A Royal Bride of Convenience. Rebecca Winters

After a distinct pause, “About your mission—take care, my son. Come home safe.” The entreaty sounded gruff. He hung up before Nic could assure his father he was always careful.

      Not only the choice of words, but the tremor in his father’s voice caught him off guard, causing his throat to swell. Normally his parent didn’t reveal his emotions. This was one of those rare moments when guilt caught up to Nic. He clicked off.

      Another son might have been all the things his father had dreamed of. Instead, his parents had got Nic, their only offspring, who continually disappointed them with choices that in their mind put him in physical jeopardy on a twenty-four-hour basis. He felt even guiltier that they’d never tried to pressure him into doing his royal duty.

      Since his betrothal to the Princess Francette de Norestier of the Principality of Haut-Leman on his fifteenth birthday—a nightmarish memory for him—he’d never seen her again, and his parents had never spoken of her. But as the night followed the day, he realized it was only a matter of another month before her name surfaced.

      Not for the first time did a certain thought enter his mind—albeit suggested jokingly by his closest buddy Aldo. “Why not remain hidden in the mountains after one of our raids and not emerge again for years and years?”

      After enjoying a round of beers one night while on leave, the idea had sounded good to him. Unfortunately it sounded even better right now, and he was stone-cold sober, but he refused to let it spoil his life while he still had a month of freedom left.

      Before long the limo pulled up to the royal jet and Nic got out.

      “Buongiorno, Your Highness.”

      “It is a good day now that I’ve been liberated,” he said to Bruno, the dark blond steward who came down the steps to greet him. They’d been friends a long time. “Tell Rocco we have a change in plans and will be flying directly to Tangiers.”

      “Very good. Will you be wanting lunch?”

      “Si. Grazie.” He walked down the passageway to his suite, jerking off his tie and suit jacket. As soon as they gained cruising speed he’d take a shower, then pore over his maps to reacquaint himself with a region that was always volatile.

      It didn’t take much for the clans to end up causing chaos that would develop into full-scale warfare. Too many innocents suffered. A burst of adrenaline seized his hard-muscled body as he contemplated his imminent mission.

      A baby was crying.

      As Lise Belard began to regain consciousness she grew more aware of her surroundings and realized her assailants had dumped her in the Fillouxes’ hut with Celeste. It was pitch-black inside. Her hands and ankles had been bound. The blanket over her head had been removed, but someone had gagged her with a foul-smelling piece of burlap and had thrown her on her side, where pains shot through her arm and hip.

      By some miracle the three-month-old infant who’d been sick for the past ten days was still alive, but her pitiful, continuous whimpers wrenched Lise’s heart. Tomorrow Adam Brown, the doctor from Nairobi, was due to be here with his team, to check on the baby and bring medicine.

      The village was in short supply of antibiotics and AIDS medication to prevent pregnant mothers from passing the disease on to their children, but Lise feared he and his staff would be ambushed and killed en route, all the fresh supplies confiscated.

      Right now she couldn’t help herself, let alone comfort the baby, who had to be in pain from hunger by now. Even if Lise were to inch over to the crib she wouldn’t be able to reach for her. The ropes had been tied too cruelly tight.

      Shudder after shudder swept through her body. For the first time in her life she knew true terror. She had the real conviction that before the night was over she and the baby would be dead.

      Celeste’s missionary parents, Jean and Marie Filloux, from Neuchatel, Switzerland, had in all likelihood been murdered, and Lise was next. She could taste her fear. The sickening rate of her heartbeat sent the blood in surges against every pulse-point of her body. When she’d started this work five years ago, the risks to her life and health had seemed negligible when compared to the suffering she’d witnessed here. Someone had to try and make a difference, no matter how little.

      Most of the first-aid supplies sent to the war-torn borders of Chakul never made it this far north. If it weren’t for the latest on-going bike fundraiser she’d spearheaded at home, she wouldn’t be able to give the amount of help she did.

      Purchasing motorbikes for the locals allowed them to penetrate the far reaches of the various settlements with supplies. It was one of the quickest ways to bring immediate relief to the suffering after the spring rains. However, she feared that the arrival of the bikes had enflamed the warring clans and they had a special punishment ready to mete out to her.

      Today Lise had made a hazardous bike trip to take the last of her supplies of drugs and food to the makeshift tent town eight miles from the village. The route was almost impassable in spots. She’d been grateful to get back to the safety of the compound by nightfall without a serious problem.

      But, except for Celeste’s baby cry coming from the Fillouxes’ hut a hundred yards away, she’d been aware of an eerie silence. Of course everyone was indoors for the night. Still, that kind of quiet had been unnatural. Having shut off the motor that doused the headlight, she’d been shrouded in darkness.

      As she’d walked her bike to the side of her hut, the hairs had stood up on the back of her arms and neck. Something had told her not to go inside. She’d immediately turned the bike around and started the motor up again to head for the sentry post.

      The next thing she knew something had been thrown over her head, suffocating her. After being knocked down, she’d been bound and dragged for what felt like a long distance before she knew nothing more.

      Lise had survived many local uprisings, but this was the first time one of the rebel factions hating foreigners, and missionaries in particular, had ventured this far from the border to slaughter innocent people.

      Her family had begged her to find another way to do good. There were thousands of charitable causes that wouldn’t put her life in danger. But on a photo safari to Chakul she’d discovered the people were loving and peaceful, grateful for any kindness from a stranger.

      The tour director had told everyone to bring extra paper and pens to give out to the children. Those were treasures to them. When Lise had discovered how delighted they were with the merest trifle, despite their great impoverishment, it had touched her heart and set her on her particular path. At the time it had been an easy choice to make, considering she’d been running away from pain for years.

      But as she lay there, trussed up like a prized fowl to be butchered, she was aware the consequences of those choices had caught up to her. Certain death was coming. Her senses could feel it, smell it.

      Celeste had finally stopped crying. The poor little thing was too ill. With no mother to hold and kiss her, she’d given up.

      The quiet had an unearthly quality now. Her captors were outside, planning something. Lise broke out in a cold sweat. If she’d known how and when she was going to die, would she have still chosen to work in this part of the world?

      Of course she already knew the answer to her own question, or she wouldn’t be here, but she could still grieve for certain experiences she would never know—like marriage to a soulmate, like being a mother to her own baby.

      Lise had to dig back a long way to understand how she’d come to do her life’s work in Chakul. She supposed it had started as a form of rebellion against the life she’d been born into. Not against her parents, who were wonderful people, but against the royal institution itself, with its archaic betrothals, used as a sole instrument to aggrandize wealth and property.

      Her betrothal had been sanctified in the church on her tenth birthday. To this day all she could remember was a fifteen-year-old beanpole, with an evil smile and black coals for eyes. Afterwards in the courtyard she’d heard him call her a royal pudding behind