The Rebel King

double helixes.

Nikolas told himself he wouldn't expect a thing from this one-on-one meeting with His Majesty, except maybe a chance to begin to clear his name of those insane suspicions of murder and mayhem. No, all that would happen today was that he and Weston would take each other's measure, ask and answer whatever questions might occur to them, and that would be that.

He just wished he could do something about the bloody butterfly convention taking place in his stomach.

He stole a glance at the woman beside him. sleek and lithe in her uniform black, silent and intent as a hunting cat, green eyes focused on their guide up ahead as if she were some fascinating species of mouse. He wondered what she was thinking-feeling-right now, and whether she had butterflies, too.

He wished he could reach over and take her hand.

The Weston family's so-called hunting lodge was in fact a sizeable manor house built in the Georgian style out of natural stone. It was only two stories in height, with leaded windows, a slate-tile roof and towering chimneys, a large one at either end and several smaller ones scattered between. Rhia, who'd been picturing something more on the order of a log cabin, or maybe a Swiss-style chalet, thought that if this was what royals called a modest hunting lodge, she couldn't wait to see the palace.

The house seemed oddly out-of-place here, tucked among the towering pines. Such an imposing house. Rhia thought, deserved a proper setting, with sweeping lawns and curving driveways and magnificent formal gardens. Here, it reminded her of Sleeping Beauty's castle under the spell of the evil fairy, left at the mercy of creeping vines and rampant vegetation… neglected, abandoned, forgotten.

However, any signs of neglect-real or imagined-ended at the mansion's front door. Their approach had evidently been observed, because as they mounted the wide stone steps, the massive double doors were opened and held for them by two more of the security guards in full dress uniforms. Lady Zara, being accustomed to the trappings of wealth and position, swept through the doorway without a glance or a pause; Rhia and Nikolas followed, with their escort bringing up the rear.

The doors swung shut behind them with a quiet thump, and they found themselves in a great hall with a high vaulted ceiling, paneled in gleaming wood and lit by the soft glow of lamps tucked in alcoves along the walls and recessed high up near the ceiling. The atmosphere was peaceful, filled with the scent of wood polish and pine and an indefinable aura of elegance.

They were given no time to admire the portraits, tapestries and carved-wood panels along the walls, however. Their escort led them on at a brisk pace, her footsteps tapping on the parquet floor and instantly swallowed up in the vastness of the hall. Around them the house seemed deserted, and eerily still.

Lady Zara paused in front of a door near the far end of the hall. With her hand on the doorknob, she looked over her shoulder at Nikolas. He nodded almost imperceptibly, and she lifted one hand to knock while opening the door with the other. 'Your Majesty,' she said quietly. 'Mr. Donovan is here.'

She stood aside, then, and gestured for Nikolas and Rhia to enter ahead of her.

Neither the room nor its sole occupant were what Rhia had expected.

The king had elected to meet his son in what was obviously a private retreat, with none of the trappings or ceremony of royalty. The room was informal, even cluttered. The walls were lined with cabinets-cupboards below, and above them shelves filled with books that had obviously been read, not selected for the elegance of their bindings. The chairs arranged in casual groupings looked comfortable, even a little shabby, and there were reading lamps conveniently situated beside each one. There was a large cluttered desk, a comfortable couch, several small tables and ottomans, and in one corner, incongruously, a stationary exercise bicycle in gleaming chrome. There was a fireplace-unlit-and flanking it, twin French doors that stood open in invitation to the pine-scented breeze.

In front of the doors and the fireplace, with his hands resting on the back of a large leather chair, a tall but frail-looking man stood waiting.

She'd been prepared, but even so the king's appearance shocked her. In tapes she'd seen of his last public appearances before Reginald's death and his own surgery and subsequent collapse. Henry Weston had been a robust and vigorous man, much younger-looking than his age, which she seemed to recall was somewhere in his late sixties, with strong, handsome features, silver hair and fierce dark eyes, and the same regal bearing she'd seen in Nikolas. Now, his face was much thinner, those still-magnificent eyes were sunk deep in shadowed sockets. Although he was plainly making an effort to stand erect, he appeared to have aged a decade in less than six months.

