Royal Christmas: Royal Love-Child, Forbidden Marriage
- -
- 100%
- +
‘I’m not—’ Christian began and Leo’s eyes met Phoebe’s once more.
‘I think,’ he said softly, ‘it would be best.’
Phoebe nodded slowly. ‘Thank you,’ she said slowly. The farther away she stayed from King Nicholas, the better.
‘And tomorrow,’ Leo continued, ‘I thought we’d go ice-skating. Every year a rink is created in Njardvik’s main square, by the biggest Christmas tree you’ve ever seen. It is quite a sight.’
Christian cocked his head, clearly sceptical. ‘Bigger than the tree at the Rockefeller Center?’
‘Hmm.’ Leo pursed his lips. ‘I’m not sure about that, actually. But the rink is most certainly bigger.’
Christian nodded in acceptance, excitement lighting his eyes, and Phoebe touched Leo’s sleeve. ‘Leo—’ she said quietly, and he turned to her, his gaze warming her once more.
‘There will be time for us to talk later, Phoebe,’ Leo said softly, so only she could hear. ‘When we are rested … and alone. I promise.’
Alone. And what would happen when they were alone? Nerves and something else—something wonderful and intoxicating—fluttered deep in Phoebe’s belly. ‘And when will that be?’ she asked, knowing Leo could hear the longing in her voice. Desire had made her transparent.
‘Soon.’ His voice was a caress. ‘I promise.’
Phoebe nodded, knowing she would have to leave it at that, even though her mind seethed with questions and her body ached with unfulfilled yearning. ‘All right,’ she murmured, and a few minutes later he excused himself to return to work. Phoebe took Christian back to their suite and, despite many mighty protests, he quite promptly fell asleep.
Phoebe remained awake, restless, anxious, both her body and mind unsated, unfulfilled. And yet, even so, amidst all the turbulent uncertainty coursing through her, she felt hopeful as well. She gazed out at the palace gardens, the bare branches of the trees stark against the darkening sky, the grounds shrouded in winter, and wondered what on earth she had to hope for.
Yet it was there, deep inside her, a tightly furled bud ready to burst open and bloom in the light of day, in the warmth of a man’s smile, in the memory of his kiss, in the belief—naïve and misplaced as it might be—that she could trust him, that perhaps he could be a friend … or perhaps—perhaps—even something more.
‘The king is expecting me,’ Leo coolly informed the aide standing guard outside Nicholas’s bedchamber. The aide moved aside and Leo let himself into the darkened room.
King Nicholas sat up in bed, an ornately carved four-poster, several pillows piled behind him and the coverlet folded over his knees.
‘Well?’ he demanded in a rasp. ‘Did it work?’
‘Did what work?’ Leo asked laconically, and Nicholas gave a growl of impatience.
‘Whatever this plan of yours is, to get the girl out of the way.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Leo replied. He propped one shoulder against one of the bedposts as he surveyed Nicholas’s frail form. ‘It’s working.’
‘I don’t see why we couldn’t just buy her off,’ Nicholas grumbled. ‘Or run a smear campaign—’
‘Trashing her in the tabloids would hardly benefit your heir,’ Leo pointed out sardonically, ‘and I told you, she can’t be bought.’
‘And as I told you, everyone can be bought, Leo,’ the old man said. He paused, his eyes glinting with malice. ‘Your own mother’s price was fifty thousand.’ He paused, clearly savouring Leo’s surprise. ‘American.’
Leo froze, his gaze sweeping over his uncle in icy assessment. He didn’t want to believe what he’d just heard; he wanted to call the king a liar. Desperately. Surely his mother wouldn’t have accepted money in the place of her son. Yet, looking at Nicholas’s sleek smile of satisfaction, he knew he wasn’t lying. His mother had accepted cash to abandon her child to the royal family and their machinations, and clearly Nicholas had been waiting for such a moment as this to tell him so.
He felt a wave of icy shock at the realisation, and underneath a deeper hurt he couldn’t bear to probe. He snapped his unfocused gaze back to his uncle and smiled lazily.
‘At least she got something out of it, then,’ he said in a drawl, and Nicholas let out a raspy laugh.
‘So what is your plan with this American?’
