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A Royal Bride of Convenience
Rebecca Winters
When ten-year-old Princess Francette met her betrothed, teenage Prince Raimundo, they hated each other and vowed never to marry…But their parents planned to join their two powerful kingdoms. It would be a royal wedding…of convenience!
About the Author
REBECCA WINTERS, whose family of four children has now grown to include five beautiful grandchildren, lives in Salt Lake City, Utah, in the land of the Rocky Mountains. With canyons and high alpine meadows full of wild flowers, she never runs out of places to explore. They, plus her favourite vacation spots in Europe, often end up as backgrounds for her Mills & Boon
Romance novels because writing is her passion, along with her family and church.
Rebecca loves to hear from her readers. If you wish to e-mail her, please visit her website at www.cleanromances.com
Look for an exciting new novel from
Rebecca Winters,
Miracle for the Girl Next Door,
available from Mills & Boon
Romance in June 2010.
Dear Reader,
I find royal stories irresistible because they represent life in another universe that’s right here on earth. They appeal to my love of fantasy, yet they’re grounded in reality.
I lived with several ‘real’ princesses when I attended boarding school in Lausanne, Switzerland. Like me, they were students there, but I was aware they lived a life of privilege. When the holidays came, their ‘highnesses’ were whisked away from school in limousines with royal crests in order to reach the airport in Geneva where they would fly on their royal planes to reach their royal households.
My own headmistress, good friends with a lady-in-waiting to the Queen of Spain, often went to the apartments of the Queen when she was in residence in Lausanne. That was a long time ago, yet my experiences abroad still creep their way into my romance novels.
A Royal Bride of Convenience, based in Geneva, might be a flight of fantasy to provide reading pleasure, but the fact remains that the fictitious Prince Niccolo and Princess Francette do exist in real life somewhere.
Enjoy!
Rebecca Winters
A Royal Bride of Convenience
Rebecca Winters
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
“I RELINQUISH my time to Prince Raimondo Niccolo Giancarlo di Castellani.”
“Thank you, Mr. Secretary General.”
Nic leaned forward to speak into the microphone so he’d be clearly heard. Though his parents and the majority of people who knew him called him Raimondo, to his closest friends in his military unit he was simply Nic, the name he preferred.
“For three days now, the discussion going on before this council of the United Nations has done little more than incite rancor from every side.
“We’re all assembled seemingly for the same goal—to decide how our world body should act to stop crimes against humanity, prevent genocide and end war crimes. Yet instead of putting our heads together to come up with a plan to enforce this doctrine, there are those among you once again debating the policy’s validity!
“As the chosen delegate from the Enclave of San Ravino, and personal envoy of my father, King Leopoldo, I’m making a formal protest and walking out of this conference until such a time as a majority of you can find the courage to act for the welfare of the oppressed.” His black eyes flashing, he said, “I call on any delegates in this room who feel as I do to walk out with me, as a show of solidarity against this sort of shameful filibustering.”
Before his anger turned to rage, Nic shot to his six-foot-three height and headed down the aisle to the nearest exit, carrying his attaché case. To his satisfaction other members, maybe sixty of them, got up at the same time he did. Not as many as the hundred he would have liked to see, but it proved he wasn’t a lone voice.
More suited to freefall paratrooping than sitting in a chair listening to parsed rhetoric going nowhere, he burst through the doors to his waiting limo. The heat was surprising for early June. His driver maneuvered him through New York’s heavy noon traffic to the airport.
While en route, Nic called his father’s personal secretary on the satellite phone and asked to be put through to him so he could make his report. Knowing the U.N. proceedings were being televised, no doubt someone on the staff had been keeping his father updated. By now King Leopoldo probably knew his hot-headed, thirty-three-year-old son had made an explosive departure from the world stage today, upsetting the entire proceedings.
Never let it be said he hadn’t warned his parent he was a military man, not a diplomat. However, he’d agreed to represent San Ravino at the assembly in order to appease his father, who believed in talk. He was of the old school. Nic, still to be convinced, was a man of action, not words.
