The Rebel King

Chapter 2

Rhia stood in the entrance to the apartment's tiny kitchen and watched the recently discovered "lost" heir to the throne of Silvershire take a stoppered bottle of wine out of the tiny refrigerator.

He turned to make an offering gesture toward her with the bottle. "Are you quite certain you won't join me? It's rather nice for a rose, actually. Fellow who lent me this flat comes from a wine-making family down in Provence-he's left an apparently bottomless supply."

She shook her head, and he responded with a shrug that seemed to her more French than British. It was what came of growing up in an island kingdom located halfway between those two countries, she thought, as she watched him pour himself a half glassful and lift it to his lips. She couldn't imagine why observing that mundane activity should make her mouth water; she wasn't terribly fond of wine. She seldom drank at all, but when she did, she preferred bourbon whiskey. Straight.

His eyes, meeting hers above the rim of his glass, crinkled suddenly. He lowered the glass. "Oh, hell-of course, you're on the job, aren't you? Do forgive me. Perhaps a glass of water? Cup of tea?"

"I'm from South Louisiana." Rhia said drily "We Cajuns aren't all that much for tea." Well, hell, if he was going to play the British fop again-badly overplaying it, in her opinion, and she didn't know what his game was or whether to be amused by it or annoyed-she figured her trailer-park Cajun could trump his Oxford Brit any day of the week.

"Ah, yes-coffee would be your drink of choice. I imagine. Made with-what's that other…" He snapped his fingers impatiently.

"Chicory," she grudgingly supplied, then tilted her head. "How'd you come to know a thing like that?"

His chuckle was dry, his smile sardonic. "I know a little about a great many things, my dear." He waved the wineglass in a sweeping gesture. "My education has been…shall we say, eclectic? Wide-ranging?"

"An education fit for a man who would be king," Rhia said softly.

He snorted-a most unprincely sound. "An education attained courtesy of some very good scholarships and a lot of hellish hard work, which I doubt could be said of most royals." He paused, and his lips curled with disdain he made no effort to hide. "Not the one I knew personally, at any rate."

"Reginald, you mean. Yes, you two were at Eton together, weren't you?"

"And Oxford." Nikolas gazed at his wine as if it had gone sour. "Look, I am sorry he's dead-God knows I wouldn't wish for anyone to be murdered that way-poisoned, I mean-but the man was an arrogant, insufferable prick, if you want to know. And not fit to govern a frat house, much less a country."

"Ah," said Rhia, smiling slightly, "but he never got the chance, did he? And, as it turns out, he wasn't even the prince after all."

Instead of answering, he took a quick gulp of wine and set his glass down with a careless clank. Turning abruptly, he opened a cupboard door and took out an espresso maker which he placed on the countertop, plugged into a wall outlet and set about filling with an ease and efficiency that spoke of some degree of familiarity with the process.

Watching the movements of his hands, Rhia felt again that odd little quiver beneath her breastbone. His glossy dark hair might be in need of a trim, and a day's growth of beard might be shadowing his jaw, but there was no denying the grace in the lines of his body, the power in the breadth of his shoulders, the authority in the set of his chin, the intelligence in those intense gray eyes. And all of it, she thought, completely natural to him.

It must be in his genes. Even here, in this little bitty kitchen, making coffee for uninvited company, he looks like he was born to be a king.

"You can come in and sit down-I promise not to bite you." He threw the brittle invitation over his shoulder as he worked, and Rhia gave a guilty start, as if his long list of royal attributes might include the ability to read minds.

She shook her head and smiled, but stayed where she was. Prince or not, the kitchen was too small a space to hold two people who weren't already on intimate terms.

Intimate. The word sprang into her head from out of nowhere and sat pulsing in her brain like the neon lights on a Mississippi River casino boat.

"Tell me something." He gave her another look, this one as shaip and keen as any scrutiny she'd ever received from Walker Shaw, the shrink who'd done her psych evaluation when she joined the Lazlo Group. "How does a nice American girl from Louisiana come to be working for Corbett Lazlo?"

She gave him back a smile she knew would dazzle but tell him nothing. "Ah, that's a long story."

