Saved by the Monarch. Dana Marton
chief of security and the rest of the advisors aren’t here yet.” Janos stated the obvious. He was a prominent economist and involved with politics, as well. His face showed the shadows of sleepless nights.
“And yet you’re all here,” Miklos remarked, glancing at the old leather-bound book Janos had shoved behind his back as Miklos had entered but now was pulling out again.
Not the book?
Miklos put a scowl on his face, regretting that none of his brothers was easily intimidated. “No,” he said with emphasis.
“The times are calling for—” Lazlo, a brilliant entrepreneur and born gambler, started to say.
Miklos cut him off. “When were you going to tell me about this?”
“Tonight.” Arpad leaned against the fifteenth century massive walnut desk. “We thought you were, er, otherwise engaged?” His right eyebrow slid up, an amused look on his face.
“Leaving momentarily,” Miklos said with utmost restraint. “You can put that book away. I’ll take care of this with the security chief. You’ll be safe, Arpad, I swear to that.”
Arpad was a colonel in the air force, but he was the crown prince and could not be part of the kind of foolishness that had been cooked up, no doubt, by the youngest princes. Arpad was to be protected.
Miklos was the only other one with military training among the six brothers. He was the one who was involved with state and palace security anyway. “The Brotherhood of the Crown is a legend,” he snapped at them.
“A legend that is about to be resurrected.” Lazlo was grinning from ear to ear. That one had way too much taste for adventure.
But all of them, Miklos noticed, looked rather pleased with themselves. They were looking at this as a chance to have some fun, a great change of pace from the sheer dullness of palace protocol and state duties. He hated to be a drill sergeant all the time, but their wild ideas did need someone to corral them.
Not that he didn’t feel just a twinge of excitement, looking at the beat-up book.
The story had been his favorite in his boyhood. He and his brothers had spent endless time acting out the glorious deeds of the Brotherhood on the back stairs of the palace, in the secret garden and in the catacombs. But what had been grand entertainment for young boys was surely not a worthwhile discussion for grown princes.
“The queen is not well,” he reminded them. And from the way their faces turned somber, he knew that they, too, had heard the latest news about their mother.
“That means the country needs the Brotherhood now more than ever,” Janos countered with a dark look.
Miklos drew himself straighter and deepened his frown, then stifled an impatient growl when none of his brothers looked like they took him seriously at all. “We have other duties. Real duties,” he pointed out. “You can trust the military with protecting our family and the country. If you want to escalate things, we can always bring in General Rossi,” he offered, aware that his words lost some of their conviction.
His brothers didn’t miss a thing. Now they were all grinning. Damn, but they knew they had him. They were circling him already, never mind that there were only six Kerkay brothers, unlike the eight original princes of the Brotherhood of the Crown who had banded together two hundred years ago, a secret society to protect the kingdom during civil unrest and outside manipulation. The story of their wild adventures had been spread far and wide. And was vastly exaggerated, no doubt. But they were the heroes of every Valtrian boy for the past two centuries.
Lazlo formed a fist and extended his hand into the middle, always first into mischief. Benedek went next—the twins were always on the same page. Then Istvan, a cultural anthropologist who really should have known better, put his fist in. Then Janos. Then Arpad. And Miklos felt himself swept along in the spirit of the moment. In any case, he had to be in. God knew what trouble they would get into without him.
“Duty and honor, our lives for the people and the crown.” They swore as one the oath of the Brotherhood, their voices deep and strong, amplified in the cavernous room.
Then Miklos broke up the circle, mindful of the time. The next second, the chief of security was coming through the door.
Janos shoved the book into his waistband at his back and greeted the man with a nonchalant expression. “There you are. Any news?”
Miklos stayed another minute to listen to the sordid details of the plot against his eldest brother and the kingdom. What had emerged kept him preoccupied all the way to the airport in the royal limousine.
And then, God help him, they were there.
For most of his life, his arranged marriage was a distant thought. So distant, in fact, that sometimes he completely forgot about it until he was reminded by the chancellor’s annual report about the girl his parents had handpicked for him at the moment of her birth.
He was a prince of Valtria, second in line to the throne. He knew all about responsibility, had always known this day would come, had always been careful to keep out of deep entanglements. But knowing that he must one day marry for the good of the crown, and stepping out of the royal ceremonial limousine at the national airport to receive his future bride, were not the same.
Arpad was the crown prince and the eldest. He’d been supposed to marry first. But that agreement had fallen apart two years ago, and Arpad had been dragging his feet since, putting off selecting a new bride.
“Splendid, Your Highness, splendid.” The chancellor beamed now in full ceremonial regalia. He had found a minute to change to give the occasion its due before they left the palace.
That much velvet could not be good for a body.
Being an army major, Miklos was spared the frills and allowed to wear his military dress uniform to the momentous occasion, which he’d donned at his rooms at the military base before coming up to the palace.
“She’s an excellent choice, Your Highness,” the chancellor said for the hundredth time, probably sensing the prince’s hesitancy and working hard to dispel all last-second doubts.
He was downright cheerful, as if their conversation at the palace a short while ago had never happened. His smile fitted the occasion. He always fitted the occasion. Rose to it, by God, come hell or high water, and age hadn’t slowed him any. He had served, in one position or another, since the queen had been crowned at the age of twenty-nine, forty years ago, the year Miklos had been born. The chancellor had been a constant part of the six princes’ lives as much as their parents, had always been loyal, always on their side against the media, critics, political slandering, whatever.
Which was why his excitement over the arrival of Lady Judit Marezzi felt a lot like betrayal.
“Her background is spotless. A very sensible woman. As soon as she is tried and tested in situ, and you’ve had a little time to spend with her, the official announcement can be made. If all goes as expected.”
Did that mean it wasn’t a done deal? Miklos perked up a little.
“I already have the press releases ready to go.”
Resignation defeated hope.
Close to forty, he was used to freedom. And he had more than enough responsibility on his hands; he didn’t need the addition of a wife and all the drama that went with it.
His parents, the king and queen of Valtria, had presented a picture-perfect marriage on ceremonial occasions, but life had been far from heavenly at the royal palace. Theirs, too, had been an arranged marriage—for the sake of alliances—that would have been perhaps better off left unarranged. The princes’ childhood had plenty of rough spots because of that.
He watched the press, cameras lined up in the distance. The time and place of the arrival had been leaked to a few favored sources in an attempt to control coverage while not appearing as if they were completely shutting the public out. But