Minutes later she was hidden in the back of a smelly goat cart, its jarring making it impossible to sleep. It was over, she told herself, and from now on she must only look ahead. She would try her best to forget America and her American husband. From now on she must think only of her country.
Perhaps she should marry Julian right away. He had been trained to be a king. Even though the monarchy had been abolished in his country in 1921, Julian’s father had reared his son to rule, and it was one reason her grandfather had chosen Julian for her husband.
She snuggled deeper in the straw. Yes, Julian was the man she should look to. He was handsome, knew what the word “duty” meant, and had been trained for the monarchy. He understood protocol. He knew to walk two paces behind his queen-wife.
For a moment Aria had a vision of J.T. as prince consort. The two of them would be mounting the stairs into the High Council building wearing the twelve-foot trains of state when J.T. would suddenly become impatient because their sons were playing in Little League—which he coached—that afternoon and he would grab Aria’s arm and pull her into the building.
It wouldn’t do at al
l, she thought, but she smiled at the thought of their sons.
Absolutely not! She was to be a queen, not an American housewife, and she couldn’t have a husband who knew nothing of duty and responsibility. She had to concentrate on Count Julian. She remembered their single kiss and wondered if Julian were capable of more. Before she went to America, she had no idea she was capable of passion, so how could she judge Julian? She would have to find out about him, not just as a prince consort but as a husband.
Toward dawn she began to grow sleepy. How did one build a dam? she wondered. How could one irrigate crops growing on the sides of mountains? Perhaps Julian would know. Or perhaps she could hire an American engineer to help her.
She slept.
* * *
“Lieutenant,” the pilot said. “It looks like we do have engine problems. It’s going to be a while before we take off, so if you want to get out and stretch your legs, we’ll have a few minutes.”
“Sure,” J.T. mumbled, and left the airplane.
It was dark out but the moon was bright and he walked to the far side of the runway, looking out at the short, sparse mountain vegetation. He lit a cigarette and drew deeply on it, wanting something to calm him.
He had never wanted anything as badly as he wanted to get out of this country. He wanted to put as many miles as possible between himself and his princess.
“Not my princess,” he muttered as he threw the cigarette down and crushed it.
“You will come with me,” said a voice behind him.
J.T. turned and saw an armed man. He hadn’t heard him approach. Behind them, the airplane started its engine.
“You will come with me, Lieutenant Montgomery,” the man repeated.
“I’ve got to get on that plane.” J.T. started to push past the guard but three more men slipped out of the darkness, guns in their hands.
“You are to accompany us.”
J.T. knew when it was senseless to fight. Two men were in front of him, two in back; he followed them to a black car hidden in the darkness. From the car window, he watched the plane take off. “Damn her!” he muttered because he knew that what was going to happen now directly resulted from his having met Princess Aria.
They drove for forty-five minutes until they came to a large stone house surrounded by towering trees.
“This way,” one of the guards said.
Inside, the house was lit by hundreds of candles in old silver candelabra. There were flags hanging from the ceilings and old, dusty tapestries on the walls.
One of the guards opened a door and motioned J.T. inside, then shut the door. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The stone-walled room was dark except for its far end.
A big, gray-haired man sat at the middle of a table covered with silver platters of food. Behind his high-backed, tapestry-covered chair stood a tall, gaunt man.
“Come in and sit down,” called the gray-haired man. “Have you eaten?”
“I don’t like being ordered about at gunpoint,” J.T. said, not moving from where he stood.
“Very few people do, but one has to tolerate such indignities during a war. I have venison, hare, game pie, and some of your American beef. There’s also quail that I shot myself. I don’t believe you’ve had dinner.”
J.T. moved closer to the table. The man looked to be in his fifties but with the strength and constitution of a younger man. He was strongly built and J.T. was tempted to ask if he had wrestled the steer to death.