Heir in Exile (26 page)

“We reminded the troops just before we left to separate the King and Queen,” Masing said.

Satisfied that everyone was on the same page, Sander pushed his sleeve back to check the time. Dawn was fast approaching. If they wanted the element of surprise and darkness to help disguise their movements, they needed to get moving.

“Then let's get on with it,” he said.

Masing, with a gesture to his vehicle, said, “I have your seat in my car here, Your Highness.”

Sander glanced at the limousine a final time before climbing into the Hummer. Masing closed the door behind him.

Collectively, engines roared to life. Headlights remained off.

The limousine cruised forward ahead of the rest, picking up speed. One by one, the Hummer and other vehicles followed.

Faster, and faster, prepared to literally storm the castle.

. . .

The guards at the gatehouse were not prepared for the assault. Guns in their face, they relinquished control of the gate, hands in the air, weapons stripped from their person.

Sander caught glimpses of it as the gate opened and they sped through, rushing toward the entrance. Although armed, he did not draw his own weapon. Teams of men trained in this kind of exercise swarmed from the cars before they came to a complete stop. He climbed out as shouts and warnings were subdued before any shots rang into the cold morning.

Taking the stairs, he ascended while more guards poured down from the upper levels, contained by the troops who were better prepared and had surprise on their side. By the time he made it to the private floor of the Royal rooms, his brothers and sister were in the hall in their sleepwear and robes, furious and demanding answers.

Answers he was not yet prepared to give.

Rounding into another hall, he strode toward the King's chamber, appeased to see Aksel's men subdued and his own standing in their place. Stepping into the King's private domain, Sander caught sight of his father immediately.

Aksel, red faced, eyes gleaming with anger, sat in a plush chair while troops took phones out of the room, as well as televisions, and even Aksel's personal cell phone.

“What is the meaning of this!” Aksel demanded when he saw Sander.

“Your son is dead—but then that was your plan the second you realized Mattias and I had discovered who he was. Pity I could not save him. He was a man worth saving.” Sander tempered the fury that tried to creep into the syllables. Faced with his father, he found it more difficult than he imagined. He talked over Aksel's bluster and shouting.

“I am hereby detaining you for abuse of power. You
and
the Queen,” Sander said.

“You cannot--”

“You will remain detained until my meetings with the council are over, and until I have explained your cruel streak to the people of Latvala.” Never raising his voice, Sander continued speaking past the King's curses and threats. “When I am through, you will no longer be King. It may take several days for the council to think over all the information I am about to give them, and a few more days beyond that for the people to decide where their loyalty lies. Since it is unlikely I will be taking the throne, they will back Mattias instead of Paavo, for even they know without being told he is the natural leader behind me.”

Startled into momentarily silence, Aksel broke it with a question. “So you will remain in exile, then? Self imposed?”

“No. I intend to tell the people
why
you forced me into exile, and the truth of my mother. Should they grant me the throne anyway, it will be me taking your place,” he said.

“The council will never allow it. Not when they know. What are you thinking! To announce that to the world--”

“Yet you did not hesitate to announce my exile in my stead when it suited your needs,” Sander said, cutting Aksel off. “This suits
my
needs. It satisfies my honor, of which you know nothing about. I will accept what the people and the council decide for my fate.”

“The laws of this country won't allow it, that's what. To be branded a bastard is far better than you deserve,” Aksel said, a vein throbbing in his forehead, cheeks ruddy with anger.

Sander realized with sudden insight that he was feeding the beast. Dangling fresh meat outside the bars of an animal's cage. He also realized that he didn't care to hear Aksel's limp excuses and thin threats. This man was a King past his prime, a man grasping, drowning, fighting to keep what he thought was his. Sander cared not to hear Aksel gloat over Laur's birth or death, did not want to be present while his father attempted to spin some story or another that was likely another lie.

Turning on a heel, he left the room. Aksel's vehement diatribe faded the further he walked, until he could no longer hear it. Refusing to consider pandering to Helina in any way, shape or form, Sander stalked the hallway en route for the stairs. His brothers and sister had disappeared into their rooms, dressing he knew, to descend to the lower floors to find out what was happening.

They could sit in on his council meeting and learn with the rest.

Taking his phone from his pocket, he made a call.

“Olev. Have Chey brought to the main castle at noon. I want an escort of no less than eight for her. Do not stop for anyone.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Chey opened her eyes to the glow of the sun streaming through the cracks of the curtains. Squinting, she sat up in bed, rumpled and disoriented. What day was it? The events of the prior evening blitzed across her memory, reminding her why she felt so weak and drained. The attack on the manor, Laur's death, the late night visit to Kalev. So much turmoil.

On the heels of that, she remembered Sander returning to the castle to have Aksel and Helina detained. Pushing the covers back, she shuffled out of bed. Heading into the bathroom for a quick bit of personal business, she took a turn at the sink after that to wash her hands and brush her teeth. Combing her hair into loose waves, she secured half of it back with a simple barrette and traded night clothes for a business suit in navy with white accents. Once or twice, she suffered a bout of dizziness so strong she had to shoot a hand out to balance against the sink or the wall.

Gathering what few belongings she owned, she stuffed them into a bag, preparing to leave whenever Sander called for her.

The knock at her door came just as she added her make up kit to the small pile. On a whim, she fished the pregnancy tests out and put them in a zippered side pocket of a purse. She didn't want to be separated from the evidence, not while Sander remained unaware of her status.

