Postcards From Paris. Sarah Mayberry

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       CHAPTER NINE

      FROM INSIDE THE chapel the organ music paused and Princess Annalina’s grip on her bouquet tightened. As the strains of Wagner’s Wedding March began she felt for her father’s arm, slipping her own through the crook of it. This was it, then. There was no going back now.

      Not that she had any choice. Beside her King Gustav stood rigidly to attention, his gaze fixed straight ahead. If he had any misgivings about handing over his only daughter to this warrior prince, then he wasn’t letting it show. As far as he was concerned this wedding was a business deal, a means to an end, and his job was to deliver his daughter to her fate. And to make sure that this time nothing went wrong.

      Sitting side by side in the vintage car taking them the short journey from the castle to the chapel on the Valduz estate, Anna had thought maybe this would be the moment her father would say something encouraging, comforting—she didn’t really know what. Instead he had simply checked his watch a dozen times, tugged on the sleeves of his morning coat and looked distractedly out of the window at the cheering crowds that lined the route as they passed. And when her hand had reached for his he had looked at it in surprise before awkwardly patting it a couple of times and handing it back.

      More than anything in the world right now, Anna wished that her mother could be here to give her a hug, to make everything better. But sadly wishes didn’t come true, even for princesses, so instead she ended up blinking back the tears as she stared out of the window, forcing herself to smile and wave at the crowds brandishing their paper flags. But inside she had never felt more lost. More alone.

      The chapel doors opened to reveal the stage set for the ceremony. And it was beautiful. This was the first wedding the chapel had seen since her parents’ nuptials and no expense had been spared, though it didn’t take a genius to work out where the money had come from. With a green-and-white theme, the ancient pews were festooned with alpine flowers, their scent mingling with the incense in the air. Huge arrangements of ivy and ferns were positioned at the top of the aisle and behind the altar at the end—somewhere that Anna couldn’t look at just yet. Because that was where Zahir would be standing. Waiting. That was where, in just a few short minutes from now, the ceremony would begin that would see her signing away her life, at least the only life she had ever known. Where she would hand herself over to this man, become his wife, move to his country, to all intents and purposes become his property to do with as he saw fit.

      And Anna had been left in no doubt as to what that would entail, at least as far as the bedroom was concerned. It had been four weeks since that fateful evening in the log cabin, but the brutal memory of it would stay with her for ever—the way Zahir had taken her from wild ecstasy to the pit of misery before the aftershocks of delirium had even left her body. His rage when she had mentioned Henrik had been palpable, terrifying, a dark force that had shocked her with its vehemence, leaving her no chance to try and explain why she had said it, to justify herself. Instead she had hurried to pull on her clothes and followed him out into the night, the snow falling as he had unerringly led them back to where their vehicle was parked and sat beside her in stony silence as she had driven them back to the castle.

      Zahir had returned to Nabatean the next morning and they hadn’t seen each other since, any contact between them limited to perfunctory emails or the occasional phone call. But his parting words still clamoured in her head. We will consummate our marriage on our wedding night. It had sounded more like a threat than a promise, but that didn’t stop it sending a thrill of tumult through Anna whenever she recalled it. Like now, for example. Because tonight was the night that Zahir would fulfil his prophecy.

      But first she had a job to do. Glancing behind her, she forced a smile at her attendants, four little bridesmaids and two pageboys. The daughters and sons of foreign royalty she didn’t even know, they were nevertheless taking their duties very seriously, meticulously arranging the train of Anna’s beautiful lace wedding dress, the girls bossing the boys around, straightening their emerald-green sashes for them before clasping their posies to their chests, ready to begin.

      The procession started, slowly making its way down the red carpet, the congregation turning to catch their first glimpse of the blushing bride, gasping at what they saw. Because Annalina looked stunning, every inch the fairy-tale princess about to marry her Prince Charming. She wore a white lace gown, the wide V neck leaving her collarbone bare to show off the diamond necklace that had belonged to her mother. With sheer lace sleeves and a nipped-in waist, it cascaded to the floor with metres of lace and tulle that rustled with every step. Every step that took her closer and closer to the towering, dark figure that stood with his back to her—rigid, unmoving, impossible to read.

      Zahir Zahani. The man she knew so little of, but who was about to become her husband. The man whose hooded gaze burnt into her soul, whose harshly СКАЧАТЬ