His Majesty's Child (9 page)

‘Y
OU
look beautiful,' he murmured. ‘As beautiful as any bride on her wedding morning.'

Melissa turned round from the mirror to see Casimiro standing in the doorway of her sumptuous suite of palace rooms—a formidable and commanding presence in his Zaffirinthian naval uniform.

Medals gleamed at his chest and the dark livery drew attention to his imposing frame and powerful presence. Her eyes blinked rapidly—as if she still couldn't quite believe that she was marrying this man and that within a couple of hours they would be man and wife. Or, rather, King and Queen. She kept thinking that in a minute she would wake up and she and Ben would find themselves back in Walton in their tiny apartment with the spluttering shower and the barking dogs outside.

‘You're…you're not supposed to be here!' she stumbled.

He raised his dark brows. ‘Why not?'

‘Because it isn't traditional for the groom to see his bride on the morning of the wedding!'

‘I hardly think we're a shining example of traditionalism, do you, Melissa?' he questioned wryly.

Anxiously, she glanced around. Where were the maids
who'd been helping her—scurrying around making unnecessary adjustments to the restrained silk of her wedding suit? ‘Where's everyone gone?'

‘I sent them away.'

She lifted her eyes to his, aware that the unaccustomed weight of several layers of mascara was making them feel very heavy. ‘Why?'

‘Because I wanted to see you. Before the marriage. Alone.'

Melissa's heart began beating very fast. She had tried to tell herself that this marriage was wrong on all kinds of levels. When doubts had come to her—mainly in the middle of the night—she had convinced herself that she would be insane not to go through with it. That mainly she was doing it for Ben—so that he wouldn't be wrenched away from her. So that he wouldn't grow up as a part-time royal who might one day push her away completely.

But although Ben was a valid enough reason for this marriage—she was doing it for someone else too. For herself. For the stupid craving and yearning part of her which had never stopped loving this man and wanting to know him better. Hoping that once he had slipped the wedding band on her finger he might allow her to see beneath the formidable exterior he presented to the world. Would it be possible to chip away at the ice and maybe re discover the warmth of the man she had once known? Would he give her that chance? Or had that man disappeared altogether—leaving nothing but this beautiful yet icy shell which stood before her now in his uniform?

‘Why alone?' she breathed. ‘Are you having…second thoughts?'

‘Are you?'

‘No.' She searched his face for a glimmer of affection—some kind of regard—but all she could see was a telltale darkening at the depths of the amber eyes. ‘I…I am prepared to go through with it. I want to be a good wife.'

‘How dutiful you sound, Melissa.'

‘Well, isn't this all about duty?' she questioned quietly. ‘Yours to your country and mine to my son?'

Her logic took his breath away, for it was a quality he looked for in his advisors but had not expected from her. Hadn't he expected—and wanted—some kind of soft and melting acquiescence? A very feminine capitulation to the allure of wealth and high office he was offering her and which might have made her show a little more
gratitude
?

But no. There was nothing soft or melting about Melissa Maguire today. She looked, he thought—like some sort of ice-Queen.

Advised by his aides that a white wedding would be highly in appropriate in the circumstances, instead she wore a muted suit of beaten silver—the colour of some untouched glacier. Mahogany hair had been piled into an intricate confection on top of her head and left unadorned—for she would be crowned during the wedding ceremony itself.

Yet it was her face which startled him. The green eyes were edged in black and her lips gleamed a faint rose-pink colour. A professional make-up artist had been presented with the raw material of this unrefined woman
from a small town in England—and a sleek, almost unrecognisable beauty had emerged.

He thought how well she had dealt with the press—doing nothing other than smiling in just about every shot he had seen of her. That and holding their son tightly—who had also looked particularly angelic, even if Melissa had stubbornly refused to have his hair trimmed before the press call.

The photographers had demanded that the couple kiss and then that Casimiro lift up his son—but he had refused both requests. How the hell could he act like a father for the cameras when he didn't feel remotely like a father inside? Or, indeed, a loving bride groom. What he
did
feel like was a frustrated lover and now he ran his eyes over the slim lines of her silver-clothed body.

