Heir in Exile (Royals Book 3) Page 21

  He glanced her way. “I'm sure a few might risk it, but on the whole, we're a suspicious lot about disturbing the dead. Most people wouldn't dare even touch a headstone, much less dig up a body for whatever jewels might be on it.”

  “I see.” She found that interesting. “So you'll be buried here someday, then?” Even if he was a bastard, he was still of the blood.

  “No. I'll be put somewhere else. Maybe Pallan island, overlooking the ocean. What do you think? Would you prefer a private place just for us and our kids there?”

  Chey didn't want to think about her own death, yet. She touched her stomach, letting her hand fall away a moment later. “I guess? I don't know. I haven't given it a lot of thought. I'm too busy living.”

  “We'll talk about it later, but I think it's a viable option. I like the island quite a lot.”

  “I do, too,” she said. Ahead, Chey saw a cluster of people standing near a freshly dug grave. Her heart seized in her chest, a pang of sorrow making it hard to swallow past the knot in her throat.

  Mattias, resplendent in black, stood on a royal blue length of material lined with only a handful of chairs. To Chey's surprise, Gunnar and his wife were there, along with a matronly woman she didn't recognize.

  “The woman took care of Laur when he was a baby. She acted as his mother and expressed a deep desire to be here today,” Sander said.

  “You're not afraid she's a spy or something?” Chey asked. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility in her mind.

  “Mattias says he believed her when she explained she was just the caretaker. And she admitted she knew, later on, that he must have been of royal blood. By then she loved him like a son, so we thought it would be cruel to deny her this simple thing.”

  Chey squeezed Sander's hand. “That's nice of you. She looks grief stricken.”

  The woman, in a plain black wool coat, with her silver hair caught back by a matching band, didn't appear wealthy or as if she had any other agenda but to mourn. Her face, pale and lined with wrinkles, wore a mask of dire remorse and sorrow.

  “The guards cut her, the cook, the butler and a few others loose when they took the rest of the siblings on the run. It's not just Laur she's mourning today,” Sander said.

  Mattias glanced over when they arrived graveside and inclined his head.

  A man of the cloth stood speaking with two other individuals nearby. He ended his conversation and approached.

  When Sander greeted Gunnar and Krislin, Chey did likewise, surprised to see both not only acknowledge her, but greet her with what appeared to be genuine warmth.

  Taking a seat next to Sander, she settled her hands in her lap.

  The small ceremony was harder to bear than Chey thought it might be. All she could think of was the waste of a perfectly good life, the gentle giant who'd spared her falling down the stairs and took a chance to come visit relatives even if it might cost his life. What brought the flood of tears to the surface was the violin. Encased in a small glass case, the two men standing not far retrieved it from somewhere beyond the seats and placed it atop the coffin. A gift from his brothers Sander and Mattias, the priest intoned, should Laur have the urge to play again.

  No one had to tell her it was the same violin Laur had used the night of his clandestine meeting.

  After the brief ceremony, Chey stood at Sander's elbow while he and Mattias took turns explaining to the curious Gunnar what his half brother had been like. They paused to say goodbyes to the old woman, and eventually, once the priest was gone and the coffin was ready to sink into the earth, bade Laur a final farewell.

  Chey touched the wood of the coffin before letting Sander lead her to the parking lot and the waiting limousines. Ready to depart and head back to Pallan island, Chey kissed Mattias's cheek and spent a moment with Gunnar and Krislin, who looked sincerely distressed at the events.

  Mattias, fishing his phone from his pocket with an impatient exhale, stepped away from the group with an apology, promising to be brief.

  In the middle of agreeing to meet Gunnar and his wife for luncheon the following week, Mattias returned, expression as serious as Chey had ever seen it. She braced herself for bad news, clutching Sander's arm with a fresh onslaught of worry. Fearful the council had decided to arrest Sander, or banish him from the lands, or some other horrible fate, she watched Mattias meet his brother's eyes as he drew abreast of the group. He wasted no time getting to the point.

  “We need to return to the castle immediately. The King is dead.”

  . . .

  A surreal haze of shock accompanied Chey and Sander back to the castle. Details of the death so far were sketchy. The King had been found dead in his chamber. All attempts to revive him failed. No signs of struggle, forced entry, or wounds to the body. Riding in one limousine as a group, the men, voices tense and terse, talked between them the entire ride.

  Once more, Chey had no idea what they were saying. She caught a word or two amidst the rest of it, but they spoke so quickly, in such a fever, that she couldn't keep up. One thing she did understand, was that Mattias was probably now King of Latvala.

  Krislin, wide eyed and in obvious shock herself, said not a word the whole trip.

  Arriving at the castle, they discovered it was on lockdown. The number of military present had doubled since the last time Chey was here, providing a hefty barrier at all main entrances and exits.

  Inside, men and women milled around the foyer, some in a daze, others hurrying to and fro on business.

  Chey hadn't ever seen it so chaotic.

  Three men in strict, elegant suits corralled the brothers and guided them toward one of the conference rooms located on the ground floor. Sander, insisting Chey be allowed to sit in on the meeting, wouldn't take no for an answer.

