The Virgin and His Majesty

Did she still long for his brother? If her expression when she watched Kelt dancing with Hani was anything to go by, it seemed more than likely.

Kelt had always been there for her when her father was away searching for ancient civilisations, when her mother was off with the latest boyfriend. A beautiful woman with everything going for her, Eva Matthews wasted her life chasing some sort of rainbow fantasy of the perfect love. Judging by the stream of men through her university years, her daughter was doing the same.

Searching for a security she’d never known? Possibly. Trouble in a delicious little package?

Undoubtedly. But she was no longer naïve and inexperienced.

Above her froth of amber curls he sketched a humourless smile. He was acutely aware of her small, elegantly curved form in that sinuous dress, its colour reminding him of the beaches on his brother’s estate in New Zealand. Subtly glittering, the fabric made the most of her curves and narrow waist without clinging. In a room full of women clothed to impress, she stood out because she wore no jewellery at all, not even a ring on a slender finger.

A strand of hair snagged itself on his lapel, glittering in the light of the chandeliers. She jerked free and said, ‘Sorry about that. I did try for dignity, but my curls are uncontrollable.’

‘It would seem so.’ His voice sounded odd in his ears, and he frowned, fighting back a swift, elemental appetite, a headstrong physical goad that knotted his gut and dried his mouth.

Half smiling, she gazed up at him, dark lashes wide around the intense, gold-flecked blue of her eyes. ‘I straightened my hair once and it just hated it and went all lank and limp, so now I let the curls do their own thing.’

Gerd closed his mind against a swift, erotic image of her, sleek and golden and laughing against crisp white sheets, but the maddening questions refused to go away. Would she be as passionate as the promise of her soft, laughing mouth?

Hard on the heels of that came another question, even more insubordinate. Was she like this—provocative, tempting—with her lovers?

Of course she was. And now she was twenty-one and experienced, there was no need for restraint…

Chapter Two

GERD dampened down a compelling surge of desire to say remotely, ‘Although you affect to despise your hair, it’s very pretty. As I’m sure you know.’

Rosie should have been gratified; apart from that final crack about her hair—delivered with aloof kindness, as though she were ten—he had at least treated her like an adult.

Unfortunately, since they’d moved onto the floor she’d reacquired a taste for the danger and zest of crossing swords with Gerd. Like fencing with a tiger, she’d decided dreamily three years ago.

Her pulse rate skyrocketed when her glance skimmed the strong, boldly chiselled features, intimidating yet profoundly sexy. Now she understood why she’d always been attracted to men with a slight cleft in their chin and hawkish profiles.

Rapidly discarding her first impetuous response, she told him briskly, ‘I could say, just you try living with a head covered with red curls and see if anyone takes you seriously, but instead I’ll ignore your remark. I’ll bet you were born looking like a king.’

His smile was lazy, almost teasing. ‘I’m not a king, and it was meant to be a compliment.’

‘Then I’m afraid you’ll have to try harder.’

His eyes narrowed, and for a second—perhaps less?—something flashed between them, a brittle tension that robbed her of words and breath.

To her relief the music died away, and he released her and offered his arm. She rested her hand on it, feeling insignificant as he escorted her to where Kelt, Hani and Alex waited for her.

They were almost there when he said formally, ‘Thank you for coming, Rosemary.’

‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ she returned, smiling pleasantly at a dowager wearing a serious dress in satin and more pearls than was decent. Taking refuge in flippancy from the aching emptiness that threatened her, Rosie decided the only thing missing was a lorgnette.

She went on, ‘It’s been a truly amazing week. And the coronation ceremony was…’ She searched for the right words, finally settling on, ‘Truly awe-inspiring. Hugely impressive.’ And profoundly moving.

‘I’m glad you found it so,’ he said, his neutral tone revealing nothing. ‘You’re leaving the day after tomorrow, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ She’d like to ask him what he’d planned for tomorrow night, but no doubt he had better things to do than entertain a nobody from New Zealand.

Kiss Princess Serina, perhaps?

When they reached the others they talked pleasantries for a few minutes until Gerd walked away, and at last Rosie could draw breath.

All she wanted to do was skulk up to her bedroom and hide there until she felt more…well, more herself.

But it was almost over. If she organised her life with care and some cunning she need never exchange words or glances with Gerd again. And when the wedding invitation arrived she’d produce a very good excuse for not attending—a broken leg should do.

Even if she had to break it herself.

From the corner of her eye she saw Gerd talking to the princess, and stiffened her spine. OK, so exorcising this unwanted hunger would take willpower and a rigorous refusal to indulge in daydreams, but she could manage that—she’d had a lot of practice.

The evening wore on. Resolutely keeping her gaze away from the person who held her attention, Rosie danced and laughed and talked and flirted with several interested men. By midnight her rigid self-control was beginning to take its toll and she allowed herself another longing thought of the bed waiting for her in the private apartments of the palace.

But when the ball ended, Alex told her casually, ‘Gerd’s asked us to his quarters for a nightcap. Just the family.’

No princess? Rosie banished a treacherous needle of excitement. ‘How kind of him.’

He lifted a brow and after an uncertain look at his handsome face she began to chatter. She loved her brother, but they had never known each other well enough to develop the sort of relationship that made for confidences.

It was definitely a family gathering—although Gerd seemed to be related to a lot of European royalty.

But no Princess Serina. Stifling an ignoble relief, Rosie refused a glass of champagne and accepted one of mineral water, then glanced around. The private drawing room was big, furnished with more than a salute to Victorian taste. It wasn’t all heavy furniture, however. Her gaze travelled to the large painting in a place of honour on one wall.

‘Kelt’s and my New Zealand grandfather,’ Gerd said from behind her. ‘Alex’s great-great-uncle.’

‘He’s very handsome,’ she said inanely. ‘More like Kelt than you.’

‘You’re intimating that I’m not handsome?’ he drawled lazily.

Colour burned along her cheekbones. Keeping her eyes on the portrait, she returned in her most limpid tone, ‘I’m forever being told that it’s only women who need constant reassurance about their attractiveness.’

His low laugh held a sardonic note. ‘Well avoided.’

‘All I meant was that your grandfather and Kelt have that northern-European look, whereas you show your Mediterranean heritage.’ And a drop-dead gorgeous set of genes he’d inherited—a strong-boned face emphasised by those raptor’s eyes and his powerful, longlegged physique.

‘Like most ruling families, the Crysander-Gillans have a very mixed heritage. The original founder of my house was a Norseman who arrived here with a group of Vikings via Russia some time in the tenth century. They stayed, and imported princesses from almost every country in Europe and the occasional one from considerably further away.’

Well, Princess Serina wouldn’t have far to come! Her family lived in exile on the French Riviera. Rosie’s heart contracted. ‘I like this portrait,’ she said swiftly. ‘He looks…utterly dependable, yet dangerous.’

Gerd smiled and said something in a language Rosie recognised as being Carathian. ‘That’s an old Carathian proverb—A man should be a tiger in bed, a lion in battle, and wise and cunning as a fox in counsel. The Carathians believe that my grandfather met that standard.’

Rosie kept her attention religiously fixed on the painted face. ‘He looks all that and more. How did the ancient Carathians know about tigers and lions?’

He drawled, ‘There used to be lions in southern Europe, and people from the Mediterranean got around—remember, Alexander the Great marched as far as India. I imagine those who made it back arrived home with stories about tigers.’

‘Was Carathia part of Greece originally?’