The Missing Monarch (2 page)

Thad knew he had to contain the situation. Not only that, he
needed to get a handle on the unfamiliar emotions that were thrashing inside him
like the arctic waters during a storm.

Even above the constant reek
of oil and ocean brine, he smelled
her gentle, feminine scent, and memories flew from the prisons where he’d
banished them.

She looked up at him, and he clutched his chest, trying to
stifle the aching pain that originated there. He’d tried for six years to
cauterize that part of his heart, but one look at her big brown eyes tore open
the old wound, proving it had
never really healed. Yearnings he hadn’t felt in
years awakened from their long hibernation.

“We need to leave.” She spoke with a note of authority he
hadn’t heard her use before. This wasn’t the meek graduate student he’d fallen
for so long ago.

“We do.” He agreed. “We need to hide.”

“
We
need to return to Octavian.”
She took his arm and pulled him toward the
door. “The pilot said he’d wait half
an hour. Thick fog is rolling in—he didn’t think he could wait any longer than
that.”

The tug on his heart was even stronger than the pull on his
arm, and he pulled her close to him. “I’ll hide you. He won’t find you again.
But we can’t go with the pilot he hired. There is nothing outside of this oil
rig that is more important
than me keeping my head down.”

“Nothing?” Her lips twitched again, and Thad thought he caught
a glimmer of moisture in her eyes. The sight of it tore at him. If there was any
way he could have spared Monica the pain of what he’d put her through, he’d have
done it. But shortly after they’d eloped in Lydia in a solitary ceremony
witnessed only by his trusted friend Kirk
and the deacon who’d conducted the
service, the insulated world of Thad’s royal heritage had been shattered.

His father, King Philip of Lydia, had shared with Thad the
ignoble agreement he’d struck with the billionaire Octavian. There was nothing
his father could have done to change what had happened. After grilling his
father on possible solutions, Thad had finally concluded
the only way to keep
all his loved ones safe and the tiny kingdom of Lydia free from the hands of a
deluded would-be despot, was for him to leave.

He repeated his answer. “Nothing.”

* * *

Monica felt dizzy. Maybe it was a lingering effect from
the plane ride, maybe the result of being awake for the past thirty-six hours
straight, or maybe the rig itself was moving
with the rocking waves.

She’d tried to talk that madman Octavian out of his plan. She
hadn’t wanted to make this trip, but her life—and her son’s—were on the line.
She struggled to recall everything Octavian had told her. The man had three
objectives to achieve. If she wanted to get home to her little boy, she had to
do as he asked.

“Thad, listen. Your father’s in
a coma.”

“I know that.” An emotion flickered in his eyes. The thick
mountain-man beard that covered most of his face made him almost unrecognizable,
except for his eyes. After the many years they’d spent as friends, and the short
weeks of love they’d shared afterward, she knew those eyes well. How long had
she silently admired this man, content to be close friends, before
he’d finally
acted on the simmering attraction between them? How many years had she wanted to
look into his eyes, content to catch friendly glimpses and look away before her
true feelings were exposed? Mere weeks before graduation, Thad had finally
realized that their friendship was something much deeper, and they’d gazed into
each other’s eyes until she’d memorized every
glimmer that hid there. She’d lost
herself, staring into those eyes years before. She could lose herself there
again if she wasn’t careful.

“Your father was missing for almost a week. The cr—”

Thad gave her a look that silenced her. She gulped a breath,
took a step closer to him and spoke in a rushed whisper. “The crown has passed
from him, and he can’t be king anymore.
You’re
his
successor.”

“Parliament formed an oligarchy to rule for now. My sisters are
a part of it. It’s fine.” Thad’s words were mostly silence and crisp
articulations punctuated by anger.

“It’s not fine. Octavian wants you to—”

“I refuse to do anything Octavian asks me to do.”

Monica realized her hands were in fists. She slowly unclenched
them, thinking
of Peter. Octavian knew about Peter—he’d even given her the
opportunity to call her mother and leave a cryptic message about having to go
away on urgent unexpected business for a while. Her mother had been confused and
concerned, but happy enough about spending more time with her grandson.

