Crown Prince's Chosen Bride Read online

  Enjoy the moment, she told herself, because that’s all you’ve got with him.

  After Tristan had settled into his deckchair, she turned to him, slipped off her sunglasses. ‘Your interview technique is so good you know quite a lot about me. Now it’s my turn to discover Tristan.’

  He gestured with his hands to indicate emptiness. ‘There is not much I can tell you,’ he said.

  Did he mean that literally?

  For all the instant intimacy of the situation, she still sensed those secrets. Her antennae waved gently, to remind her to be wary of men who were not what they seemed.

  ‘Ask me questions—I will see if I can answer them,’ he said.

  As in, he would see if he was able to answer her questions? Or allowed to answer them? Or he just plain didn’t want to answer them?

  She chose her first question with care. ‘What language do you speak in Montovia?’ she asked. ‘French? German? I think I can detect both in your accent.’

  ‘We speak Montovian—our own language,’ he said. ‘We are a small country and it is influenced by the other European countries that surround us.’

  ‘Say something to me in Montovian,’ she said. ‘I’m interested in languages.’

  ‘I’ve been told it is not an attractive language, so I am warning you,’ he said. ‘Even to my ears it sounds quite harsh.’

  He turned to her and spoke a few sentences as he gazed into her eyes. She tried to ignore the way his proximity made her heart race.

  ‘I didn’t understand a word of that, but your language is not unattractive.’ And neither was his voice—deep, masculine, arresting. ‘What did you actually say to me?’

  ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I said that the beauty of this magnificent harbour could not compare to the beauty of the woman sitting beside me.’

  Spoken by anyone else, the words might have sounded corny, over the top. But spoken with Tristan’s accent they were swoon worthy.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, again lost for words. She felt herself blush—that was the problem with being a creamy-skinned redhead...there was no hiding her reactions. ‘Seriously?’

  He smiled. ‘You’ll never know, will you? Unless you learn Montovian—and no one outside of my country learns Montovian.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it is only spoken in Montovia. I also speak German, French, Italian and Spanish,’ he said.

  ‘I’m seriously impressed,’ she said. ‘I studied French and Italian at school. Then German at night school before I went to Europe on a backpackers’ bus tour. But I never use those languages here, and I fear I’ve lost what skills I had.’

  ‘You’d pick them up again in the right environment. I was out of the habit of speaking English, but I’m getting better at it every day.’ His eyes narrowed in that intense way he had of looking at her, as if he were seeking answers—to what, she didn’t know. ‘Especially talking to you, Gemma’.

  ‘You’ve inspired me to study some more so that—’

  Only just in time she caught herself from saying, So that next time I’ll surprise you by speaking fluent French. She was surprised at the sharp twist of pain at the reminder that there would be no next time for her and Tristan.

  She finished her sentence, hoping he hadn’t noticed the pause. ‘So that my skills don’t just dwindle away. Did you learn English at school?’

  ‘Yes. I also had a tutor. My parents felt it was essential we spoke good English.’

  ‘“We”? You have brothers and sisters?’

  Tristan stared out to sea. ‘I have a younger sister. I...I had an older brother. He...he died when his helicopter came down in the mountains a year ago.’

  Gemma wasn’t sure what to say that wouldn’t be a cliché. ‘I...I’m so sorry to hear that,’ was the best she could manage.

  His jaw tightened. ‘It was...terrible. His wife and their little boy were with him. My family will never get over it.’

  Gemma was too shocked to speak. She went to reach out and put her hand on his arm but decided against it, not sure how welcome her touch would be in this moment of remembered tragedy.

  ‘I carry the loss of my brother with me in my heart. There is not a day that I do not think of him.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again. She wished she could give him comfort. But they were still essentially strangers.

  He took a deep breath. ‘But enough of sadness,’ he said. He turned to her. ‘I don’t want to talk about tragic things, Gemma.’

  There was a bleakness in his eyes, and his face seemed shadowed. She was an only child. She couldn’t imagine how it would feel to lose a sibling—and his sibling’s family. ‘No,’ she agreed.

  How lucky she’d been in her life not to have suffered tragedy. The loss of her birth father hadn’t really touched her, though she suspected her mother still secretly grieved. Gemma had had her share of heartbreak, though. She had genuinely loved Alistair, and the way their relationship had ended had scarred her—perhaps irredeemably. It would be difficult to trust again.

  A silence fell between them that Gemma didn’t know quite how to fill. ‘Tell me more about Montovia,’ she said eventually. ‘Are there magnificent old buildings? Do you have lots of winter sports? Do you have a national costume?’

  ‘Yes to all of that. Montovia is very beautiful and traditional. It has many medieval buildings. There is also a modern administrative capital, where the banks and financial services are situated.’

  ‘And the chocolate?’

  ‘The so-important chocolate? It is made in a charming old factory building near the lake, which is a tourist attraction in its own right.’

  I’d love to go there some day.

