The King Takes A Bride (Royals Book 4) (14 page)

Hanna chattered as she guided Chey down the stairs and along the hallway to the converted parlor. “I know Miss Wynn is due in a few days, but what are you thinking about the other bridesmaids?”

With the situation regarding Paavo and Bashir, Chey had forgotten all about the bridesmaid issue. “For now let's go with Wynn, Krislin and Esta. I'll figure out what's going on with Aurora, Natalia and Katrin later, all right?”

Hanna chewed her lower lip. “Of course, Miss Sinclair.”

“I know, the seamstress probably needs a headcount right now.” Chey understood deadlines. She just didn't want to pigeonhole herself—or the coordinators—by saying the other three would be in it for certain with so much still up in the air.

“She's getting a bit impatient,” Hanna admitted.

“I'll know something by tomorrow.” Chey filed that particular 'To Do' along with the rest. Tonight, once they were alone and undisturbed, Chey could speak with Sander about the bridesmaids.

Entering the parlor, Chey went straight to the dress hanging on the rack, the council approved concoction, and slipped it from the hanger. Exchanging greetings with the seamstress and her assistants, Chey disappeared behind the mirrors and shucked her day clothes for the gown. It took some finessing, wiggling and contorting to do it alone. Exiting the temporary dressing room, she rounded the mirrors and stepped up onto the low dais. Three reflections of herself gave slightly different views of the dress. Cascading layers fell from a snug fitted waist, all satin and cream, with long sleeves and floating hem. The modestly scooped neckline meant she wouldn't have to worry about a boob popping out at the wrong time. As far as wedding gowns went, it was undoubtedly beautiful. Walking down the aisle, she would feel every inch a bride.

While the seamstress measured, pinned, fussed and fretted, Chey let her mind wander to Sander. She considered the gown she loved, with its beading and tall row of buttons up the back. And she considered the one she was dressed in, with a longer train, tufts of tulle, tiny pearls on the cuffs. Which one would light his eyes more than the other? Did he care if one was white-white, or the other a pale champagne-pink? Was it enough that she would become his wife that day, regardless of the fine details? It wasn't the first time she'd wondered what his reaction would be, and it wouldn't be the last.

“Done?” Hanna asked the seamstress after a time.

“Yes. That is all until we make the adjustments and then we'll have her back for a final fitting.” The seamstress nodded curtly as if sealing the plans in her mind.

“All right. Now for the
other
one.” Hanna's eyes sparkled as she turned toward a different rack and unzipped the garment bag hanging there.

A quiet, collective gasp went through the attendants as the other gown's hem poked from the bag.

“Pardon,” the seamstress said. “But that is not
the
dress.”

“Miss Sinclair will be trying on both and be fitted for both today,” Hanna said with a no nonsense tone. She glanced at Chey and chucked her chin in a 'get over here and get the dress' kind of way.

Grinning, deciding she loved Hanna to pieces, Chey stepped off the dais and went to fetch
the
dress. While she toted it behind the mirrors, careful not to trip over hems and trains, she heard Hanna engage the seamstress and her entourage, explaining the reasons it was important to fit two gowns instead of just one.

Even now, seeing the dresses layered one atop the other while she shimmied out of one and into the next, Chey's eye was continually drawn toward her favorite. She smoothed her palms over the charmingly beaded bodice and the swag-shaped drape of material past her hips. The color, three shades lighter than the bridesmaid's dresses, had tinges of pink coloring the material around rosettes strung along a draping layer. She loved how feminine it made her feel, how whimsical and classy the style looked shaped to her curves. It fit high around her throat, leaving her shoulders and arms completely bare. Gloves to the elbow and an elegant updo were the other critical elements she thought would transform her from commoner to Queen.

What a heady thought.

Leaving the changing area, she brought the room to a moment of silence. Her brows arched at the way every eye followed her ascent to the dais. A sudden furor broke out, the assistants gesturing and exclaiming in their native tongue. They spoke so quickly that Chey couldn't catch a word. She could tell by their expressions however, which ones loved the dress, and which ones didn't.

