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  “I don’t want to go. Do I have to?” Cahri wanted to find a way out of this hideous predicament others would consider a privilege — a chance to be the prince’s wife. It was common knowledge that the royal family had converted to Christianity many years ago, but she didn’t know if the prince was a believer.

  Anaya’s eyes widened at Cahri’s bold question. “You have been chosen. You must go. To reject the summons would be to refuse the prince, and is not advisable.” The tone of her voice convinced Cahri it wasn’t a viable option to refuse the prince. She trembled at the possible repercussions of such a refusal.

  Anaya glanced around the apartment.

  Cahri did as well. What a mess. A week's worth of newspapers lay scattered about. Dirty clothes were flung across a chair. Cat hair and dust covered almost every visible surface. Cahri shuddered at the sight. Her usual day to clean and do laundry was Saturday. Last week, however, she’d worked at the church bazaar all day, and there’d been no time. This week's hectic schedule had added more clutter to the mess.

  “We'll clean tomorrow,” Anaya said. “Tonight I will sleep on your couch. Tomorrow supplies will be brought for the week, and you will begin preparations for your departure to the palace.”

  “Preparations for departure? To the palace? Why would I go to the palace? I want to stay here, in my home.” Cahri massaged her temples. As though sensing her distress, Stormy jumped in her lap.

  “I’m sorry, but you will not be allowed to stay here. There are many things to learn and tests to take. All of which will be done under the direction of the royal steward. You must pack your things, resign your employment, and move to the palace with the others.” As Anaya spoke, she walked around the room straightening papers and picking up clothes.

  “Quit my job and move?” Cahri’s heart skipped a beat. Could this get any worse?

  Silence, except for Stormy’s purrs.

  She clenched her teeth. “How many others are there?”

  Anaya stopped her straightening and faced Cahri. “There are fifty, including you.”

  “Fifty?” Cahri swallowed. Worse than she could have imagined. Living with so many women would be a chore all by itself. And then to be paraded in front of the prince. She shook her head, not wanting to think about it.

  “How long will I have to stay? How will the prince choose?”

  Anaya laid the clothes she’d collected in the chair and sat by Cahri on the sofa. A soft smile revealed perfect, white teeth and a dimple in Anaya’s right cheek. “I know you have many questions, and they will be answered in time, but not tonight. You must know it is an honor to be chosen.”

  Cahri couldn't suppress a snort of laughter. “It may be an honor for others, but I’m not interested. I don't want to be the prince's wife, or anybody else's, at least not right now.”

  “I understand your reluctance, but you have been chosen.”

  She continued on as though Anaya hadn’t spoken. “When I do become a wife, I want it to be because I love the man and he loves me.” She wanted someone she could trust and share everything with — a marriage like her parents'.

  Her mind flashed to the handsome man in the food market, whom she’d seen for mere minutes. Why did his face keep popping up in her head? She pushed the vision away.

  “Wouldn’t we all want to love and be loved? Reality is often not so simple.” Anaya’s voice betrayed a hint of resignation. “You may not be chosen by the prince. If you aren’t, and choose not to marry a noble, you will be free to leave.”

  What did Cahri know about this prince? Nothing. She hadn't even seen his picture. Although she watched the news and read the newspaper almost every day, she didn’t recall ever seeing anything about him. Was he the same prince who’d been in the car accident around the time her parents died?

  Anaya rose and faced Cahri. “It is time to get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long day and much has to be done, but I will be here to help you.”

  Cahri stared at Anaya. How would she sleep with so many questions left unanswered?

  The guard whispered to Anaya and headed toward the door. He stopped, turned back for a moment to glare at Anaya, a flash of contempt on his face. Cahri blinked, but the look disappeared. She shook her head. Too much else to think about.

  She prepared for bed while Anaya stepped out to speak with the two men, but knew sleep would elude her. Too many questions bounced around in her head. Curiosity interrupted her normal bedtime routine. She grabbed her laptop, moved to her room, and sat down on the bed. After it booted up, she typed in Bridal March Belikara.

  In seconds, the screen displayed the information she longed for. The site informed her that the steward chose women from around the area to participate in the march. Each traveled from their homes to the palace to be paraded in front of the prince. If the websites were correct, after the prince either dismissed the woman or chose his bride, any of the nobles who wished to take a wife from among the eliminated women could make a proposal. The woman would wed, if chosen, or she could choose a life of servitude or exile.

  It amazed her that the Bridal March remained an accepted practice. She hadn’t expected something like this to happen in the twenty-first century. The information stated the last time it had been invoked was in 1920. Almost a hundred years ago. The current king, and his father before him, had married before his twenty-fifth birthday, so the Bridal March had not been needed.

  Cahri sighed. She chose to remain in this country and to become one of its citizens so she would live by their rules, even if she didn't like some of them. Her parents had instilled in her the need to follow the rules of the land because God's Word commanded it.

  Why had the steward picked her? Her auburn hair, though most often covered by a hat, declared her a foreigner as much as her green eyes and creamy skin.

  The door opened and closed. Anaya must have finished her discussion and gotten whatever she needed.