Still his gaze lingered, intent enough to kick-start that hum in her chest again, and, as they often did when she felt ill at ease, her fingers went of their own volition to the small silver charm that hung from a narrow chain around her neck, nestled in the hollow at the base of her throat. She rubbed it idly as she watched Nikolas shrug and go back to measuring dark roasted coffee beans into the grinder.

He switched it on, and for the next few seconds the racket made conversation impossible. The grinding completed. Nikolas poured water into the espresso machine, closed and secured the lid and punched a button. He turned back to her, then, and picked up his glass of wine and the thread of conversation he'd temporarily put aside.

"Might I ask what your specialty is with the Lazlo Group? You do seem an unlikely choice of field agent to send after a notorious suspected terrorist." This time a smile crinkled the corners of the eyes studying her across the rim of the wineglass, though it didn't diminish their intensity one bit.

"My specialty?" Her smile was small and wicked. "I locate and retrieve lost children."

Caught in mid swallow, Nikolas gave a sputter of laughter and quickly lowered his glass. He touched the back of his hand to his mouth and managed to say in a choked voice. "A lot of call for that, is there?"

"Unfortunately, yes." She wasn't smiling now.

"I'm well aware of the sad state of the world." Nikolas said, matching the new seriousness of her tone as he stared at the contents of his glass. He'd been enjoying himself entirely too much, he realized, given the fact that it was this woman's intention to fetch him back to Silvershire whether he wanted to go or not. That he could enjoy himself at all. under any circumstances, was surprising in itself. It had been rather a long time since he'd found anything in his life amusing. "I meant in the context of the Lazlo Group, of course. Isn't their clientele pretty much limited to the rich, royal or famous?"

"Theirs is," she replied shortly. "Mine isn't."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, the ability to take cases pro bono when it suits me is one of the conditions of my…shall we say, employment agreement."

"I'm impressed." He was, too. He hadn't thought there was anybody on the planet who could dictate terms to Corbett Lazlo, and that included royalty. He sipped wine while he studied the woman lounging with easy grace in his kitchen doorway. Tall and lithe, but curvy as well-truly an amazing body, as he had ample reason to know, and he really did need to discipline his mind past those recent memories of her. Under the circumstances, they were proving entirely too distracting. He couldn't afford to be distracted with this one; he had a feeling if she'd intended to take him by force he'd already be hog-tied and on a plane bound for Silvershire, so it was a safe bet she must have something else up her sleeve. "I gather, then, that you're quite good at what you do. Might I ask how you go about it-this business of finding lost children?"

She smiled, the enigmatic little Mona Lisa smile he'd seen before. "Oh, the Lazlo Group has resources you can't even imagine." The smile vanished again-fascinating, the way it came and went, like the sun playing hide-and-seek with clouds. Something he couldn't identify flickered in her eyes, and her hand went again to whatever it was she wore on that silver chain around her neck. He couldn't quite make out what it was-something oddly shaped but familiar as well- and it was beginning to intrigue him.

"And then," she went on in an entirely different kind of voice, "I suppose I probably just have the knack."

"The knack?"

She shifted, as if the door frame against her back had grown uncomfortable. "Instinct. You know-a sixth sense. I just always have been good at finding people. Particularly kids."

"Ah. You mean, like second sight?"

She gave him a brief, hard look. Suspected him of mocking her, he imagined. Which he wasn't; he'd seen too much of the world and of things in it that defied logical explanation to scoff at the unknown and unproven. When it came to the mysteries of the human mind, he preferred to keep his open.

The espresso machine chose that moment to erupt with a gurgling, hissing cloud of fragrant steam, and the last thing he saw before he turned to attend to it was Rhia's lush pink lips tightening and her long slender throat rippling as she bit back and swallowed whatever it was she'd been about to say.

Second sight? Yeah, that was what Mama called it. Her gift to me. Now it's the only thing I have of her, except my music and my memories. And this necklace.

Rhia fingered it briefly as she watched her assignment- and host-pour steaming black liquid into a tiny cup and place it on the table along with a spoon and a bowl filled with sugar cubes, and was thankful for the lifelong habit of self-control that made her keep those thoughts inside.

"I don't suppose you'd have any hot milk?" She kept her voice as bland as the request.

He lifted that damned eyebrow. "Milk? Sorry."