  The conference room boasted an enormous oval table with enough chairs to seat twenty people, easy. One wall was for presentation, another fitted with a large screen television for video. Austere and spartan, the room served its purpose.

  Sander pulled out a high backed, leather chair for her to sit in.

  Chey whispered her thanks, relieved when he took the seat to her right. Mattias and Gunnar positioned themselves so they could make eye contact with Sander and speak easily without wrenching one way or the other.

  One of the suited men, of advanced age yet possessing the air of someone in full control of their faculties, stood at the far end of the table.

  “In English, please,” Sander said, before anyone spoke.

  “Very well,” the man said. “I am very sorry to say that your father, the King, is dead. Three separate physicians have confirmed this. No announcement has been made due to the fact that your sister and brother, along with Aurora, are still on return from ventures beyond Latvala's borders.” He paused to consult his notes, then continued. “So far, the cause of death is a mystery. There are no immediate signs of struggle or injury, no forced entry into the chamber. It was guarded by no less than four men at all times, and each one has given the same account to higher authorities. No one, other than staff, went beyond those doors. The staff are still being questioned in an attempt to narrow down who saw what, and when the King was known to be alive last.”

  Chey, attempting to gauge what Sander was thinking or feeling, couldn't get a bead on his expression. He hid his emotions well, and she wasn't sure if it was just his way, or if he was being cautious in the presence of the men who had ultimately banned him from the throne.

  “Was it suicide?” Mattias asked.

  “We just don't know yet,” the distinguished gentleman said. “Every possibility will be explored and exhausted until we have answers. As such, we prefer you all to remain here until we know for sure there isn't someone loose on the property.”

  Chey didn't find it at all odd that there were no immediate clues. Elise, the staff member who attended her room when she first arrived, had meant to kill her with the contents lurking in a harmless bottle of water. Poison or some other deadly thing that was perhap
s difficult to detect after the fact. And even if it turned out to be that Aksel took his life—would anyone be able to prove it hadn't been a staged event? A suicide that had really been murder? She remembered, months before, hearing rumors of an assassination plot regarding someone in the royal family.

  The gentleman met each of the brother's eyes at that point. “This brings us to the other critical subject of crowning a new King. Over the last two days, our offices have been inundated with phone calls, signed petitions and letters from the public. The people demand to be heard. There are talks of strikes across all manner of government jobs, schools—everywhere. The citizens of Latvala are not used to such upheaval, and news of the King's death will be yet another blow. Yet they have proven steady and true in their aim to have Sander take the title.”

  Chey glanced from the man to Sander, fretting that they were going to force him into permanent exile so the people would have no choice but to turn their support to Mattias. It made the most sense to Chey to remove the clear obstacle standing between returning the country to more normal footing.

  “According to the people, Sander is still of Ahtissari blood, born direct of the King, therefore eligible to take the throne. Even though they realize, as we have explained over the media many times, it is against the laws and covenants of this country, the people view you as successor.” The man pinned a look on Sander.

  “We've just gone over all this a few days ago,” Sander said evenly. His expression was impossible to read.

  “Yes, we have. The difference today is that the council met in private early this morning, before all this, to discuss the situation. To put someone, no matter how beloved, on the throne that the people are not fully behind, is asking for revolt. More than we are seeing here. In all honesty, none in the high council expected anything like this. That the citizens would rather shut the country down than bow to pressure from legislation that prevents them from what they consider their due. After several more hours of cautious debate, we have decided that you, Sander Darrion Ahtissari, will be the next King of Latvala should our chosen heir, Mattias, decline his rightful position.”

  As if on cue, Mattias said, “I relinquish my right to the throne.”

  The gentleman withdrew a piece of official looking paper and passed it along the councilmen to Mattias. “Sign, then.”

  Sander sat up straighter in the seat, jaw tight with tension. He watched Mattias accept the paper, along with a pen, and sign his name with no breath of hesitation. He set the pen down and looked at Sander across the table. A look that stretched into several long seconds before the gentleman interrupted.

  “Sander, do you accept the responsibility entrusted to you by this council and the people? Do you accept the title of King?”

  Shocked to her core at the turn of events, Chey stared at Sander.

  “Yes, I accept the title of King,” he said.

  The gentleman bowed his head, then removed another piece of paper and walked it, along with a pen, over to Sander, who signed it with a scrawling flourish.

  Collecting both papers, handling them with utmost care, the councilman returned to his folder and set them inside. “Per tradition, your coronation will take place seven days after the burial of the late King. You will be expected to make another statement, as you know.”

  “I'm aware,” Sander said.

  “Excellent, your Majesty. The council will reconvene and I will present the official papers, informing everyone of the decisions here today. Once we have news of your father, we will release a joint statement and declare your status,” he said. The remaining council members rose to their feet and bowed their heads to Sander.

  “Thank you. Call a meeting with the council for later this evening as well. I have a few things to discuss,” Sander said, stepping straight into his role as if it was natural as breathing. “Such as my impending wedding and the birth of our first child.”

  A collective ripple of shock passed through the room.

  “What? You're to be a father?” Gunnar asked.

