Heir in Exile (Royals Book 3) Page 7

  Chey followed behind and snapped the bolt into place. Turning her spine to the wood, she leaned against it and regarded Sander across the room.

  He finished off a first glass, watching her eyes, then poured a second. After a moment, he said, “If Helina does produce irrefutable proof, what then? Do I become the hypocrite he suggests if I fight for the throne, or do I bow out and let Mattias take over?”

  “I don't know, Sander. I just don't know.”

  . . .

  The complications of the situation seemed insurmountable to Chey. Every twist became more gut wrenching than the last. She crossed the room after Sander downed his third drink, took him by the hand, and led him through the home to one of the bedrooms. She paused to douse the only burning light and to bring the gun along with them.

  Sander put up no resistance or argument. He paced at her flank, silent, and allowed her to begin stripping his suit and shirt from his shoulders.

  Chey let her gentle touches and the whisper of her fingertips do the talking right now. Too paranoid to strip him totally naked, she only removed the clothes on his torso, leaving the pants intact. If they needed to move fast, she wanted them both to be at least half dressed.

  Leading him to the bed in the dim room, she guided him to lay on his stomach. He did so with a grunt, sinking his considerable bulk into the mattress. Chey set the gun on the nightstand and straddled his hips. She could see the knots of tension across his shoulders, along with angry red lines running parallel under his skin.

  He stretched his arms above his head, giving her unimpeded access to his entire back. Chey set her palms right on either side of his spine and began massaging languid circles over the muscles, attempting to ease some of his discomfort. She could tell he was tight and taut, unable to really relax. Even after three drinks. Allowing the silence to stretch, she worked each section until she felt a little give in the sinew. Up near his nape, she leaned down to press several kisses at his hairline. Rewarded with a shiver from him for her effort, she repeated the gesture then sat up once more and continued kneading.

  She didn't kid herself for a second into thinking he would get any decent rest tonight. Chey wouldn't be getting any either. Not even with the possibility of an unwanted visitor so distant.

  But they could rest, and gather strength for tomorrow.

  She sucked in a surprised gasp when, without warning, he twisted just enough to reach back and snag her off his body. He brought her down to the bed with him. She landed on her back at his side, hair whipping out across the pillows.

  “Thank you,” he said, words muffled.

  “I thought it was the least I could do. Besides, I haven't seen you naked yet today, and I have a quota, sir, that must be met.” She tried for a little levity to combat the dark situation they found themselves in.

  “I knew it was all about the body,” he rumbled.

  “Exactly.”

  “When do I get to see you naked? I think it's only fair.”

  Chey could hear the disturbance in his voice. Despite the easy banter, Sander was not comforted or distracted by it. Dropping the subject, she said instead, “I'm sorry you're dealing with all this. Just know that no matter what happens, I'll be right here at your side.”

  “I'm glad to hear that,” he said, obviously pleased at the topic change.

  Chey skimmed her fingers over the arm he laid across her ribs. “Your title, or lack of one, doesn't change a thing about what I feel for you.”

  “Good. For some women, it would make all the difference.”

  “I'm not most women, but then you knew that when you met me. I suspect it's why we're still together.” She reached over to brush a few strands of hair away from his face.

  “One of many reasons,” he assured her. One vivid blue eye came into view. He stared at her, lids low. “There could be a lot of scandal involved with this by the time it's over.”

  “You make that sound like a warning.”

  “It is, to an extent. I just don't want you burned so bad by it all that you decide it's not worth it.”

  “You'll always be worth it,” she whispered. “Sometimes it takes me a little while to adjust to something new or shocking, but I do adjust. We'll get through whatever comes our way. I have faith we're strong enough together to deal with the fallout.”

  He grunted. Finally, after ten minutes of comfortable silence, he said, “You should get some sleep. I'll stay awake, keep watch of things.”

