The Rebel King. Melissa James

fault. Just tell me what upset Lia.’

      Damianakis shifted in his seat. ‘I said you need to prepare yourselves. The ambassador thought it best that I tell you here, in a quiet environment.’ As if gathering his courage, he looked up at Charlie. ‘His Majesty, King Angelis, has arranged royal marriages for you both, to take place as soon as possible.’

      Orakidis City, Hellenia The next morning

      The beautiful old black Rolls pulled up outside the front of the sprawling, four-winged mansion that was the royal family’s summer palace, where the king was keeping residence until the main palace was fully repaired from a fire attack a few years before.

      There were too many repairs still yet to make to the nation’s towns, cities and homes for the royal family to think of repairing a palace as a priority.

      Jazmine’s heart beat hard as she stood beside Max at the foot of the stairs, four feet behind the king, as adherence to royal protocol demanded. As Princess Royal and the Grand Duke of Falcandis, they held positions the world would envy; yet here they were again, the king’s dolls to rearrange as he wished. Old friends, they’d been engaged to each other until a month ago; now they were both engaged to strangers.

      Was this a case of a magnificent escape for them, or being tossed from the king’s frying pan into his fire?

      ‘Courage,’ the Grand Duke murmured in her ear.

      She stiffened. A princess to the core, she’d had correct deportment and proper distance drilled into her since birth. ‘This is my duty. I don’t need courage to face what I can’t change.’

      His deep, smooth voice was rich with amusement. ‘You’re right—resignation would be more useful in our case.’ He waited, but she didn’t answer. ‘Talk to me, Jazmine. Surely, as the most recent object of your duty, I can intrude on your pride and share our changed circumstances with someone who understands?’

      She felt a tinge of heat touch her cheeks. Her grandfather, the king, had dissolved their engagement when the news of Prince Kyriacou’s existence had been confirmed. His press secretary had hinted that childhood friendship made the engagement awkward: a truth His Majesty used when he found it convenient.

      Jazmine smiled up at the fair, handsome face, so like his English mother. She’d been so embarrassed by her grandfather’s dictum, she hadn’t been able to look at him until now. ‘You’re right, Max. Thank you.’

      ‘Here come our respective futures,’ he murmured, smiling at her with the sibling-like affection they’d shared since she was thirteen. ‘Our third or fourth cousins, or something. Almost not related at all, apart from the name.’

      Thank goodness, Jazmine almost said aloud. She’d found the thought of marrying any relative revolting, but, with Prince Kyriacou’s grandfather marrying an Italian count’s grandchild, and his father marrying a Greek woman—a real commoner!—the lines had blurred. Jazmine’s mother had been of the Spanish nobility—more line-blurring still. The more the better, in her opinion.

      She started as the trumpets of Grandfather’s private band blared the national anthem of Hellenia—In Our Courage We Stand—in acknowledgement of royalty’s arrival. It was odd, considering that no one else was there but family and royal staff.

      A young woman emerged first, wearing the tailored skirt and silk blouse Jazmine had chosen. This was Giulia, no doubt.

      No doubt at all, from the moment she looked up. Though she resembled her Italian grandmother, Giulia was a complete Marandis. She had willowy curves, thick dark curls tumbling down her back, the heavy-lashed, slumberous eyes, the deliciously curved top lip. On the Marandis women, it looked like a hidden smile waiting to burst out, a wonderful secret they wouldn’t tell. Tall and graceful and golden-skinned, Giulia was beautiful in the quiet, understated, Marandis way.

      Then her brother emerged from the car, and Jazmine heard the death knell of her plans before she’d even been introduced to the prince.

      Oh, he was handsome—dark, lean and oozed hot sensuality. But he was no story-book prince come to win the princess’s heart, and—her heart sank— she doubted he ever would be.

      Thick curls cropped short, dark eyes and the regal nose. Yes, Kyriacou was as much a Marandis as his sister, but on him it didn’t achieve elegance. In the charcoal Savile Row suit supplied for him on the jet, with the white shirt and sky-blue tie, he didn’t look suave, he looked turbulent. Every inch of him was lean and muscled, big and fit— ‘buff’, her friends from Oxford would have said. She might have said it herself, if she wasn’t a princess.

      And, if he weren’t a Crown Prince, she’d call him hostile.

      He looked as regal as a lion, ready to attack, as frighteningly compelling as a wind-tossed storm cloud about to unleash a torrent.

      Yes, that was it exactly. God help her, she was engaged to a wild beast set to pounce. And the windstorm was about to break right over her head.

      Well, she was used to flying in storms, and flying blind. Five years ago she’d been a minor royal, then after the civil war had ended, she’d become Princess Royal. She’d become the unwanted, ‘couldn’ t-inherit’ female heiress two years before. She’d been engaged to Max until a month ago; now she was engaged to this stranger.

      If she’d had a choice, she’d still have taken this fate for the sake of her country and her people. She’d make this man want to marry her, unless she wanted to create an opportunity for Markus Orakis to seize the throne.

      Hellenia had seen enough of coups, civil war and murder to last ten generations. She’d do whatever it took to end the bloodshed, to help this country heal from its scars—and she’d cope with this Marandis the same way she coped with her grandfather, the king.

      Keep your dignity. Don’t let him walk all over you. When you give in, do so with grace. You are a princess, no man’s doormat.

      If only it didn’t sound like a fairy tale in her own mind. No matter how much she wanted to be her own woman, she, like Max—like the new Marandis brother and sister—was a servant to the crown, here to bend to the will of king and country. If Kyriacou and Giulia Marandis didn’t understand that, they soon would.

      The new Crown Prince and Princess Royal walked through the line of saluting king’s guards, and beneath the meet-and-kiss flags showing the royal scarlet-and-gold over deep turquoise that was the symbol of Hellenia, and the Marandis banner: the soaring royal eagle over verdant hills and valleys. A massive bouquet of white roses was thrust in Giulia’s arms: the flower of peace.

      Grandfather stepped forward, every inch the regal ruler. He extended his hand towards the brother first—the expected way in this male-dominated society. ‘Welcome to Hellenia, Kyriacou,’ he said, using the traditional first-person version of the name Kyriacou, making it more personal, intimate. ‘And to you, Giulia.’ With an attention to detail he’d never lost, the king pronounced her name with beautiful precision: Yoo-lya. He smiled warmly. ‘Welcome to our family, and to your new home.’

      Neither responded for a few moments. Though she smiled, Giulia’s face held a look of bewildered wonder at the change in her status. Kyriacou held his sister’s arm in obvious protectiveness. He didn’t move to take the king’s hand, or bow in response to the traditional but sincere welcome.

      ‘My name, sire,’ he said clearly, ‘is Charlie.’

      CHAPTER TWO

      STUNNED silence reigned at the flagrant breach in royal protocol.

      Breach? It was more like an abyss. Nobody spoke to King Angelis like that, or refused his hand. Hadn’t Eleni taught them the correct mode of address while on the jet? Jazmine had sent her own personal assistant to Australia for that sole purpose.

      Giulia stepped forward with a gentle smile, placing her hand in Grandfather’s. ‘Thank you, your Majesty.’ She dipped into a deep curtsey. ‘Forgive us. We’re