‘Very beautiful,' he repeated silkily.

‘Thank you.'

‘A dutiful response, too,' he mocked.

‘To a dutiful comment,' she retorted, because if she was to be his Queen then she would learn her lessons well. And what was the accusation he had hurled at her in the restaurant? The one that had stuck? Oh, yes.
Must you show your emotions so openly?
Well, that was a mistake she would not be making again in a hurry. She would be his cool and collected consort. She would make him proud that she was his Queen.

‘But I meant it,' he said softly. ‘Though I think you would be more beautiful still if you were stripped naked and lying in my bed right now.'

Melissa felt the quickening of her heart. Perhaps if tender words of affection had preceded it, then she might
have just taken this as an erotic declaration from her very virile groom. But there had been no tenderness—and so his comment came out sounding like a boast of arrogant possession. Like a man who'd just bought a new sports car and was longing to try it out.

‘We'll have our honeymoon for all that,' she said, and then bit her lip. ‘I do hope Ben will be okay while we're gone.'

‘Of course he will. He'll be with your aunt. And it's only for one night, Melissa—surely that doesn't fall into the category of child neglect.'

‘Yes, I know. I know. But all this…' She waved a satin-clad arm to encompass all the jewelled splendour of her dressing room and then shrugged her shoulders in what felt like a gesture of defeat. ‘Well, it isn't really what he's used to.'

He was tempted to say that it was a big improvement on what Ben was used to, but even he could see that wasn't the most diplomatic observation to make moments before they made their wedding vows. ‘You've left him before, haven't you?' His eyes sparked out a challenge. ‘You had no qualms about leaving him behind when you came to help with the catering at the ball.'

Reluctantly, Melissa nodded. ‘Yes, I know.'

‘And you look scared,' he observed softly. ‘What's the matter, Melissa—scared to be alone with me?'

She tried to blank the mockery in his golden eyes but she could do nothing about the scudding of her heart. ‘No. Of course not.'

But that wasn't strictly true. She
was
scared—of her own feelings and wondering how she would be able to keep them under control, especially when they were
having sex. And what about when they
weren't
being intimate? What did you do on your honeymoon with a man who was little more than a stranger?

The wedding passed in a blur. It felt a bit like one of those dreams where you found yourself in a place you shouldn't be. According to tradition, Casimiro did not have a best man but two ‘supporters' who were Xaviero, naturally—and Orso, his aide who had been with him since both men had been teenagers.

Melissa herself had no brides maid nor matron of honour—even though several of her school friends would have leapt at the chance. But her solo walk down the aisle somehow reinforced the rather low-key aspect of the ceremony. And as Catherine confided—‘They seem to make a habit of having low-key weddings on Zaffirinthos!'

The golden-haired Princess sat next to Aunt Mary during the service, with both women trying to contain the squirming of Ben and Cosimo, who were both grabbing at each other's hair.

It was slightly scary when the jewel-encrusted crown was placed on Melissa's head and although she had practised using a weighted head piece before the ceremony, she was still taken aback by the heaviness of the historic coronet. It was so weighty that she had to keep her head at a certain angle for fear that her head would tip to one side, as if she were drunk.

But despite all the uncertainties which danced like ghosts on the periphery of her mind, Melissa couldn't help but feel a great swell of pride as Casimiro slid the ring on her finger.

I'm doing this for Ben
, she told herself fiercely. He and
Casimiro will learn to love each other—for how could they not? Who could fail to love the mop-headed and beautiful boy they'd formed between them? And maybe afterwards…wasn't there a chance that
something
might grow between her and Casimiro, too? If not love, then surely some kind of workable relationship.

To the celebratory peal of bells which rang out from the huge cathedral at Ghalazamba. Melissa could see the blur of faces of all the people packed into the square—and the realisation that they were calling out
her
name was a daunting one. But also an exhilarating one.