Peter was in good hands. He’d be safe—as long as she could
convince Thad that he
needed to cooperate with Octavian. She had to make Thad
understand. But the last thing she wanted to do was tell him about Peter like
this.

She had to make him see that Octavian’s way made sense. “The
oligarchy was intended to be only a temporary solution until the rightful heir
could be determined.”

Thad crossed his arms over his broad chest. “It’s simple. They
can crown Alexander. He’s the oldest after me. He’s a perfectly capable
leader.”

“But your father didn’t name Alexander his successor. He named
you. Unless you renounce your claim to the throne—”

“In order for my renunciation to be recognized, I would have to
travel in person—”

“Precisely. If you don’t intend to rule—”

“I don’t intend to appear publically—”

“You
have
to—”

“They can declare me legally dead.” Thad’s voice boomed,
silencing their war of whispers.

She stared at him. No, maybe those weren’t Thad’s eyes after
all. Maybe this person in Thad’s body was someone she didn’t know anymore.
“You’re
not
dead.”

But the stranger’s eyes bored into hers with a foreign sameness
that gave her chills. He leaned close
and whispered with intense authority, “The
Crown Prince Thaddeus of Lydia is dead. I am Thad Miller, an engineer who left
his wife to work in the oil fields of Alaska.”

Monica pressed her back against the wall and studied the
stranger who looked so much like the man she’d once loved. He had Thad’s tall
stature, his booming voice. He had the same blue eyes, but the sorrow
that
simmered in their depths was utterly foreign to her, as was his thick beard, his
unruly hair and his attitude.

The Thad she’d once known would never have uttered any sort of
lie. Certainly not about something as critical as whether he was even alive. But
then, this Thad seemed to honestly believe the man he’d once been was buried and
gone, and could never rise
again.

A hot lump burned in her throat, and she bit back the reminder
of all she’d lost. Her husband. Her life’s love. Her son’s father.

Octavian had given her more to say, but in the face of this
unexpected stranger, she realized those words belonged in another world—a world
that still cared about rules of succession and time-honored traditions, and the
sanctity
of life and death.

She’d gotten a hint of it, traveling from oil rig to oil rig,
of the desolation the men endured working there, living off the dregs of greed
at the edge of the earth. What had they told her time and again? Most men worked
in two week shifts—on the rig for two weeks, and then back to civilization and
their families for two weeks. It was the only way to
keep them sane.

If a man missed his shift swap, he’d be near buggy by the time
he got off the rig. Men did desperate things, and went near suicidal under those
conditions. It wasn’t any way to live. Not for a few weeks. Certainly not for
six years straight. But Thad, as so many had noted every time she’d asked for
him, didn’t seem to be a man at all. Instead of rotating
off the rigs, he hopped
from rig to rig.

Never stopping. Never resting.

More like a machine than a man.

Maybe the man she’d married was gone. But that didn’t change
the threat to her son.

“If you don’t cooperate, Octavian has threatened to hurt my
family.”

“Why would he do that? There’s nothing he could gain from
that.”

Monica forced herself to
breathe in and out slowly. Steadily.
Thad would be thinking only of her parents and sister. Though he’d never met
them personally, she’d spoken of them often enough. Her father was a medical
doctor. Her mother had been a nurse decades before, but ever since Monica’s
birth, Sheila Miller was mostly an at-home mom and volunteer of the year at half
a dozen different places.
And Monica’s little sister was a lawyer—perfectly
capable of defending herself.

No, she wasn’t too worried about them. Lydia’s enemies had
little reason to go after them—not when she had a more vulnerable relative with
closer ties to Thad’s country.

She had no other option but to tell him. Her son’s life
depended on it. Her hand shook as she pulled out the pictures
of Peter. “We have
a son.”

Thad’s face blanched white under his beard, and he seemed to
stop breathing for several long seconds as he stared at the pictures with
unblinking eyes. “No.” He closed his eyes firmly, as though to shut out the
evidence she held in her hand.

