Amira’s father might think he’d arranged a new marriage for his daughter – but Amira’s not having a bar of it.
Amira strode across the ornate polished stone floor of her father’s private sitting room and into his study. “You wanted to see me, Father?”
Prince Fedor Hezkurin looked up from the paperwork on his desk and scowled, his gaze flicking over her. “Amira, my dear, I wish you wouldn’t wear those peasant clothes. They don’t become you.”
“They’re very practical for my work with the Vuurata.” She pulled off the clasp that tied back her ponytail and shook her head, sending her hair dancing around her shoulders.
Hezkurin sighed. “That doesn’t become you either. You should not be wasting your time with aliens.”
Amira pulled over a chair and sat facing him. Yes, she probably did need a shower, and a change of clothes, too. Her boots had probably left a trail over her father’s floor. But she wasn’t going to apologize. “It was their planet before we took it over.”
“Yes, my dear and we’ve been the rulers for two hundred years.”
“They provide the labor for your estates. If somebody doesn’t help them you won’t have a labor force at all.” They’d had this discussion before. He didn’t care about mysterious illnesses that only affected the Vuurata. As far as he was concerned there were enough of them to get the work done. Without her intervention their physician wouldn’t have been able to obtain sufficient drugs to treat the sick. Today she’d helped the doctor move two patients from their home to his clinic.
He nodded.
Her fingers beat a staccato tattoo on the arm of the chair. He was up to something. She could always tell. His eyes became shifty, darting around, and he fiddled with the objects on his desk. “Well?”
Prince Fedor shifted the picture of his wife one more time and took a deep breath. “I’ve been talking to Baron Ghaurondo.”
Ghaurondo? Big fat, ugly, loathsome Ghaurondo. She cocked an eyebrow. “How nice for you.”
“He’s a very powerful man, Amira.”
“Only in the Arondean Hegemony.”
Her father frowned. “Which is ten systems and where we live.”
“Yes, fine.” Amira crossed her legs and folded her arms. Her heart beat a little faster. This wasn’t sounding good. “So what?”
The Prince scratched absently at his neck above the ornate collar of his uniform. Goodness, that was a very bad sign. This wasn’t going to be good at all.
“As you know, we’ve not had the best of seasons. And we’re very dependent on the Arondean Hegemony… to buy our harvest, anyway. They’ve found other places to supply their agricultural products.” Fedor paused and licked his lips.
“What has that to do with me, father?”
“Baron Ghaurondo has always admired you.”
“Him and a few others.” Her pulse galloped. She had an idea she knew where this was going.
“He’s asked for your hand.”
“Sorry, I need both of mine.” She wished this was some sort of ridiculous joke. Or maybe she’d wake up in her own bed. “Father, you can’t be serious. He’s a bag of fat on legs. He’s got body odor.”
“Amira, darling, don’t make this difficult. It’s time you married again. He’s rich and powerful—”
“He’s twice my age and disgusting. No.” Anger boiled in her belly. So he thought he could order her about like a teenager, did he? She should never have come back here. “And why do I have to marry again anyway?”
“Christoph’s been dead for a year now and you’re not getting any younger.”
“Don’t give me the grandchildren story. I don’t want to hear it.” She stared at him, a horrible thought insinuating itself into her mind. He couldn’t mean…? Surely not. But his face was composed, the sort of look her father gave his estate manager when he’d made up his mind. “Oh, how obscene. With that… that…”
“Look at it from the family’s point of view, darling. It’s a strategic alliance. In the short term, Baron Ghaurondo can guarantee sale of our harvest. Without that, we’re in for a very hard time.”
“So you’re selling me to keep your economy going.”
“No. In the longer term, we become part of a powerful family that will secure our future here. You would be mother of the future Baron.”
Amira’s lip curled in disgust. “Oh, please, father. Ghaurondo already has a gaggle of sons.”
“He has promised your son will become—”
“So you’re selling me to gain political advantage. You disgust me.” At least he had the decency to squirm.
“No.” He scratched his neck again. “Look at the positives. Ghaurondo can give you anything you want. Jewels, clothes, finery, antiques.” He made an expansive gesture with his arm. “Anything at all.”
“He has nothing I want.”
The prince cleared his throat. “I’ve agreed, Amira. Baron Ghaurondo will be here tomorrow to collect his betrothed.”
Her heart lurched. Tomorrow. The bastard. “You didn’t think it might have been nice to discuss your plans for my life with me?” She jabbed her finger at her chest.
He leaned back in his chair, his fists on the desk, his gaze fixed on her face. “I knew what you’d say. But sometimes I have to think about more than just my immediate family’s interests.”
This was beyond acceptable. He might have sired her but contempt for him rose like bile in her throat. She rose to her feet and leaned over the desk at him. “You can’t do this. I’m thirty-six years old, not some naïve teenager to force into a strategic union.”
