The Rebel King

Chapter 8

The Lazlo Group's sleek black helicopter churned across the waters of the channel on the morning sun's glistening path. Rhia, watching the wakes of ships and the Channel Islands- Alderney, Guernsey, Jersey-drift by below, thought it was like being the lone traveler on a broad superhighway paved in gold. She tore her gaze from the sparkling vista and glanced again at the man sitting silently beside her, narrowed eyes focused intently on the hazy outline just coming into view on the horizon. A cold little frisson of misery rippled through her. This morning there was no sign of the Nikolas Donovan she'd come to know, the cynical charmer from the Paris apartment, the carefree, flirtatious grape picker-somewhat more earthy than expected. The skillful and incredibly tender lover. This, she thought, must be the man Corbett Lazlo had warned her about, the hard man, the rebel who for years had organized and led a powerful and dedicated opposition to the monarchy in Silvershire. A man both respected and feared.

The man who'd made love to her, made her feel things she'd never felt before, the man who'd made her laugh…and cry, was a stranger to her now.

She was glad the clatter of the chopper's rotors and the headphones they both wore made conversation difficult, if not impossible. What would they have talked about? Impersonal things, probably, fit for the ears of the chopper pilot-an unnecessary recap of plans for the coming reunion with Nikolas's father, King Weston, perhaps. It was to be a private meeting, held in strictest secrecy, not at the royal palace in Silverton, or even at the official royal retreat in Carringtonshire, but at a little-known hunting lodge in the Lodan Mountains in the province of Chamberlain, the king's ancestral home. Those present at the historic meeting would include King Weston, Nikolas, Rhia and a few trusted members of the king's security staff. Those were the terms both the king and Nikolas had agreed upon. The details had been left to Rhia and other representatives of the Lazlo Group to work out.

And after the reunion…what then? Rhia's job would be done, another difficult assignment successfully completed. And Nikolas… what would become of him?

Bleakly, she watched a muscle work in the side of his jaw, his steely gray eyes fixed on the approaching coastline. Would he accept the charge that had been taken from him at birth and assume the crown he'd always despised? Become king…and thus forever beyond her reach? Would she ever again feel his hands on her body, taste his mouth, smell his skin?

Pain knifed through her and she drew a sharp, gasping breath, just as the chopper swept over the lacy edge where the lapping Channel waves met the rocky shores of Silvershire.

The helicopter's route brought them into Silvershire's airspace just north of the town of Dunford, in Danebyshire. As they crossed the gleaming ribbon of the Dane River. Nikolas nudged Rhia with his elbow and pointed; she nodded in reply. It was an acknowledgment, nothing more. He knew it wasn't necessary for him to tell her Dunford was where he'd lived and worked for the past five years, teaching history at Dunford College of Liberal and Fine Arts. She would have learned that fact, and just about everything else there was to know about his life, from the Lazlo Group's dossier. Though right now, looking down at the slate roofs and church spires of the town and the campus, he felt as disconnected from that life in spirit as in body.

That was his past. No matter what happened at the coming meeting, he had to accept that he could never go back to the way things had been.

Though he stared out his side of the chopper, watching its shadow flit across the forested landscape below, he was intensely aware of the woman sitting beside him. She was dressed once again in the black pants and leather jacket she'd worn for breaking and entering Phillipe's flat in Paris, though the chemise had been replaced by a black pullover embroidered just above her left breast with the green-and-gold plaited pentagram that was the Lazlo Group's logo.

Rather ironic, he thought, that she should be the one bright spot for him in all of this, when she was the one who'd yanked him out of his former life and pitched him kicking and screaming into this new one he'd never dreamed of nor wanted. In any case it would have been idiotic to blame her for it, and he didn't. She'd only been doing her job. And as for what had happened between them, he acknowledged that was more his doing than hers, and furthermore, in his selfishness he'd caused her some degree of pain.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to regret what had happened… making love with her. Or to contemplate the possibility that it might never happen again.

To block that thought, he turned his mind instead to the coming meeting. Another irony, that was. He'd tried so many times, as head of the Union for Democracy, to arrange a meeting with His Majesty, to discuss his plan for phasing out the centuries-old and outdated monarchy and ushering in a form of democratic government based-in his opinion quite reasonably-on that of their neighbor, Great Britain's responsible monarchy. In the past, he'd never gotten past Weston's advisors-not hard to understand their diligence, perhaps, since most of their jobs no doubt depended on keeping the status quo. And now…here he was, on his way to a private, one-on-one meeting with the king at his secret mountain hideaway. But not to discuss politics.

