Tahra took a book from the sitting room to the daybed in her bedroom, thinking to read for a bit until her luggage arrived. But the novel, one of an eclectic collection that seemed to have been placed in her suite to appeal to a wide variety of readers, couldn’t hold her interest...because her eyelids fluttered, then suddenly became too heavy. She laid the book facedown on her lap, intending only to rest her eyes for a couple of minutes. But before she knew it, she’d dozed off.
She floated dreamlessly at first. Then things changed, and faces flashed through her mind. Faces she knew she should recognize...but she didn’t. The only man whose name she knew was the man who’d kissed her senseless earlier—and she only knew him because he’d been a nearly constant companion since she’d woken in the hospital. I should remember you, she confessed to Marek in her dream, but I don’t. Then pleaded, Please don’t be upset with me.
A knock on the door to Tahra’s suite startled her awake, and with the dream still vividly in her mind, her first thought was that Marek hadn’t been upset. He’d been understanding. Too understanding? Shouldn’t he be more upset she didn’t remember him?
The knock sounded again, and Tahra hurried to answer the door. I guess Marek is right, she thought, although she’d never tell him that. I’m not completely recovered. She’d never fallen asleep in the middle of the morning before. Well, not since I was a toddler, she added with a dart of humor. I must have been more exhausted than I thought.
The knock at the door turned out to be the delivery of her luggage...and the arrival of the maid, just as Marek had predicted. Tahra made only a token protest, then allowed the fresh-faced maid—who’d introduced herself as Ani, and looked to be somewhere in her late teens—free rein. But Ani had barely begun unpacking when there was another knock.
Ani said something in Zakharan when Tahra headed to the door to answer it, then bustled past her and switched to English. “No, miss, I will do that. You are to rest and take it easy—that is what Captain Zale said.” Ani shooed Tahra back into the bedroom, then returned two minutes later, a cream-colored envelope in her hand, excitement bubbling over. “An invitation from the queen,” she said in reverent tones, handing it to Tahra.
Ani’s excitement quickly transferred itself to Tahra. Like many Americans, she was fascinated by royalty—other countries’ royalty. Especially this queen, who was as American as Tahra was, a film actress who’d reigned as queen of Hollywood for years before she became a queen in real life by marrying the king of Zakhar.
“Open it, miss,” Ani pleaded.
Tahra was able to restrain herself just enough to keep from ripping the envelope open, forcing a calm she was far from feeling. Then read aloud the handwritten note card with rising excitement.
Dear Ms. Edwards, the note said. Thank you for accepting my husband’s invitation to stay in the palace until such time as it is safe for you to return to your home. I realize your memory is temporarily impaired, but I would love to renew our acquaintance. I would also appreciate the opportunity to thank you in person for saving the lives of all those schoolchildren. Would you do me the honor of lunching privately with me today? If that’s convenient for you, I’ll send a footman to bring you to my private dining room at noon. Sincerely, Juliana Marianescu.
“Lunch with the queen!” Ani breathed. “What will you wear?”
Tahra laughed a little at that, because Ani’s question had been the first thing she’d thought of, too. She mentally reviewed the clothes she’d packed. Most were utilitarian—the slacks, blouses and blazers she usually wore to work, and more casual clothes. “There’s a flowered dress,” she began, remembering the one dress she’d thrown in at the last moment with Marek in mind. Most of her dressier clothes were unwearable...until the scars had time to fade, so she hadn’t bothered to bring them. The flowered dress was different. It was deliciously feminine, yet had long sleeves and a cowl neck. Beneath the taupe nylons she’d also packed, those pinkish scars would be completely hidden. “But it may have gotten wrinkled when I—”
Ani interrupted her. “Leave it to me.” Her eyes twinkled suddenly. “The queen’s beauty is beyond compare—but you are beautiful, too, miss.” Tahra couldn’t help but blush a little at the compliment. Ani nodded to herself and added with a touch of self-importance, “When I am done, you will see.”
* * *
Tahra followed the footman who’d been sent to fetch her through a maze of corridors, unsure if she’d be able to find her way back unaided. They passed priceless objets d’art displayed in glass cases as well as out in the open on massive mahogany side tables. And what were obviously masterpieces hung in splendor from the walls, rivaling a museum. She recognized two famous Rembrandts, a Botticelli, several Sheridans and dozens of paintings whose artists she couldn’t name for sure but which she guessed. She would have stopped to confirm the signatures...if she wasn’t being led to lunch with the queen.
