Stolen To Wear His Crown (Mills & Boon Modern) (The Royal Guard, Book 1) Read online

  MARCELLA BELL lives in the mostly sunny wilds of Southern Oregon with her husband, children, father, and three mismatched mutts. The dry hot summers and four distinct annual seasons of the region are a far cry from the weird rainy streets of Portland, Oregon, where she grew up, but she wouldn’t trade her quirky mountain valley home for anywhere else on the earth. As a late bloomer and a yogini, Marcella is drawn to romance that showcases love’s incredible power to transform.

  This is Marcella Bell’s debut book

  for Mills & Boon Modern—

  we hope that you enjoy it!

  Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

  Stolen to Wear His Crown

  Marcella Bell

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  ISBN: 978-1-474-09877-9

  STOLEN TO WEAR HIS CROWN

  © 2020 Marcella Bell

  Published in Great Britain 2020

  by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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  Note to Readers

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  To Eileen M. K. Bobek and the Romance Rebels.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Booklist

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Readers

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Extract

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  MINA ALDABA SMOOTHED her palms over her hair as she took a deep breath. The motion wouldn’t do anything against the strengsth and determination of her curls to frizz—even if there was enough moisture in her palms to give it some hold—but it felt purposeful. On the other side of the ornately carved door in front of her sat the men and women of Parliament—the people whose decision would dictate whether or not she finally kept her promise to her father.

  Like her hair, she was determined and untamable. She had done everything she could, with a full heart and to the very best of her ability—and that had carried her to this side of the door, inches away from the chance to achieve everything she had ever wanted.

  The rest was up to the men and women inside.

  The thought set off a series of stuttering palpitations in her chest—and not the kind that could ever be confused with excitement.

  This next part was up to fate. The only thing she could do was be herself, trust her knowledge, and hope that that would carry her through. Unfortunately, faith wasn’t one of her stronger virtues. She hadn’t gotten to this side of the door by wishing. She’d done it by force of will and desire, continuous studying and practice, so she would be ready to deliver when the opportunity came.

  Now was that opportunity.

  She could steel her spine even if she couldn’t calm her stomach.

  She wore her usual black pantsuit and white blouse. Selecting one size up and choosing a square cut lent her hyper-feminine figure some much-needed gravitas. The hard lines of the design concealed any hint of curve—which she appreciated, given her very round derrière and rather Rubenesque chest. Dressing her figure for academia—or, more accurately, concealing her figure for academia—was a challenge that she hadn’t anticipated when she’d decided to become a scientist at twelve years old.

  Still, one had to accept what one had.

  She would never forget the day a female colleague had taken her aside about it, though.

  “You’re going to have to do something about all of that.”

  Her fellow doctoral candidate had spoken blithely as she’d gestured in a vague circle toward Mina’s jeans-clad rear and her breasts with a long red fingernail.

  “It’s just too much,” she’d added. “You’ll never be taken seriously.”

  At the time, the words had stung, but Mina was grateful for them. Her colleague had been right. The thin old uni sweatshirt she’d been wearing that day had stretched across her full chest, and her jeans had been form-fitted. She’d looked like the student she had always been, rather than the professional academic she was becoming, and the world she’d been about to enter was cutthroat, old-fashioned, and antagonistic—especially if you happened to have been born with female anatomy.

  As soon as she had transformed her attire, her work had begun to garner more attention. Her male colleagues, it appeared, had been able to focus on it, rather than her.

  Thankfully, she had mastered those ropes long ago—so well, in fact, that she was now in line to reap the highest professional reward: an interview for the appointment of an adviser to the King of Cyrano.

  In preparation, her dense chocolate-brown curls had been ruthlessly brushed back from her face, heavily gelled, and confined into a thick French braid. Today—a day in which when she couldn’t afford to have even a single hair out of place—she had used nearly double the amount of product to tame the springy, indomitable mass.

  She had learned long ago to avoid putting her hair in a bun. Too many academics harbored sexy librarian fantasies.

  The combination of the suit and the braid created a no-nonsense image—that of a serious academic. It was precisely what Mina wanted to project. Especially since she was the youngest candidate ever to sit for a parliamentary interview—and only the second woman ever nomina
ted.