What, he wondered, as his heart lurched and a pulse began tap-tap-tapping in his belly, does a man say to a long-lost father who is not only his sworn adversary, but his king?

The chopper churned on across the Dunford Wood, the province of Perthegon. and crossed the Kairn River into Chamberlain. My father's lands. I suppose that makes them my lands, too?

His mouth curved in a sardonic little smile as the chopper banked sharply south over the Lodan Mountains.

The helicopter settled onto the grassy clearing, a little meadow surrounded by pine trees not far from the lodge. As the rotors slowed to a lazy swishing. Nikolas opened the door and stepped down onto the yellowing grass. He paused to wait for Rhia to do the same, and then they both hurried at a half crouch through the turbulence to meet their welcoming committee.

Three people had emerged from the woods on the edge of the clearing. Two were men, obviously security guards, resplendent in the king's livery and looking gloriously out of place in that rustic setting. The third person, Rhia was startled to see, was a woman, casually dressed in slacks and a windbreaker. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and it was a moment before Rhia recognized the king's personal physician, Dr. Zara Smith-or was it Shaw, now? she wondered. Lady Zara had recently become the wife of Dr. Walker Shaw, the Lazlo Group's chief psychologist and an old friend of Rhia's.

While the two guards stood stiffly at attention, Lady Zara, whom Rhia had met only briefly at her wedding reception, greeted her with a smile and a brisk handshake. "Hello, Rhia. it's good to see you again."

"Likewise, Lady Zara." Rhia said, returning the smile. "Good to see you looking so great. Married life must be good for you."

"Walker is good for me." Lady Zara replied, with the soft eyes and satisfied smile of a woman deeply in love, and Rhia couldn't help feeling a small, treacherous stab of envy.

"I'm surprised to see you here," she said. "I thought you were still on your honeymoon."

Lady Zara's forehead creased momentarily with a tiny frown. "Lord Southgate suggested I be here for the meeting." she said in an undertone. "He is…concerned. But it was His Majesty who insisted on it."

She turned curious, champagne-colored eyes on Nikolas and offered him her hand. "Mr. Donovan, I must tell you that I have strongly advised against this meeting."

"I imagine you have." Nikolas said drily as he shook her hand. "You, and I'm sure many others as well, considering I'm suspected of murder for hire-among other things."

"That's for others to determine." Lady Zara said without smiling. "My concerns are for His Majesty's health. The king is still recovering from his recent illness, as you know. He is still not entirely himself, which is to be expected given the series of shocks he's had to deal with. His son-ah, Reginald's death, then surgery for a brain tumor, and the hospital bombing and his subsequent coma on top of it. The news that Reginald wasn't the king and queen's biological son, and the fact that he was murdered…and now…" she shook her head "…learning his biological son and the true heir to his crown is none other than the man who's been trying to take it from him-" She broke off, realizing, perhaps, that she'd been a bit too frank.

Nikolas said with a touch of impatience, "Of course, I'll try not to say or do anything that might upset His Majesty."

Rhia winced at the note of sarcasm, but the doctor only said mildly, "Your presence alone will upset him quite enough, I expect. If you will come this way, please. He's been waiting for you-somewhat on edge, as you can imagine."

She turned and led the way to a broad pathway that wound through the pine forest. One of the guards fell in behind them while the other took up a sentry's position at the edge of the meadow-to keep an eye on the helicopter and its pilot, Rhia guessed. She turned once to look back at the chopper, sitting motionless now, like a great black insect, the pilot leaning relaxed against the Lazlo Group logo on its door.

The path beneath her feet was spongy with pine needles, the air pungent with the scent of the pines and the dusty earth. She breathed deeply as she walked, filling her lungs with that warm dry air. hoping it might help to quell the butterflies rampaging through her middle. Wondering whether Nikolas had butterflies, too.

If he does, no one would ever know it. she thought, stealing glances at him as they made their way along the pine-carpeted path. His eyes were cool as rain, his face might have been chiseled from the earth itself. There was only the tiny muscle working in the side of his jaw to tell her of the turmoil inside.

Oh, yeah. He definitely has butterflies.

Was this what Nikolas would call empathy, she wondered? Or was it only her newborn feelings for him that made her feel his turmoil too. and ache to take his hand?

