Romancing The Crown: Leila and Gage

“What do you mean?” The question was curt, a little wary.

“Oh, come now—don’t pretend you don’t know that in the crown prince’s absence, King Marcus had been grooming you as his heir. Now that Lucas is back in the picture, your position in the royal court can hardly be the same.”

There was an ambiguous sound that could have been amusement or reproof. “It’s never been my ambition to govern a country, Desmond. I’m happy with the position I have, thank you.” And after a pause… “In any case, I really don’t think it’s my position you’re concerned about.”

The reply was blustering. “Look, I’m thinking of my own future, too—sure I am. I’m not going to deny having ambitions.”

“My God, Desmond, are you that mercenary? That you’d wish Lucas had not returned, for the sake of your own—”

“How can you think such a thing of me, your own brother?” Whoever he was, Cade thought, this Desmond had apparently really stepped in it, and was now backpedaling so fast he was almost sputtering. “I only meant—I was referring to our future in service to King Marcus. My only ambition is to serve His Highness, in any way I can, as he sees fit…”

As the voice babbled on, Cade almost snorted out loud. This Desmond guy was slippery as a snake oil salesman.

Apparently his companion was starting to have some doubts about the man’s character, too, brother or not. There was a formidable chill in his voice when, after a marked silence, he suddenly said, “I see my wife is looking for me. Excuse me.”

Footsteps quickly retreated. A moment later Cade heard the hiss of an exhalation followed by some mutterings that sounded mostly like swearing, and then a second set of footsteps moved off aimlessly along a tiled path, fading finally into the general noise of mingling guests and whispering water.

Cade released a breath he’d not been aware of holding, then took a quick drag on the cheroot he’d all but forgotten. Cautiously, casually, he stepped around the clump of hibiscus. Interesting, he thought as he watched two men in white dinner jackets move off in different directions. Apparently all was not entirely rosy after all in this Garden of Eden.

Back in the crowded main courtyard, he snagged a waiter, resplendent in white brocade and saffron yellow turban.

“Excuse me—uh, do you speak English?”

Balancing a tray of fruits carved to look like flowers, the waiter dipped his head respectfully. “Of course. How may I help you, sir?”

Cade smiled in mild chagrin. The man sounded as if he’d stepped right off the campus at Oxford—or wherever it was those British lords went to school.

“Uh…yeah, I was wondering if you could tell me who that gentleman is—the one with the lady with red hair. I was just talking with him, and didn’t catch his name.”

“That would be his lordship, Duke Lorenzo Sebastiani of Montebello, sir. The lady is his wife—an American. I believe her name is Eliza.”

“Ah—of course. And that gentleman over there—the dark one? I think he said his name was Desmond….”

“Yes sir—that is Duke Lorenzo’s brother, Desmond Caruso, an advisor to King Marcus.”

“Ah,” said Cade. “Yes…thank you.”

“I am happy to be of service, sir.” The waiter bowed and went on his way.

Interesting, Cade thought again. But, since it didn’t have anything to do with Tamir or Elena or her new in-laws, it didn’t concern him, either.

He winced as a piercing “Yoo-hoo!” rose above the pleasant chuckle of a nearby fountain. “Cade—oh, Cade!”

He groaned and glanced around in hope of finding cover. Seeing none, he rolled his eyes and fixed what he hoped was a welcoming smile on his face as, with one last fortifying puff of his cigar, he went forth to greet Elena’s other guest, her loud and annoying friend, Kitty.

Leila was bored. The wedding banquet had been going on for more than three hours, and showed no signs of concluding any time soon. The parade of waiters bearing trays laden with an incredible variety of delicacies seemed endless, even though Leila—and, she was sure, most of the other guests—had already eaten as much as they could possibly hold. The food had been wonderful, of course, befitting a royal Walima—chicken simmered in pomegranate juice and rolled in grape leaves, veal sauteed with eggplant and onions and delicately spiced with tumeric and cardamoms. And for the main course, Leila’s favorite—whole lamb stuffed with dried fruits, almonds, pine nuts, cracked wheat and onions, seasoned with ginger and coriander and then baked in hot ashes until it was tender enough to be eaten with the fingers. Leila had eaten until she felt stuffed herself—which was, she supposed, one advantage in being forced to wear the gracefully draped but all-concealing gown that was Tamir’s traditional female costume. At least she didn’t have to hold her stomach in.