  “I think I'll be able to rest if we take turns. I won't do it unless you let me return the favor later. You need to recuperate so you're on top of your game tomorrow,” she said.

  “We can trade off keeping watch,” he agreed.

  “All right. Are you feeling okay though? I've never seen you so openly distressed,” she mentioned, wanting to give him the opportunity to speak about the things that troubled him.

  “I'll get through. I'm very disturbed however by the thought that the throne is not mine by birthright. Even the idea, the slightest chance, really puts a burden on whatever choice I make from here.” His gaze went distant.

  “It's probably exactly what he wants. To make you doubt and to make you suffer,” she said.

  “I don't like the idea of becoming a hypocrite. Yet the desire to fight for the title of Heir is strong. It's what I've grown up my entire life believing. That it was mine by right.”

  Chey smoothed her fingers over the skin of his shoulder. She could hear the conflict in his voice, see it on his expression. It made her furious at Aksel for placing doubt in Sander's mind. The King was getting his way again, using nefarious means, and it galled her that Aksel might get through all this unscathed.

  “We'll concentrate on believing that he's lying and deal with the consequences only after irrefutable proof has been found to back his claim. Okay? I know that doesn't ease your concern or make you think about it any less, but the likelihood that he's being untruthful is strong.” Chey, like Mattias and Sander, thought the King was using the situation to his advantage.

  “Yeah. You go ahead, take first shift for sleep.” He met her eyes, indicating that he was ready for a stretch of quiet to think about the shift his life might take on a more private level.

  “Wake me in a few hours,” Chey said, resting her hand on his back. She closed her eyes and tried to blank her mind. She wouldn't get any sleep at all if she allowed herself to fret and worry about things she could not change. Tomorrow was soon enough to begin the process again.

  Chapter Eight

  They took turns sleeping and standing watch through the night. By dawn, they had showered, eaten a quick breakfast of bagels and cream cheese, and were ready to say their goodbyes. Sander, dressed in a new suit provided in one of the bedroom closets, hadn't bothered to tie his hair back or shave. The rasp of his whiskers reddened Chey's skin when he caught her face between his hands and planted a kiss square on her mouth.

  “I'll be back whenever we're through and I have time to make sure I lose any tail he might put on me,” Sander said. He kissed her once more and released.

  Chey stared up into his eyes, fingers smoothing the lapels of the steel gray suit coat. “I'll be waiting.”

  He released her, walked to the kitchen, and opened one of the cupboards. “Mattias left some emergency rations here. Make sure you pack a few things in your duffel after I leave, along with a few bottles of water, all right? That way, just in case, you won't be caught outdoors with nothing.” He grabbed a box of trail and protein bars from the shelf and set it on the kitchen counter.

  “I saw those last night. I'll make sure I stock up,” she promised. That particular task had already gone on her To Do List for this morning. Chey, in the same jeans as yesterday with a new, plain hoodie of beige, snagged her duffel off the floor and set it on the kitchen table.

  “Good. If, if Mattias calls and tells you to vacate, that phone he gave you has a GPS system in it, so at least you'll know whether you're going North, South, East or West. If you go South
, you'll eventually hit the shore, which means you'll run into civilization faster.” Sander took out a few bottles of water from the cupboard as well and set those next to the trail bars.

  Any other time, Chey might have smiled over his mother hen tendencies where she was concerned. She knew he had a load of things on his mind, yet there he was, making sure she had what she needed in case of an emergency. Leaving nothing to chance.

  “I'll remember. I looked at the phone last night while I was waiting and got familiar with everything it can do,” she admitted.

  “Did you check the weather, too?” he asked, coming around the counter. His features were unusually stoic and grim. “It looks like a storm might move in this morning. Make sure you have a coat with you at all times. That hoodie won't protect you against fifteen degree temperatures.”

  “It's right by the door,” she said. “Mattias left several coats in the closets here as well. I have my choice.”

