King's Ransom (12 page)

“Oh no!” Maddie shook her head emphatically. “I love it here. I don't mind staying. Honest.”

Juliana smiled. “Okay, then. I'll need you to change our flight reservations, but I'm not sure exactly when we'll be leaving. I have to talk to the producer and the director first, get the revised filming schedule. I'll let you know when I know.” She changed the subject. “So what did you come here for? What's up?”

Maddie looked confused for a few seconds, then her confusion cleared. “Oh, I was going to ask if you heard about the landslide.”

“What landslide?”

“There was a terrible landslide in the mountains west of here. I saw it on the news. I mean, I saw the pictures, but I had to ask someone what it all meant because I couldn't understand the announcer. They told me a whole village was pretty much wiped out. I don't know how many are dead, but...it's pretty bad.”

“Oh my God!” Juliana's hand covered her mouth, and the only thing she could think of was Andre, how devastated he would be by this. These were his
people
. He would take the loss personally—she knew him well enough to know that. Her first instinct was to seek him out, comfort him however she could, but almost immediately she realized that was ridiculous. Andre didn't need her. Not for comfort, or for anything else. “Oh my God,” she said again. “Do you know anything more?”

Maddie shook her head. “All I know is what I just told you.”

Juliana hugged Maddie quickly. “Thanks,” she said. “Thanks for letting me know. I probably wouldn't have found out until tomorrow if you hadn't come to tell me right away.”

After Maddie left, Juliana stood in the middle of the room for a moment. Her first instinct—to go to Andre—had been suppressed, but her second instinct was to pray. Pray for the villagers who were suffering tonight. And pray for those whose suffering was over, but who left behind grieving family members.
The chapel,
she thought suddenly.
There's a chapel just downstairs.

She moved swiftly, ignoring the casual outfit she'd planned to wear that was laid out on her bed, searching instead for a dress in the closet.
Sleeves,
she reminded herself as she rejected first one dress and then another.
Nothing sleeveless for church.
Maybe that was old-fashioned nowadays—she knew most Americans were a lot more casual in their church attire now—but that's the way her father had raised her. And besides, Zakhar hadn't moved with the times the way the United States had. Women still covered their heads in church here, and both men and women still dressed with care for church.

Satisfied with her choice at last, Juliana donned the dress, searched in the dresser for a scarf she could use, then hurried out. Her feet skimmed down the steps of the Grand Staircase, her hand just lightly touching the gilded handrail. She knew where the chapel was on the main floor, in the older part of the palace. She'd been there before when she was younger, but never like this. Never with a desire to alleviate suffering with prayer.

The chapel door was open, and Juliana checked on the threshold, startled. Someone else was already inside. Two someones, actually—both visible in the glow cast by the lit banks of votive candles. One man was kneeling on a prie-dieu in front of the altar railing, his head bowed; the other man was standing a little to one side watching the first man, but not so intently he didn't see Juliana in the doorway when she paused there.

She slipped the scarf over her head, then slid into the last pew, not wanting to intrude. In the few seconds before she bowed her head in prayer she realized who it was who was here before her.
I should have known,
she told herself.
Where else would he be?
Then she resolutely emptied her mind of everything except those she was praying for and began the comforting litany of formal prayers from her childhood.

She didn't know how long she prayed, just that—at the very end—Andre intruded on her thoughts again. Andre, who would be suffering tonight along with his subjects. So she added him to her prayer list. “Help him in his hour of need, Lord,” she whispered. “Help him find the words to comfort his people. And help him be strong enough to bear this alone. Amen.”

Alone,
she thought.
So alone in his role as Zakhar's king.
He would comfort others, but who would comfort him? She'd wanted to be that woman all those years ago. Had believed she could be. And if only he'd loved her, she would have been. He wouldn't be alone now.

For the first time she saw not only what she'd lost eleven years ago, but what he'd lost, too. And in that instant a tiny thaw began. She didn't recognize it at first. Didn't realize that her thoughts of Andre at this moment...her prayers for him...and her presence here in the chapel were all reminding her that forgiveness was the path to true healing. She would never heal as long as she refused to forgive Andre. She would always be locked in the bitter past until she let go of her anger and pain, and to do that she needed to forgive him. Her heart would never be free until she did.

