The King Takes A Bride (Royals Book 4) (7 page)

From the doorway, full of defiant indignation, Natalia said, “Please. Is this what I was summoned for? To watch my
brother
and his bride make eyes at each other?”

. . .

Chey took a step back from Sander when Natalia's icy barb cut through the room. Holding her own tongue by some act of a higher power, she clasped her hands before her while Sander stared at Natalia with open displeasure.

“Come in, sit down, and be quiet,” Sander said. “There are things we need to discuss.”

Natalia exhaled, petulant, and stalked into the room. Walking stiff and abrupt, with Mattias and Gunnar in her wake, she sank down onto a sofa and crossed her arms over her chest.

Gunnar closed the door with a quiet click.

Chey chose to sit in a wingback adjacent to the array of sofas while Mattias went to stand next to Sander.

“Seriously, what is this? All because I called her the enemy?” Natalia spat, glaring at Chey before turning the hot look back on her brothers.

For the briefest moment, Chey almost wished Sander
would
honor the contract and send Natalia off to a foreign country. The little witch deserved a comeuppance. In the next minute she backed off the wish. Even with all the things Natalia had done, Chey wouldn't want an arranged marriage pushed off on anyone. Much less becoming a third wife. Putting herself in that place, thinking of Sander having two wives before her, Chey seethed with jealousy.

No thank you. It just wasn't for her.

Pushing an ottoman closer to the sofa, straight in Natalia's line of sight, Sander braced the sole of his boot there and draped his forearms over the arch of his thigh. The posture left him bent at the back, the jacket pulled taut across his muscles.

“I want to know if you're familiar with the Afshar Dynasty situation,” Sander asked.

Natalia frowned. “What situation?”

Mattias and Sander exchanged a glance. Sander found Natalia again. “The contract. Do you know about it?”

Natalia's shoulders tightened defensively. “What contract? I didn't offer anyone any contract, I swear. Nor did I sign anything at an official visit without having legal look at it first.”

“I'm talking about the one our father made with the Afshar King regarding you,” Sander said, expanding his explanation.

Gunnar hitched onto the arm of the sofa near Natalia, glancing between her and Sander.

Chey did the same, trying to gauge each expression. If Chey had to guess, Natalia really did know nothing about the contract. The girl looked too genuinely perplexed and slightly wary.

“No. What's the contract for?” Natalia asked.

“Apparently, and I've yet to lay eyes on this document myself, Aksel signed an agreement of intent with the Afshar King between you and the Crown Prince Bashir. A marriage agreement.”

Natalia's mouth fell open. Literally came unhinged at the jaw and gaped at the news. Slowly, horror and rebellion replaced her shock. She surged up off the couch, wide-eyed. “He did not! Father would
never
do such a thing to me. Not without my consent! He signed a
contract?
Isn't that binding?”

Chey cringed. Never in a million years would she have thought to feel sympathy for Natalia on any level, but she felt it now. An acute ache of compassion and shared rebellion. Chey would have fought the decree tooth and nail on morality issues alone.

Sander studied Natalia, then straightened from his lean. His hands dove into the pockets of his slacks, face a mask of concentration. “All contracts between Kings are binding, Natalia. I've already informed Bashir this union won't be taking place, though, and asserted that while I'll consider the monetary and resource aspects already agreed to,
you
will not be a part of the deal.”

“Can you make it stick? What if he insists? Dare, I
can't
marry someone I don't even know!” Natalia said, pacing before the couch. Fretting, she pushed at the styled length of her hair, working the pretty layers into a haphazard mess.

“I realize that, Natalia. I
won't
allow the contract to go forth as is. If it isn't adjusted, then we'll be at an impasse. Regardless, you're not leaving Latvala.” There was no argument in Sander's tone. No ands, ifs or buts. He meant to fight for Natalia, use his position to break her from the contract.

Chey regarded the siblings with no small amount of tension. Their relationship was already on the rocks. What would happen if Sander
couldn't
get Natalia out of the contract? Would there be international implications, or would Bashir back down quietly? She wondered if it would affect the upcoming wedding.

