Stepping into the Prince's World (15 page)

Raoul, ten feet from the man in question, dived like lightning and brought him down in a tackle that pinned him to the floor.

The pistol in the man's hand discharged—straight into the polished floor. But that wasn't the only threat. He knew it wasn't. He held the man, pinned him down hard, and looked desperately up at the stage as he yelled. ‘Security! Drummer on stage!'

And as the dark-suited security officers streamed in from the foyer, where they'd been banished, he was remembering a letter. It had been pointed out to him by Henri. It had been addressed to the Queen...

If you don't follow our orders we'll kill the King and take you as our prisoner for ransom. You might as well pay the money now. It'll save you grief...

There'd been a similar threat—and a tragedy—in another country a couple of years back. Their security chief had been worried enough to talk to the Queen, asking permission to bolster his team. He'd wanted to increase the royal security presence within the ballroom.

‘You can do what you want
after
the ball,' the Queen had said fretfully. ‘I won't have my ball marred by a room full of bodyguards.'

He'd then shared his concerns with Henri, who'd come to Raoul. ‘Please...talk to your grandmother,' Henri had told him, and Raoul had. But with no success.

‘You're not in charge yet,' the Queen had told him. ‘This is
our
ball. You won't bring a woman of our choice. We won't have your bodyguards.'

‘They're not
my
bodyguards, Grandmama. They're yours—to keep you safe.'

‘There is no threat in
my
kingdom.'

But of course there was—and it was here. It was real. A diplomat wouldn't have faced a body-search. He'd have been able to conceal a gun.

We'll kill the King and take you as our prisoner...

There were two threats here, and he'd only disarmed one.

‘The drummer on stage!' he yelled again to the men approaching.

‘Nobody move!' a voice shouted out—icy, cold, vicious.

And Raoul twisted and stared up at the stage.

The drummer had launched himself in from the wings and grabbed the Queen. She'd been standing beside the dais while her husband spoke. The man dragged her back towards the wings, and at her throat he held a vicious, stiletto-type knife that looked as if it might have been concealed in a drumstick.

And Claire was there as well. At the sound of the gunshot and Raoul's sharp command she'd edged out from the wings.

She was right behind the drummer.

* * *

The three of them might well have been alone on stage. The men and women in the orchestra were slightly removed from the main players. The King was standing stunned on his dais.

There was the Queen and her assailant—and Claire.

The drummer was hauling the Queen further back, and as he did so he glanced behind him. He saw Claire.

He flicked her a glance that took in the swirl of her amazing skirts, her low-cut neckline and the gorgeous tiara set in beautifully coiffured curls. His glance was contemptuous—a momentary summing-up that said she was nothing of importance. She was the dirt the media had been speaking of. She was something to be safely ignored.

He had his knife to Queen Alicia's throat and was tugging her backwards.

For the moment Queen Alicia was refusing to move, digging in her toes, dragging passively, surprisingly fierce for someone so elderly. ‘Let me go,' she ordered, in a voice as imperious as her regalia.

‘Shut up!' the drummer snarled, and then as the appalled hiss from the ballroom faded to stunned silence he raised his voice. ‘One move from anyone and I'll kill your Queen. If she's so precious, stay where you are. She's coming with me. And
you
...' He turned to Raoul. ‘Let my friend go.'

Raoul was at the far end of the ballroom. He was with the security forces. They had the diplomat in their grip.

Raoul had the gun in his hand. The sound of its explosion was still reverberating through the horrified throng. He raised the gun and then lowered it, watched helplessly as the security officers did the same.

The drummer was holding the Queen hard in front of him. To shoot risked killing her. There was nothing he could do.

‘Let him go!' the drummer snarled again, talking directly to Raoul. ‘Now!'

There was no choice. Raoul gave a nod and the security officers let the man go. The man started to move up through the crowded ballroom, shoving stunned aristocracy aside.

And Claire's mind was racing. In a minute she'd have two of them on the dais, she thought. In a minute they'd have the Queen outside, in their hold. Raoul was powerless.

A minute...

She needed a second.

And the voice of her
sensei
...

She glanced out at Raoul, one sweeping glance in which their eyes met for just a fraction of a second but the message she gave him was powerful.

And then she had to ignore him. She had to move.

Now.

She kicked off her ridiculously high, ridiculously beautiful shoes and in almost the same movement lifted her voluminous skirts high. She raised her gartered knee as high as she could and with the heel of her bare foot slammed a
yoko geri
side-kick with lethal force into the back of the assailant's knee.