For the last nine years Nic had been a part of the Raiders, a secret special operations force working in Africa, the Middle East and elsewhere. He loved what he did. The Spartan lifestyle appealed to him enormously. The only time he took leave from his unit was at the royal request of his father, and couldn’t be disregarded.
Nic wasn’t unaware that the days were ticking away until July, the dreaded time when he’d promised his parents he would get out of the military and take up his duties at home.
He made furrows through his straight black hair, anxious to jettison his suit for his fatigues. Comfort was what he craved on the flight to San Ravino, its own country within the borders of central Italy. With his duty accomplished, he could kick back and relax before he took another flight to rejoin his unit in the Middle East. As soon as he could connect with his father, he was prepared to listen, mostly, while the older man reamed him out for displaying his temper in public. Instead he heard something quite different.
“Raimondo? Where are you, exactly?”
Nic blinked. Not even a greeting? “I’m in the limousine, on my way to the plane.”
“Are you alone?”
He frowned. “Yes?”
“Good. I’ve caught you in time.”
Nic, on the verge of telling his father he wouldn’t go back to the assembly, heard the older man say, “Your superior has been in contact with me. Your orders are to fly to Africa for a dire emergency. Someone will meet you at the plane. Don’t bother to come home first.”
Surprised, Nic gripped the phone tighter. He hadn’t heard his father this intense since he’d told him of his plans to enter the military. “Were you given any details?”
“According to him there’s been another outbreak of violence in northeast Chakul. Some missionaries have already been killed. They need your particular expertise.”
“It’s a hot spot,” Nic muttered. Especially after the floods, when the clans had battled over water points for their livestock. As soon as humanitarian efforts were made to stave off hunger and disease the hostility escalated, and lives were lost. The drill was all too familiar to him.
This was the reason diplomatic chitchat didn’t get the job done—which reminded him of the gridlock he’d just left behind in New York. “Did you happen to see what went on in the general session this morning?” Better get official business out of the way while they were still on the phone.
His father made a strange sound in his throat. “I thought you would have walked out on them yesterday. You showed admirable patience under impossible circumstances.”
“Grazie, Papa.” Nic couldn’t be more pleased at the way this conversation was going.
“I was proud of you.” After a distinct pause, “About your mission—take care, my son. Come home safe.” The entreaty sounded gruff. He hung up before Nic could assure his father he was always careful.
Not only the choice of words, but the tremor in his father’s voice caught him off guard, causing his throat to swell. Normally his parent didn’t reveal his emotions. This was one of those rare moments when guilt caught up to Nic. He clicked off.
Another son might have been all the things his father had dreamed of. Instead, his parents had got Nic, their only offspring, who continually disappointed them with choices that in their mind put him in physical jeopardy on a twenty-four-hour basis. He felt even guiltier that they’d never tried to pressure him into doing his royal duty.
Since his betrothal to the Princess Francette de Norestier of the Principality of Haut-Leman on his fifteenth birthday—a nightmarish memory for him—he’d never seen her again, and his parents had never spoken of her. But as the night followed the day, he realized it was only a matter of another month before her name surfaced.
Not for the first time did a certain thought enter his mind—albeit suggested jokingly by his closest buddy Aldo. “Why not remain hidden in the mountains after one of our raids and not emerge again for years and years?”
After enjoying a round of beers one night while on leave, the idea had sounded good to him. Unfortunately it sounded even better right now, and he was stone-cold sober, but he refused to let it spoil his life while he still had a month of freedom left.
Before long the limo pulled up to the royal jet and Nic got out.
“Buongiorno, Your Highness.”
“It is a good day now that I’ve been liberated,” he said to Bruno, the dark blond steward who came down the steps to greet him. They’d been friends a long time. “Tell Rocco we have a change in plans and will be flying directly to Tangiers.”
“Very good. Will you be wanting lunch?”
“Si. Grazie.” He walked down the passageway to his suite, jerking off his tie and suit jacket. As soon as they gained cruising speed he’d take a shower, then pore over his maps to reacquaint himself with a region that was always volatile.
It didn’t take much for the clans to end up causing chaos that would develop into full-scale warfare. Too many innocents suffered. A burst of adrenaline seized his hard-muscled body as he contemplated his imminent mission.