“Coming,” she called, hurrying to the door. Olev, sober faced and serious, waited on the other side.

“Miss Sinclair, Prince Dare has requested we take you to the family seat. Are you ready?” He glanced over her attire with a quick sweep.

“Yes, all my things are on the bed.” Chey knew it was useless to try and carry any of it herself. The guards would ease it from her fingers with gentle smiles and carry it for her regardless. She glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand to see it was straight up noon. Cringing inwardly at how long she'd slept, she stepped aside so one of the guards in the hall with Olev could enter to retrieve her things.

“Any news about what's going on?” she asked as they descended to the main level.

“Nothing yet, Miss Sinclair. We haven't heard back from Prince Dare or Prince Mattias since early this morning,” Olev said.

Curiosity warred with worry while they piled into the cars. Distantly, she noted many of the guards were accompanying them on the trip. Sander was taking no chances, and for that she was grateful.

The drive was not overly long, yet it felt an eternity to Chey. All the small towns they passed along the way had groups of citizens in the streets, smaller pockets of support for Sander, some carrying signs and others simply adding their presence to make a statement. It pleased her to know they loved Sander so. As he loved them. She knew it was a large part of the reason he meant to confess his birth status, risking it all to retain his honor. He might hate not leading his country should the council and courts go against him, but at least his conscious would be clear.

Ambivalent about her return to Ahtissari castle, Chey regarded the imposing structure as it loomed up out of the snowy landscape sometime later. Sunlight glinted off the white covered turrets and winked off hundreds of window panes. The roads in and out, of course, had been freshly plowed for easy access. What was different this time, were the clusters of military looking vehicles parked at the turn in the road for the gate, and at the gate itself. Guards lurked in pairs and trios, armed to the teeth.

Passing through the gate with no trouble, the vehicle cruised up toward the broad front steps where yet more military awaited. Olev helped her to the ground while another man retrieved her luggage.

“Thanks,” Chey said, releasing Olev's hand. She glanced up at the facade of the castle, pensive and thoughtful. Her first month here had been fraught with danger, discovery and startling insight, both about the Royal family and herself. There were personal demons to conquer before she could ever feel comfortable about living under this roof. She needed to accept that there would always be situations out of her control, that plots and secrets and forbidden knowledge was a way of life in this world.

Just as she crossed the threshold, she realized this was an inadvertent changing of the guard, as it were. Aksel and his old ways of rule stood no chance against Sander and Mattias.

Chey paused three steps inside the immense foyer, struck by an epiphany. Her child would one day enter these doors as King—or Queen. They would stand right here, looking at the same vaulted ceiling, the same set of sweeping stairs. The ghosts of the past and all their figurative skeletons couldn't change the fact that she and Sander would shape and mold the next figurehead according to their beliefs and personal standards. She understood then the importance of her role, not just as Sander's wife, but as a mother. All her experience, compassion, honesty and loyalty played a part in the kind of person who next became King or Queen.

If Sander retains rule,
she reminded herself.
If.

“Miss Sinclair? Is everything all right?” Olev asked, brow pinched with a frown.

She glanced away from the castle interior and curved a small smile. “Yes. I'm sorry. Lead on.”

Olev escorted her through the grand hallways to a heavily guarded sitting room on the main floor. The palest peach covered the walls, with ivory crown molding outlining the seams and the ceiling. Rich fabric covered plush chairs adjacent to a large fireplace while sofas, divans and side tables cordoned the room into sections. It had the feel of money and power and extreme luxury.

“Prince Dare asked that you wait here. He will join you shortly. Can I get you anything to drink or eat, Miss?” Olev asked.

Chey set her purse on a table near one of the chairs close to the roaring fireplace. “Water, please. Thanks.”

“Absolutely. One moment.” He stepped out into the hall while a guard closed the door.

Heat from the flames made for a toasty atmosphere, the scent of pine and cinnamon subtle but pleasing on the senses. She approached the carved mantle and perused the many photos lined up there, stalling over several with Sander posing next to his parents or siblings. Even as a younger boy she could see the distance between him and his father. Oh, he had pride by the bucket; true affection, the kind that kept children coming back year after year to see their parents for all manner of celebration, was missing. Even when Sander stood right next to Aksel, an enormous metaphoric gap remained.

She was not displeased to see it. Chey wouldn't ever be able to deal raising a child to be anything like Aksel. Sander was an entirely different breed of man.

“Did you have any trouble on the drive up?” Sander asked from the doorway.

Chey twitched a look across the room, surprised at his quiet entrance. He wore a different suit, one cut so fine and elegant that it took her breath away. Dove gray silk, a black brocade vest, and crisp white shirt outlined his shoulders and tapered over his lean hips. A white silk tie added to the austere effect. He'd tied his hair back into a low tail, jaw still clear of whiskers. Recalling late that Sander had asked a question, she shook her head.

“No, none at all. How did it go with the council?”

Olev returned with her water. He passed it off to Sander who murmured his thanks, then closed the door in Olev's wake. With slow steps, Sander walked the glass across the room. He handed it off, expression sober and hard to read.

“After hearing everything Mattias and I had to say, despite the hard evidence of the DNA tests, they have decided the rule of law cannot be overthrown like the King was, and that I will not be allowed to ascend the throne. Mattias, not Paavo, will be announced official heir.”

Chey accepted the water, watching his eyes. She didn't put the glass to her lips and a moment later, gasping at the news, was glad she had not. Even though she'd known all along the council might vote this way, it was shocking to hear the words come out of Sander's mouth.