She'd only ever done this in training. She'd only ever known it as practice, and she'd certainly never done it while dressed in a corset and ballgown.

‘Do this and you'll rip ligaments, or worse,' her
sensei
had told her. ‘The first rule of Karate is not to be present. Where there is trouble, you are not. But if you're ever trapped in a life-or-death situation this will cause extreme pain and do enough serious damage to give you time to escape.'

And there was no doubt that was exactly what she'd done. The guy screamed and started to drop.

There was still the knife. He could kill the Queen if he dragged her with him, but years of training, years of knowledge and practice were flooding to her aid. What followed was almost a reflex action. Even as the guy buckled she had his knife arm by the wrist and was pulling it back, her other hand pressed against his elbow, pushing forward. She pressed hard with both hands and the guy screeched in pain.

‘Drop it,' she bit out as his knees hit the floor.

Queen Alicia was crumbling with them, unbalanced by the change of pressure. The combined mass of royal skirts was making the entire scene surreal—where were crisp karate uniforms when she needed them?—but she was totally focused on her assailant.

The guy's hand jerked, still holding the knife. ‘You slut...'

‘I'm not a slut,' she said calmly. ‘But I
am
a Third Dan Karate Black Belt. Drop the knife or I'll break your arm.' And she applied more pressure. Not so much as required to break it—at least she didn't think so—but enough to have him screaming again.

Enough to have the knife clattering harmlessly to the floor.

She fielded it and kicked it under Alicia's skirts—because who knew who was out there in the ballroom if she kicked it off the dais?

And she kept on holding the guy's arm, pushing him flat to the floor, with his arm still held behind him, because she didn't know if the knife was all he had. And then she didn't have to hold him, because Raoul was leaping up onto the dais with her.

She glanced out over the ballroom and realised he'd got her silent message. The security officers had moved, obviously at Raoul's command. The man he'd had to release had been grasped again.

They had them.

Security was suddenly everywhere. Control was theirs.

The guy was underneath her. The last threat. And Raoul was with her.

It was over.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A
T
FIVE
THE
next morning Claire boarded her plane.

Why not?

There was no reason why not. The ball had ended in disarray. The security team hadn't been prepared to let it continue. Who knew what else had been planned?

The guests had dispersed, vetted as they left, their credentials finally minutely inspected.

The Queen had collapsed in hysterics. Raoul had been taken up with security concerns, with coping with the ruffled feathers and nerves of the invited dignitaries, with the calming of his distraught grandparents.

Apart from one brief, hard embrace when they'd realised the danger was past, Claire hadn't seen him. She'd been whisked outside by the security people and Henri had appeared at her side and asked her if she'd like to use a salon in the palace to wait for Raoul.

‘I'd like to go home,' she'd told him, and he'd nodded gravely and organised a car to take her back to her apartment. Because that was what he thought home meant.

An hour later a slim figure in jeans and a windcheater had slipped out of her apartment, carrying her own baggage to the taxi she herself had arranged.

And now she was on the plane, staring fixedly forward while she waited for take-off. White-faced but determined. What a way to end it. Maybe she should have waited, but her ticket was for this morning and there was no point. What had to be said had been said.

Marétal to London. London to Sydney. In twenty-four hours she'd be back in the apartment she hadn't been near for almost six months.

She had work to do—she'd come to Marétal on a contract and she'd fulfil her obligations. The next few months would be busy. But she wouldn't return to Marétal. Her report would be emailed. Raoul and his staff could use it or not.

She felt ill.

‘Orange juice?' A steward was moving down the aisle, offering refreshments. ‘I'm sorry, but there's a slight delay in take-off. It shouldn't be more than half an hour.'

She closed her eyes. Half an hour. The beginning of the rest of her life.

Raoul. How could she leave him?

How could she not?

She should be exhausted. She should sleep. But of course sleep was nowhere. She was still wired, still filled with adrenalin, still seeing Raoul heading towards the stage to help her. Still seeing the fear on his face.

He loved her. She knew he loved her. And to be loved by such a man...

Such an impossible man.

There was a stir among the passengers and she opened her eyes and glanced out of the window. There were two dark limousines, their windows tinted to anonymity in the dawn light, driving onto the tarmac. They stopped and a security contingent emerged from the second car—suited men, armed, dangerous.

Where had they been last night?

And then the door of the first car opened and out stepped...

Raoul.

Raoul in jeans and T-shirt, carrying a rough canvas duffel. Raoul looking every inch
not
a royal.

