Saved by the Monarch

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

About The Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Copyright

Dana Marton is the author of more than a dozen fast-paced, action-adventure romantic suspense novels and a winner of the Daphne du Maurier Award of Excellence. She loves writing books of international intrigue, filled with dangerous plots that try her tough-as-nails heroes and the special women they fall in love with. Her books have been published in seven languages in eleven countries around the world. When not writing or reading, she loves to browse antiques shops and enjoys working in her sizeable flower garden where she searches for “bad” bugs with the skills of a superspy and vanquishes them with the agility of a commando soldier. Every day in her garden is a thriller. To find more information on her books, please visit www.danamarton.com. She would love to hear from her readers and can be reached via e-mail at DanaMarton@DanaMarton.com.

To Princess Judi. Long may she reign.

With many thanks to Allison Lyons.

Chapter One

Today he would meet his bride. Prince Miklos hurried along the narrow passageway. If all went well, in three months they’d be married. Given the political climate of the Valtrian kingdom, a traditional engagement in the public eye that lasted a full year wasn’t an option. The Royal House of Kerkay desperately needed the positive publicity and all the goodwill a royal wedding would bring. They needed it quickly.

There came that noise again. His attention focused on his surroundings. He wasn’t alone in the catacombs, the narrow corridors carved into stone that crisscrossed most of the city and culminated in a jumbled labyrinth under the Valtrian royal palace. Unease prickled his skin, a distinguishable sensation from the goose bumps the cool, damp air gave the prince every time he walked through here. Which wasn’t often. But today his schedule was tight and he didn’t want to waste time on the reporters who loitered around the palace entrances armed with pointed questions about the unrest in the south.

The lights flickered, but that wasn’t unusual. The electric system down here was over fifty years old, currently scheduled for maintenance. He strode forward without hesitation, his military boots making a hard sound on the stone that echoed, mixing with the scrape of other footsteps up ahead.

Some of the catacombs under the city had been turned into a tourist attraction, with guided tours twice a day, but the closed-off section under the palace was guarded twenty-four seven. He expected a palace guard would pop around a corner in seconds.

Except that didn’t happen.

Odd. Whoever was down here with him had to have heard him by now. A guard would have come to see who he was, would have properly greeted him. The sound of footsteps grew more faint, definitely not coming closer. Someone in a hurry. To get away from him?

The lights flickered again.

And he considered how he hadn’t come across a single guard yet. He picked up speed, but couldn’t catch sight of anyone, the footsteps always just around the next corner.

“Halt!” he called out, the intonation that of a military man—he was a Valtrian Army major.

The palace guard would have recognized his voice and obeyed.

Instead, the footsteps quickened.

He took off running toward them, then pulled up short when the lights went out and he was suddenly enveloped in complete darkness.

Ambush, his military-trained mind said. He stole forward slowly, taking care to soften his steps.

His hand moved to his sidearm, although, realistically, he didn’t expect much more than an opportunistic tourist who had somehow gotten past a chained gate. Gotten too far while the guards were doing something else somewhere else. The catacomb system was vast.

He stepped to the side and put his back against the wall, ready for anything. But when the lights flickered on for one second, he found the corridor empty in front of him.

And yet his senses told him something was off. He slipped his gun from its leather holster and hadn’t taken two steps forward when the lights went out again.

He could be walking into a trap—side tunnels frequently interrupted the corridor he traveled. He moved forward one slow meter at a time, preparing for whatever was to come next, cautioning himself to restraint. A prince beating up a lost tourist would make for terrible publicity, so he bade himself not to jump to conclusions and rash actions when he caught up with whoever was down here. But he kept his gun out, although he didn’t take the safety off, not yet.

He followed the sound, turned when he had to, going by feel through twisting corridors in the darkness, enveloped by damp air and musty smells. Then the footsteps suddenly died.

He strained to listen, but couldn’t hear anything. He braced his left hand against the wall to orient himself—the stone in the various passages was cut with different techniques, as the catacombs had been added to over the centuries—touched something wet, pulled his hand back.

In some places the walls were moist. There was even a small underground stream, but that was at least a mile from where he was standing.