  Cahri wandered to the bathroom. She removed the hairclip and grabbed her brush, returning to the living room as she worked the tangles from her hair, a thirty-minute task. It hung past her waist, and if she wasn't careful, she would sit on it. Her mom used to keep it trimmed to midway down her back, but it hadn't been touched with scissors since her mother’s death three years ago. People tended to stare if she went to a public salon.

  As she brushed, she glanced in Anaya’s direction. The young woman had removed her covering, which revealed her hair. It hung down her back, sleek and dark. Like Cahri’s mom. Jealousy made her turn away.

  She'd remained in Belikara after her parents’ death because this was a comfortable place, and she loved this life. Although born in the United States, she'd lived here since she was a young child, leaving for a few months every five or so years to go home to garner more funds for the mission. Her heart belonged to this country.

  She took a deep breath and released it. She'd always wanted to look more like her Turkish mother with darker skin and hair. Instead she'd inherited her coloring from her American father, whose ancestors were Scotch-Irish. At least she could be thankful for a little color to her skin. It paled next to the natives, but beside her daddy, it appeared downright tan.

  Cahri heard Anaya inhale. Her footsteps, muted by the carpet, came closer. A light touch on Cahri’s hair caused apprehension to snake up her back as a flowery scent wafted to her nose. She inhaled with deliberate care. She liked Anaya's perfume, but she didn’t like to be touched by strangers. And this woman was, without a doubt, a stranger, although Cahri didn’t sense any danger from her.

  “Your hair is beautiful… different, but beautiful.”

  Cahri laughed.

  Anaya frowned at her. “Did I say something funny?”

  “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh, but I have never liked my hair. I have always wished to have dark hair, like my mother.”

  “Your mother had dark hair?”

  “Yes.” She missed her mom every day. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine her face. The view blurred
. Anaya must have sensed her distress because she changed the subject.

  “I know all of this is strange for you. We'll get to know each other over the next few months, and I will help you adjust and teach you what you need to know about palace life and about the prince. You have been chosen. It is an honor.”

  “You said that before, but I don't feel as if it's an honor. I feel as though it's forced. I don't want to give up the life I've created here.”

  “Forced? No. You do have a choice. But to choose to reject the summons is to reject the prince and is punishable by death.”

  “Death?” Cahri's voice squeaked. “But… but…” Her voice failed her. “Death?” She questioned again to be sure she'd heard her correctly.

  Anaya nodded and returned to the sofa. “You have nothing to fear from the prince. He will be a good husband to whomever he chooses.”

  Shaking her head in disbelief, Cahri retreated to her bed after saying goodnight. Anaya referred to the prince as kind. Would his kindness extend to her, a foreigner? What about the nobles — should she choose one of them or leave Belikara?

  Could the prince learn to love her? Not that it mattered, she wouldn’t be chosen anyway. Why would she be? No one in this country would call her beautiful. A curiosity, maybe. Beautiful, no.

  What would happen if he didn't choose her? She might be chosen by someone else. She'd heard stories about some of the nobles believing in the old ways — a wife should not be seen or heard unless summoned, and if she did otherwise, she was beaten. Cahri shivered. She’d leave the country rather than live a life with someone she couldn’t love.

  If the prince proved to be kind and honorable, he would be her best chance to stay in Belikara. She laughed. Here she was, in bed, trying to talk herself into accepting the prince, when he had forty-nine other women to choose from. More attractive women, at least from a native’s standpoint.

  No way would he choose her.

  Would he?

  Chapter Two

  Josiah drove his black convertible BMW Roadster along the desert back roads on his way to the palace after a night of tossing and turning at his apartment. The cold weather didn’t allow him to put the top down, but he opened the window to let in as much fresh air as he could stand.

  His eyes focused on the straight road before him, but his mind couldn't shake the image of the lady who had bumped into him at the market. She stalked his thoughts and heated his blood. Green eyes. Porcelain skin, tinted pink in embarrassment at their misunderstanding. Some flowery scent he couldn’t name, but something American, since he’d never encountered it before.

  He huffed at having to ignore his desire to pursue her and instead wait another week to begin this charade his father required of him, insisting it was time to marry. It didn’t rank high on his list of how to find a wife. He’d have to choose from among fifty women coming to the Bridal March. A trickle of sweat to raced down his back despite the cold air blowing in the window.

  When was it ever a good time to marry a stranger you don't love and maybe never would?

  After arriving at his office, he scrutinized Matthias's security report. All was in order, as usual. The update did mention some peculiar threatening letters, but Josiah dismissed them. There were always fanatics who didn’t like that the royal family had accepted Jesus as their Savior instead of following traditional religious practices. Most of the country accepted their decision. Many had even converted.

  Matthias had been in the palace for as long as Josiah could remember. They'd grown up together. Josiah’s father had frowned on the friendship as they'd grown older, but hadn't forbidden it. They each knew their place. Matthias respected Josiah and his position of authority. Josiah trusted Matthias to protect his family and employees from danger, which was why he traveled with Anaya.

  Anaya’s stay with one of the chosen left him without both his sister and his best friend.

  Why had she picked this particular woman? What could be so special about her? He’d asked, but Anaya had been evasive and refused to answer his persistent questions.

