A Royal Wedding(50)
Home, that voice whispered inside of her again, ringing through her. It shook her to the core. Changed her, she thought irrationally. Changed her forever.
It was only then that she heard someone else come down the metal stairs behind her. She turned, and there was Adel, broad and dark against the summer morning. His attention was entirely focused on her, and she felt herself burst into a riot of flames as he drew closer. How could he do that, she wondered helplessly, even now, when she felt both more lost—and more found—than she ever had before?
He stopped before her, and reached over to take her hand. She should stop him, she thought. She had not yet processed any of the things that had happened, what had passed between them, and yet she did not pull her hand away. She couldn’t seem to do it. She couldn’t seem to want to do it. How could she feel safe with this man, when she knew all too well that was the one thing she was not? Once again, she was aware of the people standing at a respectful distance, all of them bowing again, some even sinking into deep curtseys. But Adel was beside her, his hand around hers, and she felt the panic inside of her ease. Just as it always had, even twelve years ago. As if he could make the world stop at his command. She remembered the feeling. She felt it now.
Adel raised her hand to his lips and then, impossibly, his dark eyes meeting hers for a searing moment, bowed his head over it.
“The King is dead,” he said in ringing tones that carried across the tarmac, perhaps rebounding off the looming mountain guardians of her childhood to lodge in her soul.
His dark eyes connected with hers, silver and serious, and made her stomach twist inside of her.
“Long live the Queen!” he cried in the same voice, and turned, presenting her to the assembled throng. There were flashbulbs. Applause. More bowing, and some cheers.
“Adel.” But she didn’t know what she meant to say.
“Welcome home, Princess,” he murmured, his hand warm around hers, his eyes dark gray, his mouth that familiar unyielding line.
It made the hard knot of panic inside of her ease. She felt herself breathe in, felt her shoulders settle, as if he’d directed her to do so. As if he made it possible. Just as he’d done long ago, this not-quite-stranger. He bowed his head again, and that firm mouth curved slightly.
“My queen,” he said.
And, somehow, made all of it both real, and all right.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE funeral was an ornate affair, with priests and dignitaries and far too many eyes turned in the direction of the new Queen of Alakkul.
Lara sat in the great cathedral in the position of honor, with Adel close to her side, both of them outfitted in the finest Alakkulian garments. The fabric of her severe black gown felt rich and sumptuous against her skin, despite the fact the occasion was so grim. But she could not let herself think about that, not even as the assembled masses rose to sing an ancient hymn of loss and mourning and faith in the afterlife. She could only bow her head and try to calm herself. Try to breathe—try to stay upright. Beside her, Adel shifted, and briefly squeezed her hand with his.
She dared not look at him directly, no matter how his touch moved her—how it seemed to trickle through her veins, warming and soothing her. A quick glance confirmed he looked too uncompromisingly handsome, too disturbing in his resplendent military regalia, as befitted the highest ranking member of the country, save, she supposed with the still-dazed part of her brain that was capable of thinking of these things, herself. She was afraid that she would stare at him too long and disgrace herself.
As, of course, no small part of her wanted to do. Anything to avoid the reality of her father’s death. Of the fact that this was his funeral, and she had hardly known him. Would, now, never know him. She had hated the man passionately for almost as long as she could remember, she had gone out of her way to do so to better please and placate her mother, so why did she feel this strange hollowness now? Did she believe the things that Adel had said about Marlena? If not, then surely she should feel either some small measure of satisfaction or nothing at all?
The truth was, she did not have the slightest idea what she felt, much less what she should feel. How could she? She had been in this strange place, with its surprisingly fierce kicks of nostalgia and odd flashes of memories, for under forty-eight hours. She had been whisked from the airfield to the palace, her meager possessions placed carefully in a sumptuous suite she only vaguely recalled had once been her mother’s—and soon augmented by the kinds of couture ensembles more appropriate to her brand-new, unwanted position. She had been waited upon by fleets of bowing, eager attendants, who were there to see to needs she was not even aware she ought to have. Her wardrobe. Her appointments. Her new, apparently deeply complicated life.