The mountain setting was idyllic and beautiful, no doubt a perfect place for healing both body and soul, if Nikolas had taken notice of it. But he had gone far away for the moment, retreating inside the chilly isolation of his analytical mind. It was where he often took refuge from the chaos of his emotions or circumstances beyond his control. The meeting ahead, the current upheaval in Silvershire, the unanswered questions, even his new and unsettling feelings for the woman walking silently beside him. all these things were manageable, he believed, if he could simply reduce them to problems to be solved.

Focus, he ordered himself sternly, as his mind whirred dizzily through a blizzard of thoughts, unable to see any of them clearly. One thing at a time. First things first.

Get through this meeting first. After that… who knows where I'll be? In prison, maybe.

You will naturally conduct yourself with dignity, he told himself.

Yes, he would be courteous. But not cordial. Weston was the sovereign ruler of his country and as such, deserving of respect, no matter how Nikolas might feel about the monarchy itself.

But no amount of DNA will ever make the man my father.

And, he reminded himself. Weston no doubt had the same reservations about him. After all, the man had raised that twit Reginald as his son and heir for thirty years, and undoubtedly felt a father's love for the blighter in spite of his rather considerable shortcomings. That sort of feeling didn't disappear because of a few mismatching strands of double helixes.

Nikolas told himself he wouldn't expect a thing from this one-on-one meeting with His Majesty, except maybe a chance to begin to clear his name of those insane suspicions of murder and mayhem. No, all that would happen today was that he and Weston would take each other's measure, ask and answer whatever questions might occur to them, and that would be that.

He just wished he could do something about the bloody butterfly convention taking place in his stomach.

He stole a glance at the woman beside him. sleek and lithe in her uniform black, silent and intent as a hunting cat, green eyes focused on their guide up ahead as if she were some fascinating species of mouse. He wondered what she was thinking-feeling-right now, and whether she had butterflies, too.

He wished he could reach over and take her hand.

The Weston family's so-called hunting lodge was in fact a sizeable manor house built in the Georgian style out of natural stone. It was only two stories in height, with leaded windows, a slate-tile roof and towering chimneys, a large one at either end and several smaller ones scattered between. Rhia, who'd been picturing something more on the order of a log cabin, or maybe a Swiss-style chalet, thought that if this was what royals called a modest hunting lodge, she couldn't wait to see the palace.

The house seemed oddly out-of-place here, tucked among the towering pines. Such an imposing house. Rhia thought, deserved a proper setting, with sweeping lawns and curving driveways and magnificent formal gardens. Here, it reminded her of Sleeping Beauty's castle under the spell of the evil fairy, left at the mercy of creeping vines and rampant vegetation… neglected, abandoned, forgotten.

However, any signs of neglect-real or imagined-ended at the mansion's front door. Their approach had evidently been observed, because as they mounted the wide stone steps, the massive double doors were opened and held for them by two more of the security guards in full dress uniforms. Lady Zara, being accustomed to the trappings of wealth and position, swept through the doorway without a glance or a pause; Rhia and Nikolas followed, with their escort bringing up the rear.

The doors swung shut behind them with a quiet thump, and they found themselves in a great hall with a high vaulted ceiling, paneled in gleaming wood and lit by the soft glow of lamps tucked in alcoves along the walls and recessed high up near the ceiling. The atmosphere was peaceful, filled with the scent of wood polish and pine and an indefinable aura of elegance.

They were given no time to admire the portraits, tapestries and carved-wood panels along the walls, however. Their escort led them on at a brisk pace, her footsteps tapping on the parquet floor and instantly swallowed up in the vastness of the hall. Around them the house seemed deserted, and eerily still.

Lady Zara paused in front of a door near the far end of the hall. With her hand on the doorknob, she looked over her shoulder at Nikolas. He nodded almost imperceptibly, and she lifted one hand to knock while opening the door with the other. "Your Majesty," she said quietly. "Mr. Donovan is here."

She stood aside, then, and gestured for Nikolas and Rhia to enter ahead of her.

Neither the room nor its sole occupant were what Rhia had expected.

The king had elected to meet his son in what was obviously a private retreat, with none of the trappings or ceremony of royalty. The room was informal, even cluttered. The walls were lined with cabinets-cupboards below, and above them shelves filled with books that had obviously been read, not selected for the elegance of their bindings. The chairs arranged in casual groupings looked comfortable, even a little shabby, and there were reading lamps conveniently situated beside each one. There was a large cluttered desk, a comfortable couch, several small tables and ottomans, and in one corner, incongruously, a stationary exercise bicycle in gleaming chrome. There was a fireplace-unlit-and flanking it, twin French doors that stood open in invitation to the pine-scented breeze.