“That's what you say now. But this would be the perfect opportunity to get me out of your hair, right? You could
say
all kinds of things, then pack me off because it's not your contract, you didn't sign it.” Natalia, scowling, face paler than it had been when she came in, sent Sander an accusing glare.

Chey wanted to shake the girl. Didn't she realize her best—maybe
only
ally—was standing right in front of her? Sander wouldn't let Bashir take her anywhere. Chey believed every word Sander said in Natalia's defense. He would do whatever it took to keep her here.

Silence descended on the room. The only sound came from the crack and hiss of the fireplace. Finally, Sander said, “Don't be a fool, Natalia. Recognize when someone is offering to help you and try harder not to make a bad situation worse. He wants to meet you, says he should at least be allowed to exchange conversation. I'm wary of it, but I thought I would see what you had to say. Perhaps you can persuade him this isn't in his best interest and he'll drop his suit.”

“I don't want to even look at him. I remember who he is from when he visited the last time. He's not my type.” Natalia paused. “Wait! He's already married. I recall there being something mentioned about it before.”

“You would be his third wife,” Sander said.

“
Third
wife? I'm a
Princess,
does he understand that?
Third
wife?” Natalia shrieked, throwing her hands in the air. “He's lost his mind.”

“That's the way their culture is, Natalia. Actually, for him to even consider a foreigner is far out of the ordinary. Their offspring cannot ascend to the throne if the mother is not of their own country and upbringing. His first two wives have taken care of that and have given him many heirs,” Sander said. “It softens the blow, so to speak, of bringing in a Princess from somewhere else. I think it might raise his status to achieve that in fact, having you as a third wife, which is a prize he won't easily let go of.”

Chey saw Natalia's reaction coming from a mile away. She couldn't exactly blame her. If someone happened to tell
her
that she'd been sold off to the highest bidder, so to speak, a stranger from a foreign land, Chey would have issues, too.

“I won't talk to him,” Natalia repeated. Her distress was palpable.

“Think about it for a second,” Mattias interjected. “If you met him face to face, talked with him for a few minutes, it might resolve the whole thing and save Sander a lot of political maneuvering. It's better for Bashir to drop the case than for us to try and find a way out. Unfortunately, he's got the upper hand with the signed contract. If
he
breaks it, things will go much easier.”

Natalia paced. Fretted. Raked a hand over and over through her hair until all the style was worn out. She glanced up, meeting Chey's eyes. “What is
she
doing here, anyway? Why does she have to witness my humiliation? Get her the hell out.”

Chey bit her tongue. She tried to tell herself that stress made Natalia abrupt but the cold reality was that the Princess was a high class bitch. Standing from her seat, Chey pivoted around it for the door, done with the entire mess. Whatever sympathy she'd experienced waned in the face of such hostility.

Sander stepped around the ottoman, cutting Natalia's pacing off. He put his face a few inches from hers and said, “If you ever use that tone with her again, I'll pack your bags myself.” Sander didn't wait for a reply. He broke off and paced after Chey, catching her just as she departed the room.

Where Chey had started to close the door gently, Sander swung it home with a frame rattling bang.

“Here, let me,” Chey said. She put her fingers on Sander's tie and loosened the knot. This was a ritual she was coming to appreciate more and more.

Sander dropped his hands, looking down at her from his lofty height. “Thanks.”

“You don't have to thank me. I like to do it.” She worked the tie off and flipped it aside for now. “How are you going to arrange the meeting?”

“I'm thinking. I don't want to just shove her in a room with him alone—I
won't.
But all of us standing around watching will be awkward and Bashir might balk.” Sander scanned the ceiling of the bedchamber, then stared out the windows. Finally, he returned his gaze to her face.

“Maybe we can plan something at lunch time. Pretend it's informal, that way we can all be there and keep an eye on things, but Bashir and Natalia can have their conversation.” Chey divested Sander of his jacket and the shirt next, equally uncaring where she draped them.

“Like what?” he asked, distraction in his voice. He lifted a hand to trace the edge of her lip with his thumb.