  He glanced at the rack by the wall, then down into her eyes. “Excellent. It's about time for me to go. I need a couple hours to wind my way from here back to the castle, come in at a deceiving angle.”

  “I know. Good luck with your meeting today. I hope it turns out like we think it will,” Chey said. The best outcome would be that Sander and Mattias caught the King in a lie.

  “Mm.” Sander hummed a pensive note while he drew on a heavier overcoat. His fingers made quick work of the buttons. He watched her the whole time, expression sober and serious. Finally, he stepped closer. Instead of touch her, he maintained eye contact for several long minutes.

  Chey, refusing to break the tether of their gaze, fought down goosebumps and a stray shudder. Without putting a finger on her, Sander had the ability to affect her on the deepest levels.

  He pivoted away and stalked to the door. After a quick glance back, he unlatched the bolts and stepped out into the day. The sun hadn't quite risen above the horizon yet, leaving many pewter shadows clinging around the cabin and the trees.

  Chey followed, closing the door in his wake. She engaged the bolt and the regular lock. Moving to the window, she watched him walk across the snowy clearing toward the path that cut through the forest. He must have parked somewhere between the house and the nearest road. She watched until the foliage swallowed him whole.

  Stepping away from the window, Chey moved back through the room to the table, checked the gun, then began packing a few trail bars and water bottles into the duffel bag. There were small, single serving packets of beef and turkey jerky, also, as well as a few packs of carob, chocolate, peanut butter and almond mixes. She didn't overload the bag to the point it was too heavy to carry, or would slow her down too much if she had to depart the house. She didn't expect that to happen at all. Mattias or Sander would come for her, even if the King handed Sander news he didn't want to hear. They would see her safely to some other safe haven while the brothers sorted out what plans came next.

  In the middle of nibbling on a pack of carob mix, her stomach somersaulted and protested the food. Nausea hit hard, sending her into the bathroom for fear she would puke all over the floor. Surprised at the sudden bout, she hung her head over the rim, scraping her hair back into a ponytail to keep it away from her face.

  Fantastic. She wondered if she had caught the flu.

  Now just wasn't the time.

  Although it was a close call, she didn't end up vomiting. Relieved when the spasm passed, she exited the bathroom and put the rest of the mix away.

  Perhaps hot tea would settle things down. She made a cup, glancing at the crack in the window curtains as dawn gave over to a new day. Yet the sky didn't lighten in the way it should have if the sun had access to the landscape.

  The storm must be moving in, ready to dump another several inches of snow on Latvala. After packing her duffel and zipping it closed, Chey took her tea to the living room, sat on a sofa, and sipped the hot brew.

  Waiting. Wondering. Hoping for the best.

  . . .

  Sander went twenty miles out of his way after leaving the house, snaking through backwoods terrain, narrow paths that barely cut through the foliage, and overland where there were no roads at all. The SUV handled the rough passage well, bouncing over snow slick rock, frozen mini-streams and hard packed dirt lanes that had not been plowed.

  Once he hit a main artery, he picked up speed, glancing at the overcast sky. The snow would start any time. It mattered not at this point if anyone picked up his tail. They couldn't trace him back to his origin of departure, and that was all that mattered.

  Still bothered about the obvious stalling tactic of the King, he drove toward the family seat with too many things on his mind.

  First and foremost, the question of his birth. He would never admit to anyone just how sick it made him to think he might be stripped of his title. Years upon years he'd been groomed for this role, a role he accepted, embraced and looked forward to.

  What would he do if Aksel proved he was the son of a maid? The idea of pressing forward, hiding his true heritage, lying to the people of Latvala was not a route he wanted to take. Aksel had hit the nail right on the head suggesting Sander would be a hypocrite to go forward and take the throne after dismissing Valentina for thinking to seat a bastard there.

  That's what Sander would be. A King's illegitimate get.

  His hands tightened on the wheel.

