The Lost Prince

Within the lion? Of course. Il Leone. The palace. So, rumors were already floating around that King Nikolas lived, were they? That didn’t bode well for the man she’d met earlier. Of course, the warning in this note didn’t bode well for him, either. If his enemies were already watching her, then she’d have to be extremely careful not to lead them to the hidden king.

And then there was the direct threat to her. Someone in the palace wanted to use her for some reason, eh? Why was that just not a surprise? Who could this note be warning her of? Major Moubayed and the Army? Nikolas himself?

The more relevant question at the moment was who had gotten into her room to leave this cryptic little message? And how? She was sure the door had locked shut behind her when she’d gone next door to talk to Hazel. And there was no way she’d left the window open. She even remembered thinking the room was too warm and closed it before she went out. Surely nobody had climbed up the face of a five-story building to sneak in her window and deliver this note! Someone on the hotel staff with a master key, then?

She picked up the phone. A female operator answered in English. Now how did she know to do that? She must have a list of the room numbers the Americans were staying in. Katy asked, “May I please speak to the manager?”

“Regarding what, Miss McMann?”

Katy replied, “Someone has broken into my room. I need to report it to the manager and the police.”

The operator answered without any noticeable surprise, “I will report it to the manager right away, ma’am.”

That was weird. Shouldn’t a break-in alarm a hotel employee at least a little bit? And the woman didn’t ask if anything was stolen or if Katy was okay. Katy replied, “I really would prefer to speak to the manager myself.”

“That is not possible, mademoiselle.” The woman’s voice shot up by at least half an octave, and now definite alarm rang in her tone.

Katy blinked. Had the operator just called her mademoiselle on purpose? She replayed the sentence in her head. That was definitely a special emphasis the woman had placed on the word. What in the world was going on here? She could understand the hotel not wanting to involve the police. Especially with the city under martial law. But why was the operator running interference on her at least speaking to the manager?

“I swear to you, mademoiselle, no harm will come to you in this hotel.”

There it was again. That heavy emphasis on the word mademoiselle. And real desperation coursed through the operator’s voice now.

“Uh, okay. I believe you. I will leave it in your hands to report this to the manager and the authorities.”

Katy frowned through the woman’s gushing thank-you. “What’s your name?”

“I am Hanah.”

“Thank you for your help, Hanah.”

“You are welcome. And thank you.”

Katy hung up the phone, roundly confused. The hotel operator had left her this note? Clearly if Hanah wasn’t the author, the woman was at least aware of its existence. Why would someone in the hotel feel obliged to warn her about treachery in the palace?

Speaking of which, she had some homework to do. She checked the window latch again and carefully locked the door behind her as she stepped out into the hall. Hopefully there was no law against women going to a men’s floor to visit in this backward country. She made her way downstairs and knocked on Don Ford’s door. He opened it immediately. A group of six men from the team were seated on the floor, a large picnic spread out on a cloth between them. It looked as if they were having a great time. A pang at being excluded stabbed her gut.

“What can I do for you, Katy?” Don asked.

“Do you have a copy of the Geneva Conventions with you?”

“Which one?”

“The one pertaining to treatment of prisoners of war,” she answered.

“Do you want all one hundred and forty-three articles plus annexes or one part in particular? Did you run into a problem today?”

Again her internal alarm bells went off, shouting at her not to answer that question. “I just want to read up on a few things,” she answered with what she hoped was casual ease.

“I’ll get it.” Ford went across the room to dig in a big leather satchel.

One of the other men looked up at her slyly. “How’d it go working with Larry?”

She smiled pleasantly and said without missing a beat, “He was an absolute dear. I’m so glad Don paired me up with him.”

Everyone gawked in surprise and she bit back a grin. There. Let them chew on that. Nothing like killing ’em with kindness.

Ford held out a sheaf of papers about sixty pages thick. “There you go. Holler if you have any questions about what it means.”

As if after growing up in her family she couldn’t read legalese and make sense of it? She smiled politely and said smoothly, “Thanks. I’ll be sure to ask if anything comes up that’s beyond me.”

