The Virgin and His Majesty. Robyn Donald
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.’
Hani laughed, but the glance she gave Rosie was shrewd. ‘You say that as though you’ll be glad to get back home.’
‘I will, but I’ll never forget Carathia.’ Or the man who now ruled it.
Hani said, ‘I’d like to go straight to New Zealand, but Kelt has a meeting with the head honchos from Alex’s firm in London, so we’re going there first.’ She gave a swift, lovely smile. ‘I’ll be interested to see how our little Rafi enjoys big cities.’
Hani was right—the sooner she got away from here the better, Rosie thought mordantly as she waved the family party off later that morning. Then she could stop being such an idiot.
Once back home she wouldn’t spend wakeful nights wondering when Gerd was going to announce his engagement to Princess Serina.
By telling herself bracingly that it was completely stupid to feel as though her life was coming to an end, she managed to give Gerd a glittering smile when they met later that morning. In her most accusing voice, she said, ‘Alex tells me you killed him while you were fencing before breakfast.’
Amused, he surveyed her. ‘For a dead man he looked remarkably energetic afterwards.’
‘He’s disgustingly fit.’ Rosie smiled, hoping it didn’t look as painful as it felt. Damn it, she’d get rid of this crush no matter what it took. ‘I didn’t know he was a fencer.’ In fact, she didn’t know much about her half brother at all.
Gerd understood, perhaps more than she liked. ‘He learned at university, I believe. He’s good. I believe you’re using today to visit the museum.’
Rosie nodded. ‘I’m looking forward to that, and afterwards I’m checking out the shopping area.’
‘Just make sure you don’t lose your guide—the central part of the city is like a rabbit warren and not many of the people speak English. If you got lost I’d probably have to mount a search party.’
His smile made Rosie’s foolish heart flip in her chest. He isn’t being personal, she told herself sternly.
He went on, ‘I’d like to show you around myself, but my day is taken up. I’m meeting my First Minister and then farewelling guests.’
Including Princess Serina? Rosie concealed the humiliating