LITMIR.BIZ

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King Marcus, even though officially ruler, hardly emerged from his library. Queen Alicia had more or less run the country since the day she’d married, and she suffered no interference. But she was asking for help now.

      ‘Of course you’re right,’ he continued. ‘My grandparents’ chief aide, Henri, has written privately that he’s worried about the decisions my grandmother’s taking. Or not taking. Our health and legal systems need dragging into this century. More immediately, national security seems to be an issue. Henri tells me of threats which she refuses to take seriously. He suggests increasing the security service, making it a force to be reckoned with, but the Queen sees no need.’

      ‘You’re just the man to do it.’

      ‘I’ve never been permitted to change anything,’ Raoul said flatly. ‘And now...’ He turned back to Franz’s desk and stared morosely at the letter. ‘This. She wants me home for the ball to celebrate her fifty years on the throne.’

      ‘It’ll be a splendid occasion,’ Franz told him. He, too, glanced back at the letter—particularly at the last paragraph—and try as he might he couldn’t suppress a grin.

      ‘You think it’s funny?’ Commanding officer or not, Franz copped a glare from Raoul. ‘That the Queen decrees I bring a suitable partner or she’ll provide me with one herself?’

      ‘She wants to see you married, with an heir to the throne. She fears for you and the monarchy otherwise.’

      ‘She wants me under her thumb, with a nice aristocratic bride to match.’

      ‘You’ve never been under her thumb before.’

      Franz had known Prince Raoul ever since he’d joined the army. Raoul presented to the world as the perfect Prince, the perfect grandson, but Franz knew that underneath his mild exterior Raoul did exactly what he wanted. If the Queen had known half of what her grandson had been doing in the army she’d have called him home long since.

      But therein lay the success of their relationship. To his grandmother, Raoul was a young man who smiled sweetly and seemed to agree with whatever she decreed. ‘Yes, Grandmama, I’m sure you’re right.’ Raoul never made promises he couldn’t keep, but he certainly knew the way to get what he wanted.

      ‘Our people will approve of me in military uniform,’ he’d told the Queen when he’d announced his decision to join the army. ‘It’s a good look, Grandmama—the Crown Prince working for the country rather than playing a purely ceremonial role. With your approval I’ll join the Special Forces. Have you seen their berets? It can do the royal image nothing but good.’

      His grandmother had had to agree that his military uniform suited him. So had the country’s media. At thirty five, with his height, his jet-black hair, his tanned skin and the hooded grey eyes that seemed almost hawk-like, the added ‘toughness’ of his uniform made the tabloids go wild every time they had the opportunity to photograph him.

      ‘His uniform makes him look larger,’ the Queen had told a journalist when Raoul had completed his first overseas posting.

      Franz had read the article and thought of the years of gruelling physical training turning Raoul into a honed Special Forces soldier. His admiration for his royal charge had increased with every year he knew him.

      Now he came round and gripped his shoulder. Franz had been Raoul’s first commanding officer when he’d joined the army fifteen years ago. As Raoul had risen up the ranks so had Franz, and over the years they’d become friends.

      ‘If you were a normal officer you’d be taking my place when I retire next year,’ Franz told him. ‘The army wouldn’t give you a choice and that’d mean desk work. You know you hate desk work. There’s so much more you can do working as heir to the throne—and you’ll wear a much prettier uniform.’

      Raoul told him where he could put his uniform and the older man chuckled.

      ‘Yes, but you’ll be wearing tassels, lad, and maybe even a sabre. There’s a lot to be said for tassels and sabres. When do you need to leave?’

      ‘The ball’s in a month.’

      ‘But you need to leave before that.’ Franz glanced at the letter and his lips twitched again. ‘According to this you have a spot of courting to do before you get there. First find your bride...’

      Raoul rolled his eyes.

      ‘I may have to go home,’ he said carefully. ‘I may even have to take up the duties of Crown Prince. But there’s no way my grandmother can make me marry.’

      ‘Well,’ Franz said, and grinned again, ‘I know Her Majesty. Good luck.’

      Raoul said nothing. Some comments weren’t worth wasting breath on.

      Franz saw it and moved on to practicalities. ‘Let’s consider you on leave from now,’ he told him. ‘We’ll work out discharge plans later. You can fly out tonight if you want.’

      ‘I don’t want to fly out tonight.’

      ‘What do you want?’

      ‘Space,’ Raoul told him. ‘Space to get my head around what I’m facing. But you’re right. I need to go home. My grandparents are failing. I know my country needs me. I will go home—but not to find a bride.’

      * * *

      If she edged any closer to the end of the world she might fall off.

      Claire Tremaine sat on the very highest cliff on the highest headland of Orcas Island and thumbed her nose in the direction of Sydney. It was Monday morning. In the high-rise offices of Craybourne, Ledger and Smythe, scores of dark-suited legal eagles would be poring over dull documents, checking the ASIC indexes, discussing the Dow Jones, making themselves their fifth or sixth coffee of the morning.

      She was so much better off here.

      Or not.

      She sort of...missed it.

      Okay, not most of it—but, oh, she missed the coffee.

      And she was just ever so frightened of storms. And just a bit isolated.

      Would there be a storm? The forecast was saying a weather front was moving well east of Tasmania. There was no mention of it turning towards Orcas Island, but Claire had been on the island for four months now, and was starting to recognise the wisps of cloud formation low on the horizon that spelled trouble.

      A storm back in Sydney had meant an umbrella and delays on the way home to her bedsit. A storm on Orcas Island could mean she was shut in the house for days. There was a reason the owners of this island abandoned it for six months of the year. This was a barren, rocky outcrop, halfway between Victoria and Tasmania, and the sea here was the wildest in the world. In the worst of the storms Claire couldn’t even stand up in the wind.

      ‘But that’s what we put our names down for,’ she told Rocky, the stubby little fox terrier she’d picked up on impulse from the animal shelter the day she’d left to come here. ‘Six months of isolation to get to know each other and to forget about the rest of the world.’

      But the rest of the world had decent coffee.

      The supply boat wasn’t due for another week, and even then on its last visit they’d substituted her desired brand with a no-name caterers’ blend.

      Sigh.

      ‘Two more months to go,’ she told Rocky, and rose and stared out at the gathering clouds.

      To come here had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, and she’d had plenty of time to regret it. She was looking at the rolling clouds and regretting it now.

      ‘I’m sure the weather forecast’s wrong,’ she told her dog. ‘But let’s go batten down the hatches, just in case.’

      * * *

      He should tell someone where he was going.

      If he did

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