Leo smiled coldly. It was a sign of the old man’s unbelievable arrogance that he trusted Leo to carry out his bidding even now, when he’d told him he would no longer be his heir. He’d cut him out of the succession as ruthlessly as if he’d wielded scissors, yet Nicholas didn’t doubt or question Leo for a moment. He simply wasn’t accustomed to disobedience. The only one who’d dared to go against him in a moment of childish folly had been Anders, and look where it had got him … abdicated, exiled, dead. A waste of a life. Leo swallowed back the rush of guilt such thoughts always caused him and turned to address his uncle.
‘There’s no need for you to know the details,’ he said coolly. ‘I’m carrying it out and it will deal with … the inconvenience … in due course.’
‘Inconvenience.’ Nicholas snickered. ‘Yes, she is that.’ He shifted in his bed, adjusting the pile of pillows behind him. ‘Well, as long as you take care of it, and soon.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Leo assured him, his voice terribly bland. ‘I’ll have it dealt with by tomorrow night.’
‘Good.’ Nicholas pulled the coverlet up over his chest, a cough rattling in his bony chest. For a moment Leo felt a flicker of sympathy for the old bastard; even he couldn’t defeat Father Time. ‘Now I’m tired,’ Nicholas said. ‘I’ll speak to you in the morning.’
‘Of course.’ Leo sketched a short, mocking bow before leaving his uncle’s bedroom.
Back in his own suite of rooms, Leo automatically went to the drinks tray before, with a muttered curse, he turned away. He unlocked the French doors leading to a terrace and stepped outside.
The wrought-iron railing was cold under his bare hands, the night air freezing and sharp, like a knife to the lungs. Stars glittered in a mercilessly black sky, the moon no more than a pale sliver of silver. In the distance the harbour gleamed blackly in the moonlight, and Leo smelled the promise of snow in the frigid, damp air.
He cursed aloud.
He’d never felt so trapped, so backed into a corner, as he did right then, and the king didn’t even realise. No one did. He had to protect Phoebe. He had to protect the crown. And he could see only one solution. A solution that required him to manipulate and use Phoebe with cold precision.
He had to make Phoebe his wife.
It would save her, but it would also condemn her. Condemn her to the politics of the royal family, a life she didn’t choose in a foreign country, a loveless marriage to him.
There was passion between them, Leo knew—oh, how he knew; he still felt it in every restless, unsatisfied sinew and limb. He felt it every time he saw her, uncoiling deep within him, radiating out to his fingertips that ached to touch her, brush the creaminess of her skin, the softness of her lips, her hair …
It was that latent sense of need that had given him the idea in the first place, and yet was it enough? Would Phoebe agree? Accept …?
And would she hate him when she knew … discovered what he’d done, what kind of man he was?
Would it even—ever—come to that?
Leo closed his eyes. Phoebe was a good woman, a better woman, perhaps, than even his own mother, who, he now knew, had given in to if not greed, then desperation. Thirty years after the fact he could feel pity—despite the pain—for a woman who had been so bullied by the royal family she’d allowed herself to be bought off.
Yet Phoebe didn’t let herself be bullied or bought; despite her fear, she’d stayed strong. She was a good woman, Leo thought with a pang of guilty regret. Far too good for him.
A cold wind blew over him, rustling the tree branches, making him shiver. Suppressing another curse, Leo resolutely turned and went back inside.
CHAPTER SEVEN
PHOEBE awoke to a pearly pink sky and dawn streaking its pale fingers along the floor. Next to her Christian lay sprawled across the bed. He’d had a restless night and sometime between midnight and dawn Phoebe had brought him into bed with her.
Now she lay still, enjoying a moment of peaceful solitude even as the memories and implications of yesterday trickled slowly through her.
They were in Amarnes. Nicholas might very well want custody of her son. Leo had kissed her.
She rolled off the bed, carefully extracting herself from the rumpled covers so as not to wake Christian. The sun was rising now, a pale sliver of yellow above the mountains, turning their snow-capped peaks to the colour of cream. A glance at the clock told her it was already after eight o’clock; in November the sun didn’t rise until quite late in this part of the world.
Hurriedly, Phoebe washed and dressed. Today they were going ice-skating with Leo. And despite all her fears and anxieties, the terror that Nicholas would find a way to take Christian from her and, even worse, that Leo might aid him, she found herself looking forward to the outing with absurd excitement.
An hour later they were leaving the palace, just the three of them, bundled against the chilly wind blowing in from the sea.