The trays now were offering a variety of fruits, as well as an amazing assortment of sweets—cakes, pastries and candies, even tiny baskets made of chocolate and filled with sugar-glazed flower petals. Ordinarily Leila had an insatiable sweet tooth, but tonight she was too full to do more than nibble at a chocolate-covered strawberry.

She had also drunk much more of her country’s traditional mildly fermented wine than she was accustomed to, and as a result was becoming both sleepy and cross. Not to mention frustrated. It was such a beautiful evening—stars were bright in the cloudless spring sky that canopied the palace’s Great Courtyard. The Walima was being held outdoors in order to accommodate the great number of guests, as, according to tradition, everyone in the immediate vicinity was invited to a marriage feast, rich and poor alike. Tiled in intricate geometric patterns and flanked on both sides by stone colonnades, the Great Courtyard was a formal rectangle that extended from the palace to the cliffs, where arched portals framed a spectacular view of the sea. Tables draped in linen and set with fine china and crystal had been set up on both sides of a chain of fountains and narrow pools that divided the courtyard down the middle and reflected the stars and hundreds of flickering torches. A light breeze blowing in from the sea was heavy with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and moonflowers. It was a beautiful night. It might also have been—should have been—a very romantic night.

Except that Leila had been trying all evening without success to catch the eye of the man she would very much have liked to share such an evening with—the man she had noticed that morning in the garden, the Texan in the dove-gray suit and cowboy hat. As luck would have it, he was sitting at a table almost directly across the reflecting pool from hers. Tonight the hat was absent, and, like many of the other male guests present, particularly those from Montebello and America, he wore a white dinner jacket. Though in Leila’s opinion, none of the other guests looked so lean and fit and dangerous in theirs, or boasted such broad and powerful shoulders. She could see now that his hair was thick and wavy, a rich dark blond. It gleamed like gold in the flickering light of the torches. She would like to know what color his eyes were, but they were set deep in his rugged face, and masked in shadows.

If only we could dance like Americans do, she thought wistfully as she watched a line of professional performers of the traditional Tamari dances, faces veiled and torsos cleverly concealed, undulating their way down the length of the courtyard, weaving in and out among the tables to the rhythmic keening of native flutes and sitars. Jewels flashed from their ankles, wrists and hair as they performed the intricate hand movements and kept time to the music with tiny finger cymbals. Like most girls in her country, Leila had learned secretly as a child how to dance the traditional dances, though of course it would not have been proper for a princess to actually perform for anyone—except, perhaps, for her husband, in the privacy of their marriage chambers. If I ever have a husband, she thought moodily, as without her realizing it, her body began to move and sway in time to the music.

On her right, Samira nudged her and hissed, “Leila—stop that. Someone will see you.”

Leila rolled her eyes. So what? she wanted to say. It would not be the first time. Many people had seen her dance in Switzerland and England, and the world had not come to an end. When she was in boarding school she had learned to dance the western way, to rock and roll music, and in England she had even—and she was sure her father would have a heart attack if he knew—danced with boys the way westerners did. Touching one another. And nothing terrible had happened then, either. She was still, alas, very much a virgin. And likely to remain one for the foreseeable future.

“I am bored,” she whispered back. “I have eaten too much and I want to lie down. When is this going to be over?”

“Hush,” Samira scolded. “This is Hassan and Elena’s night. Remember your manners.”

“I wish we could at least mingle with the guests—talk to them,” Leila said, wistfully eyeing the golden-haired man across the reflecting pool. But his head was bowed as he listened, apparently with close attention, to the frizzy-haired woman seated next to him. Leila sighed. And before she could stop it, her mouth opened wide in a blatant, jaw-popping yawn.

“I’m sorry?” Cade politely lowered his head in order to hear what the woman at his side was saying above the discordant wailing these people called music.

Kitty repeated it in a loud, hoarse whisper. “I said, that girl across the way over there has been tryin’ her darndest all evenin’ long to catch your eye. I believe she’d like to flirt with you.”