Juliana looked up just then and saw Andre rising from his kneeling position in front of the altar. Saw him turn tiredly toward his bodyguard and say something. Saw his bodyguard point in her direction, Andre's gaze following where he pointed. Their eyes met across the distance. Locked. Held. And in her head she heard the words that had haunted her for eleven years.
Come to me, Juliana. Come to me.

But this time they weren't soft, seductive words. This time they weren't a sensual lure. This time they were the cry of a man in pain, a man who needed someone to take the crushing weight of kingship from his shoulders for a moment. Just for a moment. A man who could be strong in all the ways he needed to be...if only he could let go and be weak for just a moment. If only he had a woman who believed in him. A woman to lend him her strength for that one moment when he couldn't be strong on his own.
Come to me, Juliana. Come to me.

Loving words. But not lying words. Not anymore.

 

Chapter 12

S
uddenly Juliana realized Andre and his bodyguard were walking briskly toward her up the chapel's main aisle, and she panicked. She slid from the pew and hurried out the door, her only idea to escape. Because she didn't know what she would say to him. Didn't know how she would react if he searched her eyes, not sure she could hide her feelings. She just knew she wasn't ready to face him, not with everything she'd just come to understand so fresh in her mind.

She raced down the corridor, not caring that her scarf flew off and fluttered to the marble-tiled floor, not caring if anyone saw her running. Not caring if Andre saw her running, either. Then she heard footsteps behind her, not soft like hers; the determined tread of a man who wasn't about to let her escape.

“Juliana!” he called. “Wait!” He caught her at the foot of the Grand Staircase, snagging her wrist and swinging her around effortlessly to face him. His other hand held the scarf she'd dropped, which he must have stopped to pick up. He didn't say anything, just dropped her wrist so he could loop the scarf around her neck and tie it loosely. Then he stepped back, away from her, and she realized there were eyes everywhere. Not only Andre's bodyguard, who'd followed his king as he raced to catch her, but the guards on duty at the front door, household employees crossing the vast expanse and who knew all else.

She looked up at him, her heart beating wildly. Not just from running, but from the emotions chasing through her at the sight of him in a way she'd never seen him before. He was dusty, dirty, disheveled. His clothes were a mess and almost certainly ruined, rips and tears that could never be invisibly mended. There was a bad scratch across one cheek that looked as if it needed attention—it had drawn blood. And his hands with their long, straight fingers—all except the pinkies and their odd yet endearing defect—his hands were bruised and grimy, some of the nails broken off at the quick. He'd obviously come directly to the chapel from the site of the landslide, directly from the rescue effort without bothering to stop and clean up.

He whispered her name, and she asked the question foremost in her mind. “How many?”

He closed his eyes briefly, and when they opened again she saw the undisguised grief in their depths. “Ninety-seven.” He breathed raggedly. “Ninety-seven dead, thirty-two of them children.”

“Oh God,” she whispered, appalled.

“The dead are mostly women and little children. The older children were all in school—the village does not have its own school, thank God, so the schoolchildren are bused into Drago. Most of the men were at work and away from the village when the landslide occurred, but many of them heard the rumble as the mountain let go and hurried back. It was a good thing they did—we needed those extra hands in the rescue effort.”

“How many wounded?” she asked softly.

“Nearly twice as many, some of them seriously. The seriously wounded ones are in hospital. The ones who had only minor injuries, or who were miraculously unharmed, are being housed in the surrounding villages and in Red Cross shelters, as are all the ones who were not there when it happened. The village of Taryna itself was destroyed. Not a single structure is safe to occupy.” His face hardened. “And even if the buildings were safe I would not let anyone stay there. We do not know if the mountain is done.”

“Do they know...? Have they found everyone?”

A muscle twitched in his cheek as he said in an undertone, “Do you think I would have left there tonight otherwise?”

And as he said it Juliana knew it was the simple truth. Andre wouldn't have left the site until everyone—every man, woman and child—was accounted for. How she knew this she wasn't sure. Eleven years had wrought changes in him she was just beginning to comprehend. He'd always had a compassionate nature—she couldn't have loved him otherwise. But the selflessness involved in a search like this—ignoring the risk to himself—the empathy he obviously felt for the suffering of his subjects, were new to her. Sterling aspects of his character she'd never really encountered before.

