"Father, you are not well…"

Francis stood opposite his father in the Scottish castle's entrance hall, sharing a final conversation with him before the king departed to head back to France for a little while, where his presence was required. Royal duties always had to take priority over anything else; that is what Francis's parents had taught him from birth.

As his father shouted orders to his staff about how his luggage should be handled, Francis couldn't help noticing that he looked much paler than usual, and he felt it necessary to voice his concerns.

"Stop fussing, Francis!" his father snapped at him, the way he always did. His father's health was an especially sensitive issue at the moment. "Besides," the king sneered, "right now, that's the least of your worries…"

For a moment, Francis was tempted to disagree with him. His father's condition definitely seemed like a very troubling concern for Francis right now.

He worried for his father on a personal level, of course, in spite of their rather strained relationship over the years, but his fear ran deeper than that. As selfish as Francis knew it would seem to some, ever since the king of France had fallen into ill health, Francis had spent many a sleepless night thinking about the fact that if anything were to happen to his father, as the heir to the throne, he would become a king almost overnight, with all of the duty and the responsibility on his shoulders at a young age. Or the burden, as many would say.

He didn't feel ready to be a king just yet, and there was never enough time to prepare.

"Can you at least promise you'll get some rest when you return to France?" he asked his father, folding his arms as he raised an eyebrow pointedly at him, trying his best not to sound like he was pleading.

His father did nothing but sneer back at him.

He wished that his father would stop taking unnecessary risks and pushing himself to the limit.

"And please, send my best wishes to Olivia, when you get home…" Francis sighed as he finished his sentence. His mother had already told him in their most recent phone conversation that Olivia was still finding things difficult, especially now that a photo of Mary and Francis holding hands as they entered the ballroom together had appeared in several French magazines.

He and Olivia hadn't actually been a couple for quite a while, but still, it was difficult to let go of the past sometimes.

His father merely grunted in response, looking disapproving of Francis's sentimentality. His actions left Francis unsure as to whether the king was actually going to do as he asked.

With his father suddenly distracted by the various staff members who were carrying his luggage to the royal car that waited outside, Francis returned to his troubled thoughts…

Would he be expected to tell Mary about his history with Olivia? Or worse, would he have to tell her the real reason why they broke up?

Already, there were too many other secrets he knew he would have to share with Mary, if there was going to be any chance of things working out between them, not least the fact that Francis becoming a king in the near future was a very real possibility. She would have to know the truth about Francis's father's poor health, and the role that might be waiting just around the corner as a consequence, so she could make an informed decision…

But then, Francis's mind drifted to all of the events that had unfolded in Scotland recently-the opening ceremony, the conversation in the television room, the ball last night...and he had to admit, if only to himself, that perhaps his father had a point when he told him he had other things to worry about. Maybe there were more pressing matters at hand at the moment than his typical day-to-day concerns.

Unbidden, an image of a smirking Narcisse appeared in his mind, and Francis felt a jolt of anger.

Stephane Narcisse, of all people! How had he found his way here, to this little-known castle in Scotland? How had he managed to win over the Scottish royal family?

Francis felt a flicker of fear on Mary's behalf. He didn't doubt Mary's judgement for a moment, but he wondered if she had any idea just how cunning and manipulative Narcisse could be.

Back in France, Narcisse had been known for his smooth talk, and his 'subtle' threats, and his skill at conveniently making problems 'disappear'. If ever there had been bribery or corruption going on, Narcisse had usually been behind it all, somewhere.

His under-handed methods had once made him a popular Publicist for royals and celebrities alike, until he'd found employment at the French castle.

During his time at the castle, Narcisse had grown rather close to Francis's mother, acting as a willing accomplice to her typical schemes.

Francis couldn't help shuddering. He dreaded to think just how close Narcisse had been to his mother.

Francis had actually believed that Narcisse had done his worst with a few of his not-so-pleasant schemes in the castle, but the events that Narcisse and his family had been implicated in afterwards had proved otherwise…

Again, Francis shuddered, as his memories of the attack on the castle by rebels two years ago-and everything that had unfolded in the aftermath-threatened to take over. It was always difficult to fight his way out of those memories, and he didn't want to think about all of that right now.