There was fierce talk between the men—remonstrance? But Raoul simply shook each man's hand and then turned and looked up at the plane.

She shrank back. If he was here to take her off the plane...

She wouldn't go. She couldn't.

She sat head down, scarcely daring to breathe, but nothing happened. She couldn't see the door from where she sat. There was a murmur of interest from the passengers forward of her and then nothing.

‘Prepare for take-off...'

Nothing more was said. She ventured a peek out of the window. The cars were gone.

The plane turned its big nose ponderously out to the runway, the taxiing complete.

She closed her eyes as the plane gathered speed and then they were in the air.

Marétal was left behind.

‘Would you like a facecloth?' An attendant was moving down the aisle, doing her normal thing, business as usual.

She offered the facecloth to Claire and Claire buried her face in it.

‘Hi,' said a voice behind the attendant—a voice she knew so well. ‘Do you think that when you're all washed up you can cope with a visitor?'

The seat next to hers was empty. Of course it was.

That couldn't just be a coincidence, she thought as Raoul sank down beside her, and amazingly she even found space to be indignant. The plane was almost full. How had he managed this?

He was royal. Being royal opened doors.

‘Very nice,' Raoul said approvingly as he sank into the business class seat. ‘I'm back in cattle class. I had to be ever so charming to the staff to be allowed up here.'

‘You're in Economy?' As a first statement it was pretty dumb, but then dumb was how she was feeling right now.

‘
Your
travel is funded by the Royal Family of Marétal,' he told her. ‘I'm funded by me. And I'm unemployed. We unemployed people need to watch every cent.'

It was too much to take in. ‘Why...why are you here?' she managed, and for answer he simply took her hand.

‘You saved the life of the Queen of Marétal. Someone has to thank you. I got busy, and when I had time to look around you were gone.'

‘I had a plane ticket.'

‘So you did.' His hold on her hand tightened. ‘As it happened, so did I.'

‘You...?'

‘You don't think I'd let you go all the way to Australia without me?'

‘Of course I do,' she snapped. She was tired, confused, and starting to be angry. ‘Raoul, this was never the plan. Go away.'

‘It's a bit hard to go away now,' he said, peering out of the window to the night sky. They were now thousands of feet high. ‘I believe I've burned my bridges. Henri's cleaning up the loose ends in Marétal. I'm here with you.'

‘Henri...'

‘He's good,' Raoul told her. ‘He's the new administrator of the country. I'm unemployed.'

Unemployed...

He took her breath away. He was looking endearingly casual, in jeans and a tight T-shirt that showed every muscle his army life had toned. He was starting to look a bit unshaven. The difference between now and when she'd last seen him was extraordinary.

Unemployed?

‘I've quit,' he told her, settling in. ‘This is very nice indeed. How long do you think they'll let me sit here?'

‘As long as you want. You're the Prince,' she snapped.

He shook his head. ‘Nope. I need a new title. I've been Prince Raoul. I've been Lieutenant Colonel de Castelaise. Now I need to be just plain mister. Mr de Castelaise? That sounds wrong.
Monsieur?
Yes, but I intend to be an Aussie. Any suggestions?'

She had no suggestions at all. She could only stare. If she went back behind her facecloth again would he disappear? This felt surreal.

She was starting to feel as Cinders must have felt when her coach had turned back into a pumpkin. In the middle of the road surrounded by orange pulp. Stranded.

Hornswoggled.

‘You can't...just resign,' she managed at last, and Raoul nodded, thoughtful.

‘That's what I thought. I couldn't see how I could. But when it got closer to losing you I didn't see how I
couldn't
.'

‘Your country needs you.' Her voice was scarcely a whisper.

‘That's what I believed, too,' he told her. ‘But over the last few weeks I've been looking hard at how our country's run and seeing things in a different light.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘I'm not sure I do either,' he told her. ‘Not fully. But what I
do
know is that my grandfather wasn't born to rule. Yes, he was the heir to the throne, but his head was always in his books. His parents despaired of him. His country despaired of him. But then he did something amazing. He met and married my grandmother. She wasn't what you might call a commoner—she was Lady Alicia Todd—but she was just the daughter of a country squire and she had no pretensions to royalty. But she married my grandfather, she took up the reins of the country, and she's been a superb monarch. She's fading now. She's ceased to move with the times, but she's still awesome. She's still the Queen.'

‘She needs help. You said yourself...'

‘I know she does. But when I was thinking this through I wondered... All those years ago, what would my grandfather have done if someone had told him—as I believe many people did—that Alicia wasn't fit to be Queen? And the answer was obvious. He would have abdicated rather than lose her.'

