A Royal Bride of Convenience

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 her back—in Italian, no less. She’d swung around and thrown pebbles from the fountain at him, screaming that she would never, ever marry anyone so mean.

That was a lifetime ago. As far as Lise was concerned, marriage was the most individual, sacred matter on earth. To enter into it for any reason but love was anathema to her.

She’d always believed that if she ever met a man she truly loved, she would seek out Prince Raimondo in secret and end their betrothal. It would kill her parents. She would be forever diminished in their eyes for putting love before them and the crown, but she knew herself too well. A marriage based on anything less would never work.

Lise knew her betrothed felt exactly the same way. Not once in eighteen years had he tried to make contact. She suspected he nursed the hope she might even have died by now. He was probably going to get his wish.

As tears trickled across the bridge of her nose, her ears picked up a sound. It wasn’t Celeste. Someone was moving inside the hut with great stealth. Dear God, please help me.

CHAPTER TWO

WITH the aid of night-vision goggles, Nic took in the interior of the last hut to be inspected. Aldo was right behind him. There was a body on the floor, another body in the crib.

While his buddy dealt with the baby, Nic crept over to the mother, who’d been bound and gagged. He knelt down and felt for a pulse at her throat. She was Caucasian. Her dark hair was worn in a braid on top of her head, the typical missionary coiffure.

She was still alive, but unconscious. No sign of her husband. If she’d worn a wedding ring, it was gone now. Thankfully the air assault had scared off the attackers before they could do her any more harm.

He removed the gag, then took out his knife to free her hands and feet. Once that was done, he easily swept up her khaki-clad body from the mat covering the floor, noting she was long-legged. Carrying her in a fireman’s lift, he followed Aldo out the door. They half ran through the compound to the area where an open-air bush vehicle filled with wounded locals was waiting. The other one had already gone.

Time was of the essence to meet the military helicopters at the designated rendezvous. Everything had to be accomplished under the cover of darkness. When the dawn came, there could be no indication that the Raiders had ever been here.

After setting her on a banquette next to a group of women, one of whom reached for the baby, he and Aldo signaled the driver to take off. They, along with others from the unit, stood on the running board, with their assault rifles positioned in case they met with hostile fire.

By the time they reached the clearing, one helicopter had taken off. The other one was waiting for them, its blades rotating. As soon as the vehicle stopped, Nic jumped off and started ushering people toward the opening. When he saw that the missionary had recovered enough to hold the baby, he realized she’d only been pretending to be unconscious. She’d done a good job of it.

Nic helped her into the helicopter. Aldo followed and closed the door for the short flight to El Wak, where the displaced people and missionaries would be given shelter and food. With their mission accomplished, Nic’s unit would board military transport and fly to the Middle East.

Counting the minutes until the helicopter landed, Nic was first out the door, where he was met by the commander of his unit. It came as a big surprise that he was here rather than with the rest of the unit. Something was up for him to be on hand for a one-night maneuver. After they saluted, he took Nic aside, away from everyone getting off the chopper.

“We have a desperate situation here that requires your help. We’ve already obtained your father’s backing, but of course it’s up to you. It’s asking a lot of you, Nic, but because of who you are, and your outstanding record of service, I’m going to ask it.”

“Go ahead.”

“Intelligence indicates that the woman on board with the baby was going to be held hostage and used as a bargaining tool for the enemy, to gain concessions from the Chakul government. You got here before they could kidnap her.”

“Barely in time,” Nic muttered.

“I understand she’s been working in the bush for a number of years, crusading for human rights. They want her silenced.”