Could be a water pipe was leaking somewhere beneath the palace. He would have to have that investigated.

He moved ahead, but could no longer pick out any sound beyond the muffled ones he made. The lights flickered back on again. He immediately knew where he was and turned the corner toward the palace entry he’d been headed for. He turned another corner, strode down another long walkway, then another. And spotted a guard, at last, by the steel security door.

“Your Highness.” The man snapped his heels together and pulled his spine ramrod straight, staring ahead.

“Has anyone come up this way?” he asked.

“None, Your Highness.”

“You’re the first guard I’ve seen since coming in through the stables.” He’d entered the catacombs through the secret door at the royal stables at the foot of Palace Hill.

“I’ll alert the captain immediately.”

“See that you do. Are the lights working properly?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“They keep going off and on down there.”

“It’ll be seen to. Is there anything else, Your Highness?” The man’s face was set in stone, but his voice betrayed his nerves. His unit had been caught derelict in their duties by none other than a member of the royal family.

And Miklos didn’t feel like going easy on him. He was a military man through and through who considered his duty sacred. “Tell the captain I want a full sweep. There might be unauthorized personnel down there.”

If the man was surprised, he didn’t show it. A complete sweep of the catacombs was rarely conducted. The last time they’d done a full survey was over a decade ago, for architectural reasons. They were testing the rock bed for stability before beginning renovations on the East Wing of the palace. Before his father’s death.

He left the guard behind and walked up the stairs, was greeted by another guard as he entered the palace proper. He checked his cell phone when he passed the man. Three unanswered calls from the chief of security. Cell phones didn’t work down in the catacombs.

He checked the times for the calls. All in the last ten minutes. Since he was already late for a meeting, he didn’t immediately return them. He crossed a receiving area and came out by the library, walked straight through and into the business offices, into the private meeting room where Chancellor Hansen was waiting for him.

“Your Highness.”

“Chancellor.” He nodded, hating that he was two minutes late. “Go ahead.”

“Are you hurt, Your Highness?” The man was staring at his left hand.

And when Miklos brought it up, he realized why. His palm and fingers were stained with blood. He hadn’t felt just groundwater seeping through the stone down in the catacombs when he’d leaned against the wall.

The full sweep would tell him what was going on. Miklos would make sure to check in later with the captain. He turned into the small bathroom off the office, left the door open as he pumped soap and thoroughly washed. “I’m fine. I would hear your report.”

The chancellor knew better than to push with questions, and gave his usual twenty-minute update instead, leaving ten minutes at the end of their weekly appointment for questions and answers as he always had. But when that was over, uncharacteristically, he didn’t immediately take his leave. He was fidgeting, shuffling papers in his appointment book.

He decidedly lingered, although he was the type to plow through his report with the force of a steam engine then be gone, rushing to the next item on his endless to-do list. He had a propensity for believing that he single-handedly kept the kingdom running.

He probably wasn’t too far off the mark.

“Is there anything else?” Miklos asked.

The chancellor closed his leather-bound folder softly and looked up with trepidation on his lined face. “The queen is…” He drew a quick breath. “The queen is…” Moisture gathered in his eyes under lids that drooped with age.

“The queen is dying.” Miklos said what for most of the country was still unthinkable. He, himself, hadn’t said it out loud until now, although he and his brothers had been aware of it for some time, communicating with half sentences and long looks of regret. “My mother is dying,” he said it now, again.

The chancellor hung his head.

“Dr. Arynak is requesting audience?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

But the good doctor had asked the chancellor to break the news first. At another time, in a different situation, Miklos would have smiled at that.

Dr. Arynak never delivered bad news to any of the members of the royal family. He had an aversion, more of a phobia, perhaps going back to his predecessors, some of whom had been beheaded for being the harbinger of bad news during the less enlightened centuries.

His evasive techniques, which he took to the extreme at times, could be annoying. He was an excellent physician, however.

“I’m so sorry, Your Highness.”

Miklos’s heart darkened. The weight that had been straddling his shoulders for the last couple of months now slid to settle firmly in his chest. How long? He wanted to ask, but for that he had to wait for the doctor’s audience.