Monica waited patiently for him to open his eyes again, to take
in the images of the child who
strongly took after his father. “His name is
Peter.” She quoted the name she knew her husband loved, his favorite apostle
from the Bible. “He’s five years old—almost five and a half, as he tells
everyone whenever they ask. He has your eyes.” She looked him full in the face,
comparing him to the photographs of Peter. “Almost your eyes—his are a little
more greenish-blue.”

Thad reached for the pictures with trembling hands, but then
drew back as if touching the photographs would confirm a truth he didn’t want to
accept. “No.”

But Monica could see that he’d spotted the resemblance. She
watched the truth sink in. “Peter is your son.”

Still he shook his head. “No, no, no,” he stuttered mournfully,
no longer protesting the truth of
what she’d said, but rather, expressing deep
regret that it was true.

She’d told herself he wouldn’t likely be happy about the news,
but his response—utterly appalled—cut at her heart. She loved her son more than
anything.

Thad looked as though he wished the boy had never been born.
“This changes everything.” He looked weary, almost sorrowful.

His expression
pierced her heart, but she leaped on the hope he
offered her with his words. “So, you’ll come with me?”

“Where is he?”

“Peter? He’s staying with my parents in Seattle.”

“Octavian knows he’s my son?”

She didn’t know how Octavian had figured it out—unless he’d
only guessed. But even if it had been only a guess, she’d already confirmed the
truth with her terrified
reaction to Octavian’s barrage of questions. “Yes.”

The sorrowful look in Thad’s eyes glimmered with fear, and
Monica felt an uneasy terror grip her.

Thad’s respiration rate increased. He took the pictures from
her, tucking them back away into her wallet and slipping it inside her bag as
though he could just as easily hide Peter from anyone who might be looking for
him. “The pilot is working for Octavian?”

“Octavian hired him because of his familiarity with the area.
But I don’t think the pilot knows him. He’s not one of his men,” she said, a
sickening fear crawling up her back. Thad acted as though Peter was already in
danger. But no, Peter was safe. He had to be. Octavian had said Peter would be
safe as long as she did exactly
what he’d told her to do. She hadn’t agreed to
find Thad in order to endanger her son. She’d done it to protect him.

Still, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise in
response to the panicked look on Thad’s face. Thad never looked panicked. Or he
hadn’t when she’d known him. Now an ominous chill swept up her spine.

Thad’s face blanched pale. “We’ll have to take
the plane. Let
them think we’re cooperating. With this fog rolling in we don’t have any other
way of slipping away.” He pulled the door open. “We’ve got to hurry.”

“Hurry?” She couldn’t be sure what he was muttering about, but
she didn’t like the sound of it. He strode down the hall, and she had to trot
along just to keep up with him.

“To warn your parents.”

Fear swept over her as though she’d been doused with icy water.
Her son had to be safe. Octavian promised. Peter had to be safe. “Why do we need
to warn my parents?”

“They’ll have to sneak away with Peter before Octavian gets his
hands on him.”

“I thought Octavian was after you. He was only threatening
Peter to get to you.”

“That may have been what he told you,
but if he hasn’t figured
it out already, it won’t be long before Octavian realizes the legal loophole
Peter has created.” Thad spun around in the empty hallway and, almost as though
he feared the very walls might overhear, he leaned close to her ear and
whispered, “I’ve been living in self-imposed exile in order to keep Lydia out of
the hands of an evil madman. But if I
have a son, they don’t even need me.”

She felt a wordless plea rise up inside her, that God would
take away the words she feared her husband was about to speak. Her fear for her
son’s safety drowned out any comfort she might have felt being so close to her
husband.

Thad pulled away just enough to meet her eyes. “All they have
to do is get their hands on my son.”

TWO

T
had packed a bag in seconds and threw it
over his shoulder before leading Monica down the hallway at nearly a run.