“Are you positive, Miss Sinclair? The color is
very
untraditional,” one attendant said.

“That's a spring dress and we're not quite into spring yet,” said another.

“I think it's absolute perfection,” another declared.

“The advisers will never allow it,” the head seamstress said with a cluck of her tongue. Then, she smiled. “Let's fit it anyway.”

A round of cheery applause circulated through the women, regardless of their critiques and doubts.

Laughing, Chey reveled in the lighthearted atmosphere, pleased to find a few rebels willing to challenge the system and go their own way.

. . .

Just before Chey reached the top step on the private floor reserved for the royals, ready for a break in duties and meetings, a familiar voice hailed her from behind.

“Miss Sinclair, a moment, please.” Mister Urmas's request carried the distance with ease.

It appeared stealing a quick nap before dinner and the arrival of new guests really
was
out of the question. Turning with one hand holding the railing for balance, she leveled a smile at the pristinely dressed Urmas. “Yes? What can I do for you?”

“If you will follow me, please?” He gestured to a door just down the corridor on the uppermost level.

Curious, Chey followed him along the broad hallway into an informal sitting area, made 'informal' only by the style of the furniture and the lack of gilt trappings. She'd seen this room before, of course, and enjoyed its cozy appeal.

Eight guards stood around a waist high pedestal positioned away from the other furniture. Nestled on a pillow of royal blue velvet, encased in a cube of glass, sat a crown. Loops of diamonds like scrollwork crested higher at the front, tapering down to a glittering band with sapphires inset every two inches.

“What's this?” Chey asked, although she already knew.

“The crown you will wear upon your coronation day. Technically, you take the title of Queen when you marry, but your coronation makes it official. I would like to try it on you, if you'll permit,” Urmas said. He stopped before the glass box, drew on a pair of white gloves, and lifted the sparkling crown from inside after two guards removed the lid.

Chey stared at the crown with mixed emotions. Hearing her name in conjunction with the word Queen had become somewhat routine—this made it more real. The crown was a tangible reminder of the seriousness regarding the position afforded her once she said I Do. With the title came incredible responsibility. It wasn't something she could simply decide she didn't want, or walk away from.

This was now. This was tomorrow. It was for the rest of her life.

Urmas faced her. Extended the bejeweled piece just above her head. He settled it into place with utmost care, examining the placement with a critical eye. Taking her by the shoulders with gentle pressure, he aimed her toward a large mirror attached to the wall.

There she stood, the simple girl from Seattle, wearing the Queen's crown. The sight rocked Chey to her core. It wasn't that the adornment didn't fit well—it did. She didn't fear it falling or toppling to the side with the slightest movement. But for an uncomfortable moment, she felt like an imposter. The face that stared back at her did not seem like a queenly face. Chey didn't think she looked austere enough, classy enough, regal enough. Sander wore this mantle so much better. He exuded command and charisma by the truck load, as if there were no where else that crown should be than on
his
head.

She studied her features, her eyes. Unbidden, memories came back of the boat accident at the docks, of standing at Sander's side in the middle of the night while he rallied his people around him. Maybe, she thought to herself, her deeds spoke more loudly than a thousand crowns could. Her role was to support the King—and hadn't she done that, even before becoming his wife?

“What do you think?” Urmas asked.

Sander stepped into the reflection behind her before she could answer, tall and broad, blue eyes gleaming while he assessed her in the crown for himself.

Chey felt his heat along her spine, the weight of his presence an undeniable force that she would know anywhere. She detected pride in his gaze, like he had no doubt whatsoever that the jeweled piece belonged exactly where it sat.

Not for the first time, Chey also saw that he seemed to be judging
her
reaction. Sander didn't just believe in her, he wanted her to believe in herself.
Expected
her to. When she examined all her actions, her beliefs, her sincere desire to see Latvala and its people succeed, Chey came to the conclusion that she deserved to wear this crown. In her own unique way, she'd stepped into Helina's old role and changed it to suit herself. Yes, she had a lot to learn.
Yes,
there was room for improvement. Time, circumstance and experience was all that she needed to flourish.

