Amelia Autin - The Bodyguard's Bride-To-Be

Tears and years.

There was Carly, fiercely confronting the secretary of state. “You think you can sweep this under the rug? Hell, no. That’s not going to happen. The State Department is going to come up with a better solution, and this had better not impact Tahra’s career in any way, you hear me? Not in any way. Believe me, you don’t even want to be thinking along those lines, understand? Because I’ll blow the lid off this scandal so fast it’ll make your head spin. And you won’t be the only one affected by the fallout. You got that?”

Carly, so protective of her baby sister, who, Tahra was ashamed to admit, had always had trouble standing up for herself in any confrontational situation. She’d fought off the foreign diplomat who’d attacked her—at least she wasn’t that much of a coward—and had saved herself from being savagely raped by stabbing him repeatedly. But when the State Department had tried to blame everything on her and throw her to the wolves, Tahra had called Carly from jail as her world crashed in around her. And Carly had come charging to the rescue again, bailing her out, then storming the secretary of state’s office. Carly, who wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything...except losing those she loved.

In the way of dreams, Tahra was a little girl again, watching from the sidelines as most of the kids in her kindergarten class played Red Rover during recess. She knew she would be good at it. She could run like the wind and she was stronger than she looked—the locked hands could never hold her in Red Rover, she’d break through the line in a heartbeat. But the other kids never asked her to join in the game, and she was too shy to force her way into their charmed circle the way Carly would have had no trouble doing.

Then, through the murky depths of her dreams, she heard a voice. A masculine voice. Deep. Strong. Just a hint of an accent that made the English words sound unbelievably sexy. A voice she knew she should recognize...but didn’t. What was he saying? At first she couldn’t quite force her brain to comprehend, but then...

“I am back, Tahra. I promised you I would be, and here I am. I will always keep my promises, mariskya. Just as I will always honor and cherish you. Just as I will protect you with my life.”

The words floated in the ether surrounding Tahra, but there was something incredibly appealing about them. About the simple way they were uttered, too. There was also something about the voice she responded to instinctively. And she knew he spoke the truth. Whoever he was, she was safe with him, the same way she was safe when Carly was there.

She didn’t recognize the foreign word, though. Mariskya. Didn’t know what it meant. But she wanted to. The way he said it, she knew the word was important. She also desperately wanted to know who he was. Because—like the word—the man who’d spoken it was important, too. She just didn’t know why.

* * *

“The Zakharian Liberation Front,” Colonel Marianescu announced in Zakharan to the seven other men and one woman sitting around the conference table in the War Room inside the royal palace. “They have claimed responsibility for yesterday’s bombings. What do we know about it?”

Marek exchanged a rueful glance with Angelina because he knew the answer was “Nothing.” The Zakharian Liberation Front had never popped up on anyone’s radar until yesterday. And while technically this wasn’t an indictment of Angelina or him because she was responsible for the queen’s security and he was responsible for the crown prince’s, any threat to national security could be a danger to the royals, and they both knew it.

The silence in the room was deafening. “I see,” said the colonel. His lips thinned. “Needless to say, the king is not pleased.”

His last five words were a lash against the pride of all his listeners, but especially Marek. Until he’d met Tahra, nothing had been more important to him than the king he was proud to serve. Keeping the queen safe—and subsequently the crown prince when the king had personally asked him to take over protection of his son—had been especially important to him because those things were of paramount importance to the king. The king had made it abundantly clear that in any life-and-death situation, the safety of the queen and the crown prince came first. Then the king. That had required an adjustment in thinking, but everyone on the three security details had eventually come to accept it.

But from the moment Marek had met Tahra, the royal family had slid one notch in his personal priority hierarchy. Had he somehow overlooked a threat to them because of that? He didn’t know, and the uncertainty ate at his gut. Because duty was everything to him. Or at least it had been...until Tahra.

Marek dragged his attention back to Colonel Marianescu with difficulty. The colonel was saying, “It is fairly obvious from the one-sentence credo stated in their press release that the Zakharian Liberation Front’s political agenda is in opposition to the refugees Zakhar has recently welcomed inside its borders. ‘Zakhar for Zakharians’ leaves no room for any other interpretation. And all the targets of yesterday’s bombings were—”

The door to the War Room opened, and King Andre Alexei IV strode in. Everyone scrambled to their feet, but the king said quickly, “As you were, gentlemen. I apologize for being late—I had intended to be here from the beginning, but I was detained by the Privy Council.” He spoke softly with his cousin, Colonel Marianescu, then nodded and faced the room again, standing. “What I have to say will not take long.”

Marek had rarely seen the king like this—cold anger was coming off him in palpable waves. “I will not speak the name of this organization because its very name is an affront to every decent Zakharian. Nor will I repeat their credo for the same reason. All I will say is that this organization’s actions are unacceptable. Unacceptable!” The king paused and clenched his jaw against the anger that obviously threatened to get away from him.

When he had himself under control again, the king continued. His voice was soft, but no one in the room took his words as anything other than a direct order. “I want three things. First, I want the refugees who are here at my invitation to be protected at all costs. Second, I want the individuals involved in these murderous and cowardly acts caught and brought to justice. Third, I want this organization rooted out and destroyed. It is one thing to espouse this credo—every man is entitled to his own thoughts. It is another thing entirely to take violent action to force that on others, and it will not be tolerated. Is that understood?”

A chorus of “Yes, Sire” echoed through the room.

The king nodded with satisfaction. “Very good, gentlemen. I will leave you and Colonel Marianescu to work out the details. Thank you.” He turned and spoke privately with his cousin for a moment, then they headed for the door together. As they had when the king had entered the room, everyone stood and remained at attention until he was gone.

Angelina caught Marek’s eye. “Have you ever seen him this angry?” she whispered as they took their seats again. “Not even the assassination attempt on his son generated this kind of reaction as I recall.”

“I did not witness it myself, you understand,” Marek replied in an undertone that couldn’t be heard by the others sitting around them. “But he nearly killed Prince Nikolai for attempting to kill the queen. That was before she was the queen,” he clarified. “The man who did witness it said the king’s anger was awesome to behold—similar to his reaction today, I would imagine. I do not know how the queen convinced the king otherwise, but somehow she did, and Prince Nikolai lived that night—he went on to stand his trial before being convicted.”