In front of the doors and the fireplace, with his hands resting on the back of a large leather chair, a tall but frail-looking man stood waiting.

She'd been prepared, but even so the king's appearance shocked her. In tapes she'd seen of his last public appearances before Reginald's death and his own surgery and subsequent collapse. Henry Weston had been a robust and vigorous man, much younger-looking than his age, which she seemed to recall was somewhere in his late sixties, with strong, handsome features, silver hair and fierce dark eyes, and the same regal bearing she'd seen in Nikolas. Now, his face was much thinner, those still-magnificent eyes were sunk deep in shadowed sockets. Although he was plainly making an effort to stand erect, he appeared to have aged a decade in less than six months.

Lady Zara closed the door, then hurried to her patient's side. "Your Majesty, please. You must-"

But the king waved her aside with a regal gesture and came around the chair, leaving one hand on its back for support. Rhia found herself stepping quietly aside and leaving Nikolas to go forward and face his father alone.

For a long moment there was absolute silence in the room, while the two men took each other's measure. Then His Majesty, King Weston of Silvershire, spoke in a soft and rasping voice:

"By God, it's true. You have your mother's eyes."

Looking back on it later. Nikolas was able to recall very little of what was said in those first moments. He felt…not so much numb as insulated. As if his mind and emotions had been carefully packed in cotton wool. He remembered being shocked, on some level that didn't involve his emotions, at the king's appearance; even knowing of Weston's illness, he hadn't been prepared to see the powerful monarch he'd considered his adversary looking frail and old.

He remembered hearing the words …your mother's eyes… and seeing Weston's mouth spasm with emotion and the sudden glaze of moisture in the fierce dark eyes. He remembered hearing Rhia's soft intake of breath, as if she'd felt a stab of unexpected pain. But he himself felt no reaction whatsoever. Weston might have been referring to someone Nikolas didn't even know.

There must have been awkward moments-there was no rush of prodigal son to his father's welcoming arms, for one, and…did one offer to shake hands with a king? But if there were, he was immune to self-consciousness. He did recall introducing Rhia, and requesting that she be allowed to stay, and being formally introduced in turn to the Lady Zara. He remembered Weston seating himself, at his physician's urging, and he and Rhia being invited to do the same. He even allowed himself to acknowledge the pride and strength of will that had compelled the man. in spite of his obvious physical weakness, to insist on standing to greet this long-lost son who was also, possibly, his enemy. But he didn't allow any of it to touch his emotions. Not then.

"I know how difficult this all must be for you-as it is for me." King Weston said when they were seated and Lady Zara had left to arrange for tea. He lifted a hand, and only the slightest tremor betrayed the emotional and physical strain Rhia knew he must be under. "I am aware of your…political position, you know-and of your…activities during the past decade." He lowered his head and aimed a scowl of mock sternness at Nikolas. "They tell me you want to do away with my crown, Mr. Donovan." And then, to Rhia's amusement and delight, the king arched an eyebrow. One only. "How ironic it must be to find now that you are destined to wear that crown yourself, one day." His lips twitched, and there was a gleam of humor in his eyes.

"Ironic…yes, I suppose it is." Nikolas replied coolly, and Rhia marveled again at his calm, his iron self-control. "Whether or not that is my destiny is another matter."

King Weston merely chuckled. He regarded Nikolas intently for a moment. "I didn't want to believe it myself, you know, when they told me. I know, I know-" he waved a hand impatiently "-DNA doesn't lie. However, I had to see for myself. I felt-I believed, you see, that I would know my own son even if I had never set eyes on him before. And I was right…I was right." His face seemed to spasm, then stiffen with its effort to contain what must have been overwhelming emotions. He coughed, then added gruffly. "You are the image of your mother, you see."

Nikolas didn't reply. He sat in utter silence, and only Rhia could see the tiny muscle working in the side of his jaw.

King Weston placed his hands on the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet. Both Nikolas and Rhia rose immediately, as royal protocol demanded, but the king waved Rhia back to her seat. "No, no, my dear, don't get up. Nikolas, my boy, walk with me for a moment, if you will-while my doctor isn't here to forbid it." He added the last with a sly smile and arched eyebrow for Rhia, as he held out his hand to his son.