However, it was much harder to forget that Narcisse had vowed, just before he left France, that he would get revenge on the Valois family for what he perceived to be their wrongdoing, one day.

At the time, Francis hadn't even taken Narcisse's threat seriously. But now he was here, in Scotland, somehow involved in this matchmaking process, working directly with Mary.

Knowing Narcisse as he had once known him, Francis feared that he would soon make himself indispensable to Mary, to the point where she would think that she couldn't face the public without his 'wisdom' and 'guidance'. He had a habit of getting into people's heads like that.

If by some miracle he and Mary ended up married after all this, Francis had a horrible feeling that she would eventually wish to employ Narcisse as her permanent assistant, which would bring him right back to French court, ensuring that he was ideally placed for any planned acts of revenge.

And then, if he couldn't get to Francis through Mary, Francis had his suspicions that he would do so through Lola instead.

Francis had seen at last night's ball, the way that Lola and Narcisse had looked at each other. Something was clearly about to happen between the two of them. Normally, Francis wouldn't have cared too much about the relationships of others, but Lola had seemed like a nice enough girl-she had seemed concerned about him, asking him how he was finding the whole matchmaking process and how he was coping with the constant presence of journalists, and she had been so positive in her views about Mary as a person, telling Francis repeatedly how nice and how kind Mary was, sounding almost like a teenager who was trying to fix her friend up with a boy, which had been amusing, in its own way. Francis didn't know her very well, but he wasn't overly keen on the idea of a girl like Lola getting caught up in Narcisse's typical scheming and backstabbing.

Not to mention the fact that at the ball last night, Lola had talked to everyone as though Mary was already the queen of France. In Lola's eyes, Mary and Francis were practically engaged, and Mary was already her friend, not to mention a potential future employer who could offer Lola an important role working with her in France, away from the watchful eyes of Queen Marie. Francis wasn't sure if things would truly work out that way, but he would hate for Narcisse to be the one to ruin all of Lola's dreams. Because any role for Lola that involved working closely with Mary in the future could potentially provide Narcisse with another link to French royalty, if something happened between Lola and Narcisse, and Francis was determined that that simply couldn't happen.

Should he tell Mary about all of these private thoughts? Should he tell her the whole truth about his history with Narcisse? Beyond what she would probably find out for herself, in the end? Should he talk about all the things he hadn't talked about since the attack on the castle?

Francis supposed he would have to, eventually-for Mary's own safety, if nothing else-but already, he was dreading that particular conversation. He suspected that Mary would think he was trying to interfere; trying to tell her what to do and who to hire and fire. He also worried that she would think that this was just a case of a personal grudge between him and Narcisse, rather than a greater political issue.

As he thought again about the events of last night, Francis's thoughts drifted back to Mary, the way they so often did.

He suspected that he'd already made a mess of things at the ball, with his awkward behaviour. When he first saw Mary outside the ballroom at the start of the evening, he'd really wanted to tell her that she looked beautiful, but he hadn't been able to find the words, and he'd worried that he'd say it wrong, or that she would think he was only complimenting her for the sake of the cameras. And then the moment had passed.

After that, he had worried about whether he would be expected to ask her to dance. Francis had never been particularly fond of dancing, especially in the presence of cameras and royal families at formal events, but he would have put up with all that, for her, if she'd wanted to dance with him.

It was always like this, with Mary. He could flirt with girls and charm people when duty required it, but something about Mary in particular always made him shut down, leaving him feeling awkward and nervous and unable to string a sentence together in her presence, and even prone to tripping over his own feet, at times.

He remembered his years spent at school in London-all those times when he'd been out walking and he'd spotted her, usually looking in the windows of shops that sold rare artwork, or looking in the windows of second-hand book shops.

So many times, he'd wanted to walk up to her and strike up a conversation (usually encouraged by his crowd of smirking male friends from school-Francis's crush on Mary had always been common knowledge among them), but he'd never really been brave enough.