  The door cracked open, and a page popped his perfectly coiffed head out.

  Standing too close to the door, Mina jumped back with a quiet squeak.

  The page lifted an eyebrow. “They’ll be ready for you in just moment, Dr. Aldaba.”

  She nodded, replying, “Thank you,” but the young man had already gone back inside.

  Mina took another deep breath, her mind spinning. It’s almost time, Papa.

  She felt, rather than heard, the ghostly whisper of his reply: “Cyrano is counting on you.”

  Though he was long gone, her father’s words were as alive as ever in her heart and mind. He’d said the same thing before every one of the significant milestones he had been alive to witness. That had amounted to thirteen years’ worth of first places, gold stars, and academic honors. And then no more.

  Mina shook her head, trying to clear it. There would be time for bittersweet melancholy later. Thirteen years might not have been long to have a father, but it had been long enough for them to develop a shared dream—one that she was determined to see to fruition today.

  She had gone over potential interview questions for ten hours the previous day, digging up and scouring over old questionnaires from dawn until dusk, taking only short breaks for meals.

  She had gone to bed at a reasonable hour, awoken early, and eaten a balanced breakfast, and then spent another hour in preparation before leaving her apartment for the interview.

  The door opened again, this time fully. The page stepped into the hall and gestured for her to enter. “They are ready for you, Dr. Aldaba.”

  Her stomach lurched, but this time she merely nodded to the page with a confidence she didn’t feel. “Thank you,” she said, her voice steady and strong despite the butterflies rioting in her gut.

  She walked in.

  If all went well, she would walk out into a new future.

  “Members of Parliament,” she said, once she stood beside the interview seat. She had settled on that form of address after practicing every single acceptable salutation listed in Cyrano’s official protocols. Giving the appropriate formal bow, she added, “I am honored to be here before you today.”

  She sat in the provided chair. It had a plain wood frame and legs, with leather cushions studded onto its seat and backrest. To its left sat a small side table, set with a microphone and a bottle of water.

  Years of declining invitations and losing friendships for the sake of study flashed through her mind—as well as the exhaustion of her constant efforts to cultivate her academic image. To get here had required near-continuous drive, laser-like focus, and every ounce of passion she had. She had lived with singular tunnel vision, blocking out the rest of the world, for this moment.

  And then the vetting began.

  Two hours later the open question session ended, followed by a five-minute break before the voting.

  Silence and time stretched on while Mina waited, stiff-backed, wrung-out, and entirely at their mercy.

  Five minutes and an entire lifetime later, Parliament returned and the vote began. First, in the far upper right of the assembly, a green light flickered on. Then, in the middle of the room, another. Then, like a sea of green gently flashing to life, every light in the room turned green.

  A tingling sensation filled her body, running the length of her skin and making her feel as weightless as if she were flying through thin, icy air, with the wind brushing against her skin, her mind scattered and light.

  She had done it. She had just been appointed advisor to the King of Cyrano.

  The prime minister stood and the rest of the people in the room rose from their seats, Mina included.

  “Congratulations, Dr. Aldaba,” he said. “Your appointment has been approved. We know you will be a credit to Cyrano and advise our King wisely.”

  There was no stopping the wide smile that broke across her face as she bowed, saying, “Thank you, Members of Parliament, it will be my honor to serve.”

  In her mind, she screamed, We did it, Papa!

  And then the thick antique door came crashing inward, slamming onto the tiled floor with an earsplitting crack.

  Men in riot gear rushed into the room—a wave of Kevlar and gunmetal-gray that tackled Mina to the ground before she could suck in enough air to scream.

  An officer yanked her arms back, pressed a knee into her spine, and secured zip ties around her wrists and ankles.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the prime minister demanded. “You cannot barge into Parliament like this!”

  One of the officers responded, “King’s business, sir.”

  Another representative shouted, “Excuse you! This is the House of Parliament. Our business takes precedence here!”

  Even so, Mina was lifted none too gently and trundled away from the nightmare that her greatest dream had become.

  After a dizzying series of twisting hallways and stone passageways, she and her captors arrived at their destination. At least, she deduced it was their destination when they deposited her on the floor in front of another large wooden door, this one just as thick, but humble compared to the door of Parliament. They cut her free from the zip ties.