Octavian wanted control of Lydia. He’d hatched so many plots
over the years in an attempt to get his way, but all of them had one thing in
common: taking advantage of the most vulnerable member of the royal family to
capitalize on their
connection to the crown. Octavian had first approached
Thad’s father, Philip, right after he’d been crowned king, while he was still
mourning the sudden death of his own parents and wondering whether he had what
it took to rule.

That time Octavian’s plans had very nearly worked.

When Thad had thwarted Octavian by running away instead of
following through with his
part of the arrangement Octavian had made with
Philip, the ruthless would-be ruler had simply changed his target. Octavian had
tried to marry off Thad’s younger sisters in hopes of creating a puppet heir.
He’d finagled his way around an old family connection to change the order of
succession.

He’d tried anything and everything, but Thad’s siblings had
held him off
each time.

But if Thad had a son, the Kingdom of Lydia had an heir who
didn’t know enough to distrust Octavian—a young, impressionable little boy who
could be molded and shaped according to Octavian’s whims....

Thad launched himself down the stairs to the platform where the
seaplane waited. The craft was fitted with landing skids. Though some seaplanes
could land
on water or runways, he could see this particular plane was only
equipped for water landings. He quickly clarified with Monica that they weren’t
likely to fly directly into Octavian’s clutches. “Where did you board this
plane?”

“On the Alaskan shore north of Deadhorse. Octavian flew me into
Deadhorse on a small jet, sent me by bus to the coast. He hired his seaplane to
hop from rig to rig until I found you.”

“Good.” Thad felt glad for the break, however small it was.
They could take the seaplane back to the mainland, catch the bus for Deadhorse
and then make a break for it. He’d made plenty of connections in the area over
the past six years. He could slip out of Octavian’s clutches without too much
trouble.

The difficult part
would be getting Peter to a safe location.
If Monica’s parents could hide the boy long enough for Thad to reach him, he
could take his son into hiding. He’d drafted contingency plans aplenty for
himself. The tricky part would be reaching Peter before Octavian got to him.
Monica’s parents had no idea what they were up against. Peter would be in a
grave situation until Thad
reached him.

And if Octavian got his hands on Peter, the kingdom of Lydia
would be lost.

They’d have to hurry.

Monica shook as he helped her board the plane, and her hands
trembled so much as she struggled to latch her seat belt that the two ends
merely clattered together until he reached across her lap and buckled them for
her. She cast him a grateful smile.

His heart stuttered at the once familiar sight of her lovely
lips arched upward for him. Thad struggled to think clearly.

The attraction he felt for his wife muddied his thoughts.
Obviously, that was part of the reason Octavian sent her—to get him to think
with his heart instead of his head. As much as Thad wanted to scoop up his
family and whisk them away to safety,
he had to think strategically. Octavian
wouldn’t hesitate to use any missteps against him. So much was at stake. His
siblings had already fought hard to keep the Lydian crown from Octavian’s
grasp.

The rules of succession were easy enough to follow. Having been
named his father’s official heir when King Philip was crowned eight years
before, Thad’s line had become
the official ruling line. With no offspring of
his own, the crown could have passed to his brother.

But not if he’d fathered a child—and in a perfectly legal
marriage, no less. He’d been married three weeks before he’d left. Alexander
wouldn’t be able to take the crown, not if Octavian used Peter to claim it
first.

Peter.

The name pulsed through his veins with
sickening familiarity.
He’d told Monica years ago he wanted to name his first son Peter. At the time,
having a child of his own had felt like a distant dream.

Now it had become a nightmare.

If Octavian got his hands on Peter, all the sacrifices Thad had
made would be in vain.

“Maybe we should try to call and warn them?” Monica
whispered.

Certain the pilot
couldn’t hear her words over the drone of the
engine, Thad shook his head. “I don’t know where we’re going to hide him yet. As
long as Octavian thinks we’re playing along, he won’t touch Peter. Right?”

“He told me Peter would be safe as long as we do what he
says.”