Finally the footman stopped and rapped on a closed door, which was almost immediately opened by another impassive footman, who bowed, ushered Tahra into the relatively small but exquisitely appointed dining room, then...surprisingly...left with the first footman, closing the door behind them. A tiny, dark-haired woman she recognized as Queen Juliana rose impulsively from the table and hurried toward her.
“Don’t you do that, too,” she laughingly chided when Tahra attempted a curtsy. “It’s bad enough I have to accept it from every Zakharian around me,” she confided. “But I don’t expect it from my own countrywomen.” She took Tahra’s left hand in a friendly way and led her to the table already laid for two. “I thought it would be more comfortable for both of us if we dispensed with service and just helped ourselves from the buffet. Oh, I forgot,” she added as an afterthought. “I’m Juliana. We met last year, but you probably don’t remember me, Tahra.”
“I know who you are, Your Majesty,” Tahra said shyly. “You were one of my screen idols before you married the king.”
“Oh dear, such a lowering thought—being someone’s screen idol makes me feel quite old.” But the queen’s smile conveyed she wasn’t really bothered by it. “And please call me Juliana. We’re not that far apart in age, you know. I’m thirty-two and you’re...twenty-eight, right?” When Tahra nodded, the queen explained, “We’ve actually had this conversation before, when we first met. Your boss at the embassy and my husband are friends, and we were first introduced at a reception here in the palace.” She was serving herself from the tempting variety of dainty dishes on the sideboard as she spoke, and Tahra made haste to follow suit, albeit a little awkwardly with her left hand. “I’ve also met your older sister, Carly,” the queen continued.
“You have?”
Juliana nodded. “A couple of months ago. Another reception.” Her barely perceptible sigh informed Tahra the queen was not a fan of formal receptions, although they were a mandatory duty in her life now. “This one was at the Zakharian embassy in DC. She accompanied the man who’s now her fiancé, Senator Jones.”
“Carly told me about him...when she was here while I was in the hospital,” Tahra volunteered hesitantly. “And she said I flew home to meet him when they became engaged a couple of weeks ago. But I don’t remember him.” She rushed to add, “I know who he is, of course, the same way I know who you are.” She couldn’t help the bleakness in her voice when she added under her breath, “But I don’t remember him any more than I remember Marek.”
The queen set her plate down and took a seat at the table, then darted a quick glance at Tahra’s face and changed the subject. “You resemble her, you know.”
Tahra seated herself and shook her head. “Carly’s beautiful.”
“So are you.” She was as discomfited by the queen’s unexpected compliment as she had been by Ani’s. “Oh, I know you weren’t fishing.” Juliana laughed softly. “I know you well enough to know you don’t see yourself in the same league as your sister.”
“Carly is famous. Deservedly so.”
“Yes, and unlike me, she’s famous for much more than her beauty.”
“That’s not true!” Tahra said, putting her fork down and leaping to the queen’s defense. “You’re a wonderful actress.” Then she paused. “Or rather, you were before you retired. Two best actress Oscars and those Golden Globe awards,” she reminded Juliana, as if the queen needed reminding. “And you were fabulous in King’s Ransom.”
An expression Tahra couldn’t quite decipher flitted over the queen’s face. “We had this conversation before, too,” Juliana said softly, and Tahra realized what she was seeing was sadness on the queen’s part for her lost memory. “Almost verbatim.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t think of anything to add to that, so she picked up her fork with her left hand and resumed eating.
“That brings me to one of the reasons I wanted to lunch with you today. Andre,” she said, referring to her husband, the king, “and I are awed by your courage in saving those children. He expressed his own gratitude and appreciation via an official letter sent to the president, the State Department and the ambassador at the embassy.” She picked up a long white envelope that had been sitting beside her plate, with the official seal of Zakhar embossed in one corner, and handed it to Tahra. “This is a copy for your records. And when you’re fully recovered, Andre plans to hold a reception in your honor.”
Tahra stared at the envelope without opening it, then raised her eyes to Juliana’s. “I...I don’t really remember doing it.”