  “You are to go inside,” one of the men in riot gear said.

  Mina stood, did her best to straighten herself out, and reached a shaking hand out to touch the door. When her fingers touched wood, it was as if the world turned over. Her heart tumbled with the sense that a different reality lay on the other side.

  Sucking in a slight gasp of air against sudden vertigo, she pressed her palm against the door. It slid open silently at the slight pressure of her hand, revealing an intimate room. The scent of fading incense filled her nostrils as her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light inside.

  A red-carpeted center aisle with pews along either side led to a slightly raised dais in front of an ornate altar. As the image came into focus the details coalesced in Mina’s mind: flickering candles, thick velvet, pews... She was in one of the castle’s many chapels.

  A cluster of figures stood on and below the dais, and they were all staring at her.

  “Go on then,” the officer said from behind her, giving her a nudge in the back.

  Mina took a few halting steps into the chapel before once again squaring her shoulders.

  No one spoke.

  Even the administrative clip of her sensible heels was muted by the aged red carpet of the aisle.

  As she neared, the cluster of people became more defined. Two men stood on the dais: the taller dressed from head to toe in midnight-black, the shorter one, older, dressed in bright white vestments. The Archbishop of Cyrano. Four others stood below the dais, arranged in front of the two men in a crescent pattern. Two men and two women—each of them wearing the indigo uniform of the Royal Guard.

  Which means the man in black is the...

  Mina’s gaze darted toward the man to find his eyes already waiting for hers.

  His were violet and smoldering, confirming the descriptions she had read in magazines and dismissed as fluff. His jaw was clean-shaven, his caramel skin smooth enough to run her fingers along. The thought was so un-Mina-like, it startled her from the spell of his face.

  His stare was unwavering. His eyes bored into hers. His jaw was clenched and tense, as if carved from living granite, but she was no longer so enthralled that she couldn’t take in the additional details of his expression.

  Faint lines of displeasure creased either side of his mouth, and a slight line formed between his sword-straight thick black brows as he took her in. His eyes held heat, but there was no welcome in their warmth.

  Mina had imagined her moment of meeting the King countless times over the years. It had been a core component of her greatest dream for so long that the image was virtually woven onto the back of her eyelids.

  In her imagination, she execut
ed a perfect bow and rose, somberly accepted as his newest advisor.

  In reality, she was the worse for wear, for having been dragged before him by Cyrano’s version of a SWAT team, and very much in doubt as to her welcome.

  Circumstances couldn’t always be ideal, however. So, gathering together the shreds of her dignity, Mina once again straightened her shoulders, steeled her spine, and then dropped into the flawless half-bow of a royal councilor to the King.

  As she rose, tendrils of the King’s scent swirled around her—a mesmerizing combination of leather and oak, mixed with something smooth and expensive that caught her attention even through the years of burnt incense in the chapel. It slid like silk along her senses—a flavor, a temperature, and a color all at once—and it was all she could do to remain steady as she came upright.

  One look at the monarch’s face, however, told her that something more than her unusual reaction to his presence was wrong. Instead of the coolly cordial distance she’d always imagined the King would exude upon their meeting, he radiated a furious intensity that almost took her aback.

  He wasn’t merely bothered by her. He was angry.

  Holding back the frown that wanted to crease her own brow, she addressed him. “Your Grace...”

  Without a smile, he replied, “It’s Your Royal Majesty.”

  His voice was a smooth baritone that stirred something deep in her core, which was likely why it took her longer than usual to process his rejoinder.

  As she did, her frown broke through her hold on it. Keeping her voice controlled, she said, “Excuse me?” She tilted her head to one side, ever so slightly.

  The King looked bored. “The proper address is Your Royal Majesty. And it’s customary for a woman to curtsy, rather than bow, before the King.”

  Her frown deepened. He was correct—the exception to the rule being female Members of Parliament and members of the King’s advisory council.

  For reasons she did not fully understand, rather than attempt to smooth the situation, she decided to point it out. Tersely. “Apologies, Your Royal Majesty. As a newly appointed member of your advisory council, I chose the more standard salutation.”