McKinnon's Royal Mission Read online

  But then he’d said that one word, Princess. The deliberate insult had been unmistakable. And her daydreams had been banished as swiftly as if they’d never been.

  Her father had been like that. Sometimes he had called her Mara, and when he did she knew he’d forgotten to hate her. But the other times, when he’d called her by her full name—Mara Theodora—then she’d trembled at the implacable hatred in his eyes, the bitterness in his voice. She knew why her father had felt that way. She just didn’t understand why a man she had never met before today would feel such contempt for her.

  She turned back to the bedroom window, gazing out at the mountains. He was right, she thought. The Rockies remind me of the mountains in Zakhar. She stood there a long time, letting the peace of the mountains settle over her. “ ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,’ ” she whispered to herself in Zakharan, quoting from a favorite psalm, a litany that never failed to soothe her.

  Calmer now, her thoughts returned to the man who had stood beside her earlier—Trace McKinnon—wondering again what forces had molded him. She knew the facts of his life, but not the man. He was thirty-six and handsome in a way that would only improve with age. That was obvious. He had served in his country’s military with honor and distinction for four years, and had worked for one branch of his government before switching to another.

  He had been married at one time, but no longer, and she wondered about that now. What had caused the breakup of his marriage? Had he been unfaithful? With his movie star looks and his dangerous air of masculine strength, most women would melt at his feet. Married or not, he would be a challenge most women would be unable to resist, and they would fall all over themselves trying to attract his attention. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to resist temptation himself and his wife divorced him—divorce was common here in the States, but not so much in Zakhar.

  Zakhar. Special Agent McKinnon had spent six months in Zakhar as a young military man. Had he loved it the way she did? Had he been sorry to leave it, as she was now? A familiar wave of homesickness swept through her, but she fought against it. Her brother had wanted her safely out of Zakhar for a time, and so she was here. She would have done anything to make Andre’s life easier, and if that meant suffering the pangs of homesickness—as she’d done all those years she’d studied at Oxford—that was the way it had to be. For the next year she would be teaching mathematics at the University of Colorado.

  Other than Andre, her few close female friends, and her horses—especially her favorite, Suleiman—mathematics was her only love. There was something comforting about the preciseness of mathematics; something reassuring about its unchanging nature: a squared plus b squared always equaled c squared. You always knew where you stood.

  Even as a small child she had known this. She had devoured her math textbooks, demanding more and tougher problems to solve from her tutors and her teachers, racing ahead of them, and then soon outstripping their abilities. She had delved into mathematical intricacies instead of playing with dolls; had challenged herself to achieve scholastically instead of dating the highborn men her father found for her; had attended Oxford in pursuit of her PhD instead of marrying the man her father had tried to force upon her. The only equation she hadn’t been able to solve was the one dealing with human hearts. No matter what she did, no matter how she excelled, she could not win her father’s love. And now she never would.

  * * *

  Trace rendezvoused with the Jones brothers Alec and Liam in the privacy of the sun room. A year apart in age, they looked like two peas in a pod—tall, rangy; honed to muscle, sinew and bone, just as he was. Both had that competent air instilled in them by their years in the US Marine Corps and the Diplomatic Security Service. And both had auburn hair, which they kept close cropped. Not for them their sister’s red-gold tangle of curls, although neither had the milky complexion and freckles that usually accompanied hair that color.

  Alec at thirty-four was a year older and a shade taller than his brother, whereas Liam was a tad broader in the shoulders. But both inspired confidence on sight, something Trace had been relieved to see. They were Keira’s brothers and former marines, so they had to be damned good, but still...

  “So the plan is,” Trace explained, “to guard the princess whenever she’s out and about. We’ll get regular threat assessments from the State Department and your own agency, the DSS. My agency is also in the loop, and I’ve been assured we’ll get all the cooperation we need along those lines—or anything else for that matter. All we have to do is ask. And State has requested the NSA keep them and us posted on any chatter it comes across on terrorist channels. You know what I’m talking about, so I don’t have say anything more on that topic.”

  “Anything pop up on the radar yet?” Alec asked.

  “Not so far. Let’s hope it stays that way,” Trace replied. “You’ll know the minute I know anything.” He glanced toward the sunroom’s closed door, reassuring himself they still had privacy. “The princess has her own Zakharian security team to guard her here on the estate, as I’m sure you’ve already noted. State cleared them for concealed carry, so I’m not worried too much about an assault on this house. But she doesn’t step outside the door without one of us in attendance. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal clear,” Liam said, answering for both of them. “But does she know?”

  “She should, but if she doesn’t, she soon will,” Trace said. “And her limo driver knows he doesn’t drive her anywhere unless one of us is in the limo with her. This isn’t coming from the State Department—this is coming from her brother, Zakhar’s King Andre Alexei the Fourth. I don’t know how much you know about Zakhar, but—”

  Alec smiled and cut him off. “We’ve been briefed. We’ve learned enough to know that Zakhar isn’t a constitutional monarchy, the way Great Britain is. The king is Zakhar, and vice versa, so a command from him carries considerable weight.”