In the mirror, she met Sander's eyes. Smiled a personal, private little smile.

“She wears it better than any other woman could,” Sander said.

“You're biased,” Chey said, pleased at his remark.

“I have every right to be,” he countered with a rakish grin.

Reaching up with both hands, intending to take the crown off, Chey got no further than Urmas's staying fingers on her wrists.

“I'll take it, Miss,” he said.

There was her first faux pas of the day. The jewels were not to be handled with bare hands. Check.

After Urmas removed the crown, she smoothed a few wayward strands of hair and stared at Sander's reflection. He said nothing as the crown went back into the glass box and the guards, with Urmas at the lead, escorted it away.

The door closed with a quiet click.

“Any person who tells you this job is easy is a liar,” he said, voice low like a caress. “There are challenges at every turn, tests of will and strength on both public and private levels. Mistakes make you stronger. Perfection is a fallacy. Embrace the things you cannot change and fight for those you can.”

Holding his eyes, Chey inclined her head in gratitude for his advice. She read between the lines as well to what he
didn't
say. That he understood setbacks and doubts, that this road was not paved in gold. Whatever headway she made would be hard won with perseverance and tenacity, traits she already owned and exhibited.

He ran his hands down the outsides of her arms. Turned her toward him. He tilted her chin up with the crook of a knuckle and ran the pad of his thumb across her lower lip. When he kissed her it was slow and thorough, like sealing a deal. Chey traded his slow and thorough for biting nips and flicks that made his breath short in his throat.

It took Chey no time to strip him of his tie. His shirt. The jacket. Her lips found his clavicle and traced the bone toward his shoulder. Salt permeated the flat of her tongue from his skin; the musk and spice of his cologne teased her senses. Somewhere between the first bite of his teeth on her pulse and her nails raking his back, she felt him open the button on her jeans and give the denim a yank. Instead of pausing to unlace and remove her boots, he herded her toward one of the couches, turned her away from him by the hips, and braced her forward until her thighs pressed against an arm rest and her palms met the cushions. The clink of a buckle preceded the whisper of his fly opening.

Then it was his growl and her cry and pleasure bordering pain. Every rock of his body ended with a sharp crack of sound that echoed off the tall ceiling. He drove deep. Deeper. Like he wanted to imprint himself on her soul. Eight thrusts after two devastating angle changes and the expert manipulation of his fingers, he sent them soaring through a climax that left Chey seeing stars. Left her breathless.

Still engaged, he pushed the hem of her sweater up and dusted hot kisses up her spine. Blanketing her with his bigger body, mouth near her ear, he whispered words of praise and worship. His
you're mine
sent a familiar tingle racing along her skin. While they got their breath back, Sander's words from earlier came to mind.
Perfection is a fallacy.

Chey wanted to tell him that he was wrong. That he'd lied.

Perfection
did
exist, and he was living proof.

Some hours later, after a hot shower and a redo of her hair, Chey walked out of the bathroom with the intent of telling Sander about the interview-gone-wrong. A niggling sense of unease and worry lingered, like he might find out about the incident in a way that would make it seem as if she'd withheld the information on purpose. Such as an unexpected television broadcast with the video reassembled to paint her in a questionable light.

Halting when she saw him, Chey reconsidered. She was never more aware of Sander's responsibilities than while she watched him framed against the balcony doors, drink in his hand, a pensive expression reflected off the glass. Standing across the room, she took in the attire he'd changed into—jeans, ribbed sweater of faded blue, navy blazer—and realized that the addition of casual clothing didn't alter her perception of his mood. There was nothing casual about the look on his face.

“What's wrong?” he asked without turning around. He lifted the glass for another sip.

“What? Nothing. I was just admiring your shoulders in that coat,” she said, skirting the truth. Instinct told her now wasn't the time to talk about the other.

Sander twisted to look directly at her, almost as if he knew there was something she wasn't saying.

She smiled and posed, arms out. “Is this all right for the boat ride over to Pallan island with the guests?”