She ached for him, knowing his pain as if it were her own. She wanted to raise her hand and brush away the dust from his golden-brown hair. Wanted to take a warm, damp cloth and soak the blood from his cheek. And she wanted—desperately wanted—to hold his head against her breast and let him ease his suffering in the shelter of her arms. But all she could do was gaze at him, her heart in her eyes. Telling him without words everything she yearned to do for him.

Andre caught his breath and mouthed her name. And the little thaw that had begun in the chapel turned into a strong Chinook blowing warmly across the frozen wasteland that was Juliana's heart.

She would never forget this moment, she knew. Would never forget the need in his eyes. Not a physical need. This wasn't
wanting
. This wasn't desire. He felt those things for her, too, of course. He was a man, after all. She'd known he wanted her, desired her the night of the reception. But this wasn't anything like that. This was raw, emotional need. Need, like the way a man admitted he needed a woman to complete him. Need, like the way a strong man needed a woman he could be vulnerable with. The kind of need that went hand in hand with love. The way Andre had looked at her eleven years ago, his brilliant green eyes alight as he whispered,
“Now it begins.”

* * *

He would never forget this moment, he knew. Would never forget the soft compassion in Juliana's eyes, would never forget the yearning he saw there. Not a physical yearning, but rather a desire to hold, to comfort, to heal. The way a woman looked at the man who held her heart when she knew he was suffering, the desire to take away his pain. The way Juliana had looked at him eleven years ago, when she came to him in the night, saying,
“I heard you calling to me... Please, Andre... I love you... Let me give you tonight...”
Her beautiful violet eyes telling him she loved him even without the words.

If he were just a man she would be in his arms now. If he were just a man he would carry her up the stairs to his bedroom, and then she would tell him the words he longed to hear again, the words he'd craved for eleven years. He would lose himself in her arms, then awake refreshed, strong, able to take on the weight of the whole world. If he were just a man he would have gone to her years ago, taking whatever she offered...however little or much that was. If he were just a man...

But he wasn't just a man. He was a king. A king in chains—chained to his duty, his responsibility, his subjects. He couldn't ask his people to accept a queen who might leave him someday. Divorce was out of the question. Juliana
had
to come to him. Did she understand?
Could
she understand? For himself it would not have mattered. But for Zakhar he could not take that risk.

So instead of blurting out the words in his heart, he merely said, “Thank you.”

A puzzled look crept into her eyes. “For what?”

Unsmiling and with deep sincerity, he said, “For your prayers.”

She let out her breath in a soft little rush. “It's little enough. I couldn't think of anything else I could do when I heard the news.”

He shook his head. “Not a little thing, Juliana. You care. You care about the people around you. You hurt for them. Feel their pain. Your prayers are heartfelt. No, it is not a little thing, your prayers.”

“Is there anything else I can do?”

He hesitated. “The Red Cross will be making an appeal for donations. Your face, your name is well-known. If you would...?”

“I'd be happy to. That, and anything else you can think of.”

“Thank you.” He stared at Juliana for endless seconds, wanting to say more, but knowing now wasn't the time and place. Knowing they needed privacy for what was in their hearts. But he was comforted by the knowledge that the time was coming. He could sleep tonight for once, knowing the time was surely coming. Juliana would come to him, and then they would say everything they needed to say.

* * *

When Juliana woke the next morning, her first thought was of the tragedy that had occurred the day before. Her second thought was of Andre. His face last night. Vulnerable. Defenseless. Needing her the way she'd once believed he needed her. Loved her. Could she have been wrong about him all these years?

Forgive me,
he'd begged her that day at the cemetery. Did he regret what he'd done years ago? Had he subconsciously been asking forgiveness for that as well as his rough treatment of her in front of the lovers' tomb? But she had still been too wounded to forgive. She'd still been clinging to her own anger and pain. She'd lashed out at him and told him she would never forgive him.

But it wasn't true. In her heart of hearts hadn't she already forgiven him for almost everything? Could she remember their one night of love so poignantly if she hadn't?

