King, Enemy, Husband

Chapter One

Tiberius Maximus Benedictus of the House of Aquila, in approximately five minutes from now the newly crowned and rightful King of Kasimir, strode down the wide hallway to the throne room, a flock of men consisting of his aides, guards, one general and a priest following on his wake.

The coup that had finally ousted the Accorsi tyrants hadn’t been as bloodless as he’d wanted—there had been casualties, though thankfully no civilians had been hurt—but at least his strategies had paid off.

Finally, after twenty years of Accorsi rule that had nearly brought the country to the brink of collapse, the Accorsis had been defeated. And now they were gone. For good.

The one black spot in his otherwise unblemished victory was that unfortunately the Accorsis had managed to evade capture, and the last report he’d received was that they’d fled Kasimir entirely. Much to his fury.

He’d hoped to bring Renzo Accorsi and his advisors before the courts here, to answer for their crimes, but sadly that was not an option. Still, the international authorities had been notified. Renzo would be brought to justice in time, Tiberius had no doubt.

First, though, and most important, was the crown.

He wouldn’t be King until it was on his head, and only once it was could he start with the vital work of rebuilding the country that years of mismanagement and civil unrest had torn apart. Nothing was more important than that. Nothing.

The empty hallway echoed with the sound footsteps on the ancient parquet of the floor as Tiberius and his entourage swept into the throne room.

Or at least what remained of the throne room.

It had been home to the rulers of Kasimir in various iterations for centuries. The Accorsi coup that had ousted his parents and caused the death of his mother had occurred when he’d been a baby, so he had never been inside it himself…

Until now.

Growing up in Italy, hidden and forgotten, his father would often bring Tiberius to the mountains that looked over Kasimir.

There had been a scenic lookout spot where tourists could pull off the road and take pictures of the picture-perfect European castle and jagged, snow-capped mountains that surrounded it.

‘ That is your legacy, boy,’ his father would tell him, pointing at the castle spires. ‘ That is yours. That is where you belong.’

Well. Now he was here.

In the castle that had been taken from him and his family years before.

His true home.

Tiberius paused in the doorway, then scowled.

The throne room was a bloody mess.

In their rush to leave, the Accorsis had somehow found the time to get their soldiers to desecrate the Kasimiran throne room.

Most of the tapestries had been torn down and were lying in heaps near the walls.

Centuries-old paintings were scored and cut with knives.

The panelled oak that lined the walls had been kicked in and spray-painted with obscenities, and someone had even tried to light a fire in one corner with the remains of an ornate chair.

Smoke drifted across the pitted parquet as one of Tiberius’s own guards hurried to douse the fire with water.

Tiberius scanned the mess, trying to rein in his fury at the mess.

Because a good strategist never let his feelings get in the way and certainly neither did a king.

He turned to one of his aides, issued some sharp orders to get the clean-up started, then strode towards the dais and the huge carved oak throne that sat on top of it.

It was ancient, that throne, the wood smooth and dark with age and wear. The cushions that had likely been on the seat lay slashed open and scattered around the dais, feathers dusting the wood.

Tiberius ignored them as he climbed the stairs of the dais and kicked the remains of the cushions aside. A throne wasn’t meant to be padded or comfortable, because once a king was comfortable that was where corruption lay. He wouldn’t fall into that trap.

Slowly he turned and sat on the throne.

Finally.

After so long, a Benedictus sat on the throne once more. Now the ghosts of his parents could rest.

A deep, savage satisfaction curled through him, and he let himself feel it for a few seconds, because the road had been hard and long to get here.

Years of training in other countries’ armies to hone his military skills.

Years of planning and political manoeuvring to gather supporters to his cause.

Years of anguish watching his people suffer under Accorsi rule…

Now that was done.

Now the real work would begin.

Shoving aside the satisfaction, Tiberius snapped his fingers at the priest and another aide standing in the crowd clustered at the base of the dais.

‘Father Domingo,’ he said curtly. ‘If you please?’

The aide holding the heavy gold circlet carved with oak leaves that was the Kasimir royal crown handed it to the priest, who immediately came up the stairs.

