she amused him. How he’d laugh if he knew that in ten minutes, without trying, he’d seduced one of Britain’s last dyed in the wool virgins to mindless longing.
Tamsin swallowed convulsively. She shot to her feet and stepped away, busying herself by stripping off her gloves and stuffing them in a pocket.
‘It’s about the archives I’m cataloguing and assessing for conservation.’ A cache of documents recently discovered when a castle cellar had been remodelled.
She turned. He stood by the chair, frowning in abstraction. Tamsin lifted her chin, breathing deep.
‘They include some unique and valuable papers.’
‘I’m sure they do.’ He nodded, his expression blandly polite. Obviously he had no interest in her efforts.
‘I have a copy of one with me.’ She reached for her briefcase, grateful for an excuse to look away from his hooded gaze.
‘Why don’t you just tell me about it?’
Cut to the chase, in other words.
He’d had plenty of time to dally, amusing himself at her expense, but none to spare for her work.
Disappointment curled through her, and annoyance.
‘One of the documents caught my attention. It’s a record of your family and Prince Raul’s.’ She paused, excitement at her find bubbling up despite her vexation.
‘There’s still work to be done on it.’ Tamsin paused, keeping her voice carefully even. ‘I’ve been translating from the Latin and, if it’s proved correct…’
‘Yes? If it’s proved correct?’
Tamsin hesitated, but there was no easy way to say it. Besides, he’d surely welcome the news.
‘If it’s genuine you’re not only Prince of Ruvingia, you’re also the next legitimate ruler of Maritz. Of the whole country. Not Prince Raul.’ She paused, watching his expression freeze.
‘It’s you who should be crowned king.’
Chapter Two
ALARIC’s body stiffened as her words sank in with terrible, nightmare clarity.
Him as ruler of Maritz!
The idea was appalling.
Raul was the crown prince. The one brought up from birth to rule. The one trained and ready to dedicate his life to his country.
Maritz needed him.
Or a man like Alaric’s brother, Felix.
Alaric wasn’t in the same mould. Even now he heard his father’s cool, clipped voice expressing endless displeasure and disappointment with his reckless second son.
Alaric’s lips twisted. How right the old man had been. Alaric couldn’t take responsibility for the country. Bad enough he’d stepped into Felix’s shoes as leader of a principality. Entrusting the wellbeing of the whole nation to his keeping would be disaster.
He, whose conscience was heavy with the weight of others’ lives! Who’d failed them so abysmally.
Horror crawled up his spine to clamp his shoulders. Ice froze his blood. Familiar faces swam in his vision, faces distorted with pain. The faces of those he’d failed. The face of his brother, eyes feverish as he berated Alaric for betraying him.
He couldn’t be king. It was unthinkable.
‘Is this a joke?’ The words shot out, harsh in the silence.
‘Of course not!’
No. One look at her frown and her stunned eyes made that clear. Tamsin Connors wasn’t kidding.
He’d never seen a more serious, buttoned-up woman. From her tense lips to her heavy-framed glasses and scraped-back hair, she was the image of no-nonsense spinsterhood.
Except for that body.
Hard to believe she’d felt so warm and lithely curved. Or that holding her he’d known a curious desire to strip away that fashion crime of an outfit and explore her scented femininity. A desire completely dormant in the face of so many blatant sexual invitations from tonight’s beauties!
Beneath her bag lady clothes Tamsin Connors was only in her mid-twenties. When she forgot to prim them her lips were surprisingly luscious. He looked into her frowning face and knew he was avoiding the issue. The impossible issue of him being king!
‘What exactly is in these papers?’ His voice sounded rusty, as if his vocal cords had seized up.
‘They’re old records by a cleric called Tomas. He detailed royal history, especially births, deaths and marriages.’ She shifted, leaning imperceptibly closer.
Did he imagine her fresh sunshine scent, warm in a room chilled with the remembrance of death?
With an effort he dragged his focus back to her.
‘Take a seat, please, and explain.’ He gestured to one of the armchairs by the fire then took one for himself.
‘According to Tomas there was intermarriage between your family and Prince Raul’s.’
Alaric nodded. ‘That was common practice.’ Power was guarded through alliances with other aristocratic families.
‘At one stage there was a gap in the direct line to the Maritzian throne. The crown couldn’t pass from father to son as the king’s son had died.’
Her words flayed a raw spot deep inside him. A familiar glacial chill burned Alaric’s gut. The knowledge he was a usurper in a better man’s shoes.
That he was responsible for his brother’s death.
‘There were two contenders for the throne. One from Prince Raul’s family and…’ Her words slowed as she registered his expression. Some of her enthusiasm faded.
‘And one from mine?’
She shifted as if uncomfortable, but continued.
Two rival princes from different branches of intertwined families. A will from the old king designating one, the eldest by some weeks, as his successor. A tragic ‘accident’ leading to the accession of the alternate heir and a desperate decision by the dead prince’s widow to send her newborn son to safety far away. The suppression of the old king’s will and a rewriting of birth dates to shore up the new monarch’s claim to the throne.
It was a tale of treachery and the ruthless pursuit of power. But in his country’s turbulent history, definitely possible.
How was it possible she’d found such a contentious document?
The likelihood was staggeringly remote. For centuries historians had plotted the family trees of the