  Her words hung unspoken in the air between them. Never could she utter them. He was a tourist—just passing through before he went back to his own life. And she was a woman guarding her heart against falling for someone impossible.

  ‘That sounds delightful,’ she said.

  ‘There is a wonderful chocolate shop and tea room near my home. I used to love to go there when I was a child. So...so did my brother and sister.’

  Gemma wondered about his sister, but didn’t want to ask. ‘Where do you live?’ she said instead.

  He took another deep breath. It seemed to Gemma that he needed to steady himself against unhappy thoughts. His brother must be entwined in Tristan’s every childhood memory.

  ‘I live in the old capital of Montovia—which is also called Montovia.’

  ‘That could get confusing, couldn’t it?’

  ‘Everyone knows it. The town of Montovia grew up around the medieval castle and the cathedral and sits on the edge of a lake.’

  Gemma sat forward in her chair. ‘A castle? You live near a castle?’

  ‘But of course. Montovia is ruled by a hereditary monarchy.’

  ‘You mean a king and a queen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting that. I assumed Montovia would be a republic—a democracy.’

  ‘It is... We have a hereditary monarchy, but also a representative democracy with an elected parliament—and a legal system, of course.’

  ‘So the king and queen are figureheads?’

  He shook his head. ‘They are rulers, with the power to dissolve parliament. Although that has never happened.’

  ‘Castles and kings and queens—it sounds like something out of a fairytale.’ She was too polite to say it sounded feudalistic. Not when he sounded so passionate, defending a way of life that didn’t seem of this century.

  ‘On the contrary, it is very real. Our country is prosperous. Montovians are very patriotic. Each of our subjects—I...uh...I mean the people...would fight to the death to protect their way of life. We have
compulsory military service to ensure we are ready in case they should ever have to.’

  ‘You mean conscription?’

  ‘Yes. For all males aged eighteen. Women can volunteer, and many do.’

  She shuddered. ‘I don’t think I would want to do that.’

  ‘They would probably welcome someone like you as a cook.’

  He smiled. Was he teasing her?

  ‘But I’d still have to do the military training. I’ve seen what soldiers have to do—running with big packs on their back, obstacle courses, weapons...’ Her voice dwindled away at the sheer horror of even contemplating it.

  ‘Sign up even as a cook and you’d have to do the training. And no wooden spoons as weapons.’

  ‘You’ll never let me forget that, will you?’

  ‘Never,’ he said, his smile widening into a grin.

  Until he went on his way and never gave this girl in Sydney another thought.

  Why were they even talking about this? She was unlikely to visit Montovia, let alone sign up for its military.

  ‘Did you serve?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. My time in the army was one of the best times of my life.’

  Oh, yes. She could imagine him in uniform. With his broad shoulders and athletic build. That must be where his bearing came from. Tristan in uniform would be even hotter than Tristan in casual clothes. Or Tristan without any—

  Don’t go there, Gemma.

  But her curiosity about Montovia was piqued. When she went home this evening, she would look up the country and its customs on the internet.

  ‘Did you actually have to go to battle?’ she asked.

  ‘I spent time with the peacekeeping forces in eastern Europe. My brother went to Africa. It was good for us to see outside our own protected world.’

  ‘You know, I wasn’t really aware that such kingdoms as Montovia still existed.’

  ‘Our royal family has ruled for centuries,’ he said—rather stiffly, she thought. ‘The people love the royal family of Montovia.’

  ‘Do you?’ she asked. ‘You’re not harbouring any secret republican leanings?’

  His eyebrows rose, and he looked affronted. ‘Never. I am utterly loyal to the king and queen. My country would not be Montovia without the royal family and our customs and traditions.’

  Gemma was silent for a long moment. ‘It’s all so outside of my experience. As a child I led an everyday suburban existence in a middle-class suburb of Sydney. You grew up in a town with a medieval castle ruled by a king and queen. What...what different lives we must lead.’

  He steepled his fingers together. ‘Yes. Very different.’

  * * *

  Tristan was glad of the interruption when the waiter brought out a tray with the cool drinks they had ordered. He had to be more careful. He’d been on tenterhooks while chatting with Gemma for fear that he would inadvertently reveal the truth about himself and his family. There had been a few minor slip-ups, but nothing that couldn’t be excused as a mistake with his English.

  He drank iced tea as Gemma sipped on diet cola. It was too early for anything stronger.

  The longer he maintained this deception, the harder it would become to confess to it. But did that really matter? After the party on Friday night he wouldn’t need to be in any further contact with Party Queens. Or with Gemma.

  He could leave the reveal until she found out for herself—when he appeared at his party wearing his ceremonial sash and medals. No doubt she would be shocked, would maybe despise him for lying to her. Her opinion should not matter—he would never see her again after the party.

  But her opinion of him did matter. It mattered very much.

  Just now there had been an opportunity for him to explain his role in the royal family of Montovia—but he had not been able to bring himself to take it. He was still hanging on fiercely to the novelty of being just Tristan in Gemma’s eyes.