  “Now that I didn't see coming,” Mattias said with a quick look at Chey.

  “Your Majesty,” the man said, echoed by the others, who all wore their surprise in the open. “It will be welcome news after the recent tragedies. Congratulations, Miss Sinclair.” The councilmen departed the room with a quiet click of the door.

  Chey, stunned at the whirlwind changes, inclined her head to the councilmen as they departed, then glanced at Mattias, Gunnar and Krislin. It had been a long day. A day filled with sorrow and the trauma of death. To cast a little shining light, just for a moment, didn't seem out of place.

  She said, “As far as I can tell, he or she will be born in the fall.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Euphoria spread throughout the country on the heels of mourning the death of the King. In a state of exultation at achieving their goal, the people of Latvala gathered en masse on Sander's coronation day, crowding pubs, restaurants with rooms for television, and in the streets to celebrate. They realized the power lie with the people when they chose to flex their collective muscle.

  Thousands had turned out for Aksel's funeral services, paying their respects despite the circumstances. Sander, his siblings and the former Queen Helina displayed varying stages of grief. Although Aksel had plotted and condoned murder, he was still their father and his passing, ruled a suicide due to effects eventually found in his chamber, hit them all hard.

  The official story, of course, was spun much different in the media. Aksel perished from a heart attack, not suicide by poisoning, and that's the way the story would stay. Some of the King's more dastardly deeds would never see the light of day, buried beneath leaden tongues and the burden of keeping secrets.

  Chey would have preferred the entire world know every horrible detail. It wasn't her place to decide, or to say, so she remained cordial and quiet and supportive of her intended. In the course of ten days, everything changed: their movements were tracked to and from all locations, they were never without escort, even outside to the bailey or for short walks to the stable and back. Someone was within sight, ready to defend the new King. Chey hadn't understood just how suffocating it could be until she experienced it firsthand.

  By the third day of it, she'd wanted to ditch the lot of them, steal Sander back to Pallan, and hide away until his coronation.

  It wasn't to be.

  For two days before the event, Natalia had thrown a tantrum of all tantrums, inconsolable about the death of her father and the knowledge Chey would one day become Queen. The walls shook with her wrath until finally, fed up and disgusted, Sander stalked the halls to her room and had it out.

  In the aftermath, a pall fell over the castle.

  Sander, shouldering meeting after meeting and interview after interview, sought Chey's company whenever he had the chance, burying himself in her softness and sweetness, relinquishing his tension and brooding nature for the Sander she'd met in the woods one fall day. He made no secret of the joy he took in her pregnancy, a joy he exposed in the quietest of times, only to her.

  Worried about the image she presented to the world, Chey chose her attire for his coronation carefully. The dress, beige in color, with ivory embroidery on the collar and wide cuffs, buttoned down the front and had a hem that reached her ankles. Of a heavy material, the dress flattered her figure and disguised the faint thickening at her waist. She chose low heeled shoes the same color as the embroidery and fastened her dark hair away from her face, a classic style of twists ending in a small clasp of pearls.

  The effect, she hoped, was elegant and cultured without being too droll. Tomorrow, she knew, a thousand critics from a thousand cities would pick apart everything from the application of her make up to the color of the dress to whether or not her lips were too thin.

  As ever, the truest test was Sander, who paused to stare after attendants came and went to 'polish' his uniform. They had made sure no lint hung anywhere it shouldn't, that all wrinkles were gon
e, and that his shoes bounced his reflection back.

  Sander's open praise was all the confirmation Chey needed that she'd chosen well. A handful of her own attendants—a thing Chey was sure she would never get used to—had argued endlessly about every detail. In the end, she made all her own decisions and stuck to her guns even when the head attendant complained there wasn't enough color.

  Chasing everyone from his chambers, Sander stood before Chey and held her eyes for long minutes. Hair combed back into the usual low tail, he exuded a regal air fitting for today's ceremony.

  “What?” she finally asked, lifting a gloved hand to smooth back her hair. Maybe a piece was sticking out.

  “Nothing. Just admiring. You wear that color very well,” he said.

  “Thanks. I'm glad you like it. You look really,” Chey paused to run her gaze along his military uniform. “Noble. The most handsome King I've ever seen.”

  “You're biased,” he said, a note of humor in his voice.

  “Of course I'm biased. You're still the man who tackled me off a horse and then taunted me about it, you know. Long before you were a King, or even a Prince, you were a thorn in my side.”

  He laughed. The first real laugh she'd heard out of him since before Laur's death.

  “Now I'm just a--”

  “Don't get coy and cocky,” she said, cutting him off. The corner of her lips trembled with a subdued smile. It was good to banter a little, take the edge off the tension.

  He arched a brow, imperious. “Are you deigning to tell your King what he can and cannot do?”

  A laugh bubbled in Chey's throat. Sander pulled off imperious well. If they hadn't just been bantering, she might have been a little intimated. “Yes, and I'll be telling you what to do again later, when we retire for the night.”

  It took him no time to discern the lascivious tease in her 'threat'.

  He barked another laugh and scooped her closer with one arm, lowering his mouth to within a breath of her own. “Little minx. No wonder I love you like I do.”