Cade’s glance flicked upward reflexively. “Oh yeah? Which one?” Anything, he thought, to relieve the tedium. He wasn’t accustomed to spending three hours over dinner.

“That one—the real pretty one in the aqua blue dress…long black hair with gold thingies in it…looks like something out of The Arabian Nights. See her?”

Cade looked. He’d already noticed the girl, since she was drop-dead gorgeous and he was a man and only human. Now, though, he felt a shiver of silent laughter ripple through him. “You mean, the one who looks like she’s about to swallow herself?”

His amusement blossomed into an unabashed grin as the girl’s bright and restless glance collided suddenly with his. Her eyes went wide with horror and she slapped a long, graceful hand over her mouth in a belated and futile attempt to cover up the yawn. Next, he watched, fascinated, as a parade of expressions danced across her face like characters in a play: dismay, chagrin, vexation, arrogance, pride, irony…and finally, to his delight, a dimpled and utterly winsome smile.

Kitty gave a little crow of triumph. “There, you see? I told you she was flirtin’ with you.”

“Kind of young, don’t you think?” Cade drawled. “Not to mention,” he added, as the significance of that circlet of gold medallions on the girl’s head sank in, “if I’m not mistaken, she’s a princess.”

“Really?” Kitty gasped before she caught herself, then added with a lofty sniff, “Well, so what if she is? Hassan’s a prince. That didn’t stop Elena.” She gave an excited little squeal. “Oh—I just realized—that would make her Elena’s sister-in-law, wouldn’t it? I’ll bet she could introduce us—uh, you.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Cade said dryly. “Looks to me like they keep those princesses pretty tightly under wraps.”

Pretending disinterest, he watched out of the corner of his eye as an older woman flanked by a cadre of female servants suddenly appeared beside the princesses’ table across the way. This woman he knew. He’d been presented to Tamir’s first lady—Elena’s new mother-in-law—along with her husband, Sheik Ahmed, following the wedding ceremony last night. Alima Kamal—who, he’d been told, preferred not to use a royal title—was dressed in the same gracefully draped style of gown as were her daughters, this one deep royal blue liberally trimmed with gold. Like her daughters, she wore a circlet of gold medallions in her still-raven black hair. They glinted in the torchlight as she gracefully inclined her head. Without a word, all the occupants of the princesses’ table rose and were swallowed up by the royal entourage, which then moved away in the direction of the palace, veils fluttering, like a dense flock of brightly plumed birds.

“Wow,” breathed Kitty. “It really is like something out of The Arabian Nights. Do you think they keep them in a harem?”

Cade gave a snort of laughter. “I’m sure they don’t. For starters, the sheik only has one wife. And, if Hassan is any indication, they’re pretty westernized here. All this native costume stuff tonight—the turbans and veils—I’m sure is just for this occasion. Some kind of wedding tradition, probably.”

“Umm-hmm…” Kitty was thoughtfully chewing her lip. “Well, I’ll still bet Elena could introduce you to that cute little sister-in-law of hers, if you asked her to.”

“No, thanks.”

“Why not? She’s very pretty, and she was definitely interested in you, Cade.”

“Not on your life.” Cade’s grin tilted with grim irony. A knockout she might be, but not really his type and way too young for him, anyway. Not to mention that the very last thing he needed was to get tangled up with some royal pain-in-the-ass princess, when what he was really hoping for was to close a nice, lucrative business deal with her father, the sheik.

Chapter 2

Eight horses thundered in close formation down a grassy plain on what appeared to be a collision course with disaster. Long-handled mallets flashed and winked in the bright morning sunlight to the accompaniment of guttural cries, grunts of effort, and shrill and imperious whistles, while on a sideline shaded by olive trees that looked as though they might easily have dated from biblical times, Cade watched the proceedings with an interest that could best be described as ambiguous.

He wasn’t a polo fan—in fact, he knew next to nothing about the game. He considered it a rich man’s sport. And while there were some who’d place Cade in that category, he certainly never thought of himself in those terms. As far as he was concerned he was just a hardworking businessman who happened to have made a lot of money, which put him in an altogether different class than those who had nothing better to do with their time than gallop around a field on horseback jostling one another for the chance to whack a little ball with a big mallet.

