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“How could you risk your life like that?” he demanded.
“How could I not?” I asked softly. “My life had just walked into an ambush.”
“What happened to your marriage of convenience?” he asked drily.
“It turned out to be terribly inconvenient,” I replied with a shrug.
I stared at him with my heart in my eyes.
“Veer, are you sure you want to go ahead with this marriage? I will let you go if you want me to because I would never stand in the way of your dreams.”
“I know, Isha. But my most important dream is standing right here before me. You matter more to me than the CM’s post. It was never even a competition. You were always my first priority. And to be honest, I quite like this new way of solving my people’s problems. It’s much more satisfying than netagiri. Your brother was really onto something when he became the beast of Trikhera,” he teased.
I shuddered hard at the memory of how close I came to losing him tonight.
“Please don’t do this ever again, Veer. I can’t always be on hand to save your ass,” I scolded.
Instead of making me a promise I knew he couldn’t keep, he kissed me until I forgot everything but him. It didn’t take too long.
“I love you, Veer,” I said breathlessly, between kisses.
“I love you too. More than anything in the world.”
A voice in my head whispered that he was only saying this because there was no way he could ever become CM now. The Goels would not rest until they had hung us all out to dry. But the new Isha stomped on that voice and silenced it because I knew that Veer did really love me. Because I was worthy of being loved.
“Jeez! Get a room, guys,” said Ranvijay, as he dismounted from his horse.
Bhai Sa rolled his eyes at the lot of us.
“Are they back safely?” yelled Diya, from her window.
“They are, thanks to me,” I yelled back.
“Well, come up and tell me all about it!”
With a laugh, we all rushed to obey the Maharani of Trikhera.
EPILOGUE
His Highness Ranvijay Singh Rathore, the thirty-one-year-old Maharaja of the erstwhile princely state of Mirpur, was a marked man.
He recognised the look in his mother’s eyes. It was a peculiar glint that she reserved only for her victims. She hadn’t turned that look on him until now, but he recognised it all the same. His mother wanted him to be married.
He waited for her to bring it up because he knew that the person who spoke first usually lost the upper hand in a negotiation. If his mother had something to say, she must bring it up. He also knew that if she did broach the topic, it was going to turn into a fight. Ranvijay would give his right arm to avoid a fight with his mother right now because he would come out of it looking like a monster.
Because only a monster would fight with an elderly woman who had just returned from a hospital stay. Especially since he was the one who put her there in the first place.
“Did you take your medicines?” he asked her as he scanned her face for any sign of illness.
“Sannata has turned into a drill sergeant,” grumbled Nandini Devi, the Rani Ma of Mirpur, referring to her maid of forty years who had come into the palace as part of her bridal entourage. The rest of the entourage including the footmen and groomsmen were long gone. All she had left in the way of loyalists were her maid and her bawarchi.
“I’m glad,” replied Ranvijay, as Sannata placed a bowlful of khichdi before his mother.
She grimaced at the bland fare and turned a hopeful face towards her maid.
“Sannata, get me some of that spicy jhinga pickle sent by the Rani Ma of Trikhera,” she ordered.
Sannata snorted in response and pulled out a neatly folded sheet of paper from the pocket of her lehenga. She refused to wear the livery worn by the rest of the Maharaja’s staff and he didn’t have the heart to force her to conform because she didn’t need a uniform to show that her loyalty belonged to the palace.