‘You're not threatening...?' Still she was having trouble getting her voice to work. ‘You're not threatening to abdicate?'

‘I haven't threatened anything,' he told her. ‘I've left.'

‘You've walked out?'

‘Hey, I'm honourable,' he told her, sounding wounded. ‘How could I just walk out?'

‘You tell me. Words of one syllable,' she said, trying hard to glare. ‘What have you done?'

‘Moved the Crown into administration.' He thought about it for a moment and reconsidered. ‘That's a three-syllable word. Thrown the reins to Henri? Henri's still two syllables, but he's the best I can do. This whole situation is the best I can do.'

‘Raoul...'

‘You see, Henri doesn't want it,' Raoul told her. ‘In fact he's still trying to talk me out of it. But we're organising good people around him. It'll take time, and I will have to return to get things into final shape, but we'll make it work. We don't have a choice.'

‘But you're
needed
,' she said, flabbergasted. ‘Raoul, you know you are.'

‘And I intend to stay hands-on,' he told her. ‘I'll return every so often, for as long as they need me. If my grandfather's health declines further, then those visits might end up being long, but that's all they will be. Visits.'

‘How can you
do
that? They need you all the time.'

‘And there's the problem,' he told her. ‘I need
you
all the time.'

That took her breath away. She wasn't sure how she could make herself breathe, much less talk, but somehow she must.

‘Isn't that...?' She could hardly make herself say it, but it had to be said. ‘Isn't that selfish? Your country needs you. Even on so short a visit I could see the difference you'd make.'

There was a moment's silence. His face set, and she knew suddenly that what he was proposing was no whim. What he was saying was the end of some bitter internal battle, and even now the outcome hurt.

‘I could make a difference,' he agreed at last. ‘I know I could. But, Claire, the more I see of you the more I know I couldn't.'

‘I don't understand...'

‘Last week, after that appalling photograph and the ensuing fuss, I went to see my grandparents,' he told her. ‘I talked to both of them and I asked them honestly if they could have ruled for so long and for so well if they hadn't had each other. My grandfather, the King, was the first to answer and he was blunt. He said Alicia was his strength, and that he'd never have been able to do it alone. That's what I expected. But then my grandmother decided to be honest as well. She told me that, strong as she appeared, my grandfather was her spine. That without him she believed she'd collapse like a house of cards. That her love for him was what sustained her. And she conceded more. That royalty was a massive privilege but also a massive burden. And she said that, disapprove of you—
and
your dog—as she surely did, if I truly loved you then she understood. She'd fight me all the way to the altar—she would
not
support me marrying someone so patently unsuitable—but she understood.'

‘Oh, Raoul...' Where was the facecloth when she needed it?

But Raoul had her fingers under her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his. ‘So it's Henri,' he told her. ‘It's Henri and our staff, and my grandparents, and me working from the sidelines. In time the country will become a democracy and they'll see they don't really need a monarch. We'll work something out. We must.'

‘But
you
?' It was almost a wail. ‘Raoul, it'll take years to make Marétal a democracy, and even then the monarchy could stay in place. You'd make a wonderful king.'

‘Not without you.'

‘That's crazy. I could never be royal. Your whole country thinks I'm a piece of dirt.'

‘So my whole country can think we're
both
pieces of dirt,' he told her. ‘I dare say they will when they wake up tomorrow.
Prince Absconds With the Love of His Life.
I hope that's the headline.'

‘After the events at the ball it could be
Prince's Senses Blown to Pieces.
'

‘The Prince's senses are indeed blown,' Raoul said.

He was still tilting her face, and his eyes were now smiling. His appalling decision to leave the succession was put aside. What mattered now was them.

‘They've been blown apart by one green girl. Claire, I'm coming to Australia with you, whether you will it or not. Where you go, I go. Your home is my home. I'm not exactly sure what I'll do yet—I'm thinking maybe a job in security? A bouncer at a pub? What do you think? Your career prospects are so much better than mine right now, but regardless...unemployed or not... Claire Tremaine, will you marry me?'

And there was the end of breathing. Who needed to breathe? Who could even
think
of breathing?

‘I can't,' she managed at last. She was struggling between tears and laughter. ‘Raoul, you know I can't.'

‘Why not? Are you too good to marry a bouncer?'

‘Raoul, you're a
prince
.'

‘I can't be a prince without a princess. I thought I could. I was an idiot.'

‘You can't throw it all away.'