Good ole Don blinked rapidly a couple times, as if he’d just remembered who she was. A little red around the gills, he showed her to the door and wished her good-night.

She fumbled loudly at her door for long enough to let someone climb out her window. She entered her room cautiously, gun-shy at the idea of accidentally surprising an intruder. But all was as she’d left it.

She settled on her bed to look for a loophole in the document Ford had given her. Nada. The only thing the document had to say about treatment of heads of state as prisoners was that they should be afforded quarters fitting to their station. Big freaking lot of good that would do Nikolas.

And then she ran across the bit about prisoners of war withholding their identities from their captors. Failure to identify oneself truthfully negated one’s right to full protection under the Geneva Convention. Great. Nikolas could tell the Army who he was, get a great room for a night and then get killed. Or he could not tell them and be subject to abuse or even torture. He’d have to continue to be Akbar Mulwami for the time being. It was flimsy protection, but he didn’t have any other options.

As for telling her boss who Nikolas was, something in her gut said the fewer people who knew Prisoner 1806’s secret, the better.

While she rinsed out her abaya, she debated whether or not to sleep with the window closed and opted not to let the mysterious note intimidate her into being miserable. She lay down on top of the sheets and let the evening’s cool breeze waft over her, carrying that faint, lovely smell of orange blossoms again. A siren sounded in the distance, a distinctive up-down-up-down wail. A few vehicles rumbled past, rattling on the cobblestones. How a night this peaceful and quiet should follow so closely after the violence she’d seen on television just two days ago was hard to fathom. Grateful for the lack of mortars and explosions, she fell asleep.

And dreamed of a handsome prince with golden eyes carrying her off to an enchanted palace and making love to her all night long.

Nick lay on the cold stone shelf that was his bed for long hours after the American left, nurturing the tiny spark of hope she’d ignited deep within him. If he had an ally on the outside, maybe, just maybe, he might get out of this alive. And then he might get a chance to set this mess aright, to make up for everything he’d failed to do before.

But first things first. He had to get out of here. And that wasn’t in the cards for him. Eventually his face would heal, the swelling would go down and then he’d be recognized. He was a dead man walking.

The problem with being locked up in a silent, dim cell like this was it gave a guy plenty of time to think. He’d spent the last two days in this black hole damning himself to hell and back for neglecting his duty for so many years. For much of his thirty-four years, he’d jetted all over the world, living as fast and playing as hard as he could, running away from the responsibilities that came with his family’s wealth and position. Hell, just running away from his family.

He bitterly regretted now never having spent time with his father after college, never trying to talk to him about how he ran his country, about his vision for Baraq. Lord knew, Baraq had been his father’s passion in life. To the exclusion of all else—including his wife, who’d eventually left, and his only son, whom he’d mostly ignored.

Nick knew far too little of his Ramsey legacy. But he did know he’d failed that legacy. For thirty generations—almost a thousand years—dominion over these lands had passed from father to son in an unbroken line. And he was going to break the chain. He would go down in history as the last Ramsey. The one who failed. Spectacularly. The thought galled him.

His father might have been a bad parent, but in the clarity that came with staring death in the face, he admitted to himself that he’d also been a bad son. And obviously the Army believed he was going to be a bad king or else they wouldn’t have overthrown him before he could prove them wrong. Not only had he failed the Ramsey dynasty, he’d failed himself.

His remaining life span could no doubt be measured in days rather than weeks or years. Surely someone would recognize him soon. And then the Ramsey line would end.

Unless…

The idea was preposterous. The American aid worker would never go for it. It wasn’t fair to ask her such a thing. He barely knew her, for goodness’ sake! He had no right to put an innocent young woman’s life at risk any more than he already had.

But what other choice did he have?

He couldn’t sit by and watch his family disappear without a trace. He couldn’t leave his countrymen with no hope at all of continuing Baraq’s proud heritage, which was so closely tied to his family’s. If there was even a chance of salvaging the line, he had to try.

He wrestled through the night with his misgivings, examining his idea from every angle, analyzing its chances for success, anticipating the pitfalls and planning how to get around them. And his idea was full of holes. Huge, gaping craters. Starting with the fact that it all hinged on the American woman.