Lady Zara closed the door, then hurried to her patient's side. 'Your Majesty, please. You must-'

But the king waved her aside with a regal gesture and came around the chair, leaving one hand on its back for support. Rhia found herself stepping quietly aside and leaving Nikolas to go forward and face his father alone.

For a long moment there was absolute silence in the room, while the two men took each other's measure. Then His Majesty, King Weston of Silvershire, spoke in a soft and rasping voice:

'By God, it's true. You have your mother's eyes.'

Looking back on it later. Nikolas was able to recall very little of what was said in those first moments. He felt…not so much numb as insulated. As if his mind and emotions had been carefully packed in cotton wool. He remembered being shocked, on some level that didn't involve his emotions, at the king's appearance; even knowing of Weston's illness, he hadn't been prepared to see the powerful monarch he'd considered his adversary looking frail and old.

He remembered hearing the words …your mother's eyes… and seeing Weston's mouth spasm with emotion and the sudden glaze of moisture in the fierce dark eyes. He remembered hearing Rhia's soft intake of breath, as if she'd felt a stab of unexpected pain. But he himself felt no reaction whatsoever. Weston might have been referring to someone Nikolas didn't even know.

There must have been awkward moments-there was no rush of prodigal son to his father's welcoming arms, for one, and…did one offer to shake hands with a king? But if there were, he was immune to self-consciousness. He did recall introducing Rhia, and requesting that she be allowed to stay, and being formally introduced in turn to the Lady Zara. He remembered Weston seating himself, at his physician's urging, and he and Rhia being invited to do the same. He even allowed himself to acknowledge the pride and strength of will that had compelled the man. in spite of his obvious physical weakness, to insist on standing to greet this long-lost son who was also, possibly, his enemy. But he didn't allow any of it to touch his emotions. Not then.

'I know how difficult this all must be for you-as it is for me.' King Weston said when they were seated and Lady Zara had left to arrange for tea. He lifted a hand, and only the slightest tremor betrayed the emotional and physical strain Rhia knew he must be under. 'I am aware of your…political position, you know-and of your… activities during the past decade.' He lowered his head and aimed a scowl of mock sternness at Nikolas. 'They tell me you want to do away with my crown, Mr. Donovan.' And then, to Rhia's amusement and delight, the king arched an eyebrow. One only. 'How ironic it must be to find now that you are destined to wear that crown yourself, one day.' His lips twitched, and there was a gleam of humor in his eyes.

'Ironic…yes, I suppose it is.' Nikolas replied coolly, and Rhia marveled again at his calm, his iron self-control. 'Whether or not that is my destiny is another matter.'

King Weston merely chuckled. He regarded Nikolas intently for a moment. 'I didn't want to believe it myself, you know, when they told me. I know, I know-' he waved a hand impatiently '-DNA doesn't lie. However, I had to see for myself. I felt-I believed, you see, that I would know my own son even if I had never set eyes on him before. And I was right…I was right.' His face seemed to spasm, then stiffen with its effort to contain what must have been overwhelming emotions. He coughed, then added gruffly. 'You are the image of your mother, you see.'

Nikolas didn't reply. He sat in utter silence, and only Rhia could see the tiny muscle working in the side of his jaw.

King Weston placed his hands on the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet. Both Nikolas and Rhia rose immediately, as royal protocol demanded, but the king waved Rhia back to her seat. 'No, no, my dear, don't get up. Nikolas, my boy, walk with me for a moment, if you will-while my doctor isn't here to forbid it.' He added the last with a sly smile and arched eyebrow for Rhia, as he held out his hand to his son.

After a moment's hesitation and a quick, questioning glance at Rhia, Nikolas offered his father his arm. As the two men moved slowly to the open French doors, Rhia could see that the king was making an effort to walk erect, leaning only slightly on that support.

Watching them, she felt some unknown emotion ripple through her and emerge in a silent, quivering laugh.