‘What, no entourage?’ Phoebe asked as they simply strolled through the palace gates. ‘No guards?’
‘Amarnes is a small country,’ Leo replied with a shrug. ‘Very safe. And I think I can take on any comers.’ His wry smile as he flexed one arm made Phoebe laugh aloud. She needed this, she realised. She needed to laugh, to let go, to enjoy a day apart, a day just for pleasure … with Leo.
Next to her, Christian was practically dancing in excitement. So much for the Rockefeller Center, Phoebe thought wryly. He obviously thought this was much more fun.
She’d certainly agree with that.
The sun was just emerging behind some ribbony white clouds as they entered the city’s main square. Phoebe’s last visit to Njardvik had been such a blur that she now found herself looking around in genuine interest. The square was surrounded by tall, narrow townhouses painted in varying pastel shades, elegant and colourful.
In the middle of the square, now strung with fairy lights, an ice rink had been formed, sparkling with sunlight. A Christmas tree decorated in red and gold, at least forty feet high, towered over the rink. Even Christian was impressed by its size, and declared it better than the tree at the Rockefeller Center.
‘I’m so relieved,’ Leo told him with a little smile.
They fetched skates from a hut erected near the rink, and then sat on a rough wooden bench to put them on. Phoebe saw the way the people—the man who rented them the skates, the red-cheeked woman who sold pebber nodder, the little shortbread cookies flavoured with cinnamon—looked at him. Spoke to him. She saw and heard respect, admiration, even affection. Leo, Phoebe realised, had won his people over.
The thought made her glad.
‘Have you skated much?’ Leo asked with an arched brow, and Phoebe smiled, suddenly mischievous.
‘A bit.’ She tightened the laces on her skates. ‘What about you?’
‘A bit as well,’ Leo replied.
‘I fall a lot,’ Christian confided. He stretched out his legs for Leo to lace up his skates. Phoebe watched the simple sight of Leo doing up her son’s skates and felt her heart both constrict and expand all at once. There was something so right about this, and it scared her. It was all too easy to imagine them as a family, to imagine this was more than just a day’s outing. To imagine—and want—this to be real.
‘There.’ Leo stood up, reaching a hand down to Christian, which the little boy took with easy trust. He held out his other hand to Phoebe, and after the briefest of hesitations she took it. They both wore gloves, yet even so it felt all too good—too right and too wonderful—for his hand to clasp hers.
They walked awkwardly on their skates to the rink and Christian’s bravado faltered at the sight of the sheer ice. Skating backwards with long, gliding movements, Leo took the boy’s hands and helped him move along. Phoebe watched from the side as they skated around the rink. Leo had skated more than a bit, she thought wryly. He skated backwards with effortless ease, helping Christian along, encouraging him with ready smiles and praise. Christian beamed back, delighted when he was finally able to let go of Leo’s hands and skate for a few wobbly feet by himself.
Leo skated towards Phoebe, who remained leaning against the rink wall.
‘You’re good,’ she said and he gave a modest shrug.
‘Growing up in Amarnes … all children learn to skate.’ He gave her a little smile. ‘Are you going to get out on the ice?’ His eyes glinted with humour. ‘You’re not afraid, are you?’
‘Me? Afraid?’
‘You said you’d only skated a bit …’
‘So I did,’ Phoebe agreed, and then pushed off the wall. She wasn’t able to see the expression on Leo’s face as she glided to the centre of the rink, did a graceful figure-of-eight before spinning in a dizzying circle, one leg stretched out in a perfect right angle.
‘Way to go, Mom!’ Christian crowed, then turned to Leo. ‘She used to skate a lot.’
‘So it would appear,’ Leo murmured, and Phoebe, skating back, couldn’t help but grin.
‘I took figure-skating lessons for five years. I had dreams of being the next big star, actually.’
‘And what happened?’
Phoebe smiled wryly. ‘I wasn’t that good.’
‘Better than me,’ Leo told her. ‘And you don’t need to look so smug,’ he added as she leaned against the wall once more. ‘I was looking forward to giving you lessons.’
‘Perhaps it should be the other way round,’ Phoebe replied, and he laughed aloud.
‘Or perhaps,’ he murmured for only her ears, ‘we should have lessons in some other … field of interest.’
Suddenly Phoebe was breathless, the camaraderie of the moment replaced by something deeper, needier and more elemental.