“I’ll see him as soon as we get back from the airport.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” But the chancellor didn’t look relieved for being done with delivering the doctor’s message.

“What else?”

“Have you talked to the chief of security?”

“Not yet.” Miklos’s voice picked up some impatience, which he regretted. But what could be worse than the queen’s impending death? And the country in the worst turmoil already. He was tired of the political fires they were fighting at every level of government.

And still the chancellor wouldn’t talk.

“We must leave momentarily,” Miklos reminded him.

“There seems to be a plot to assassinate the crown prince.” The words came in a rush, with a pained expression on the old man’s face. And anger over the audacity that anyone would want to harm the royal family. And unease because he was treading on the security chief’s territory by reporting that information first.

Information that made Miklos’s head reel. “Arpad?”

The man in the catacombs…It had been a man; the footsteps gave that much away. Probably young. He’d been fast, and there hadn’t been any shuffling. Miklos looked at his left hand. No trace of the blood remained. His body went still for a moment when he thought…Alarm and urgency filled him as he asked, “Where is my brother now?”

“Meeting with a team of security advisors.”

He acknowledged the brief moment of relief and headed for the door. “Where? And why am I not there?”

“We have another appointment.”

He stopped in his tracks. How could that slip his mind even for a moment?

He appreciated that the chancellor said “We,” even though he spoke of a burden Miklos alone must bear. “I should still go and see my brother.” He glanced back.

“But Your Highness…” The Chancellor paled. “You must receive her.”

He wasn’t in the mood for musts. “I must nothing. Am I not still a prince?”

“Which is exactly the reason.” The chancellor took a tone he’d employed often during the princes’ childhood, using it for the same argument once again—duties of royalty.

Which hadn’t chafed in a long time, but they did now, when his mother and brother needed him, and Miklos had to go on a side trip to receive some girl he hadn’t met in twenty some years, all because protocol demanded. He almost told the chancellor that protocol be damned. Then reminded himself that a Kerkay never shirked any duty of the crown.

In an hour’s time—two at the most—he would be rid of the girl, and he would be back at the palace. He glanced at his watch. “Where is the meeting?”

“The Map Room. Shall I come along, Your Highness?”

“I’ll only be a moment.” He glanced at his watch again. “You should probably start getting ready.”

The Map Room was called as such not only because the floor displayed the map of the world in various colored granite, but because the shelves housed all the royal maps that had survived the tumultuous centuries of Valtria, starting with an outline of the country’s hills and rivers, hand-painted on scraped sheepskin in the tenth century.

His five brothers looked up as Miklos entered.

“We weren’t expecting you,” Arpad, the crown prince, said with obvious pleasure in his voice, although Benedek and Lazlo—the twins—looked rather guilty.

“The 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 given the riots in the south, he’d hoped the paparazzi would have better things to do today. The political climate of the country was at the moment somewhat chaotic.

“Odd that she should choose to show up now to claim her due. At the worst possible time,” he said, hoping that the chancellor would have some insight about why she’d suddenly decided to come.

The man watched him for a moment. “I suppose there never is a right time to lose one’s freedom,” he responded simply, warm sympathy in his gaze.

Which was one of the many reasons all the princes loved him. He understood what went on inside a man just as well as he understood what went on inside the palace.

“I expect that things such as this are different for the young ladies,” the old man observed gently.

And Miklos felt a sudden shot of guilt for not having considered that she’d probably been planning this day and her wedding for a decade. If not two. Girls were like that.

“Maybe her arrival will save us. If the union goes well, if the people get behind this marriage, it might have the power to stop civil war yet.”

Miklos considered the truth in the chancellor’s words as he returned his gaze to the Valtrian Airline Boeing Airbus. The stairs were at the door and the red carpet rolled out. The ceremonial army guard stood to line her path to the limousine, keeping the paparazzi back. General Rossi had insisted on the guards to honor the occasion.

Like the chancellor, General Rossi had always been a major source of support for the royal family. He was the reason Miklos had entered the army. Rossi had been his mentor for longer than he could remember.