“...a tour of the castle? Maybe they weren't given one last time,” Chey said. His distraction proved to be her own. She nipped his thumb on the second pass and set her hands on the bare skin just above his hips. For now, she left the pants in place.

“We could do that. Then sit down to lunch and see how things go.”

“Yes. It gives Natalia an out if she needs to retreat, rather than taking the tour off the castle grounds or something.” The tips of her fingers slid along the inside of Sander's waistband, wringing a shudder from him. Chey liked it so much she did it again.

“Set it up for me tomorrow, will you? Contact Urmas with the details,” he said.

“Consider it taken care of.” Chey watched his mouth descend, slow and intent.

In his pocket, the cell phone went off.

Cursing roundly, Sander straightened and shoved a hand in to fetch the phone. Putting it to his ear, he said, “Yes?”

Chey waited it out, hoping he wouldn't be called down to some emergency meeting or another.

“What? Tell him to fly up here, I don't have time to go down there,” Sander said. He looked annoyed and frustrated.

Chey wondered who 'he' was.

Exhaling, Sander said, “All right, all right. Seven o'clock? --formal? Are you serious? We'll be there.” He ended the call and tossed the phone on a nearby chair.

Chey arched a brow, waiting for him to tell her what the call was about.

“Paavo wants all of us—the brothers and their significant others—to come down to his holding tomorrow evening,” he said.

“Where is his holding?”

“The main one is in the back country. I have no idea what he's up to, but apparently it's a 'formal' event.” Sander set his hands on her hips and started to steer her toward the bed.

“Does he do that often? Call for formal events?” she asked, stepping out of her shoes as they went.

“No. I guess we'll have to find out when we get there.”

“Meanwhile, I know
just
how to pass the time.”

. . .

Chey walked down the upper hall, fingers pushing an earring through her lobe. Delayed from accompanying Sander by an unexpected bout of morning sickness, she hurried to the stairs and descended to the main floor. Although he'd stayed behind, thoughtfully patting her brow with a cold cloth, she'd sent him on so he wouldn't be late meeting with Bashir. By the time she reached the great hall, she found Bashir, several of his attendants, Mattias and Sander hovering in the middle of the room engaged in quiet conversation. She could only imagine what was being said.

“Pardon,” she said to the gentlemen, excusing her tardy appearance.

Bashir looked her up and down with a critical eye and inclined his head.

Sander accepted her against his side with one hand settling low on her spine. His eyes asked her if she was better. She nodded once, subtle and understated.

Noting that Natalia wasn't in attendance yet, she wondered if the girl meant to stand the entire group up. Bashir looked like he might become impatient any time by the way he repeatedly glanced toward the archway.

Then she was there. Natalia swerved into the great hall looking straight from a fashion magazine, high heels adding no less than four inches to her height. Attired in a short skirt of beige, cocoa colored sweater, and a complimentary scarf looped around her throat and shoulders, she strode up to the group with typical Natalia hauteur settled firmly on her features.

“Your Excellency,” Natalia said with a slight dip of her hip.

Chey muffled a groan of dismay when the distinct scent of liquor hit her nostrils. Natalia's glossy eyed stare confirmed she'd had a drink or two.

“Princess Natalia. You're looking stunning,” Bashir said, turning a smile on Natalia. “Will you do me the honor?” He extended the crook of his elbow, offering to escort her on the tour.

Natalia darted a startled look at Mattias, then back to Bashir. Her gaze fell to his arm as if she might outright decline. Stepping forward, she slipped her fingers through the small opening. “...thank you. Should we get on with it?”

Sander, lips pressed tight, led the procession into one of the secondary corridors where ancestral paintings stretched from end to end. Chey had seen these several times, but never tired of the craftsmanship of the art or the different clothing from bygone eras. As they strolled the hall, Sander took the time to explain a little about each King or Queen.

In between snips of information, Chey heard Bashir engage Natalia in conversation. Light topics regarding her history and bloodline. As far as Chey could tell without turning around to look, Natalia was on edge and growing more curt by the second. Some of her replies were as short as a
yes
or
no.
Now and then, Chey felt Sander's arm tighten around her, an indication he too sensed the tension.