She wanted him. She wanted to touch him, kiss him, to feel every bit of his skin, his hair, his mouth and eyes—his body. She wanted his body inside her, wanted to feel him move against her—
She turned away, afraid her thoughts—her need—would be reflected in her eyes. Leo was so adept at reading her emotions, and she wasn’t ready for him to know this.
Although perhaps he already did. Perhaps he’d always known it, from the moment he’d first touched her all those years ago, and she’d felt as if he’d reached right inside to her soul. Perhaps he had … perhaps her ill-fated marriage had never had a chance from that moment.
Perhaps, Phoebe thought hazily, it had always been Leo.
‘Aren’t we going to skate some more?’ Christian demanded, and Leo reached for his hands.
‘Yes, we are,’ he said as he started skating backwards again, Christian following him. ‘And then we’re going to get some hot chocolate.’
They skated for another half-hour before the cold defeated them, and they returned their skates.
‘There’s a café near here,’ Leo said, ‘with the most delicious hot chocolate.’ He smiled at Christian. ‘With whipped cream.’
The air was sharp with brine and damp with cold as they left the rink, even though the sun was shining.
They walked in easy silence down the narrow streets to the promised café, a small, wood-panelled room in the front of a townhouse, its scarred oak tables and chairs relics from another century.
The owner hurried towards them, all welcoming smiles and excited chatter, which Leo, looking almost discomfited, waved away. Within seconds they were seated at a more private table in the back, scarves and mittens shed, and coats hung over their chairs.
One of the waiters brought Christian a colouring book and some crayons, and he was soon hard at work. Phoebe took the opportunity to study Leo, her heart—and something else—lurching at the sight of him. A few stray snowflakes glittered in his hair, and his cheeks were bright with cold. She could see the glint of stubble on his jaw, and it made her ache to reach out and touch the bristles, compare the feel of it to the softness of his lips …
On the table she curled her hand into a fist, determined—for the moment—to resist the impulse. Leo glanced at her, amusement quirking his mouth.
‘You look as if you’re deep in thought,’ he said. ‘Or perhaps working out a difficult maths problem. What are you thinking about?’
Phoebe had no intention of telling him the nature of her thoughts. She smiled and began to shrug, surprising them both when she suddenly said, ‘You have changed.’
Leo stilled, his long, brown fingers flat on the table. He didn’t quite look at her as he asked lightly, ‘Have I?’
‘Yes,’ Phoebe said more forcefully. ‘You’re not … you’re not …’
‘A reckless, womanising playboy any more?’ he asked, his voice still light, but she heard—felt—the darkness underneath. The same emotion she’d felt from him all those years ago, a kind of pain or sorrow.
‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘But it’s more than that.’
Leo opened his menu and scanned the pages. ‘How intriguing,’ he murmured, but Phoebe could tell he wanted to deflect the conversation from himself, and she wondered why.
A waiter returned with mugs of creamy cocoa, and Phoebe dipped her spoon in the frothy confection. ‘So did you put your partying days behind you when you realised you’d become king?’
Something flashed in Leo’s eyes—something bleak and angry—and then he shrugged. ‘Something like that. I told you before, didn’t I, some things can be sordid and boring?’
She felt a flicker of disappointment. ‘So the party scene just got old?’
‘It always does.’
Christian looked up from his mug of hot chocolate, his entire face flecked with whipped cream. ‘What does sordid mean?’
And that, Phoebe thought, was a signal to change the conversation if there ever was one. Yet she was curious, far too curious, about Leo. About his childhood, about his change of heart, about the man he was now. A man, she realised with both alarm and excitement, that she could more than like. A man she could love.
They finished their hot chocolate in comfortable silence, before Leo said they should return to the palace. ‘You, young man, look tired.’
‘I am not!’ Christian protested with five-year-old indignation.
‘Well,’ Leo relented, ‘perhaps your mother is. Maybe I could show you the palace games room while she has a nap? I play a mean game of air hockey.’ He glanced at Phoebe in silent query, and she gave a little nod. A nap sounded heavenly.
Outside the café they came across one of Njardvik’s little Christmas markets, a narrow street lined on both sides with stalls, each one strung with lights and offering various handicrafts, baked goods and Christmas ornaments.
‘Are these all Santa Clauses?’ Phoebe asked as she examined a row of carved wooden figures, each with a long white beard and red cap.