“Snob,” said Elena teasingly when he voiced that opinion to her. “I knew it. You, Cade, are a working-class snob. Come on—polo is the sport of kings.”

“I rest my case,” Cade said around the stem of his cheroot.

“And, it’s one of the oldest sports, maybe the first ever invented.” She shot him a mock-piercing look. “What’s this prejudice you have against royals? Seeing as how I’m now one.”

“Prejudiced? Me?” he countered in mock outrage. “I don’t even know any royals—except Hassan, I guess.”

“That’s what prejudice is,” Elena said smugly. “Forming an opinion without personal knowledge.” Her eyes went to the riders on the field, seeking and fastening on one in particular. “Anyway, you’ve met a few more in the past couple of days. Hassan’s parents…What did you think of them, by the way?” Her tone was carefully casual, but Cade heard the question she was really asking: Do you like him…my husband, Hassan? Please like him.

He glanced down at the woman he’d thought of as a sister for most of his life, arguably the only family he had left. He said gruffly, “I had my doubts about your husband for a while. You know that.” His voice softened. “But as long as he does right by you, that makes him okay in my book.” He paused. “So…are you? Happy?”

She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, then smiled up at him, and he read her answer in her shining eyes before she spoke. “Yeah, Cade…I am.”

Cade took a quick sip of his cheroot, surprised again by that sudden fierce ache of envy. “Then that’s what counts.”

Elena shot him a searching look. “So…what did you think of them—Hassan’s family? The old sheik?”

He took a moment to consider, though he didn’t need to. “Ahmed’s a sharp old fox,” he said finally. “Knows what he wants for his country, and won’t give an inch until he gets it. He’ll drive a hard bargain, but he’ll be fair.” He gave a dry chuckle. “I’m looking forward to doing business with him.” “What about his wife—Alima?” Elena smiled ruefully. “My mother-in-law.” She paused, shaking her head. “Boy, I never thought I’d say those words.”

“She seems very nice—warm.” He didn’t tell her that for some reason the sheik’s wife had reminded him, in ways that had nothing to do with physical resemblance, of his own mother. What he remembered of her, anyway.

“And Rashid?” Elena’s eyes were once more on the field of play, watching the swirling mélange of men and horses. Sunlight glinted off helmets and goggles and sweat-damp horsehide, while brightly colored jerseys tangled together like ribbons. Eyes sparkling, she answered herself before he could. “He does raise some fine ponies, you’ve gotta admit.”

Cade grinned. “He does that.” He’d been admiring Rashid’s own mount in particular, a dapple gray stallion with the Arabian’s classic dish face and high-arched neck, graceful, delicate lines and, it appeared, the courage of a lion. He was hoping to find an opportunity to talk horse breeding with the prince…maybe discuss an exchange of bloodlines—

His thoughts scattered like dry leaves as several ponies thundered down the field in tight formation, close to the sideline and only a few yards from where he and Elena were standing, shaking the ground beneath their feet. A gasp went up from the spectators, followed by shouts—mostly of triumph, intermingled with a few moans of dismay. Apparently the Tamiri team, jubilant and easily distinguishable in bright gold and black, had just scored on the scarlet-clad Montebellans.

Distracted by the celebration on the playing field, it was a few seconds before Cade noticed the woman running—no, dancing—along the sideline, keeping pace with the ponies galloping barely an arm’s length away beyond the low board barrier. He had an impression of slenderness and grace as unselfconscious as a child’s, of vitality as voluptuous and lush as Mother Earth herself. The unlikely combination tugged at his senses—and something else, some cache of emotions hidden away, until that moment, deep inside him. His breath caught. Protective instincts produced electrical impulses in all his muscles.

She’s too close. She’ll be trampled!

The alarm flashed across his consciousness, there one second, gone the next. Cynically, he thought, She’s a grown woman, she’s got sense enough to stay out of harm’s way. His heart was beating fast as he settled back to watch her. He realized that, incongruously, he was smiling.