A baby was crying.
As Lise Belard began to regain consciousness she grew more aware of her surroundings and realized her assailants had dumped her in the Fillouxes’ hut with Celeste. It was pitch-black inside. Her hands and ankles had been bound. The blanket over her head had been removed, but someone had gagged her with a foul-smelling piece of burlap and had thrown her on her side, where pains shot through her arm and hip.
By some miracle the three-month-old infant who’d been sick for the past ten days was still alive, but her pitiful, continuous whimpers wrenched Lise’s heart. Tomorrow Adam Brown, the doctor from Nairobi, was due to be here with his team, to check on the baby and bring medicine.
The village was in short supply of antibiotics and AIDS medication to prevent pregnant mothers from passing the disease on to their children, but Lise feared he and his staff would be ambushed and killed en route, all the fresh supplies confiscated.
Right now she couldn’t help herself, let alone comfort the baby, who had to be in pain from hunger by now. Even if Lise were to inch over to the crib she wouldn’t be able to reach for her. The ropes had been tied too cruelly tight.
Shudder after shudder swept through her body. For the first time in her life she knew true terror. She had the real conviction that before the night was over she and the baby would be dead.
Celeste’s missionary parents, Jean and Marie Filloux, from Neuchatel, Switzerland, had in all likelihood been murdered, and Lise was next. She could taste her fear. The sickening rate of her heartbeat sent the blood in surges against every pulse-point of her body. When she’d started this work five years ago, the risks to her life and health had seemed negligible when compared to the suffering she’d witnessed here. Someone had to try and make a difference, no matter how little.
Most of the first-aid supplies sent to the war-torn borders of Chakul never made it this far north. If it weren’t for the latest on-going bike fundraiser she’d spearheaded at home, she wouldn’t be able to give the amount of help she did.
Purchasing motorbikes for the locals allowed them to penetrate the far reaches of the various settlements with supplies. It was one of the quickest ways to bring immediate relief to the suffering after the spring rains. However, she feared that the arrival of the bikes had enflamed the warring clans and they had a special punishment ready to mete out to her.
Today Lise had made a hazardous bike trip to take the last of her supplies of drugs and food to the makeshift tent town eight miles from the village. The route was almost impassable in spots. She’d been grateful to get back to the safety of the compound by nightfall without a serious problem.
But, except for Celeste’s baby cry coming from the Fillouxes’ hut a hundred yards away, she’d been aware of an eerie silence. Of course everyone was indoors for the night. Still, that kind of quiet had been unnatural. Having shut off the motor that doused the headlight, she’d been shrouded in darkness.
As she’d walked her bike to the side of her hut, the hairs had stood up on the back of her arms and neck. Something had told her not to go inside. She’d immediately turned the bike around and started the motor up again to head for the sentry post.
The next thing she knew something had been thrown over her head, suffocating her. After being knocked down, she’d been bound and dragged for what felt like a long distance before she knew nothing more.
Lise had survived many local uprisings, but this was the first time one of the rebel factions hating foreigners, and missionaries in particular, had ventured this far from the border to slaughter innocent people.
Her family had begged her to find another way to do good. There were thousands of charitable causes that wouldn’t put her life in danger. But on a photo safari to Chakul she’d discovered the people were loving and peaceful, grateful for any kindness from a stranger.
The tour director had told everyone to bring extra paper and pens to give out to the children. Those were treasures to them. When Lise had discovered how delighted they were with the merest trifle, despite their great impoverishment, it had touched her heart and set her on her particular path. At the time it had been an easy choice to make, considering she’d been running away from pain for years.
But as she lay there, trussed up like a prized fowl to be butchered, she was aware the consequences of those choices had caught up to her. Certain death was coming. Her senses could feel it, smell it.
Celeste had finally stopped crying. The poor little thing was too ill. With no mother to hold and kiss her, she’d given up.
The quiet had an unearthly quality now. Her captors were outside, planning something. Lise broke out in a cold sweat. If she’d known how and when she was going to die, would she have still chosen to work in this part of the world?