  Did he owe it to the people to fight for the throne, or to back down and pass it off to the rightful heir? Mattias would be a good ruler. Sander had no doubt of his brother's ability. They thought a lot alike, would lead the country almost identically no matter which man ascended the seat of power.

  Paavo would not. Paavo, despite his good intentions, had already shown a propensity to be cowed by foreign pressure. He did not have the experience nor the backbone of Mattias or Sander. Paavo was also loyal to the King rather than his brothers's cause, in constant disagreement when matters of the state came up. He could not be allowed to take the throne regardless of the outcome.

  Approaching the main gate, Sander passed through the check point and drove more slowly up the drive toward the broad steps at the entrance. Leaving the SUV behind for the attendants, he stalked through the doors and into the castle proper.

  His boots thudded over the floor on his way up three flights of stairs toward the private parlor where the meeting was supposed to take place yesterday. Sander pressed his lips together as he strode past guards who inclined their heads in respect and welcome. Turning into the parlor, expecting to see a guard in the King's place with some excuse for a delay or another on his lips, he discovered instead that both his mother, father and Mattias were waiting for him.

  Helina sat in her throne-like seat with a medium sized white envelope on her lap, a mug of steaming liquid in one hand. Dressed regally in elegant slacks of dove gray and a loose fitted shirt with an empire waist the color of peacock feathers, the Queen regarded Sander with slightly glassy eyes and a pensive expression.

  She did not look especially happy to see him.

  The King paced behind his throne chair, hands clasped at his back, a cape of red with a dalmation spotted mantle on his shoulders worn over a navy colored suit.

  Sander might have snorted any other time at the blatant display of Aksel's title and power. The cape, he knew, was one more angle of psychological warfare.

  Mattias, also in a suit, gave Sander a condescending smirk when he saw him. Playing his role to the hilt, he stood near the King's throne with his hands casually inserted into his pockets.

  The King glanced from Sander to Mattias and back again.

  Sander made sure to frown vaguely at his brother, as if disappointed to see him siding with the King. Appearances were everything, and Sander understood the importance of playing his part equally as well as Mattias. They needed to sell their discord with one another to pull this off.

  “Right on time, I see,” the King said. He gestured to a chair opposite his throne. “Have a seat. Helina? Would you
mind informing Sander of his true heritage?”

  Instead of taking a seat, Sander stood next to the chair, using his height advantage to look down at his mother.

  Helina, not to be hurried, sipped from her cup before setting it down on a small table at her side. She folded her hands over the envelope on her lap.

  “I am not your biological mother,” she said straightaway. “I took you in as my own right after your birth and have not looked back since.”

  Sander stared at her, watching her eyes for clues of deception or lies. “You'll forgive me if I don't believe you, not after what you two have pulled recently to get me to hand over my title.”

  “Do you really think we would go to this extreme?” Helina asked. “I can assure you, neither Aksel nor I would do so. But since you seem to need more proof, I think I can provide it. Brace yourself, Sander.”

  “Yes, actually I do think you would go to this extreme. I think you would even go further,” he replied.

  Helina tisked and opened the envelope. She withdrew a photograph, glanced down at it, then up at Sander. Finally, she offered it over with a knowing look on her face.

  Sander didn't immediately move to take it. This was a big step. Whatever he did or did not see in the photograph might change everything as he knew it. Reaching out, he took the photo from Helina and turned it around to view the image. What he saw there made his breath catch in his throat.

  A petite blonde woman stared off into the distance with the castle as a backdrop. She was on the front steps, near the entrance, dressed in pants and a pale shirt that differed from the uniforms of today. Not by much, and he couldn't tell precisely what colors since the image was in black and white.

  There was no escaping the similar shape of the cheeks and angle of the eyes. Sander looked so much like her that some sort of relation was simply undeniable. This woman, Siona, was a feminine version of him, built sturdy but fragile, with a sweet expression and a sharpness to her gaze that suggested not much got past her.