The Bodyguard's Bride-To-Be

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The queen set her plate down and took a seat at the table, then darted a quick glance at Tahra’s face and changed the subject. “You resemble her, you know.”

Tahra seated herself and shook her head. “Carly’s beautiful.”

“So are you.” She was as discomfited by the queen’s unexpected compliment as she had been by Ani’s. “Oh, I know you weren’t fishing.” Juliana laughed softly. “I know you well enough to know you don’t see yourself in the same league as your sister.”

“Carly is famous. Deservedly so.”

“Yes, and unlike me, she’s famous for much more than her beauty.”

“That’s not true!” Tahra said, putting her fork down and leaping to the queen’s defense. “You’re a wonderful actress.” Then she paused. “Or rather, you were before you retired. Two best actress Oscars and those Golden Globe awards,” she reminded Juliana, as if the queen needed reminding. “And you were fabulous in King’s Ransom.”

An expression Tahra couldn’t quite decipher flitted over the queen’s face. “We had this conversation before, too,” Juliana said softly, and Tahra realized what she was seeing was sadness on the queen’s part for her lost memory. “Almost verbatim.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t think of anything to add to that, so she picked up her fork with her left hand and resumed eating.

“That brings me to one of the reasons I wanted to lunch with you today. Andre,” she said, referring to her husband, the king, “and I are awed by your courage in saving those children. He expressed his own gratitude and appreciation via an official letter sent to the president, the State Department and the ambassador at the embassy.” She picked up a long white envelope that had been sitting beside her plate, with the official seal of Zakhar embossed in one corner, and handed it to Tahra. “This is a copy for your records. And when you’re fully recovered, Andre plans to hold a reception in your honor.”

Tahra stared at the envelope without opening it, then raised her eyes to Juliana’s. “I...I don’t really remember doing it.”

“But you did—do you know how many witnesses came forward to say what they saw you do with that knapsack?—and we can never thank you enough. Every parent would feel the same—that could have been my child in that schoolyard.” She touched a hand to her abdomen in an unconscious gesture, and Tahra’s eyes widened.

“Are you...? That is...” She fumbled for words to a question she wasn’t sure she should ask, and the queen nodded.

“We haven’t announced it yet—we wanted to wait until after I pass my first trimester—so please keep the news to yourself. But yes, by this time next year your fiancé will be heading the security detail for two royal children, not just one.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” Tahra gushed. Then shook her head. “I don’t mean for Marek, I mean for you and the king.” A smile curved her lips. “Another baby. That’s so exciting!”

“You love babies, I take it?”

Tahra glanced down at her plate, then back up at the queen. “I know it’s terribly old-fashioned. I know I should want a challenging career as my sister has in order to feel fulfilled,” she confided. “But all I ever wanted was to be a wife and mother.”

“There’s nothing more fulfilling than being a mother, Tahra,” the queen said gently. “Nothing.” Her unusual violet eyes glowed for a moment before turning mischievous. “And being a wife is pretty darn fantastic, too...with the right husband.” Her expression conveyed that her husband was the right husband for her...and Tahra immediately thought of Marek. She could so envision him as her husband. Not perfect. No man was perfect—no woman, either—but even though she couldn’t remember anything about him from before the explosion, his stellar qualities shone clear and bright. Not to mention the way he’d kissed her this morning. If that was the way he always kissed, she had no idea how it was remotely possible they’d never been lovers, because her body had ached in secret places, and her mind had surrendered completely to the—

“So what are your plans?”

She blushed, as if the queen knew where her thoughts had wandered. “I don’t really have any. I’m just following doctors’ orders and taking things one day at a time.”

The queen nodded her understanding and sipped at her water, which she was drinking in place of the excellent Montrachet that had been poured for Tahra. “That’s probably wise. Not easy for your fiancé, of course. Zakharian men are...” She cleared her throat. “A tad on the alpha side,” she said, tongue in cheek. “If you haven’t already discovered that for yourself.”