After a moment's hesitation and a quick, questioning glance at Rhia, Nikolas offered his father his arm. As the two men moved slowly to the open French doors, Rhia could see that the king was making an effort to walk erect, leaning only slightly on that support.

Watching them, she felt some unknown emotion ripple through her and emerge in a silent, quivering laugh. My God, she thought, how alike They are: proud, iron-willed, both of them…born to be kings.

As he and Weston stepped through the French doors onto a small terrace of shade-dappled slate, Nikolas could feel his protective cloak wearing thin. It was one thing to keep a man at arm's length in the abstract, or while listening to his voice and watching his face from half a room away. It was quite another when the man's hand was resting on one's arm and one knew that the warm blood pumping beneath die thin, age-spotted skin was the same blood that ran through one's own veins.

The whole insane thing was in danger of becoming real to him. He wasn't at all certain he was ready for that.

Beyond the terrace, a path thick with bark mulch and pine needles wound through a garden of perennials and shrubs in an autumn state of blowsy disarray, rose hips and berries of various shades clinging to sparsely-leafed branches, a few sturdy asters and chrysanthemums still blooming among the browning stalks of last summer's lilies. They strolled slowly along the meandering path, the king evidently in no hurry to disclose his purpose in requesting this moment of privacy, Nikolas mentally bracing for whatever might come.

Weston paused finally, plucked an autumn rose from an overgrown bush and tucked it almost absentmindedly in the breast pocket of his jacket. "First, I must tell you," he said, in a voice that seemed to have regained much of its power and authority, "that most of my advisors were strongly opposed to my meeting you alone like this." He gave Nikolas a glance along his shoulder, one eyebrow arched. "Seemed to think I might be in some danger."

Nikolas, distracted by the eyebrow-So that's what she was talking about. Strange, I don't seem to find it quite as annoying as she did-frowned and muttered. "I can imagine." He drew a quick breath and pulled himself back to the moment. "I hope you don't believe me capable of murder, as so many others seem ready to do," he said, narrowing his eyes.

"Carrington-Lord Southgate-seems to think you are a man of principle and honor. He trusts you, and I trust him. Which is why…" Weston paused and turned to face Nikolas, meeting his eyes with his intent black stare. "Why I must ask a favor of you, Mr. Donovan-one I suspect you will not be happy to grant me."

Startled and a bit wary, Nikolas began a murmured protest. Weston lifted a hand to silence him.

"I want you to know…Nikolas…that I've learned a great deal about you since this whole incredible affair was revealed to me. By all accounts, Carrington's evaluation of your character is on the mark." His frown turned fierce, his voice gruff. "In fact, my boy, I think you are everything a man might wish for in a son, and I will be proud to call you that one day, when we've both had some time to get used to the idea. I suspect your mother would have been proud as well." He paused to clear his throat loudly, while Nikolas squinted intently into the woods and swallowed hard several times.

"However." Weston went on after a moment, with a quiver of anger in his voice, "in spite of his shortcomings. I raised and loved Reginald as my son for thirty years. Nothing he did could have changed that-as I hope you will find out for yourself one day, a father's love is unconditional. But…blood will tell, evidently. And it did concern me, as the time approached for him to assume my crown, that he hadn't matured and. er…hmm… settled down to the degree I had hoped he would. Nevertheless, I believed…" He shook that off. and when he turned once again to face Nikolas, his face had hardened.

"Someone murdered him, Nikolas. Someone did this-to him, to you, to me. Someone has plotted against me for more than thirty years. Thirty years ago, someone took you from me and put that poor boy in your place, a child ill-equipped for the life he'd been thrust into, thus dooming him to failure, to a lifetime of expectations he wasn't equipped to meet, and, ultimately, to a terrible and much too early death. Someone robbed him of his life, me of my true son, and you of your father. Your mother, the queen. God rest her-" He broke off, shaking his head.

He took the rose from his pocket and regarded it for a moment with such unfathomable sadness that Nikolas felt his own throat tighten. Then Weston crushed the petals in his fingers and placed his closed fist on Nikolas's arm. When he spoke again his voice was strong and vibrant, like that of an orator. "This is the favor I ask. I ask it of you as my son, as my heir, as the future king. Find the person or persons responsible for these heinous acts. Find out who has done these things to you, to me, to Reginald…to Lady Zara-yes, she was nearly killed, as well, you know. I want the wretch found and brought to justice. I want this… this cloud that has hung over Sihershire since Reginald's death lifted. Will you do this for me, Nikolas…my son?"