what can I do for you? You were quite mysterious on the phone.’
‘Melinda’s agreed to be my wife,’ Dragan explained.
‘Congratulations! I’m so pleased—you make a lovely couple. And people have been wondering, you know.’
Dragan smiled wryly. ‘Nothing’s ever secret for long around here, is it? Melinda would have been with me today, but she had a call from her parents last night and had to go back to Contarini. Her brother’s been killed in an accident.’
‘I’m so sorry. Do give her my condolences when you speak to her, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’ Dragan paused. ‘About the wedding—we wondered if you’d marry us in St Mark’s.’
‘I’d be delighted,’ Reverend Kenner said warmly. ‘Though you should expect the whole village to turn out.’
‘That’s fine by me. Um, I haven’t done this sort of thing before, so I don’t have a clue what the procedures are. I assume we have to fill in some sort of paperwork?’
‘Yes. Strictly speaking, I should see you both together,’ Reverend Kenner pointed out.
‘Melinda will come to see you as soon as she’s back in Cornwall,’ Dragan promised.
‘So have you any date in mind?’
‘As soon as possible.’
Reverend Kenner raised an eyebrow. ‘Should I be concerned about your reasons?’
Dragan shook his head. ‘Not at all. It’s just that now we’ve decided to get married neither of us wants to wait any longer than we have to. So what happens now? Do you read the banns or something?’
‘Hmm.’ Reverend Kenner frowned. ‘Are you both British nationals?’
‘I’ve spent nearly half my life here,’ Dragan said, ‘and I obtained British citizenship when I qualified as a doctor. But I’m not sure about Melinda.’
‘Then we’re probably safest to get a common licence—that’s permission from the bishop for non-British nationals to marry here.’
Dragan blinked. ‘We have to go and see the bishop?’
‘We’re quite a way from the bishop’s diocese, but the good news is I’m one of the bishop’s surrogates—I can sort out your application for the licence,’ Reverend Kenner reassured him. ‘I have copies of all the forms you’ll need to fill out. You’ll need proof of your nationality—your passport will do fine—and maybe a letter from the embassies saying that the marriage will be recognised in Melinda’s home country.’ He frowned. ‘Is Contarini part of the European Union?’
‘Probably.’
‘If it is, I won’t need a letter from the embassy, but check with Melinda. If it’s not, I’ll need the letter.’ He smiled. ‘I’m just so pleased for you both.’ He checked in his diary. ‘As soon as possible, you say. We need to allow a couple of weeks for the paperwork to go through, so we’re looking at the end of the month…Ah, yes. We have a slot at three o’clock on the last Saturday in April, if that suits you both?’
‘That’d be perfect.’
‘You’ve sorted out your best man and bridesmaids?’
‘Not yet. But now we’ve got a definite date, we’ll work on it.’
Reverend Kenner handed him a sheaf of forms. ‘Obviously we’ll need to have a little chat—I always do with couples who want to marry—but it’s nothing too onerous.’
‘We don’t mind,’ Dragan said. ‘We just want to get married. Properly.’
‘And the whole village will be celebrating with you,’ Reverend Kenner said warmly.
On the way home, Dragan remembered the hot-water bottle. Melinda had promised to return it to Violet Kennedy. Well, that was one small thing he could do to help: collect it and deliver it for her. It would give Melinda one less thing to worry about; being the conscientious vet she was, she was probably fretting about it. And she had enough to deal with right now.
The tourists were still hanging about outside the café—probably waiting for the sunset, he guessed. He unlocked the door to Melinda’s flat, carried Bramble up the stairs, retrieved the hot-water bottle, and had just set the dog back on her feet and locked the door again when he realised he was surrounded. By the tourists. Who were busy taking photographs—of him.
‘What’s go—?’ he began.
‘So who are you to Princess Melinda?’ one of them cut in.
‘I beg your pardon?’ He stared at the man. Princess Melinda? Was the guy talking about his Melinda?
‘Princess Melinda. The heir to the throne of Contarini, now her brother’s died,’ one of the others said.
‘Right stunner, she is. Blonde and…’ One of the others lifted two hands, as if cupping curvaceous breasts.
They were talking about his Melinda. Dragan just about managed to contain the urge to punch him—no way was this grubby louse going to get his paws anywhere near Melinda!
‘Give it a break, man. She’s never going to look twice at you. Beauty, brains and royal, to boot—she’s way out of your league,’ one of the others said, nudging the mouthy photographer.
A camera flashed in Dragan’s face. ‘So you’ve got the key to her flat, then,’ one of them said conversationally.
‘I’m just a friend,’ Dragan said. Though right now he was beginning to wonder. How could Melinda possibly be a princess and not have told him something so important about herself? She’d agreed to marry him, for goodness’ sake. For better or worse. No secrets.
‘Friend, hmm?’ Another flash. ‘So what’s the hot-water bottle for?’
‘It belongs to the owner of a patient she treated on call yesterday,’ Dragan said shortly.
‘And she didn’t have time to return it before she went back to Contarini for the funeral?’ one of the paparazzi said. ‘Right. Good of you to help out. A friend, you say.’
‘Hang on, you’re the local doctor, aren’t you?’ another asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And you live just round the corner. Handy,’ another one remarked.
How did they know he lived nearby? Had they been watching him?
‘So what do you make of King Alessandro, then?’ one of the others asked.
King Alessandro? Presumably he was Melinda’s father. Dragan spread his hands. ‘Can’t help you, I’m afraid. Sorry. Excuse me.’
To his relief, they let him go, but his brain was whirring as he walked back to Fisherman’s Row. Melinda was a princess? Heir to the throne, according to the paparazzi—and that meant she’d be Queen Melinda on her father’s death.
And hadn’t she said something about her father wanting to retire?
Oh, lord.
This changed everything.
He’d asked the local vet to marry him.
And it turned out that she was of royal blood. The heir to the throne.
No wonder she’d reacted so badly when he’d teased her about behaving like a princess—because that was exactly what she was.
But why hadn’t she told him the truth about herself? Why had she lied to him? She’d agreed to marry him, yet she’d kept something this big from him. That didn’t bode well for their marriage—if she’d be allowed to marry him in the first place. Her Royal Highness Princess Melinda