reporters. “But it changes nothing. Prince Mattias, Prince Gunnar and I are agreed and that's all that matters.”

“With the recent situation over the former King, how can you assure the people that this won't turn into another event that rips at the fabric of society?”

“I can't. I won't. It's not realistic,” Sander said, answering the question head on. His honesty couldn't be faulted. “But what I
can
say is that my brothers and I are united in our cause to keep things at an even keel. If it's within our power to fix, we'll fix it.”

“Will the wedding be delayed?”

“Absolutely not. In fact, some of our guests are arriving as early as this evening.”

The reporters flew into a flurry of questions about which royals would be present and where they were staying.

Sander held up a hand to stay further requests. “I won't be giving that information. Thank you all for coming out.”

As a set, the three brothers stepped away from the podium. Reporters jockeyed for position, snapping more pictures while others raised more questions about the map. Sander, having said his peace, collected Chey with a hand low at her back and escorted her out the side door. With guards at either end, this hallway was empty of foot traffic and media. Chey followed the men to a back staircase leading to the upper levels of the castle. Relieved that security prevented strays from wandering onto the royal floor, she tried to relax the tension gripping her shoulders.

“That better be the end of it,” Mattias said.

“I still can't believe he put it in the papers,” Gunnar said with open discontent.

“It'll take a while for the rumors to die down. As long as Paavo backs off and things go forward without disruption, the situation should resolve,” Sander added.

“The wedding will be a good distraction,” Mattias said.

“This was all we needed right now. I could wring his neck.” Sander snarled a noise of irritation as they reached the private wing reserved for the immediate royal family.

Natalia stepped into the hallway from her bedroom, a gift box in hand. Spying Sander and the others, she headed their way.

Chey noted the disturbed set of Natalia's features and wondered what happened.

“Dare! Didn't you have a talk with that man after I left? I thought you were going to put your foot down? What happened to your promise that I wouldn't be going anywhere with him?” Natalia pushed the gift box into Sander's chest.

He caught it after releasing Chey and fished the gift out. A smaller, velvet jewelry box popped into view.

Chey's brows arched. Bashir had come prepared to get a bride.

Sander opened the box, posture at ease, nonchalant. Inside, nestled against a black backdrop, sat a diamond large enough to take Chey's breath away. Sander unfolded an accompanying note.

“'
Dear Princess Natalia, please accept this as a token of our forthcoming marriage. If resizing is required, do not hesitate to let us know. Always, Bashir.'
He's persistent, I'll give him that,” Sander said after reading the note aloud.

“I don't think it's funny, Dare—”

“I didn't say it was funny, Natalia,” Sander said, cutting her off. He folded the note, set it back in the lid of the box, and snapped it closed. Handing the gift box back to Natalia sans jewelry, he pocketed the ring and looped his arm around Chey's waist. “I said he wasn't leaving here with you, or with the contract in tact as is, and I meant it.”

“What are you going to do about it, then? I want him gone.” Natalia put her hands on her hips.

Sander stared hard at his sister. Silence stretched into the zone of discomfort, until Natalia dropped her hands and glanced at the ground.

“I expect you to start handling yourself with more grace and diplomacy, especially regarding how you speak to me and the rest of your siblings. You don't make it easy to want to help you when you act like the spoiled brat Aksel and Helina raised you to be. I'll take care of it. That's all you need to concern yourself with.” With that he put his gaze on Chey. “I'm heading down with Mattias and Gunnar to have a talk with the council. See you later?”

Chey inclined her head. “Yes, I have some things to do as well. I'll see you around dinner.”

Sander kissed her on the mouth before departing with his brothers.

Chey caught Natalia's gaze just before they passed out of sight. She wanted to believe that was humility she saw in the girl's eyes, maybe even apology. Not sticking around to find out, Chey parted off for the stairs, intending on finding Hanna to see what her schedule was for the rest of the day. Lessons, language training and pinning down the time of the personal interview were only a few of the many things she was sure awaited her attention.

. . .

“Miss Sinclair, there you are. One moment, please?” Hanna said as she caught up to Chey at the top of the second staircase.

Chey smiled, cheered by Hanna's friendly face and demeanor. Whoever had chosen the woman to be her personal attendant had chosen well. Hanna was a delight to work with and be around. “Yes, Hanna? I was just coming to look for you.”

“Oh!” Hanna smiled, shuffling her notebook into the crook of her arm. “I guess it's good that I was looking for you as well. I wanted to let you know that your interview is ready to go. The reporter is here and the room has been set up.”

“Right now?” Chey, surprised at the immediacy of the interview, wondered if she should change her clothes again.

“Yes. They arrived with the other reporters for his Majesty's public address.” Hanna glanced at Chey's outfit, brushing a hand gently along a shoulder and over Chey's hip.

“I see. Should I change again? Since--”

“You might want to change--”

The women laughed as they talked over one another.

“You had this on for his Majesty's conference, so it might be a good idea to go ahead and wear something different for the interview. People will notice,” Hanna said, confirming Chey's thought.

“All right. Where am I supposed to go?”

“They're waiting in the second media room. It's two doors down from the one his Majesty used for his address this morning.” Hanna gestured with her pen down the stairs and generally to the right. “I'll be waiting at the head of the hallway for you though. Just find me when you're done. Do you need help choosing an outfit?”

“I think I know what I want to wear, thank you though. I'll see you in a little while.” After leaving Hanna, Chey retreated to the bedroom suite, mind on the interview rather than the clothes. She traded the wine pantsuit for a sensible skirt and matching jacket in pale blue. The jacket nipped high under her breasts rather than across her waist, helping disguise any hint of pregnancy. A cream silk shirt beneath showed whenever the panels of the jacket came apart—which wasn't often. Chey didn't think there was much to see, but wouldn't take the chance since the camera would be so focused on her.

Checking her make up and hair, she retraced her steps to the stairs and the main floor, where Hanna waited with predictable diligence. The attendant paused to look over Chey's choices, then nodded approval.

“Perfect. Right this way, Miss Sinclair.” Hanna gestured ahead and set a brisk pace for the correct door.

Chey fell into step, schooling herself to remain calm, to pretend as if the camera wasn't there. Arriving at the media room in short order, Chey wasn't surprised to find opulence reigned throughout, from gilt framed paintings to elaborate Persian rugs and decadent velvet chairs set across from each other, perfect for an interviewer-interviewee situation. The camera, stabilized on a stand, was an imposing piece of machinery focused at an angle to the seating arrangement. Lighting illuminated the furniture just so, creating a soft halo to swath Chey and the interviewer in.

“Miss Sinclair, this is Charlene. She'll be doing your interview,” Hanna said, indicating a woman in her mid thirties, blonde hair combed back into a sleek chignon. Dressed in red, her skirt hitting modestly an inch above the knee, Charlene appeared professional and businesslike.

“So nice to finally meet you, Miss Sinclair. Care to have a seat and we'll go over the details?” Charlene asked.

Struck with a another bout of nerves, Chey smoothed her palms down the outside of her skirt. She wished Sander was here, watching over the proceedings. Hanna, who must have correctly interpreted her unease, gave Chey a smile of encouragement from across the room.

“Miss Sinclair?” the woman in red repeated.

“Sure, yes. Nice to meet you, Charlene,” Chey said, belatedly catching up to the introduction. Although she'd been prepped for this in her lessons, Chey's mind blanked out the second she sat down in the chair and felt the big eye of the camera aimed her way. She couldn't remember what she was supposed to say or not say, or what topics she needed to dance lightly around. Always before, the camera had been focused on Sander. Now it was focused directly on her.