A few times, he'd started walking towards her only to turn back at the last second. One time, he'd got about halfway across the street before he'd tripped over his own feet in his nerves. Another time, he'd actually got all the way over, standing right next to her at a shop window, but she'd given him such a strange look that Francis had lost his nerve and he'd been forced to pretend that he too had just been there to look at the antique paintings in the window.

He tried to ignore the fact that his cheeks felt flushed in reaction to his memories of all of his attempts to talk to Mary in London. How pathetic she would think he was, if she knew.

And, true to form, Francis just hadn't had the courage to walk right up to her and ask her to dance at the ball, for fear of rejection, or fear of looking like an idiot, and then he'd been distracted by all the other girls who'd wanted to dance with him, as so often happened at parties where future kings were present, and Mary had had plenty of others asking her to dance, too…

Francis remembered how he'd leaned against one of the pillars in the room, taking a break from dancing and trying to watch Mary discreetly without her noticing. Then, he'd spotted Sebastian out of the corner of his eye and he'd noticed that he had been watching Mary, too, with a look of admiration written all over his face.

This was bound to happen, he'd told himself at the time. Of course there will be others admiring her, too…

Besides, Francis had got along well with Sebastian. From the moment he first shook his hand at the ball, he'd felt almost as though he knew him from somewhere, as though they'd met before, or like they'd known each other for years, and the conversation had flowed easily, in the same way that he'd found Mary's brother, James, so easy to talk to. Francis didn't want to have to dislike him.

But still, all of his reasoning hadn't eased the pang of jealousy that Francis felt as he watched Mary and Sebastian dance together and smile at each other.

"You need to focus, Francis!" his father suddenly snapped at him, as though he could read Francis's not-so-pleasant thoughts. "This is a television show, not some pathetic love story! And France needs the ratings and the positive publicity just as much as Scotland does. Play your part!"

Before Francis could answer, his father turned away from him and started walking towards the door. When he was standing in the doorway, he turned back to talk to him again…

"Remember, Francis," his father instructed him in barely more than a whisper, "duty always comes first."

With that, he turned away and headed out the door, without even a goodbye.

Francis simply scowled at his father's retreating back. As daunting as the idea of being on his own in this foreign castle seemed, perhaps it was for the best that he wouldn't have to deal with his father for a little while.

Breakfast that morning was a rather frosty affair for the Stuarts.

Often, they ate in the castle's main dining room on the ground floor, along with all of the staff and any visitors to the castle, but this time, Mary's mother had requested that the family meet in the smaller, more private dining room on the first floor, no doubt so that they could all talk about recent events without being overheard.

And yet, nobody was actually talking. A heavy silence seemed to hang in the air around them, as though they were all afraid to be the first to speak.

Mary buttered her croissant with a lot more force than was necessary, only pausing every now and again to look up and glare at her mother, who was sitting opposite her.

In other circumstances, Mary might have skipped breakfast altogether, but she knew that she had a photo shoot with Francis and some filming scheduled in the afternoon, and she was therefore trying to put off heading to the television room to get ready for as long as possible.

Mary's brother and father sat at either end of the table, the two of them looking awkward and uncomfortable, with James seemingly fascinated by whatever it was he was looking at on his phone, while Mary's father hid his face behind the newspaper he was currently reading.

Mary couldn't help noticing that the photo of her and Francis walking into the ballroom hand-in-hand had made it to the front page. She let out a sigh.

Finally, her mother was the one to break the silence:"So, Mary, what are your initial impressions of the matchmaking process? And Francis?" she added, almost tentatively.

Mary was tempted to ignore her, but then she remembered how her mother had shouted at James last night after the ball, and in her anger, she couldn't resist speaking: "He is blond!" she snapped at her mother, glaring at her accusingly as she thought about all the blond men that her mother had found attractive in the past. "And he is a prince!" This time, the accusing glare was aimed at both of her parents.

Her father stayed hidden behind his newspaper, but Mary noticed that his face seemed to have gone a bit red.

"You have set me up with your perfect match!" she shouted, focusing on her mother again.