  “Exactly.” Trace was glad he wasn’t going to have to paint them a picture. “I know neither of you speaks Zakharan, but—”

  “Lubyentok marsai cherentziune todai,” Liam said.

  “I’ll be damned.” Trace stared at him.

  Alec tossed in, “Makopescht lycobeschy petzeque.” He grinned. “We had a three week crash course. Can’t say we really know the language, but we’ve got the basics down pat. Enough to get by.”

  Trace’s admiration for the DSS shot up dramatically, not to mention his admiration for the Jones brothers. “You’ve even got the accent and inflection nailed,” he said.

  He asked each of them several questions in Zakharan, and their answers proved they understood what he was saying. Their responses were more simplistic than his questions, but he’d expected that. Mastering an unknown language starts with understanding what you’re hearing. Speaking the language takes longer and fluency even longer than that. And thinking in the new language, which was the talent he had, is something few people ever really achieve when the language is learned as an adult.

  Still, understanding what they heard would be a definite plus when it came to the second part of their assignment—noting anything important the princess or her entourage might say in Zakharan and reporting it to the State Department. He figured they’d already received instructions on this from the DSS, but he went ahead and outlined things anyway.

  “I’m not expecting a blow-by-blow translation of everything anyone says in Zakharan. But anything meaningful needs to be reported. And I want to see the reports before they go in. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” Liam and Alec answered in unison.

  “Oh, crap,” Trace said. “We’re not in the Marine Corps anymore and I’m not your commanding officer. I’m not even a DSS special agent. I’m the head of this team, that’s all. So cut out the ‘sir,’ okay?”

  “Yes, sir.” Liam and Alec both grinned unrepentantly at him.

  Tr
ace’s eyes narrowed and he uttered an earthy curse. In Zakharan. Alec glanced at Liam, who shook his head. “Me, neither,” Alec said.

  Trace gave them a superior look, then relented and grinned. “You won’t hear it used in diplomatic circles. Ask me when this is all over, and I’ll tell you what it means,” he said. “But whatever you do, don’t repeat it in front of the princess. She’d probably faint from the shock to her delicate ears.”

  “Speaking of the princess,” Liam said, “how did you want to work the schedule?”

  “I’ve got her teaching schedule here, along with a few other things,” Trace said, reaching into his inner jacket pocket, and handing copies to each man. “Classes don’t begin until the end of August, but she’ll be starting work at the university on Monday. The limousine will take her to the campus every weekday, Monday through Friday, leaving at seven sharp, and will pick her up on campus at five, returning her here.”

  He grimaced. “Weekends are going to be a nightmare unless I can nail her down to a set schedule. The same goes for weekday evenings if she wants to go out. Word from Zakhar through diplomatic channels is that she doesn’t intend to act in any way that will draw attention to herself. Apparently the princess is sincere in wanting to do nothing more than teach. But time will tell.”

  He looked at the Jones brothers. “I thought it would be best for us to take it in rotation—two days on and four off, then on again. That means three long working days out of every seven for the three of us. But it gives us full coverage of the princess when she’s out of the house, and we all get plenty of time off. How does that sound?”

  Liam glanced at Alec, who nodded. “Works for us,” Liam said.

  “I’ll take the first rotation, starting tomorrow,” Trace said. “Decide between the two of you who’ll take the second rotation—just let me know what you decide, and I’ll post a schedule. If something comes up and you need to switch off, I’m okay with it as long as I know in advance. There might be occasions when I’ll have to switch off with one of you myself—I could be called to testify in a couple of trials that are still pending on an old case, but I’ll know well in advance and we’ll work something out.”

  He looked at Liam and Alec and saw no objections, so he continued. “You both have rooms here on the estate, as do I. I’ve already been over the entire house, as well as the estate’s outbuildings and the grounds, and I’ll show you around in a minute. You can stay here every night, or make your own arrangements for the days you’re off duty—it’s up to you. Again, this has all been prearranged with the king, so I don’t expect any opposition from the princess. And in order to carry out State’s request we’re going to need to be around her as much as possible, even in the house.”

  “Understood,” Alec said promptly. “What kind of security does the estate have?”

  “Active and passive. Some of the systems were already here, some were just installed two weeks ago. I’ve got a list of the specs, and when I brief the princess and her staff later on, I’ll give both of you copies. This really shouldn’t be anything new for them—I’m told the palace in Drago has a similar setup. But there might be some little quirks, and I don’t want anyone to set off an alarm accidentally. Just in case someone does, you’ll both have all the keys and codes necessary. Anything else you need to know?”

  “That’ll do it for now, I think,” Liam said with a quick look at his brother.