“But you did—do you know how many witnesses came forward to say what they saw you do with that knapsack?—and we can never thank you enough. Every parent would feel the same—that could have been my child in that schoolyard.” She touched a hand to her abdomen in an unconscious gesture, and Tahra’s eyes widened.
“Are you...? That is...” She fumbled for words to a question she wasn’t sure she should ask, and the queen nodded.
“We haven’t announced it yet—we wanted to wait until after I pass my first trimester—so please keep the news to yourself. But yes, by this time next year your fiancé will be heading the security detail for two royal children, not just one.”
“Oh, how wonderful,” Tahra gushed. Then shook her head. “I don’t mean for Marek, I mean for you and the king.” A smile curved her lips. “Another baby. That’s so exciting!”
“You love babies, I take it?”
Tahra glanced down at her plate, then back up at the queen. “I know it’s terribly old-fashioned. I know I should want a challenging career as my sister has in order to feel fulfilled,” she confided. “But all I ever wanted was to be a wife and mother.”
“There’s nothing more fulfilling than being a mother, Tahra,” the queen said gently. “Nothing.” Her unusual violet eyes glowed for a moment before turning mischievous. “And being a wife is pretty darn fantastic, too...with the right husband.” Her expression conveyed that her husband was the right husband for her...and Tahra immediately thought of Marek. She could so envision him as her husband. Not perfect. No man was perfect—no woman, either—but even though she couldn’t remember anything about him from before the explosion, his stellar qualities shone clear and bright. Not to mention the way he’d kissed her this morning. If that was the way he always kissed, she had no idea how it was remotely possible they’d never been lovers, because her body had ached in secret places, and her mind had surrendered completely to the—
“So what are your plans?”
She blushed, as if the queen knew where her thoughts had wandered. “I don’t really have any. I’m just following doctors’ orders and taking things one day at a time.”
The queen nodded her understanding and sipped at her water, which she was drinking in place of the excellent Montrachet that had been poured for Tahra. “That’s probably wise. Not easy for your fiancé, of course. Zakharian men are...” She cleared her throat. “A tad on the alpha side,” she said, tongue in cheek. “If you haven’t already discovered that for yourself.”
“A tad?” Tahra forgot for a moment she was chatting with the queen of Zakhar and answered the way she would have answered with one of her girlfriends. “Marek is über-alpha, not just a tad.” She snorted delicately. “And controlling. He thinks he knows best in everything.”
Juliana’s laughter pealed out. “Oh, tell me about it. Andre is just the same. It must be something in the blood. Zakharian men like to see themselves as masters of their fate, and Viscount Saint-Yves is no exception.”
A little chill ran down Tahra’s back, as if the name should mean something to her...but it didn’t. “Viscount Saint-Yves?” she repeated slowly, feeling as if something was right there on the outskirts of her memory, but try though she might, it wouldn’t appear. She shook her head in puzzlement. “Who’s he?”
Juliana’s mouth formed an O. After a pregnant pause she said, “I forgot you don’t remember.”
Tahra could add two and two. “Is Marek...Captain Zale...Viscount Saint-Yves? Why didn’t he tell me?”
Juliana cleared her throat. “That’s another thing about Zakharian men...most of them, anyway,” she explained. “Andre was that way when he was in the Zakharian National Forces, and woe betide anyone who addressed him as anything other than Lieutenant Marianescu when he was on duty! Zax, too. Prince Xavier,” she clarified. “Andre’s cousin, the head of internal security. He prefers his military title, Colonel Marianescu. So I’m not surprised Marek—Captain Zale—hasn’t mentioned it to you. Military service is a particular source of pride to Marianescus.”
Tahra gave up trying to eat with her left hand and laid her fork on her plate. “Wait,” she said with a mixture of bewilderment and denial. “What do you mean, military service is a particular source of pride to Marianescus? Marek isn’t a Marianescu.”
The queen hesitated. “Well...actually...he is. He has the Marianescu fingers, you know, and that’s a dead giveaway.”
Tahra just stared blankly. “The Marianescu fingers?”
“Hadn’t you noticed? It’s a slight genetic defect that marks many of the Marianescus—a crook in the pinkies of both hands. Andre has it. Zax, too. And my son inherited it from Andre.”
“But...”
“Apparently it’s a dominant gene, because it has come down through the centuries from the first Andre Alexei right through to the present day. Not every Marianescu inherits it. Princess Mara didn’t—her pinkies are perfectly straight. But Marek did.”