“Good. The closer we can get to Seattle before we contact your
parents, the smaller Octavian’s window
of opportunity to take him. If Octavian
is watching Peter—and we have to assume he is—anything your parents do might
rouse Octavian’s suspicions. All we can do now is try to reach Peter as quickly
as possible.”

“And pray.”

Thad shrugged and turned his face to the window, where thick
fog obscured any sign of the ocean below. “If you want to waste your breath, go
ahead, but don’t expect it to change anything.”

* * *

Monica stared at her husband’s profile and wondered
where the man she’d once known so well, the man whose faith had inspired and
encouraged her own, had gone.

What had happened to him?

Granted, from the moment she’d reached Deadhorse, Alaska, she’d
wanted nothing more than to turn around and flee as fast
as she could back
toward civilization. There was such desolation about the no-man’s land, a
hopelessness that reeked in the air thicker than the stink of oil. Flying toward
the oil platform had felt like falling out of the range of the eyes of God.

“‘The earth is the Lord’s and everything in it.’” She whispered
the first line of Psalm 24, as she had a hundred times on
her journey north,
reminding herself that there wasn’t anywhere on earth that wasn’t under the
Lord’s dominion.

Even if it felt as though God was nowhere to be found.

Had the bleak setting worn away Thad’s faith? Or had he left it
behind the day he’d abandoned her?

She pulled her wallet from her carry-on bag and looked again at
the pictures of Peter, wisps of
golden-brown curls framing his face, his eyes
sparkling with life.

Was he in danger? Had she put him in more danger by coming to
find Thad, even though Octavian had promised the opposite? She wanted to believe
that her sacrifices had ensured her son’s safety—but what if the reverse was
true? Could Octavian be trusted?

Thad didn’t seem to think so, and he knew far,
far more about
the man than she did.

Whatever else Thad knew, he didn’t know anything about his son.
Based on what he’d said so far, he seemed to view her little boy as a pawn in a
power struggle. He needed to see him the way she saw him—as the most precious
gift God had ever given her.

“You can keep these.” She handed the photographs to Thad and
watched his
face. It was hard to read his reaction under his thick beard, with
his shaggy mane of hair obscuring her view, but she studied what she could see
of his face as he shuffled through the snapshots: Peter as a newborn; Peter at
age two, going down the slide at the park; a recent close-up of Peter’s face,
mischief sparkling in his eyes.

Thad nodded, but didn’t say anything.
He looked back out the
window, though there was nothing to be seen outside through the fog. Nor did he
hand her back the pictures, but held on to them until the seaplane slammed
against the still sea, braking hard as it skidded to a stop against the
frictionless waves before taxiing toward the pier. When he pulled his face away
from the window and slipped the pictures into
his wallet, concern knit his
brow.

“I don’t see the bus,” he told the pilot.

“Most likely left ahead of schedule to get back to town ahead
of the fog. No sense risking getting lost out here.” The man reclined his seat
back and yawned. “We can wait here. Buses come along twice daily, sometimes
more. You won’t have more than twelve hours to wait.”

“I thought we
were in a hurry,” Thad clarified.

“We were.” The pilot didn’t look at all concerned. “Now we’re
here. My job was to get you this far. I don’t much care what happens after
that.”

“But we’ve got to get to Deadhorse. It’s seven miles
inland—”

“Thad,” Monica whispered urgently, gripping his hands, quieting
his protest. “We can go on foot.”

“No—”

“I’ve been
training for a marathon. I can run seven miles in
about an hour. And you always could outrun me. Let’s get going.” Concern for her
son fueled her words. If Peter was in danger, she’d run all the way back to
Seattle if it was the only way to protect him. She couldn’t sit still and wait
when her parents didn’t even realize that Peter might be in danger. Besides,
Octavian
had said his plane would be waiting for them in Deadhorse. He was
expecting them there. They needed to reach the outpost town, ASAP.

Thad pulled her back as she reached for the door. “Not in the
fog. It’s too disorienting. If we lose our way we’ll end up wasting more time
than we save.”

But Monica wasn’t about to be discouraged.