  “Oh,” Trace said. “One more thing. I plan to spend much of my time here, even when I’m not on duty. I live in Denver, but I’m subletting my condo for the duration, so I’ll be around a lot. I’ve also got a cabin outside Keystone, so if I’m not here or visiting your sister and my goddaughter, that’s most likely where I’ll be. I’ll give you the address later.” He fixed them both with a sharp look. “You’ve already got my cell phone number. If anything happens, the second thing you do is contact me.”

  “And the first?” Alec asked.

  “Protect the princess.”

  * * *

  Night had fallen and Trace was exhausted as he made the rounds of the estate. The day had been even more hectic than he’d expected, mostly due to the fact that the princess wasn’t what he’d expected. In addition to the dispute over the bedrooms, she’d taken immediate exception to Trace’s insistence that she be guarded every time she stepped out of the house.

  He’d caught her walking out that very afternoon, cool as you please, dressed for riding and heading for the stables—her horses had been shipped by sea and rail and had arrived the week before—and Trace had taken her to task. That had started a battle royal, which he’d won only by invoking the name of the princess’s brother. “You may ride,” he’d told her in no uncertain terms, “but not alone. Period. End of discussion.”

  That hadn’t been the end of the discussion, not by a long shot. But when Trace had finally told her the orders weren’t his, they were the king’s, she had stopped arguing instantly. I’ll have to remember that for the future, he told himself now with a wry smile. He wasn’t sure whether it was the king or the brother she was deferring to, but either way he’d discovered the magic word. “In the future, Princess, let me know when you want to ride,” he’d told her, “and I’ll make sure one of us is prepared to ride with you.”

  Unfortunately, when he’d raised the issue with Alec and Liam, he had a rude awakening. “Sorry, McKinnon,” Alec had said with regret. “We don’t ride.”

  That just left him to accompany the princess, and he foresaw a curtailment of his free time if she insisted on riding on the days he wasn’t officially working. He didn’t think she would be amenable to riding only three days a week, and not even the same three days each week at that.

  Then there had been the issue of meals. He, Alec and Liam all had rooms in the estate’s guest house, which came complete with an adequate kitchen and a well-stocked pantry. Trace had planned to fend for himself at mealtimes, and had assumed Alec and Liam would do the same. But the princess had other ideas.

  “That is silly,” she’d told him. “There is a perfectly good meal already prepared, and will be every night. My chefs are Le Cordon Bleu trained—artistes—and they would be insulted to think you prefer to eat your own cooking instead of theirs.”

  When Trace had tried to explain that the hired help didn’t expect to share her table, her green eyes had flashed. “I do not eat in solitary splendor,” she’d told him firmly. “There are many in my household who eat with me.” He’d given in with as good grace as he could muster, not wanting another battle, but then he’d realized she’d actually done them a favor. Their presence at her table would be the perfect opportunity to listen to the conversations between the princess and the rest of her household, whether spoken in English or Zakharan.

  Then, when they were all at the dinner table, he’d noticed she wasn’t eating. Not much, anyway. She’d passed on several dishes that were offered to her, settling for a plain piece of bread without butter and a dish of custard. She hadn’t made a big deal out of it, and no one else in her household had seemed to think it worthy of comment, but he’d noticed. And wondered. It wasn’t until he was wandering through the kitchen after dinner and overheard her cooks—chefs—he’d reminded himself, talking to each other in voluble French about that very same custard that he learned why.

  Motion sickness.

  Why hadn’t it occurred to him before? He’d been concerned when she first appeared in the plane’s doorway, had suspected something was wrong, but then had let himself be distracted by her peremptory demand that her Zakharian bodyguard let her go. Maybe that even explained her curt response to the man’s offer of help. Maybe she hadn’t meant to be so cold, but was just feeling out of sorts the way anyone might when they were sick.

  The princess was full of contradictions. Maybe that’s why he felt so tired—he never knew what to expect. Guarding her had become an impossible missio
n already, and it was only the first day—things could easily get worse. Trace murmured to himself, “‘Your mission, Jim, should you choose to accept it,’” using a phrase Mission Impossible had made famous, making the impossible seem possible. Then he laughed ruefully. If they could accomplish impossible missions, so could he—he’d done it before, hadn’t he? All he needed was a little cooperation from the princess.

  A shadow moved out of the corner of his eye, and he turned sharply, his right hand automatically reaching for his SIG SAUER. Then he cursed softly under his breath when he saw who it was. So much for cooperation. “Princess!” he called.

  Startled, she turned toward him. “Oh,” she said. “Special Agent McKinnon. I did not see you in the shadows.”

  “What are you doing outside the house...alone?”

  Her brow wrinkled. “I do not understand. I am not riding alone. That is what you told me my brother said, yes? I am not to ride alone?”

  He sighed. “Look, Princess, your brother’s orders were quite explicit. You’re not to step outside the house alone.”

  “But—”

  “No, no, and no. Do I agree with him? No. Do I think you’re in danger here within the grounds? No. But am I going to let you go against his express orders? No.”

  She stared at him, her green eyes betraying her contrition...and uncertainty. “I would not...that is not what I...” She stopped then started again. “So I am a prisoner here?”