“But...” Tahra couldn’t seem to process that the man she thought was merely a captain in the Zakharian National Forces, and the head of the crown prince’s security detail, was in fact a viscount and related to the king.
“Marek’s grandmother on his father’s side and Andre’s grandfather on his father’s side were brother and sister. She married the Count of Mortagne, whose family name is Zale. Which makes Marek... Let me think.” The queen touched a finger to her lips as she tried to figure the exact degree of relationship. “If Andre’s father and Marek’s father were first cousins, that makes Andre and Marek second cousins? I think that’s right, because they share great-grandparents.”
“You mean I’m engaged to...royalty?”
Juliana shook her head. “Not exactly. Royalty doesn’t follow the female line, not in Zakhar. So Andre’s sister, Mara, bears the courtesy title of princess, but her son and daughter aren’t considered royalty and aren’t in the line of succession. The same goes for Marek. While one of his grandmothers was a royal princess, he inherited no title from her and he’s not in line to the throne.”
“But he is a...a viscount, you said. Right?”
“Right. He’s the oldest son of the current Count of Mortagne, and as such bears the title Viscount Saint-Yves.” Tahra’s confusion obviously showed on her face, because the queen smiled. “You’ll get the hang of it eventually. Who married whom, the role Zakhar’s nobility played in its history, et cetera.”
“You mean—”
“When you marry Marek, of course. But don’t worry about it now, just remember what I said. His military title is more important to him than his inherited title. The first one he earned. The other was merely a gift of fate.”
Tahra couldn’t take it all in. Had Marek told her all this before? Was that what he’d been referring to when he said he’d explained what mariskya meant at some point during the missing eighteen months of her life? His words replayed in her mind. “The first time I called you mariskya you asked me. But I would not tell you because you would not have understood. Not then. Only later, after I... That is, after we...”
It suddenly became exceedingly important to know. “What does mariskya mean?”
The change of subject didn’t seem to faze the queen, and a faint smile touched her lips. “It’s a Zakharian endearment, but there’s actually no direct translation.”
“That’s what Marek said,” Tahra whispered, almost to herself. Then her eyes focused on Juliana. “But it does mean something. Literally. Please tell me.”
“If that’s what he calls you, he should be the one to explain.”
“Please.”
Juliana appeared torn for a moment, then decisively shook her head. “Ask Marek. I will tell you this, though—Marianescus love once, then never again. It’s something in their blood, I think. In their DNA. If you’re his mariskya, you’re his once-in-a-lifetime love.” The breathtaking smile that wreathed Juliana’s face was the loveliest Tahra had ever seen. “And let me tell you from personal experience, that makes you a very fortunate woman.”
* * *
Tahra retreated to her suite after lunch to consider everything she’d learned from the queen. Especially the things Marek—her fiancé, the man she should know better than anyone—should have told her about who he was. She changed out of her dress into jeans and a sweater, then curled up on the daybed again, one hand tucked beneath her cheek...to ponder.
She hated that she couldn’t remember anything about Marek. She especially hated not knowing how he’d managed to win her trust, how he’d managed to break through the barrier she’d erected against all men after the attack that had devastated her. And what he’d done to make her fall in love with him.
Even more than that, though, she hated not remembering loving him. That wound cut deep. How could she forget the man she’d loved so much she’d agreed to marry him? It made no sense. And for a woman who rarely took risks, who always tried to play it safe, the loss of eighteen months of her life and the memory of the man who loved her so much he’d slept at her bedside in the hospital was devastating.
Her heartbeat jumped at the thought that maybe she would never remember, and a new ache stabbed through her. Not so much for herself, but for Marek. How heartbreaking for him to know himself forgotten. To know the woman he loved—who’d claimed to love him—had relegated him to a corner of her mind...and then lost him.
* * *
A rapping on the sturdy oak door again woke her. Unlike this morning, however, she hadn’t merely been dozing, she’d been fast asleep. And this time it took her longer to figure out where she was.
She opened the door and found Marek standing there, one arm propped against the door frame, drawing her attention to a physique that just begged for a woman’s hands to find out if he was as rock hard as he appeared. Everywhere.
She was so disconcerted by the thought that she blurted out the question foremost in her mind. “Why didn’t you tell me who you really are?”