“There’s a
road
.”

“We can’t run
on the road. In this fog, if a vehicle is heading
north, they’ll be on top of us before we see them coming.”

“We can run
beside
the road.” She
let out an impatient breath.

Thad shook his head. “It’s not safe. Never underestimate the
Alaskan wilderness. It’s vast, it’s remote...”

“I have GPS on my watch. I’ve already set Deadhorse as a
location. We don’t have
to worry about getting lost. Let’s get moving. We’ve got
seven miles to cover.”

Thad addressed the pilot. “We’re thinking of striking off for
Deadhorse on foot. Is that okay?”

“Suit yourself.” The man pulled out a magazine and started
paging through it. He didn’t seem to care what they did.

But the real question, of course, was what Octavian thought of
what they
did. The jet that had brought her to Deadhorse required a landing
strip to land and take off. Apparently the permafrost was far too uneven to risk
landing or taking off anywhere but a designated airstrip.

So she and Thad really had little choice but to get to
Deadhorse. Octavian would be expecting them there, bus or no bus.

Her mind made up, Monica disembarked.

“Are
you sure you’re up to it?” Thad slid reluctantly from the
plane behind her.

“Of course.” Monica stared for a moment at the stark treeless
landscape. A dead fish lay on the shoreline, and she wondered how it had gotten
there. Then, just as she was looking at it, the fish gave a horrid, twitching
flop. She thought about kicking it back into the sea.

“Don’t mess with
it.” Thad pulled her back as she took a step
toward the fish. “It’s too far gone to live.”

She glanced up at him, and something in his eyes told her he
sympathized with the fish. Was he warning her about trying to reach the dead
parts of his heart? She shuddered as she checked her watch and turned toward
Deadhorse, stepping resolutely across the rocks.

Thad hoisted
his bag across his back. “The Arctic Circle isn’t
to be trifled with. It’s bitter cold. We might run into bears.”

Monica quickly picked up her pace and jogged inland. “My son
may be in danger, and you’re worried about bears?” She’d take on a bear to
protect her son. She’d do whatever she had to. Spurred on by the thought of
little Peter, she picked up her pace to almost
a sprint as the rocky shoreline
gave way to turf.

For a moment, she wondered if Thad would be able to keep up,
but he quickly met her pace beside her, their bags thunking against their backs
with every step, prodding them forward. They ran in silence until her watch told
her they’d traveled 1.3 miles.

Then Thad cleared his throat. “You were always a determined
woman, but I don’t recall you being quite this...zealous.”

She glanced at him before quickly returning her attention to
negotiating the uneven terrain. “You haven’t met Peter.”

Thad’s sudden laugh surprised her. “Is he even more determined
than you are?”

“That’s not what I meant.” She checked their position on her
watch without slowing down, then turned her determined
gaze to the unflinching
fog before them. “He’s worth fighting for.”

* * *

Thad had to fight to keep pace with Monica as she tore
through the fog. Thankfully, he spent a lot of time at the platform gym when he
wasn’t working. Still it was a jolt to his system, sprinting through the
fog-drenched air, wishing he could go back in time and change all that had
happened.
All he could do now was run and hope he wasn’t too late.

Step after step, they hurtled together through the dense mist,
which clung to them in thick droplets, threatening to soak their water-resistant
clothes, weighing them down. Reminding himself to trust the coordinates on
Monica’s watch, Thad tried to shake off the disorienting feeling of isolation
brought on by the
blinding clouds, whose obscuring whiteness blocked out
everything beyond the few steps in front of them. The alabaster tendrils
stretched like fingers across the landscape, veiling what lay ahead and
shrouding their future.

Monica clutched his arm, pulling him back as she slowed to a
stop.

“Need a breather?” He couldn’t blame her for being tired. She’d
set a
relentless pace.

But she shook her head and pointed up. “Did you see it?”

“No.” Without the steady plod of their footsteps and the rustle
of their wet garments, Thad picked up the drone of an engine somewhere in the
distance. “I can hear it, though.”