There would be no ceremony, no pomp and definitely no circumstance in this coronation. Tiberius didn’t have time for any. His country needed hospitals and schools and new housing, not pointless and expensive ceremonies.

The priest intoned the words of an old prayer, then placed the circlet on Tiberius’s brow. And just like that, after twenty years of exile, the crown of Kasimir finally rested on the head of the true King.

Tiberius ignored the weight of it, and this time allowed himself no satisfaction at all. Instead, he waited stoically as the little gathering of people at the foot of the dais cheered and applauded before raising his hand. Silence fell instantly.

He was not a man to be disobeyed.

‘In my first act as King,’ he began. ‘I will—’ He broke off abruptly, the back of his neck prickling.

Ten long years of military training had given him sharp senses and a finely honed awareness of threats. He was very aware of when he was being watched, for example, and he was definitely being watched now. And not only by the people gathered in the throne room.

Below him, one of his guards shifted on his feet, boots scuffing on the parquet.

‘Quiet!’ Tiberius snapped, trying to concentrate on the prickling sensation, scanning the room while his men waited in absolute silence.

Everything was the way it had been before he’d come in here. Nothing had changed. He glanced up at the ceiling to find nothing but painted plaster. Nowhere for anyone to watch him from there, clearly.

Yet, the fact remained that he was being watched.

Like his father, he had a photographic memory, and as part of his training to take back the throne his father had made him memorise the palace floor plans.

He knew that one of the Kings in centuries past had constructed a small network of narrow corridors within the thick palace walls, so his spies could secretly observe people.

Perhaps whoever it was, was in there?

Tiberius scanned the wall to his left. One of those corridors lay behind it, if he wasn’t much mistaken, and there was a door to it behind one of heavy tapestries.

Well, whoever was lurking in those corridors wouldn’t stay hidden for long. Not if he had anything to do with it.

Saying anything would alert whoever was hiding, so he didn’t speak, merely glanced at his captain of the guard and jerked his head in the direction of the tapestry.

The man knew all his king’s wordless commands and instantly strode over to it and jerked aside the heavy fabric.

A small, narrow door lay behind it, just as Tiberius suspected.

The captain pulled open the door and disappeared into the corridor behind.

A soft cry came through the doorway, then a scuffle of footsteps, and an instant later, much to Tiberius’s surprise, the captain marched a slip of a girl all in white lace and muslin out into the throne room and over to the dais.

No, not a girl. A woman. A small woman, wearing some kind of flouncy, lacy white dress with a ragged hem and covered in dust. Her hair was a pale mass of curls, half falling out of a pink ribbon and hanging down her back, almost obscuring her face, but from what he could glimpse her features were delicate, precise and sharp.

She was very pale. Was it fear? If so then she should be afraid. She might not look like an immediate threat, but she’d been hiding in the walls and watching him, and that he would not tolerate.

His captain, who was holding her by her upper arm, released her, and she made an aggrieved sound, rubbing at her arm as she stood at the foot of dais.

The oddest thought crossed Tiberius’s mind then… That she looked like a piece of thistledown coming down to rest on the old parquet of the floor. Either that or a terrified fairy—and, despite that aggrieved noise, she was definitely terrified.

Tiberius stared down at her impassively from his throne.

Who was she and why had she been in those secret corridors? Was she an Accorsi assassin, left behind to launch a surprise attack? Or an Accorsi spy, lying in wait to take back information on the new King?

Whatever she was, she wouldn’t be doing it for much longer. She would go before the courts to be tried. The Accorsis and their hangers-on would answer for their crimes. He would make them.

‘So,’ he said at length. ‘I see we have mice in the walls.’

The woman stared up at him, her sharp cheekbones pale as snow. Her curls had fallen back from her face, revealing a pair of the deepest, most luminous blue eyes he’d ever seen.

Something unfamiliar twisted in his gut and he found himself leaning forward, as if to study her more closely. There was fear in them, and yet an odd kind of defiance too.

Intriguing.

She’d been caught spying on him in his newly acquired throne room so she was right to be afraid. Yet this defiance in spite of her fear… It either made her very brave or very stupid.

‘A silent mouse,’ he murmured. ‘You should speak, little mouse. Explain what you’re doing, hiding and spying on your king.’