“A tad?” Tahra forgot for a moment she was chatting with the queen of Zakhar and answered the way she would have answered with one of her girlfriends. “Marek is über-alpha, not just a tad.” She snorted delicately. “And controlling. He thinks he knows best in everything.”

Juliana’s laughter pealed out. “Oh, tell me about it. Andre is just the same. It must be something in the blood. Zakharian men like to see themselves as masters of their fate, and Viscount Saint-Yves is no exception.”

A little chill ran down Tahra’s back, as if the name should mean something to her...but it didn’t. “Viscount Saint-Yves?” she repeated slowly, feeling as if something was right there on the outskirts of her memory, but try though she might, it wouldn’t appear. She shook her head in puzzlement. “Who’s he?”

Juliana’s mouth formed an O. After a pregnant pause she said, “I forgot you don’t remember.”

Tahra could add two and two. “Is Marek...Captain Zale...Viscount Saint-Yves? Why didn’t he tell me?”

Juliana cleared her throat. “That’s another thing about Zakharian men...most of them, anyway,” she explained. “Andre was that way when he was in the Zakharian National Forces, and woe betide anyone who addressed him as anything other than Lieutenant Marianescu when he was on duty! Zax, too. Prince Xavier,” she clarified. “Andre’s cousin, the head of internal security. He prefers his military title, Colonel Marianescu. So I’m not surprised Marek—Captain Zale—hasn’t mentioned it to you. Military service is a particular source of pride to Marianescus.”

Tahra gave up trying to eat with her left hand and laid her fork on her plate. “Wait,” she said with a mixture of bewilderment and denial. “What do you mean, military service is a particular source of pride to Marianescus? Marek isn’t a Marianescu.”

The queen hesitated. “Well...actually...he is. He has the Marianescu fingers, you know, and that’s a dead giveaway.”

Tahra just stared blankly. “The Marianescu fingers?”

“Hadn’t you noticed? It’s a slight genetic defect that marks many of the Marianescus—a crook in the pinkies of both hands. Andre has it. Zax, too. And my son inherited it from Andre.”

“But...”

“Apparently it’s a dominant gene, because it has come down through the centuries from the first Andre Alexei right through to the present day. Not every Marianescu inherits it. Princess Mara didn’t—her pinkies are perfectly straight. But Marek did.”

“But...” Tahra couldn’t seem to process that the man she thought was merely a captain in the Zakharian National Forces, and the head of the crown prince’s security detail, was in fact a viscount and related to the king.

“Marek’s grandmother on his father’s side and Andre’s grandfather on his father’s side were brother and sister. She married the Count of Mortagne, whose family name is Zale. Which makes Marek... Let me think.” The queen touched a finger to her lips as she tried to figure the exact degree of relationship. “If Andre’s father and Marek’s father were first cousins, that makes Andre and Marek second cousins? I think that’s right, because they share great-grandparents.”

“You mean I’m engaged to...royalty?”

Juliana shook her head. “Not exactly. Royalty doesn’t follow the female line, not in Zakhar. So Andre’s sister, Mara, bears the courtesy title of princess, but her son and daughter aren’t considered royalty and aren’t in the line of succession. The same goes for Marek. While one of his grandmothers was a royal princess, he inherited no title from her and he’s not in line to the throne.”

“But he is a...a viscount, you said. Right?”

“Right. He’s the oldest son of the current Count of Mortagne, and as such bears the title Viscount Saint-Yves.” Tahra’s confusion obviously showed on her face, because the queen smiled. “You’ll get the hang of it eventually. Who married whom, the role Zakhar’s nobility played in its history, et cetera.”

“You mean—”

“When you marry Marek, of course. But don’t worry about it now, just remember what I said. His military title is more important to him than his inherited title. The first one he earned. The other was merely a gift of fate.”

Tahra couldn’t take it all in. Had Marek told her all this before? Was that what he’d been referring to when he said he’d explained what mariskya meant at some point during the missing eighteen months of her life? His words replayed in her mind. “The first time I called you mariskya you asked me. But I would not tell you because you would not have understood. Not then. Only later, after I... That is, after we...”