‘Santas, no. They’re nissen,’ Leo replied. ‘Sort of like Santa—but a nisse is a bit of a trickier fellow.’
‘Trickier?’
‘Yes, he was originally a protector of family farms. But he might steal the cows’ hay to give to the horses—that sort of thing. Now he’s become a bit more like Santa. On Christmas Eve someone dresses up as a nisse and brings presents, asking if there are any good children.’
‘Did someone do that for you as a child? In the palace?’ Phoebe asked suddenly. She pictured Anders and Leo at Christmas, waiting for the nisse. Knowing what she did, she could imagine Anders vying for all the attention while Leo stood in the shadows, watching.
‘Oh, yes.’ Leo’s expression was strangely shuttered. ‘Always.’
‘And what did you answer?’ Phoebe asked, keeping her voice light. ‘Were you a good child?’ She meant to sound light, teasing, but instead the question sounded serious. Leo’s mouth stretched in a smile and he put the nisse back on the shelf. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘of course I was.’
Yet Phoebe could only imagine what he wasn’t saying, what memories he was keeping to himself. Ignored, neglected, a virtual orphan. He might have been a good child, she thought, but she doubted he had been a happy one. She glanced back at the nisse; the look on the little statue’s face suddenly seemed closer to a sneer.
They left the Christmas market and began to walk back to the palace, Leo leading them down the city’s narrow cobbled streets, his hand easily linked with Christian’s. Phoebe trailed a few steps behind, watching them, thinking how much like a family—a father and son—they looked.
What if Leo had been Christian’s father, instead of Anders? What if all those years ago, she had met him first? What if they’d fallen in love?
Useless questions, Phoebe knew, and ones she couldn’t possibly answer. The past was the past; it had been written, finished. The present was intriguing enough.
And as for the future …
What could there possibly be between her and Leo, the heir to the country’s throne? She’d been considered an unsuitable candidate for queen six years ago, and she doubted anything had changed on that score.
Besides, wasn’t she getting a little ahead of herself? All Leo had done was kiss her, and such a little brush of a kiss it barely counted.
Except it hadn’t felt little.
And yet in two weeks she would be returning home with Christian—at least, that was what she wanted, what she’d hoped for. Her fears about the king’s plans and intentions still gnawed nervously at her insides. Even so, amidst the fear and the uncertainty, she now felt a longing for these two weeks to never end.
It was working, Leo thought grimly, his hand still loosely clasped with Christian’s. With half an ear he listened to the boy chatter on about some kind of toy—a robot or a dinosaur?—as his own mind spun in circles. He’d had a plan, he’d carried it out, and it was clearly a success.
Phoebe was falling in love with him.
So why did that make him feel so miserable?
Because I don’t deserve it … I don’t deserve any of it, I never did or will …
He pushed the thoughts away, the tormented voices of his conscience, his memory. He couldn’t afford to have either. He needed to focus, to keep working towards his goal. And even if Phoebe hated him, even if she discovered the truth, he knew he was doing only what he had to.
For Phoebe’s sake.
Phoebe gazed at herself in the mirror, amazed at the transformation. That afternoon several gowns had been sent to her room with instructions she choose one to wear that evening. A single card had been inserted among the folds of tissue paper, with a single sentence upon it, written in a bold scrawl: Have dinner with me.
Her heart hammered in anticipation and her nerves jangled as she undid the dresses from their folds of paper and hung them on the door, gazing at each one in turn. What to wear to dinner tonight? Dinner alone with Leo. Now finally he would explain what he knew of the king’s plans, yet Phoebe found she could barely think of that.
All she could think of, her body’s insistent needs drowning out her mind’s, was being alone with Leo. What would happen? What would he do? What would she do?
‘Which one should I wear?’ she asked Christian, who was sprawled on the bed, watching a children’s show in Danish with an expression of endearing perplexity.
He glanced up at her, frowning at the sight of the clothes. ‘Are those dresses?’ he asked and Phoebe laughed, reaching over to ruffle his hair. Christian promptly ducked out of the way and returned to watching the television.
‘Yes, silly. And can you actually understand that show at all?’
‘I saw it back at home,’ Christian replied with a shrug and Phoebe rolled her eyes.
‘Come on, sport. Help me out here.’
With a long-suffering sigh, Christian turned away from the TV once more. He glanced at the three gowns, his brow furrowed. ‘The silver one.’