She was dressed all in earth tones—shiny brown leather boots to the knee, a divided skirt in soft-colored camel suede that hugged her rounded hips like kid gloves, and a cream-colored blouse made of something that looked like—and undoubtedly was—silk, with long flowing sleeves cuffed tightly at the wrist. The skirt was belted at her waist with a silk scarf patterned in the Tamari team colors—yellow and black. She wore a hat to shade her face from the blistering Mediterranean sun, the same soft suede as her skirt with a wide brim and flat crown, like those Cade associated with Argentinean cowboys. A hatstring hung loosely under her delicate chin to keep the hat from blowing off in the unpredictable sea breeze. Beneath the hat, raven-black hair swept cleanly back from a highcheekboned face to a casually wound coil at the nape of a long, graceful neck.

Entranced, Cade thought, I wonder who she is. And following that, clearly, distinctly, I want her.

He acknowledged the thought unashamedly but with a wry inner smile. He was fully grown-up, no longer a child, and years ago had learned that wanting did not necessarily mean having.

Shouts of outrage and a shrill whistle interrupted his appraisal of the woman. He almost chuckled aloud as he watched her express her own dissatisfaction with what was happening on the field, whirling in fury and stamping her foot like an angry child. Moments later she was in motion again as the horses and riders careened back down the field, once more dancing along the sideline, completely caught up in the action, her body bobbing, jerking and weaving in unconscious imitation of the players. As if, Cade thought, she longed to be one of them, rather than just a spectator.

And then…he caught his breath. As she moved directly in front of him, a gust of wind caught her hat from behind and tipped it neatly forward off her head. She gave a little shriek of dismay and grabbed for it, but it was already tumbling across the trampled grass, directly into the path of the oncoming horses. Cade felt his body lurch involuntarily, before the thought had even formed in his mind. She’s so damned impulsive! My God, is she crazy enough to go for it?

As if she’d heard his thought or maybe sensed his forward lunge, she stopped herself abruptly and spun toward him, delightfully abashed, like a little girl teetering on the edge of the curb, preparing to earnestly swear, “I wasn’t really going to run out in the street, honest.”

Perhaps loosened by that movement, her hair came out of its sedate coil, unwinding like a living creature, something sleek and sinuous awakening to vibrant life. As it tumbled down her back in a glorious black cascade, at that precise moment she locked eyes with Cade. Catching her lower lip between white teeth, she gave him a winsomely dimpled smile.

Recognition exploded in his brain even as desire thumped him in the groin. The double whammy caught him off guard. Breath gusted from his lungs as if he’d taken an actual blow.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Cade jerked toward the quiet voice, mouth open in automatic denial. One look at Elena’s face told him protest was pointless, so instead he laughed and wryly shook his head. “Let me guess—one of the princesses, right?”

She nodded. She was smiling, but her eyes were grave. “Leila—the youngest. I’m serious, Cade. If the sheik catches you laying so much as a finger on that girl, all bets are off. He watches her like a hawk.”

“Evidently not today,” he murmured out the side of his mouth as the princess approached them, stepping gracefully up the slight incline into the shade of the ancient olive trees.

Holding out her hand to Elena and, for the moment, ignoring Cade completely, she cried out in obvious delight, “Elena—hello!” And then, her expressive face scrunching with chagrin, “You saw what happened?” She had a charming accent, more pronounced than Hassan’s—the result, Cade surmised, of having had much less contact with westerners. The quality of her voice was low and musical but with a huskiness that caressed his auditory nerves like coarse-textured fur.

“Oh, I did,” Elena said with a moan of feminine commiseration. “I’m so sorry. It was such a beautiful hat.”

The princess pursed her lips in a brief but charming pout, then smiled and gave a little shrug. C’est la vie.

She turned to Cade, finally, her eyes emerging from under thick sooty lashes like mischievous children peeking out from behind a curtain. “Hello. I am Leila Kamal.” The way she held her hand out made him wonder if she expected him to kiss it.

Which was probably why, out of pure contrariness, he did nothing of the sort, but instead took her hand in a good old Texas American-style handshake. A moment later he wondered if that had been a mistake as well. Her hand was smaller and at the same time firmer than he’d expected. It left an impression on his senses of both strength and vulnerability, and he found himself holding on to it for a lot longer than was probably sane, while his mind filled with images and urges that had nothing whatsoever to do with sanity.