  Josiah gritted his teeth and went for a walk in the garden, one of his favorite places. Come next week he wouldn't be allowed to venture down here. It would be reserved for the chosen ones.

  One more week. Then six months of watching, waiting, deciding. He could hope for love, but didn't expect it. Could love happen in so short an amount of time?

  He thought of the woman in the market again. He could have loved her in less than six months. The spark she'd ignited still glowed within him. He grunted. No use desiring something he couldn't have.

  On a bench among the early blooming flowers — gladiola, daffodil, and a few of the cliffroses transplanted from the mountains — he inhaled and forced his muscles to relax as he exhaled.

  Each flower had its own special scent, which he’d chosen for this particular garden. His love of flowers and their aromatic offerings bordered on strange — according to his father — but the smell always took him to a comfortable place in his mind, to the time when his anneciðim — his mom — rocked him to sleep at night.

  Josiah closed his eyes and let his mind wander. It went back to the fifty women who would soon invade his home. He thought more about the one Anaya had chosen to serve. His curiosity flared to life. Anaya, wise well beyond her nineteen years, knew him well. He trusted her judgment, more than his own, at least where women were concerned.

  He stood, too anxious to sit still for long. His mind raced from his responsibilities in the palace to the Bridal March and then slid to the woman in the market. He needed focus.

  Maybe a ride would help. Galloping across the desert with the wind in his face. His Arabian stallion would appreciate it, too. They hadn't spent time together in far too long. His schedule hadn’t permitted it. He'd been required to assist with the preparations for the Bridal March in addition to his regular responsibilities of caring for the finances of this palace, as well as several other properties. Then he’d been required to join the diplomatic conference calls, trying to ease relations between neighboring towns.

  His father pushed him harder than he'd ever pushed Jonathan. Josiah rolled his eyes and ambled toward the stables. An acrid odor overwhelmed his nose the closer he came.

  What he found made him grit his teeth in frustration. The comforting smell of horse and leather, which he’d expected, was overpowered by a stench so powerful, he almost left. His horse's stall, filled with soiled shavings, soured his stomach. He glanced through all the others and found them just as filthy. He yelled for the stable hand and then forced himself to take a deep breath, despite the smell.

  A boy, no older than fourteen, ran into the stables. “Yes, sir?”

  “When was the last time you mucked out these stalls?” Josiah’s voice rose, and he fisted his hands as he struggled to control his temper.

  “I… I haven't…”

  “No, you're right. You haven't. This is unacceptable.”

  The boy paled and took a step back. Josiah swiveled toward the stalls. He inhaled, coughing at the odor, and then unclenched his hands. The boy did not deserve to be the recipient of his pent-up frustration.

  “What's going on in here?” A familiar voice called out. Josiah winced. His father. Perfect. Another reason for him to be disappointed.

  “Father, none of the stalls has received proper attention. I was just trying to rectify the situation.” Josiah clamped his jaw, waiting for the reprimand that was sure to come.

  “It sounded to me like you were trying to get someone on the other side of the grounds to come do it, not the boy right in front of you.” His father faced the boy, “What's your name?”

  “B-Bekir, sir.”

  “Bekir, is it your responsibility to see to the stalls?”

  The boy glanced from the king to Josiah and back. “N-no, sir.”

  “Then whose job is it?” Josiah ground out.

  “M-Mikal's, sir, but he's sick, sir. Th-that's why the stalls aren't mucked.”
r />   Josiah forced open his clenched fists and relaxed his muscles. “Fine. I'll take care of Copper's myself. Please tell the barn manager to see that someone gets in here and takes care of the others.”

  “Y-yes, sir.” The boy ran for the barn door without looking back.

  “Josiah.” His father’s voice held a touch of condemnation, as it often did when he spoke with Josiah, at least since Jonathan’s death. Their relationship had been better before. Everything had been better then. Now, he couldn’t seem to do anything right, no matter how hard he tried.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Your shouting was uncalled for. Ask questions first. Don’t jump to conclusions. It will go better for you when you become king.”

  “Yes, sir.” Josiah had long ago given up disagreeing with his father. It never served a purpose, other than to start an argument. And, this time, his father was right — he’d been out of line.

  After cleaning the stall, Josiah saddled Copper, mounted, and walked around to get warmed up. Their pace increased until he allowed the stallion his head, and they flew across the desert sand, enjoying the wind, the speed, and the freedom. He guided his mount toward his favorite vista within their properties — a peninsula jutting into the Aegean Sea. He kept his ride short because of the cool temperatures and the lateness of the day. The idea to ride should have come to him sooner. He could have stayed out longer.

  As the sun set, Josiah returned to the stables, invigorated. He brushed his horse and allowed him to cool down then led him into his stall, gave him a scoop of feed, and topped off his water bucket.

  He had forgotten the Bridal March for a little while, but thoughts of the upcoming months rushed back at him like a flashflood. He rested his head against Copper's withers as the horse gobbled his food.

  “Well, Copper, next week I'll have a boatload of fillies on my hands. I’ll have to choose one. I like girls, don't get me wrong, but to pick one for a wife in such a short time — well, it vexes me.