Passion, Purity and the Prince

‘If it’s genuine you’re not only Prince of Ruvingia, you’re also the next legitimate ruler of Maritz. Of the whole country. Not Prince Raul.’ She paused, watching his expression freeze.

‘It’s you who should be crowned king.’

Chapter Two

ALARIC’s body stiffened as her words sank in with terrible, nightmare clarity.

Him as ruler of Maritz!

The idea was appalling.

Raul was the crown prince. The one brought up from birth to rule. The one trained and ready to dedicate his life to his country.

Maritz needed him.

Or a man like Alaric’s brother, Felix.

Alaric wasn’t in the same mould. Even now he heard his father’s cool, clipped voice expressing endless displeasure and disappointment with his reckless second son.

Alaric’s lips twisted. How right the old man had been. Alaric couldn’t take responsibility for the country. Bad enough he’d stepped into Felix’s shoes as leader of a principality. Entrusting the wellbeing of the whole nation to his keeping would be disaster.

He, whose conscience was heavy with the weight of others’ lives! Who’d failed them so abysmally.

Horror crawled up his spine to clamp his shoulders. Ice froze his blood. Familiar faces swam in his vision, faces distorted with pain. The faces of those he’d failed. The face of his brother, eyes feverish as he berated Alaric for betraying him.

He couldn’t be king. It was unthinkable.

‘Is this a joke?’ The words shot out, harsh in the silence.

‘Of course not!’

No. One look at her frown and her stunned eyes made that clear. Tamsin Connors wasn’t kidding.

He’d never seen a more serious, buttoned-up woman. From her tense lips to her heavy-framed glasses and scraped-back hair, she was the image of no-nonsense spinsterhood.

Except for that body.

Hard to believe she’d felt so warm and lithely curved. Or that holding her he’d known a curious desire to strip away that fashion crime of an outfit and explore her scented femininity. A desire completely dormant in the face of so many blatant sexual invitations from tonight’s beauties!

Beneath her bag lady clothes Tamsin Connors was only in her mid-twenties. When she forgot to prim them her lips were surprisingly luscious. He looked into her frowning face and knew he was avoiding the issue. The impossible issue of him being king!

‘What exactly is in these papers?’ His voice sounded rusty, as if his vocal cords had seized up.

‘They’re old records by a cleric called Tomas. He detailed royal history, especially births, deaths and marriages.’ She shifted, leaning imperceptibly closer.

Did he imagine her fresh sunshine scent, warm in a room chilled with the remembrance of death?

With an effort he dragged his focus back to her.

‘Take a seat, please, and explain.’ He gestured to one of the armchairs by the fire then took one for himself.

‘According to Tomas there was intermarriage between your family and Prince Raul’s.’

Alaric nodded. ‘That was common practice.’ Power was guarded through alliances with other aristocratic families.

‘At one stage there was a gap in the direct line to the Maritzian throne. The crown couldn’t pass from father to son as the king’s son had died.’

Her words flayed a raw spot deep inside him. A familiar glacial chill burned Alaric’s gut. The knowledge he was a usurper in a better man’s shoes.

That he was responsible for his brother’s death.

‘There were two contenders for the throne. One from Prince Raul’s family and…’ Her words slowed as she registered his expression. Some of her enthusiasm faded.

‘And one from mine?’

She shifted as if uncomfortable, but continued.

Two rival princes from different branches of intertwined families. A will from the old king designating one, the eldest by some weeks, as his successor. A tragic ‘accident’ leading to the accession of the alternate heir and a desperate decision by the dead prince’s widow to send her newborn son to safety far away. The suppression of the old king’s will and a rewriting of birth dates to shore up the new monarch’s claim to the throne.

It was a tale of treachery and the ruthless pursuit of power. But in his country’s turbulent history, definitely possible.

How was it possible she’d found such a contentious document?

The likelihood was staggeringly remote. For centuries historians had plotted the family trees of the royal families in each of the neighbouring principalities.

Yet her earnestness, her straight-backed confidence caught his attention.

Obviously she’d found something. This woman was no one’s fool, despite her up-tight demeanour. He remembered reading her CV when she had been recommended for the job of assessing and preserving the archives. Multiple qualifications. Glowing references. Her first degree in her teens and a formidable amount of experience since then.

It was tempting to believe this was a mistake, that she’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. Yet she didn’t strike him as a woman prone to taking risks.

‘You’re not pleased?’ she ventured, her brows puckering. ‘I know it’s a shock but—’

‘But you thought I’d be thrilled to become king?’ His words were clipped as he strove to suppress a surge of unfamiliar panic. He had to fight the rising nausea that clogged his throat.

He shook his head. ‘I’m loyal to my cousin, Dr Connors. He will make the sort of king our country needs.’

Alaric succeeding in his place would be a nightmare made real.

Hell! The timing couldn’t be worse. The country needed stability. If this was true…

‘Who else have you told?’ Alaric found himself on his feet, towering above her with his hands clamped on her chair arms. She shrank back as he leaned close.

In the flickering firelight she looked suddenly vulnerable and very young.

The pounding thud of his heartbeat slowed and he straightened, giving her space.

No need to intimidate the woman. Yet.