"That's okay. I'm adaptable." She pushed away from the door frame. It was only two short steps to the kitchen table, but her pulse quickened as if it was a tiger's den she'd entered.

She sat in the nearest of the two chairs and shifted it so the small arched window and its rain-blurred view of the Paris lights was at her back. She stirred a sinful amount of sugar into the espresso-she hated cubed sugar because it always seemed as though someone might be keeping count. How many, dear, one lump, or two? Yeah, right. How about…ten? Then she settled back with one elbow propped on the tabletop to watch the future king of Silvershire take eggs and a variety of other things out of the fridge and scatter them across the sink and countertop with the reckless abandon of a gourmet chef.

The future king… How remote and unreal that seemed to her now, with her pulse tap-tapping away and that strange little vibration humming somewhere deep inside her chest and an intense awareness of silk slithering over her naked skin-because what, after all, could be more of a turn-on to a woman than watching a smolderingly handsome and mysterious man cook dinner for her?

She took a cautious sip of the potent coffee-though Lord knew she didn't need any more stimulation-and tried to coax her mind into placing the man presently whacking merrily away at a pile of mushrooms into his proper setting, one that included his royal peers-the Grimaldis of Monaco…the DuPonts of Gastonia…the Dutch and the British royals. But her rebellious mind kept returning, like a drunk to his bottle, to the memory of what his body had felt like, out there on the balcony, lying full-length on top of hers.

And why did that memory kindle another, one that flared bright for frustratingly brief moments, then before she could grasp it, vanished into the darkness of her mind like a lightning bug in a bayou summer night?

"I'd give a lot more than a penny to know what you're thinking right now."

Rhia blinked the heir to Silvershire's crown into focus and found him studying her with-naturally-one eyebrow a notch higher than the other, and a similar tilt to his smile.

"It would take more than you've got to find out." she retorted, and gave up. for the moment, trying to think of him as royalty. After all, she reminded herself, at the moment he was merely Nikolas Donovan, college professor, rabble-rouser, rebel and fugitive, and she was the special agent hired to bring him in. "But," she added after a moment, "since you 're cooking me dinner, I guess I can give you one for free." She paused. "You have to know I feel a little odd about that- you fixing me dinner. Considering you're the future-"

"Look." he interrupted, before she could say the K-word again. "You're here, it's time to eat-what did you expect me to do?" A smile slashed crookedly across his austere features again. "Ask you to do the cooking?"

"I've known men who would." Rhia said drily.

"Ah. Well." He watched his hands maneuver the knife across the chopping board. "Since I grew up without benefit of a mum. I suppose I never acquired the prevailing attitude that a woman's primary purpose is to serve a man."

"Oh, wow." she said in an awed tone. "You really are a revolutionary, aren't you? My mama would have loved you."

He glanced at her. his eyes unexpectedly gentle. "Would have. She's gone, then, your mum?"

She nodded, and found to her surprise and dismay that it was the only answer she was capable of giving him just then. Where had it come from, she wondered, this bright shaft of pain and loss, like a lightning strike out of a clear blue sky?

Nikolas watched her struggle with it, soft mouth and pointed chin gone vulnerable as a child's, those exotic golden eyes fierce as a tiger's, and her fingers once again fondling the tiny silver charm at her throat. Something shivered through him. a new awareness, a magnetic tugging he was pretty sure had nothing to do with sex.

"Sony to hear that," he said, careful not to let too much softness into his voice, suspecting it wouldn't take much in the way of sympathy to send her scurrying for cover. "When did she die?"

"When I was eighteen."

"Ah-well-" he broke an egg and plopped it into a bowl "- at least you had a chance to know her."

He heard her take a breath, sharp and deep. He knew she had herself in hand again when she said with a soft, breathy chuckle. "What I remember most about my mama is her laugh, you know? She had this great big laugh, and when she laughed, her eyes sparkled. She laughed a lot. too. My mama did know how to have a good time."

He broke a few more eggs into the bowl. "You had a happy childhood, then." He glanced up when she gave a bitter-sounding snort.

"Yeah, I did. Until my father came and took me away from it."

Before Nikolas could reply, she rose abruptly, frowning. If she had been a cat, he thought, her tail would surely have been twitching.

"Mind if I use your…what do you Silvershirers call it? The loo?"