"Nonsense!" her mother sighed, dismissing Mary's accusation with a wave of her hand. "Besides, you adored Francis, when you were both children. You used to follow him around the castle in France, every time we visited, giggling and laughing the whole time. You always wrote about him in that journal you kept as a child, and you used to write both of your names together in hearts on every scrap of paper-"

"No, I didn't!" Mary protested, feeling indignant that her mother could even imagine she'd done such things. Yet for some reason, she felt her cheeks grow warmer at her mother's words.

"There is nothing stopping you from falling in love with Francis as an adult, if only you would stop searching for distractions!" her mother insisted.

Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, Mary pushed her chair back, deciding that she'd eaten enough breakfast. She made sure to slam her butter knife down on the wooden table as she stood up.

"You have three months, Mary," her mother told her, as Mary made a great show of stomping her feet on her way out of the room, and the queen pointedly ignored her little tantrum. Her mother's tone of voice was more stern now: "Use the time wisely. The public might be enthusiastic about your first photos with Francis at the ball, but they're still not entirely convinced by the connection between the two of you. You must make more effort when the cameras are on today. And never forget, there's a lot more at stake for Scotland right now than just television ratings..."

Mary simply glared at her mother as she headed for the door, but she couldn't help the familiar prickle of nerves at the mention of Scotland being in trouble.

"Oh, and James?" she heard her mother tell her brother just before she left the room, "Kenna will be arriving for a visit tomorrow."

Standing in the doorway, Mary looked back at her brother.

Now, James was the one who looked nervous and uncomfortable.

As Mary walked through the hallways that led from the family dining room to the television room, all of her troubled thoughts seemed to take over.

She thought again about her mother's angry words to James last night, and she wondered if her mother had brought forward Kenna's next visit to Scotland as some sort of punishment; a way of reminding James of his duties, and to remind him to behave himself.

Then, not for the first time this morning, she thought about the ball last night, and how Francis hadn't asked her to dance. She thought about how he had danced with Lola, how the two of them had laughed together. Why does this bother you so much? she asked herself, yet again.

She also thought about Bash, and how he'd flirted with her. She remembered how her mother had mentioned this apparent 'flirting' to James, when she'd been shouting at him. Was she attracted to Bash? Did it really look as though something was going on between the two of them?

She thought about how she'd looked out the window earlier in the morning, to see Francis and Bash outside, walking the grounds together, already looking like the best of friends. Would Bash let slip to Francis that he'd smirked and winked at Mary in the village only a day ago? Would he tell him that James had lied and covered up to get Bash a job at the castle, as some twisted favour to Mary? Would Francis even care?

All of this was going on-and Mary's troubled thoughts seemed to be never-ending-and yet there was still a television show to film; there was a matchmaking process in place that had to continue, no matter what.

Desperately, Mary tried to remind herself of how kind Francis had been to her when they'd spoken in the television room just before the ball. He'd promised that he would try to make things easier for her. She remembered how different he'd looked, dressed in his jeans and jumper; she remembered how he'd tried to comfort her when she was upset. She remembered how he'd held her hand when they walked into the ballroom together, preventing her from falling…

Perhaps things really wouldn't be as bad as they seemed.

Scotland was counting on her, and she would have to try her best, if only to distract the country from its other problems for a little while. Francis would help her. She could get through this….

Mary was just walking past the wooden balcony that overlooked the castle's entrance hall, and she was starting to feel slightly better, when she heard Francis's voice:

"Send my best wishes to Olivia…"

With a suspicious frown, Mary crept closer to the balcony and looked over it to see Francis, deep in conversation with his father.

She could only pick up on a few of the words they were saying, but they were enough to provoke the familiar feelings of panic and hopelessness that seemed to wash over her on an almost daily basis…

"This is a television show!" Francis's father snapped at him. "France needs the ratings just as much as Scotland does! Play your part!"

And then, just before Francis's father walked out the door: "Remember, Francis, duty always comes first."

Trying to fight off a strange, unexpected feeling of disappointment, Mary moved away from the balcony and headed towards the television room.

"Duty always comes first," she muttered sarcastically to herself as she walked.

For a moment, Mary was certain she heard the sound of mocking laughter from just around the corner, but then she told herself firmly that she was only imagining things.