  ‘I haven’t finished my interrogation yet,’ she said, a playful smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

  He liked it that she was unaware of his wealth and status. It must be obvious to her that he was rich. But she seemed more interested in him than in what he had. It was refreshing.

  ‘You said you went to university in England?’ she asked.

  ‘To Cambridge—to study European law.’

  Her finely arched auburn brows rose. ‘You’re a lawyer?’

  ‘I don’t actually practise as a lawyer. I have always worked for...for my family’s business. A knowledge of European law is necessary.’

  For trade. For treaties. For the delicate negotiations required by a small country that relied in some measure on the goodwill of surrounding countries—but never took that goodwill for granted.

  ‘Is it your father’s business?’

  ‘Yes. And it was my grandparents’ before that.’ Back and back and back, in an unbroken chain of Montovia’s hereditary monarchy. It had been set to continue in his brother’s hands—not his.

  Tristan knew he could not avoid talking about his brother, much as it still hurt. There’d been an extravagance of public mourning for his brother’s death—and the death of his little son, whose birth had placed a second male between Tristan and the throne. But with all the concern about his unexpected succession to the position of crown prince, Tristan hadn’t really been able to mourn the loss of Carl, his brother and best friend. Not Carl the crown prince. And his sweet little nephew. This trip away had been part of that grieving process. Being with Gemma was helping.

  ‘My brother played a senior role in the...the business. I now have to step up to take his role.’

  ‘And you’re not one hundred per cent happy about that, are you?’

  ‘I never anticipated I would have to do it. The job is not my choice.’

  Not only had he loved his brother, he had also admired the way Carl had handled the role of crown prince. Tristan had never resented not being the heir. He had never been sure if he had an unquestioning allegiance to the old ways in order not to challenge the archaic rules that restricted the royal family’s existence even in the twenty-first century. One onerous rule in particular...

  ‘Will it bring more responsibility?’ Gemma asked. ‘Will you be more involved in the chocolate side of things?’

  For a moment he wasn’t sure what she meant. Then he remembered how he had deliberately implied that chocolate was part of his family’s business.

  ‘More the finance and managerial side,’ he said. And everything else it took to rule the country.

  ‘I’m sure you will rise to the challenge and do a wonderful job,’ she said.

  He frowned. ‘Why do you say that, Gemma, when we scarcely know each other?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Even in this short time I’m convinced of your integrity,’ she said. ‘I believe you will want to honour your brother’s memory by doing the best job you can.’

  His integrity. Short of downright lying, he had been nothing but evasive about who he was from the moment they’d met. How would she react when she found out the truth?

  The longer he left it, the worse it would be.

  He turned to face her. ‘Gemma, I—’

  Gemma suddenly got up from her deckchair, clutching her hat to her head against a sudden gust of wind. ‘We’re passing across the Heads.’

  ‘The Heads?’

  ‘It’s the entrance from the ocean to Sydney Harbour, guarded by two big headlands—North Head and South Head. But, being exposed to the Pacific Ocean, the sea can get rough here, so prepare for a rocky ride ahead.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  TRISTAN HAD PLANNED with military precision in order to make this day with Gemma happen. But one important detail had escaped his plan.

  He cursed his inattention with a blast o
f favourite curse words. Both relatively sheltered when they’d been conscripted to the military, he and his brother had expanded their vocabulary of new and interesting words with great glee. He had never lost the skill.

  Gemma was standing beside him at the bow of the Argus. ‘Do I detect some choice swearing in Montovian?’ she asked with a teasing smile.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, still furious with himself.

  ‘Can you translate for me?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Or tell me what it was all about?’

  Exasperated, he waved his hand to encompass the view. ‘Look at this place—Store Beach...even more perfect than you said it would be.’

  ‘And there’s a problem with that?’

  The Argus had dropped anchor some one hundred metres from shore. The beach was more what he would call a bay, with a sheltered, curving stretch of golden sand. Eucalypt trees and other indigenous plants grew right down to where the sand started. The water rippled through shades of azure to wash up on the beach in a lacy white froth. The air was tangy with salt and the sharp scent of the eucalypts. It took no stretch of the imagination to feel as if they were on a remote island somewhere far away.

  ‘Not a problem with the beach,’ he said. ‘It’s difficult to believe such a pristine spot could be so close to a major city.’

  ‘That’s why we chose Store Beach for your lunch date,’ she said. ‘And, being midweek, we’ve got it all to ourselves. So what’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s hot, the water looks awesome, I want to swim. But I didn’t think to bring a swimsuit—or order one for you.’

  Her eyebrows rose. ‘For me? Order a swimsuit for me?’

  ‘Of course. You would not have known to bring one as you thought you would be working. There is a concierge at my hotel—I should have asked her to purchase a choice of swimsuits for you.’

  Gemma’s brows drew together in a frown. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘But of course.’

  ‘You are, aren’t you?’ Her voice was underscored with incredulity.