He flinched, but his jaw set. “I’ve given my word. It will be done.”
Amira shook her head slowly. “I’ve not given mine.” You contemptible bastard. She spun on her heel and strode toward the door, her boots ringing on the stone.
Her father’s sigh followed her. “I had hoped it would not come to this but you leave me no choice.”
The door opened. Six of the palace security guard waited outside.
Amira turned to her father, who stood behind his desk in his general’s pose: back straight and in command. He didn’t look at her, directing his attention at the armed men. “Escort Princess Amira to her apartments. She is not to leave without my express permission.”
Amira glowered at her father. Right now contempt wasn’t a good enough word. She despised him. “Do you think my mother would have approved of this?”
He looked at her then, a swift glance filled with sorrow before he said to the squad commander, “Take her away.”
“I despise you.” She marched off, flanked by the guards.
Amira managed to keep a semblance of dignity until her apartment’s door closed behind her. Gritting her teeth in fury, she snatched one of the ornate cushions from the sofa and flung it at the window. It bounced off and fell to the floor. Blast and damn her father. She should never have come back home to Bellor. She’d never been close to him, and their relationship had been deteriorating ever since she’d returned.
She tossed the cushion back onto the sofa, sat down and buried her face in her hands. Regret hung heavy as a shroud while a tiny voice whispered ‘if only’. If only she’d gone somewhere else after Christoph was killed, all this wouldn’t have happened. The words were easy enough to say in hindsight. After his death she couldn’t stay in his military accommodation, and she hadn’t been ready to face a strange environment alone.
This was the room she’d grown up in, surrounded by wood paneling, fading brocade, and dusty wall hangings worth a small fortune, familiar and welcoming. For a while. But she’d stayed too long. If she hadn’t become involved in working with the Vuurata she would have returned to the Empire months ago. If only. She sighed. Somebody had to help them and her father certainly wouldn’t.
She took a deep breath, pushing away thoughts of despair. Feeling sorry for herself wasn’t going to get her out of here, and she certainly would not be here for Ghaurondo to collect tomorrow.
Getting out of the palace would be the easy part. Then what? Straight to the space port to catch the first passenger vessel available. But she’d be expected to do that. She chewed on her bottom lip. She wouldn’t be able to use her credit card; they could trace the transactions. She’d need money, or failing that, something she could sell. And somewhere to go. To the Imperial capital? She had friends on New Haven. No. She’d lost contact with most of her old school friends. Their lives had gone in different directions from hers. Besides, that really was what her father would expect her to do. Or her mother’s people? She smiled. It was tempting — run to grandmother and grandfather on beautiful Torrieno. Her grandparents adored her, seeing in her the daughter they’d lost. But they were old and it wouldn’t be fair to drag them into this. The best bet was Petris Ormond, still in the Empire but only just, where Christoph’s parents would be certain to help her. The system wasn’t all that far away in the scheme of things, on the other side of the Arondean Hegemony, but from there, she could work out what to do next, and move on.
Since she couldn’t use her bank accounts she would need small, valuable items that could be easily sold. In her dressing room she opened her jewelry cabinet. Necklaces, brooches, earrings, many of which had belonged to her mother, winked in the soft light. She took out a silver filigree necklace set with blue stones. She remembered her mother wearing it at a formal dinner, the stones echoing the blue of her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she whispered to the wall. “I know you’d hate the notion of Ghaurondo as a relative.” She placed the necklace into a soft bag which she would take with her. Once she had her finances secured, she could finalize her preparations.
The sun’s last rays glinted on the windows when a guard brought her dinner on a tray. “Knock when you’ve finished, my Lady. I’ll remove the tray.”
“Thank you,” Amira murmured. Her father was being careful. A locked door and two guards in the corridor. She’d seen a couple patrolling the grounds outside, too. The meal smelled delicious. He’d sent up her favorite, fillets of fish in a cream sauce served with vegetables, a glass of wine, and a fruit dessert. She was hungry but she didn’t trust her father not to drug the food to keep her quiet. When she could no longer stand the tantalizing aromas she carried the tray to her washroom and scraped most of the contents into the toilet.
The guard answered her knock at the door. The satisfied gleam in his eye when he noted the almost empty plates spoke volumes. She would never forgive her father. Never. Loathing didn’t begin to describe how she felt.
Well before midnight, much earlier than usual, Amira went to bed, continuing the pretense that she’d been drugged. Someone came in to check on her an hour or so later, then tiptoed away. She lay in the darkness a little longer, waiting until the palace had retired for the night.
So they thought they had her trapped, did they? There were things about this place her father didn’t know.
**************
Amira has defied her father and fled her home. Ahead of her lies danger she can’t yet see, a man who won’t underestimate her, and choices that will shape far more than her own future. This is a story about freedom, power, and what it costs to choose your own path. Click on the cover to find out more.