After picking at the lavish wedding breakfast, Melissa went to change from her wedding clothes. They were spending their honeymoon on the eastern side of the islands, at one of the vast estates owned by the royal family.

‘Pine-clad mountains and clear turquoise seas,' murmured Casimiro as he twisted the ignition on the Range Rover he was driving himself. He shot her a glance as she clicked in her seat belt, noticing the set expression on her pale face and the seductive curve of her breasts outlined against her dress. His voice dipped with unmistakable longing. ‘And our first opportunity for intimacy after that erotic incident on the sofa.'

‘I'm…I'm…' Whatever she had been about to say temporarily disappeared from her mind because he had placed his hand over her bare knee. ‘Casimiro!'

‘What?' Leaning across, he brushed his mouth against hers and could feel the responding shiver in her body as he briefly slid his fingers over the silken skin of her inner thigh. ‘Don't you like it? Mmm? Ah!
Grazie al cielo!
I can see that you
do
like it.'

Melissa closed her eyes as the most delicious feeling began to flood through her veins. She swallowed. ‘I…I thought that your security people were following us.'

‘They're
your
security as well from now on,
mia bella
. But there are blacked-out windows in this vehicle for a reason and that is to prevent prying eyes from peering in.'

‘But even so—'

‘Don't worry—I wasn't intending to make love to you on the seat of the car—no matter how much the prospect might appeal to me.' He laughed as he removed his hand and drove the car through the palace gates. ‘Relax, Melissa,' he urged softly. ‘Just relax.'

She did her best, watching as the beautiful scenery flashed by, with its great green mountains and sapphire sweeps of sea, until they reached the dramatic eastern shores of the island.

The villa was beyond her wildest expectations—a vast mansion of a place sitting in twelve acres of luscious land with a giant pool and scented gardens, leading down to a private stretch of beach. There was an enormous bedroom which had been made ready for Ben, his own playroom—and even a sandpit and a scaled-down swimming pool which stood close to the larger one.

The estate was remote and access was virtually impossible—reached by one anonymous and dusty road, policed by burly-looking guards and surrounded by dense pine forests. Casimiro's personal body guards were to be housed in their own small complex at some way from the main house, where the house keeper and cook lived. Other staff were to travel in daily from the nearby village, as and when required.

‘They have been instructed that we want as little intervention as possible. That we want to be on our own,' said Casimiro as he showed her around.

But Melissa found herself looking at him with sudden perception—aware of the fundamental flaw in his statement.

He had talked about wanting to spend sometime on their own—but of course they would never
really
be on their own. Not now. Not ever. Constant surveillance came with the territory. Had that been why he had embraced his relative anonymity with such enthusiasm when she'd known him in England—the playing at being ‘ordinary' perhaps adding an extra layer of excitement to their brief affair? Yet she could see now that it had been nothing but fantasy. A period of pretending which was a million miles away from the life he usually lived.

Dinner had been laid out for them on one of the terraces which over looked the pool and the floodlit gardens. Beyond that was the sea—indigo-deep and occasionally moving with a little lick of white wave—and the only sound was the amplified buzz of a million cicadas.

On the balcony of their bedroom, dominated by a bed the size of a football pitch, they stood in silence for a moment before Casimiro pulled her into his arms as she had been waiting for him to do since the moment they'd arrived. And now that the moment was here, she wasn't sure whether the sudden escalation of her heart was due to anticipation or dread—or a bit of both.

Casimiro stared down at a face which looked paper-pale in the moon light. Her eyes were like a startled fawn's and he was suddenly aware of the magnitude of what they'd done and the tension on her face.

‘Tired?' he questioned.

Actually, she was near worn out. Exhausted by the emotional and physical strain of the past few days and the thought of what lay ahead. But Melissa knew that this wasn't the answer Casimiro wanted to hear—and certainly not on a night like this. It might be setting a bad precedent to such a marriage as theirs if she started it with what was euphemistically known as a ‘headache'.