"Do you mean the bathroom?" He said it with the deadpan courtesy of a butler he'd once known and gestured with the whisk in his hand. "It's that way-next to the bedroom."

She slipped from the room like a cat through fog, and left him with a bowlful of eggs on which to beat off his bemusement and frustration.

"You're a pretty good cook, Donovan, even if you don't have any Tabasco." Rhia remarked, studying the last bite of her omelette before popping it into her mouth. As she chewed, her expression grew thoughtful. "Not that that surprises me- you cooking. I mean, not the Tabasco. I imagine you're good at whatever you take a mind to do."

"Thank you." Nikolas said, with only a hint of a smile. He was glad to see she'd recovered her aplomb, since he'd found she was a much nicer person when she felt she had the upper hand.

"Tell you what does surprise me, though." she went on as if he hadn't spoken. "I never would've taken you for a coward."

It took some doing, but he kept his expression bland. "A coward, you say. Really."

To his further bemusement, she wiggled in her chair and said in a testy tone, "Oh, stop it. I hate it when you do that."

"Do what?" The woman did have a way of keeping him hopping off balance. He didn't know whether he found it amusing or demoralizing.

She waved her finger in a circling motion. "That…that thing with your eyebrow."

"My eyebrow?"

"Yes. It goes up. Just one. The other doesn't. It's damned annoying, if you want to know."

"Really." He leaned back in his chair and gazed at her, trying his best not to elevate any of his facial features. "I had no idea. Well, I shall endeavor to keep my various body parts under better control, if it offends you. Now, what was it you were saying about me being a coward?"

She returned his gaze with a narrow stare of her own, as if she suspected him again of mocking her. Then she gave a shrug and pushed back her plate. "Well, you did run away."

"Ah. Yes. There is that." He scrubbed a hand over his face, as if doing so could rub away the tiredness and confusion that were like a veil of cobwebs over his brain at times. Then he tried a sardonic smile. "I prefer to think of it as a strategic retreat."

"Look-Nikolas-"

He held up a hand to stop her there. "Miss de Hayes-Rhia. Try and put yourself in my shoes. Six months ago the heir to the throne of Silvershire is found dead in his mountain retreat-murdered. So who do you suppose shot directly to the top of the list of probable suspects? Right you are-an organization bent on doing away with that very same monarchy, an organization known as the Union for Democracy, of which I happen to be founder and de facto head."

"Yes," Rhia said, frowning, "but your group was considered an unlikely candidate for Reginald's murder, since it's well-known you've never advocated the use of violence."

"Ah, but that didn't stop the rumors, did it? Especially after the king's collapse due to the grief and strain of his son's death. There were rumors Reginald was being blackmailed, rumors of terrorism, of hostile invasion or violent revolution. Rumors of a split in the UFD, with a violent faction taking over control. Even after I met with Russell-Lord Carrington-to reassure him-"

"Just because they're called rumors doesn't mean they can't be true," Rhia said quietly.

Nikolas looked at her for a moment in silence. Then he pushed his plate aside and leaned back in his chair with a careless wave of his hand. "It's true there've been some… things going on in the UFD I'm not happy about. There've always been members of the group who are somewhat…shall we say, less than patient with the slow-grinding wheels of change, which is what we've advocated up to now. That faction seems to be growing of late. But I see that as a result of the unrest surrounding the monarchy, rather than the cause of it."

"Sort of a We-should-strike-while-the-iron's-hot attitude?"

His smile was brief and wry. "Something like that."

"How did you get involved with the organization?" She asked this in a conversational way, leaning forward with an expression of great interest, though Nikolas was fairly certain whatever dossier the Lazlo Group had on him would have included that bit of information.

Still, she was a treat to look at and fun to spar with, and he didn't mind playing along once again. So he settled back, outwardly relaxed but inwardly alert, and replied. "When I was in college, actually. That's when we got organized. Before that, my uncle Silas-the man who raised me-had already gotten me interested in the idea of bringing about an end to monarchy in Silvershire."

"You say…your uncle. That would be…"

"My father's brother."

"Ah," she said, those feline eyes of hers intent again, "but now we know he couldn't have been your father's brother, could he?"

An expected surge of anger hardened his voice. "So you say. So they say. If you ask me, it's all ridiculous nonsense" Please, God, let it be so.

