Nina Bruhns - Capturing the Crown Bundle

Nikolas left the rest of his breakfast untouched as he went inside to see about getting together with his key people and making sure that the word went out that the Union for Democracy had nothing to do with the prince’s death. Though he always advocated the mind over the sword, there was no place for martyrs in his plans. They had to be ready to fight if it came down to that.

In another town, the man whose neighbors knew him as Silas Donovan smiled to himself as he read the same article. It had begun. The unrest, the discord he’d hoped for, had plotted for and nurtured, was beginning.

He’d waited a very long time for this. Forever, it seemed. But revenge was finally taking form. Revenge against the man who had ruined his life. Who had taken his birthright. And the instrument he would use to bring it all about was a very personal one. When all was revealed, the significance would not be lost on Weston.

He could hardly wait.

Weston was grieving now. The so-called monarch would grieve even more very soon.

Silas Donovan began to laugh to himself. Anyone who would have heard him would have shivered from the malevolent sound.

King Weston looked at the young man before him for a long moment before finally responding. Grieving, still saying goodbye and unable to make himself give the order that would allow the autopsy to take place, the monarch was having trouble processing the information he had just been given.

It meant that he didn’t have to say goodbye to his son. Not completely.

“A child, you say?”

Russell had begun to think that perhaps the monarch hadn’t heard him. Since Reginald’s death, Weston had withdrawn into himself to the point that there were times when he seemed to shut out the rest of the world entirely. He was a changed man, changed completely from the genial ruler he had been.

“Yes.”

Weston took a breath, as if he’d been holding it, waiting for the right answer. “And it’s Reginald’s?”

Russell wanted to be completely honest with the king. That meant not giving the man any undue false hopes. “We’re not sure of that yet. Ms. Cordez has managed to find only a handful of e-mails from the woman. It’s going to take some time to put all the pieces of the puzzle together. And then, of course, there’ll have to be DNA testing to substantiate her claim.”

“Of course.” Weston nodded. But the look in his eyes had become eager. It gave him a shred of hope, of something to hang on to. “Does anyone know who and where this woman is?”

“We know who, or at least the name she was using.” The king looked at him, waiting. “Sydney Connor,” he told the monarch. “But as to her whereabouts, again, we’re not sure.”

“Find her,” Weston ordered.

The directive “immediately” was understood. Russell began to withdraw from the suite. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Wait.” Already at the door, Russell obediently turned around and waited for the king to speak. “You said something about ‘the name she was using.’” The king furrowed his brow, concern marking his features. “Why wouldn’t she be using her own name? Do you think this might be some kind of deception?”

The question struck Russell as odd. The king was usually sharper than this. “Your Majesty knows that royalty has always been the center of intrigue. Nothing is ever what it seems.”

Eyes that were red-rimmed from tears met his. “You are.”

Russell smiled. In all his years of service, and in the years that had come before that, when he had been Reginald’s “chosen friend,” he had not once ever lied, not once tried to present anything but the truth. “Thank you, Your Majesty, but I am the exception.”

The king laughed at the simple remark. And then his features sobered until they bordered on grave. The monarch looked at him. “You realize that if there is a child and it is Reginald’s and a male, then you won’t be the next ruler of Silvershire.”

Again, Russell inclined his head. The smile that was on his lips was not forced. It rose of its own volition. “Yes, I know.”

A man completely devoid of ambition was rare. “And that would be all right with you?”

That would be perfect with him, Russell thought. Aloud, he said, “You might recall, Your Majesty, I never wanted to be king.”

Weston was aware of that, but circumstances bring about changes, and desires flourish even in desert terrain.

“That is not what I am asking.” The king paused. “Thirty years ago, I didn’t want to be king, either. Not with as much resistance as I witnessed you originally display, but I had made peace with the fact that Vladimir would be king once King Dunford passed on the crown. Even though I didn’t feel that Vladimir had the best interests of the people at heart, he would have had my allegiance.

“However, after my protests had been overridden and King Dunford gave the crown to me, I discovered that I liked being the king. Liked having the reins of the country in my hand. Liked the thought that perhaps I was helping the people I was serving. I knew in my heart that Vladimir would abuse his power, place himself first instead of in the service of his people, so initially I took it as my obligation.”

For a moment, Weston allowed his thoughts drift to another time, a time when his hair was dark and his body firmer. When there had been a wife by his side and anything was possible.

“And eventually,” he continued, looking at Russell, “I was glad I did. Eventually, I came to enjoy my lofty position. It is seductive in its own right, being king,” he confided. “Now things are in place for your coronation and I want to know, if this child does exist and we do find it, how are you going to feel?” When Russell said nothing, Weston supplied a word for him. “Cheated?”

“Relieved,” Russell finally countered after a moment had passed. “I have never in my life wanted to be the center of attention. I always did much better when I was allowed to work off to the side.”

But the king heard only one thing. “There’s hesitation in your voice, Carrington.”

He couldn’t dispute that. But he wasn’t hesitating because he wanted the crown. Not for its own sake at any rate. “I was wondering…”

“Yes?”

There was no delicate way to broach this. Russell felt almost transparent as he asked, “If I am not to be king, will my union with the princess be annulled?”

The question caught Weston by surprise. “I hadn’t thought of that. Under the circumstances, I don’t believe so, but it would have to be discussed with King Roman.” And then the thoughtful frown disappeared, to be replaced with a tickled laugh. “Forgive me, Carrington, but this is placing the horse before the cart. If there is a cart. If there is a horse,” he added with a hopeful note.

To Russell’s surprise, the king let out a long, soulful sigh. “I still cannot make myself believe that Reginald is actually gone. I miss him, Russell,” he confided, his voice lowering to almost an intimate whisper. “Miss the thought of him, actually. Our paths did not really cross all that often these last few years.” The king waved his hand vaguely about. “I was always involved in matters of state and he was always out, doing something,” Weston’s mouth twisted in an indulgent smile, “unstatesmanlike I suppose would be the best description of what he got himself into.”

Russell felt for the man, but he knew that they had to move the investigation forward on all fronts. And the king had stymied one avenue. He began as gently as he could. “Your Majesty, about the autopsy—”

Momentarily lost in thought, in the possibility that Reginald had left behind a piece of himself, it took Weston a second to realize that Russell had allowed his voice to trail off. “Yes? What about it?”