Everything he did, everything he said, the way he'd looked at her last night—needing her in such an elemental way her heart had responded instinctively—everything told her that even if he'd never loved her all those years ago, he loved her now. And love was too precious to waste.

Too precious to waste.

* * *

Juliana walked out of her meeting with the producer and director of
King's Ransom
with a new shooting schedule in her hand and a copy of a legal document that had already been scanned and emailed to her lawyer agent, Marty Devens. The time difference between Zakhar and California meant that Marty was still sleeping. He wouldn't have had a chance to review the contract modification and give it his blessing. But she already knew even if he didn't she would sign it. For the first time in their ten-year friendship Dirk needed her help. Dirk and Sabrina had given her so much—now when they needed something from her in return she wasn't about to refuse.

She glanced down at the schedule. She'd already reviewed it with the producer, but she just wanted to confirm what he'd said, that she had no scenes to shoot for the next three days. All the scenes involving Dirk alone had been escalated. For the next three days Dirk would be playing Andre Alexei during the time Eleonora was a captive far away. Including his lightning raids on neighboring kingdoms for the treasure he needed to ransom his queen. They would also be shooting the daring final raid, the one where Andre Alexei was fatally injured.

She was free until Friday, when she and Dirk would film the scene that took place between the first king and queen of Zakhar right before that final raid, among others. The scene where Eleonora begged her husband not to go after the ransom he'd paid for her sixteen years earlier. Not to try to exact vengeance for something so far distant.

But Andre Alexei couldn't let it go. Recovering the ransom was secondary, he'd told his wife. Someone was going to pay in blood for everything she'd gone through. Someone was going to pay in blood for every scar she bore, every nightmare that still haunted her. Someone was going to pay in blood for the humiliation and helplessness he'd suffered knowing his wife—the woman he loved—had been raped and tortured, and there hadn't been a thing he could do to prevent it. And now that the opportunity had finally presented itself, he was damned if he'd turn the other cheek.

His fatal flaw,
she realized. The first king of Zakhar had carried that anger inside him for years. Not white-hot, but simmering below the surface. A powerful anger born of a powerful love. And because he couldn't forgive, because his thirst for vengeance had finally overpowered him, he'd died, and Eleonora had died, too.
Would he have done it if he'd known?
she wondered. If he'd known Eleonora would choose him, would choose death with him over life without him, would he have risked his own life merely for vengeance?

There was no way to know for sure, but she wanted to believe he wouldn't have done it. Wanted to believe his love was strong enough to put Eleonora's life above his own needs, the way he'd done years before when he ransomed her.

Her thoughts moved to Andre.
Her
Andre. And he
was
her Andre, she recognized with a shock. Maybe he hadn't been hers eleven years ago, but he was now. For the time being anyway. Maybe he didn't love her the way she loved him. Maybe he didn't love her the way Andre Alexei had loved Eleonora. But he loved her
now
. Needed her
now
.
Maybe not forever and a day. But enough. Enough for now.
And on that thought she went in search of him.

Juliana finally ran Andre to ground, after much searching, in the official royal office suite that had once been his father's. She remembered his father as a stern, unsmiling man, who tolerated her friendship with Princess Mara merely because he barely tolerated Mara herself, and cared little for anything to do with Mara's life. It was different with Andre. All the then-king's hopes and dreams were tied up in his heir, and he begrudged anything that took Andre's attention away from learning the business of running the country. Zakhar first and foremost had been his credo, and Andre's father had demanded his son's attendance at nearly every official function.

The old king had bitterly resented any attention Andre had paid to Mara, too, not just to Juliana. Mara had never said anything, and neither had Andre. But Juliana had known. She'd contrasted her own father's loving treatment of her with the way Mara's father had brushed his daughter aside, time and again. She'd compared her own father's interest in the minutiae of her admittedly less than stellar school accomplishments with the complete indifference Mara's father had shown toward Mara's outstanding academic achievements and her brilliance in mathematics, and had pitied her friend.

She remembered now that Andre had never knuckled under to his father, not regarding Mara or anything else. Mara had told her once that Andre was stronger than anyone who went against him, and not just physically. The old king had ranted and raved against it, but Andre had insisted on serving the requisite four years with the Zakharian National Forces demanded of every other Zakharian male—and had done so.