This is hard for him, she thought. His whole life, who he is, his perspective-everything has changed.

She knew how that felt. She'd had only a few short years to be Rhia de Hayes in a Louisiana trailer park with her mama and her big laugh and sparkling eyes, where there was always music and dancing and good things to eat and she could run barefoot all summer long. Then one day everything had changed, her world and everything in it-her home, her school, her friends, her clothes, even her name had changed. As everything would change for this man.

She wondered if he was thinking now. Who the hell is Nikolas Donovan? Who am I?

She said gently. "I'm afraid it's not nonsense. You are the biological offspring of King Henry Weston and his late wife, Queen Alexis. DNA proves that, and DNA doesn't lie, Nikolas."

He said nothing, only burned her with his smoldering eyes.

"I'm curious, though. What did your-uh, Silas Donovan-tell you about your parents? That they were dead. I assume, but what was supposed to have happened to them?"

His mouth hardened. "My parents were patriots-some would say traitors. I suppose. Insurgents-anti-royal activists-call them what you will, it was Weston's people that had them killed. It was supposed to have been a road accident. Their car was forced off the road-went over the cliffs near Leonia into the sea. Their bodies were never found."

"Oh, ouch." Rhia winced. "So you were pretty much programmed to hate King Weston from birth, weren't you?"

"I don't hate the man." He rose abruptly, swept up her plate along with his and carried them the two short steps to the sink.

No…I don't think you have it in you to hate. Rhia studied him thoughtfully, quivering inside again with that strange sense of recognition. But where do I know you from, Donovan? I know we've met before. I know it.

"I don't even think he's that bad a king," he said with his back to her, and she could see the tension in his neck and shoulders, hear it in his voice. "I just don't think something as important as running a country should be determined by an accident of birth. Can you imagine Silvershire in the hands of that spoiled, selfish twit, Reginald?"

"Well, it didn't happen, did it?" said Rhia. "Someone made sure of that. What do you think of the current regent, Lord Russell Carrinston, by the way? I know you've met with him. He seems to be doing a decent job filling in for the king while he's been out of commission."

"Carrington's a decent man. Probably make a decent head of state as well." He jerked around, eyes gone dark and fierce, and she was aware once again of how small the kitchen was. and how big Nikolas Donovan seemed standing in it. "Look- that's not the point. No man should have the right to rule without the consent of the people he's ruling. This is the twenty-first century. The people-"

Rhia held up both hands in mock surrender. "Hey, you don't have to explain democracy to me-I'm an American, remember? Anyway, back to the issue at hand. You're going to have to face this sooner or later. Nikolas. You do know that, don't you?"

"Of course, I do." He was silent again, staring past her at the rain-splashed window glass. She waited, and after a moment he drew a breath and shook his head. "It came at me too damn fast. I needed to think a bit." Another pause, and then he drilled her with his intent gray eyes. "I went to ask Silas, you know. It was the first thing I did when I heard the…rumors. I suppose I wanted him to explain, or some such thing." His eyes went bleak.

"And?"

He shrugged, and his mouth twisted and settled into hard, angry lines. "Couldn't find him. Wasn't at his apartment in Dunford, hadn't been to his job at the college in days. Don't know where he's got to. I know I want to hear it from him, and until I do, as far as I'm concerned it's just that-rumors."

It was Rhia's turn to be silent and thoughtful as she watched Silvershire's reluctant prince run hot water and scrub egg off frying pan and dinner plates. She was remembering the rich, velvety voice on the phone that was her only contact with her boss, the founder and head of the Lazlo Group.

Nikolas Donovan can be a hard man. Never forget that. He's also intelligent, resourceful, charming and suave.

I've heard he's something of a fanatic. Rhia had said.

Not a fanatic. Corbett Lazlo had responded after a brief pause. He's too intelligent for that kind of insanity. Donovan's a reasonable man. Focused, yes. Passionate…but capable of iron self-control. It would be a grave mistake to underestimate him.

Wonderful, Rhia had thought then. Just what I need-another powerful, bull headed man determined to have his way.

A small shiver passed through her body now, as she gazed at the broad and powerful shoulders, the rich sable hair curling slightly on the back of a smooth sun-bronzed neck. So far she'd seen the suave sophisticate, the smiling charmer, the intelligent man. the hard man. She wondered what the passionate man would be like…and what it would take to test his iron will.