Of course she already knew the answer to her own question, or she wouldn’t be here, but she could still grieve for certain experiences she would never know—like marriage to a soulmate, like being a mother to her own baby.
Lise had to dig back a long way to understand how she’d come to do her life’s work in Chakul. She supposed it had started as a form of rebellion against the life she’d been born into. Not against her parents, who were wonderful people, but against the royal institution itself, with its archaic betrothals, used as a sole instrument to aggrandize wealth and property.
Her betrothal had been sanctified in the church on her tenth birthday. To this day all she could remember was a fifteen-year-old beanpole, with an evil smile and black coals for eyes. Afterwards in the courtyard she’d heard him call her a royal pudding behind her back—in Italian, no less. She’d swung around and thrown pebbles from the fountain at him, screaming that she would never, ever marry anyone so mean.
That was a lifetime ago. As far as Lise was concerned, marriage was the most individual, sacred matter on earth. To enter into it for any reason but love was anathema to her.
She’d always believed that if she ever met a man she truly loved, she would seek out Prince Raimondo in secret and end their betrothal. It would kill her parents. She would be forever diminished in their eyes for putting love before them and the crown, but she knew herself too well. A marriage based on anything less would never work.
Lise knew her betrothed felt exactly the same way. Not once in eighteen years had he tried to make contact. She suspected he nursed the hope she might even have died by now. He was probably going to get his wish.
As tears trickled across the bridge of her nose, her ears picked up a sound. It wasn’t Celeste. Someone was moving inside the hut with great stealth. Dear God, please help me.
CHAPTER TWO
WITH the aid of night-vision goggles, Nic took in the interior of the last hut to be inspected. Aldo was right behind him. There was a body on the floor, another body in the crib.
While his buddy dealt with the baby, Nic crept over to the mother, who’d been bound and gagged. He knelt down and felt for a pulse at her throat. She was Caucasian. Her dark hair was worn in a braid on top of her head, the typical missionary coiffure.
She was still alive, but unconscious. No sign of her husband. If she’d worn a wedding ring, it was gone now. Thankfully the air assault had scared off the attackers before they could do her any more harm.
He removed the gag, then took out his knife to free her hands and feet. Once that was done, he easily swept up her khaki-clad body from the mat covering the floor, noting she was long-legged. Carrying her in a fireman’s lift, he followed Aldo out the door. They half ran through the compound to the area where an open-air bush vehicle filled with wounded locals was waiting. The other one had already gone.
Time was of the essence to meet the military helicopters at the designated rendezvous. Everything had to be accomplished under the cover of darkness. When the dawn came, there could be no indication that the Raiders had ever been here.
After setting her on a banquette next to a group of women, one of whom reached for the baby, he and Aldo signaled the driver to take off. They, along with others from the unit, stood on the running board, with their assault rifles positioned in case they met with hostile fire.
By the time they reached the clearing, one helicopter had taken off. The other one was waiting for them, its blades rotating. As soon as the vehicle stopped, Nic jumped off and started ushering people toward the opening. When he saw that the missionary had recovered enough to hold the baby, he realized she’d only been pretending to be unconscious. She’d done a good job of it.
Nic helped her into the helicopter. Aldo followed and closed the door for the short flight to El Wak, where the displaced people and missionaries would be given shelter and food. With their mission accomplished, Nic’s unit would board military transport and fly to the Middle East.
Counting the minutes until the helicopter landed, Nic was first out the door, where he was met by the commander of his unit. It came as a big surprise that he was here rather than with the rest of the unit. Something was up for him to be on hand for a one-night maneuver. After they saluted, he took Nic aside, away from everyone getting off the chopper.
“We have a desperate situation here that requires your help. We’ve already obtained your father’s backing, but of course it’s up to you. It’s asking a lot of you, Nic, but because of who you are, and your outstanding record of service, I’m going to ask it.”
“Go ahead.”
“Intelligence indicates that the woman on board with the baby was going to be held hostage and used as a bargaining tool for the enemy, to gain concessions from the Chakul government. You got here before they could kidnap her.”
“Barely in time,” Nic muttered.
“I understand she’s been working in the bush for a number of years, crusading for human rights. They want her silenced.”
