The Virgin and His Majesty

‘No, although as a state it began with a band of Greek soldiers who lost a battle a thousand years or so before the Christian era and fled this way. They found this valley, and helped the local tribespeople against an attacking force sent to control the pass. For their endeavours they were rewarded with Carathian brides.’

‘I hope the brides approved,’ Rosie observed tartly.

‘Who knows?’ He sounded amused.

Rosie’s heart did a ridiculous flip. If those ancient Greeks had been anything like Gerd their brides had probably been delirious with excitement.

Gerd went on, ‘Over the years various of my ancestors acquired the coastal region and its offshore islands.’

‘How?’ she asked, intrigued by the long history of the small country.

‘Usually by conquest, sometimes by marriage.’

She asked curiously, ‘How many languages do you speak?’

‘Kelt and I grew up speaking both English and Carathian as first languages. We’ve learned a couple more along the way.’

‘I’m very impressed by the way people here switch from language to language without any effort. It makes me feel very much like a country cousin.’

‘Languages can be learnt. Besides, you know the one everyone understands.’

Startled, she swivelled her head to survey his face.

His eyes were half-closed, his chiselled mouth curved in a smile that hit Rosie like a charge of electricity. ‘Your smile speaks the most fundamental language—that of the heart.’

‘Thank you for such a pretty compliment,’ Rosie said hastily, furious because her hot cheeks revealed her astonishment. ‘I don’t think it’s true, but I’d love it to be.’

Brows raised, Gerd said, ‘You’re embarrassed. Why? I can’t believe no other man has told you that your smile is a most potent weapon.’

More than a little wary, she said, ‘Actually, no.’

Men tended to concentrate on her more physical attributes.

Relief seeped through her when a manservant came up. Gerd looked down at him and the servant said something in a low voice. After Gerd’s nod the man went across to the windows and drew back the heavy drapes to reveal the starry burst of a swarm of skyrockets.

Charmed, Rosie joined in the soft murmur of appreciation around the room.

‘The Carathians enjoy firework displays and have organised this,’ Gerd said as the wide French windows were opened.

Everyone trooped out into the warm night onto a stone terrace. ‘Come here, Rosemary,’ Gerd said, making a space for her so she could see easily.

Sheer pleasure seeped through Rosie as she took her place beside him. The private apartments in the palace looked over the walls that had sheltered the people of the old town for centuries. Across the vast valley outlines of mountains reared black against a sky glittering with stars she’d never seen before.

But the stars were put to shame when more fireworks flared into life high above them, a depiction of the Carathian crown she’d watched the archbishop place on Gerd’s black head earlier that day. At that moment of crowning, of Gerd’s commitment to his country, a roar had risen from the crowds outside the cathedral who were watching the ceremony on big screens.

Recalling the fierce, unexpected sound echoing around the ancient stone walls, she took a deep breath. Something fragile and strange expanded within her, filling her with an almost painful anticipation.

Other displays of fireworks burst across the night sky, drowning out the stars. The royal coat of arms formed a triumphant pattern, followed by the emblem of the country—a lion rampant and then a cupped flower, pure white and beautiful.

‘The national flower of Carathia,’ Gerd told her. ‘It blooms in the snow. To the people it symbolises the courage and strength of Carathians.’

To Rosie’s horror her throat closed. Torn by an emotion she didn’t understand, she abandoned her usual flippant response. ‘I suppose in the past they’ve often needed that symbolism.’

‘Indeed they have,’ Gerd said, his tone so noncom mittal that Rosie looked up.

As though he sensed her regard he glanced down, his brows rising in a silent question when their eyes met. She suppressed a shiver and transferred her gaze to the flower, fading swiftly against the depthless darkness of the sky.

‘You’re cold,’ he said quietly.

‘No, not a bit.’ She flashed him a swift smile. ‘Just impressed all over again. This is an amazing place.’ ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it.’

Conventional words, meaning nothing. No fuel for dreams there, she told herself firmly, and pinned her attention to the display as once more the sky exploded into colour, this time a joyous, fiery free-for-all that eventually sank into darkness. A collective sigh seemed to whisper over the city, and in the silence someone not too far away started to play what sounded like a cornet or trumpet. The silvery, plaintive notes were unbearably moving in the quiet air.

‘A folk tune,’ Gerd said quietly, just for her. ‘A song of lost love.’

To Rosie’s utter horror, tears prickled at the backs of her eyes. She had to swallow to be able to say lightly, ‘Aren’t they all? The world’s literature and music is built on broken hearts.’

The notes died away into a momentary silence that was followed by an eruption of cheers and the sound of horns and whistles.

Half an hour later Rosie surveyed her bedroom, decorated to pay tactful tribute to the age of the palace without sacrificing comfort, and thought of the time she’d spent in Carathia.

Watching Gerd, sophisticated and formidable amongst the world’s elite, had emphasised as nothing else could the huge difference between them.

In New Zealand his heritage and position hadn’t seemed so important. He’d always been dominant, that formidable inbuilt air of confidence more intimidating than arrogance could ever be. No one, least of all his New Zealand relatives, had been surprised when the business enterprise he’d set up with Kelt had turned into an empire with ramifications all over the world.

But seeing him in Carathia had added another dimension to his depth and compelling authority, giving him a mystique based on his people’s affection and respect and trust.

Yes, she’d made the right—the only—decision. She wasn’t going to waste her life longing for a man who could never be hers.

Shivering a little, she eased out of her dress, climbed into pyjamas and got into bed. Normally she read for a while, but nothing about the book she’d brought with her appealed, so she turned off the lamp and courted sleep.

An hour later, still wide awake, she got out of bed and padded across to her window, pulling back the drape to gaze down across the city. Although the lights had dimmed, the Carathians were still celebrating their ruler’s coronation with gusto. She could hear singing, and recognised the sad beauty of the folk tune. Clearly it meant something important to the people of Carathia.

A sense of aloneness chilled her. Gerd belonged here in his palace above the city, and Kelt and Hani too, and Alex, although he possessed no royal blood, fitted easily into this gathering of the world’s elite and powerful.

Rosie Matthews, unemployed, from New Zealand didn’t.

Even the moon, she realised suddenly as she stared at it, was different—back to front from the one that beamed down on the other side of the world.

‘So what?’ she said into the night air, fragrant with scents she didn’t recognise. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself and at least get some rest.’

She must have slept for a few hours, because she dreamed—tangled images that had faded by the time she woke—but confronting her reflection the next morning made her inhale sharply and then apply cosmetics to banish the only too obvious signs of a restless night. Breakfast was served in her room, interrupted by a visit from Hani, who eyed her with concern.

Rosie pre-empted any query by saying firmly, ‘I was too excited to sleep much last night—just like an overwrought kid after a birthday party.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Hani said in the resigned tone of a mother who’d had to deal with just that situation. ‘But it was a great day, wasn’t it?’

‘It’s been a fabulous week,’ Rosie said in her airiest voice. ‘Like living in the Middle Ages, only with bathrooms and electricity.’