"Lord Carrington was ready to arrest you," she remarked. "I assume you knew that when you ran. Were you aware that Danielle Cavanaugh-the assassin known as the Sparrow-named you, before she died, as the man who hired her to kill Reginald?"

His laugh was brief and harsh. "Nothing much surprises me these days, you know." He turned, drying his hands on a dishtowel. "Considering what's happened in Silvershire over the past few months." He held up a clenched fist, one finger extended, a sardonic smile curving his lips. "One-the crown prince gets murdered practically on the eve of his marriage to the princess of Gastonia and his ascent to the throne, thus saving Silvershire-and the princess-from unimaginable disaster." Up went another finger, along with the errant eyebrow. "Two-the reigning king collapses from shock and grief, and Lord Russell Carrington, off in Gastonia to escort the bride-to-be to her nuptials, rushes home to assume the king's duties-but not before falling in love with and ultimately marrying Reginald's erstwhile intended, the lovely Princess Amelia."

His smile was all teeth. "How'm I doing so far?"

"You must read the Quiz," Rhia murmured. "You're certainly up on all the royal gossip."

"Hmm, yes, well. I do try to keep informed. Particularly when my name is being bandied about as the most likely candidate for royal murderer."

"You haven't mentioned the part where it's discovered during the royal autopsy-through routine blood typing, I assume-that Reginald could not possibly have been the biological child of either King Henry or Queen Alexis."

He gave her a quelling look. "Hush, I was coming to that."

He held up a third finger. "The plot thickens. Scandal follows mystery, follows intrigue. We learn Reginald has an illegitimate child by the illegitimate daughter of the prince of Naessa-ah, those randy royals!" The fourth finger shot up. "Next, we have a bloody great explosion right next to where the king is lying in a coma. He's not injured, thank God, but I understand the same can't be said for his personal physician. I'm told the lady-Dr. Smith, is it? Something exotic-Zara, I believe-was rather badly injured."

Rhia nodded. "She was. A head injury. She had amnesia for a while. Fully recovered, now, though, and marrying the psychologist for the Lazlo Group who helped bring her back. Walker Shaw-I know him personally. He's a good man." She paused. "She's the one who discovered the vault, you know."

Nikolas gave her a sidelong look, narrowed and wary. "Vault?"

"Oh, mah goodness," Rhia said in her sweetest Southern. "I thought for sure you'd know 'bout that. That's where the DNA evidence came from that proves-"

Nikolas's teeth snapped shut. He closed his fist and punched the air with it as his voice raised to override hers. "Yes, and then we have the Sparrow. An assassin by trade. This woman makes a deathbed confession you say, in which she names me-"

"Donovan." Her voice was quiet, now, but firm. "She said she was hired by someone named Donovan." She paused while he stared at her, hot-eyed. "There's more than one Donovan in this story, Nikolas."

"Silas…" It hissed from him on an exhaled breath as he leaned back again against the counter. He shook his head. "Yes, and what could he possibly have to do with any of this?" He pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes as if they burned even him, but when he looked at her again his eyes were cold. And hard. "They'd have arrested me anyway, wouldn't they." It wasn't a question. "And they sent you to find me."

"Well, my Lord, what did you expect? Look, there are questions that need answering. And naturally the king wants to meet you-since you appear to be his long-lost son and all. Carrington has questions…doubts…suspicions, maybe, but you've met him, talked with him, you know he's a fair man. If you're innocent-"

"Carrington is a good man-and I am innocent."

"Then why," Rhia said on a gust of exasperation, "won't you come back with me and prove it?"

He passed a big, strong-boned hand over his eyes again, and this time when they emerged from cover they were no longer hard. They looked tired, she thought. Wounded. Still, when he spoke his voice held the ring of cold steel.

"I have questions of my own that need answers. When I have them, I'll go back. Not until then."

"Well, then," Rhia said briskly, getting to her feet, "I hope you have a comfortable couch and a spare bath towel or two. because my orders are not to come back without you. And since I'm not about to let you out of my sight now that I've found you, I'm afraid I'm going to be staying right here until you're ready to go home."