His Majesty's Child (12 page)

Casimiro stared out of the windows to the gardens beyond without really seeing the bright beauty of the flower-beds. Yes, there had been times when his younger brother had envied him—because the heir to the throne was always singled out as special. But Casimiro had envied Xaviero, too—for the kind of freedom that he as King would never know. Each had wanted something of what the other had.

‘For many years, yes,' he said slowly, almost to himself. ‘He did—especially as a boy.'

‘And lately?'

Casimiro did not know about lately. The new-found weight of the monarchy had driven all personal relationships from his life so that Xaviero had become almost like a stranger to him. But hadn't that happened with just about everyone from the moment the crown had been placed on his head—leaving him in a powerful position of complete isolation? Wasn't that the only way that a King could properly govern his people—by taking full responsibility for his kingdom? ‘He did an excellent job of being my stand-in when I was ill,' he answered. ‘And if I hadn't recovered then he would have continued to rule. According to my aides, he settled into the job happily.'

In spite of the tension which hung over them like a heavy storm cloud, Melissa couldn't dampen down the flicker of hope which flared inside her. Because this was more than he'd ever admitted to her—and even though she ran the risk of angering him with her persistent line of questioning, wasn't it better to see it through and to
thrash it out? Together. To let Casimiro see that she was someone he could confide in. Because that was just as important a facet of her role as visiting schools and opening new roads.

‘Wouldn't it have been easier to have sat down and talked to him about it?' she probed gently.

His eyes narrowed as he considered her question. Had it been arrogance which had stopped him from doing just that—or pride? Fear that his memory loss would be discovered—and make him appear vulnerable? Or was it the fact that he and Xaviero never really talked very much? Men didn't; not in his world.

He looked at Melissa now—at the eagerness on her face as she tried to delve beneath the surface despite his repeated warnings not to—and he sighed. She was a good mother and a pleasing lover and she had all the potential to be a great Queen. But that did not give her carte blanche to behave as if she were still living her life back in England. He would not tolerate her interference—and neither would he tolerate her springing things like this on him over breakfast. Far better that she learned that if they were to have any kind of amicable marriage, then she was going to have to learn to follow
his
rules. Rules which had existed in his family since they had first conquered this fertile kingdom, and which had been passed down through generation after generation.

He rose to his feet. ‘I don't sub scribe to the modern habit of dragging up the past and putting it under the spot light—I think I told you that on our honeymoon,' he gritted out. ‘What's done is done and has no relevance on our lives now. So let's just leave it at that, shall we?
And I'm warning you, Melissa—that this is your last chance. That I cannot and will not have a rerun of this conversation just to satisfy your curiosity.'

Melissa flinched. It was as if she'd been peering into the first few pages of an open book—a book filled with beautiful pictures and a wonderful story—which told her something about her husband's inner life and the feelings he hid from the world. But now it felt as if he'd just slammed that book shut in her face and then flung it to the floor. Her lips parting in shock, she stared up at him in disbelief. His face was hard—a beautiful golden mask, behind which his eyes were cold and forbidding. And a terrible sense of fore boding whispered over her as she recognised that they had reached an impasse and that maybe he needed to know that.

‘And I'm telling you that I can't live like that,' she whispered. ‘That if our marriage carries on in such a…a
sterile
environment—then it probably won't last, because nothing can grow in that kind of atmosphere. And one of these days I might not be here when you return from one of your trips, Casimiro.'

There was a long, dangerous pause as he studied her. ‘That sounds awfully like an ultimatum,
cara
,' he observed softly.

She bit down more of her qualms even though something in the quiet flame of his eyes warned her off saying any more. And yet how could they have any kind of relationship if she was not true to herself? ‘I'm just telling you how I feel.'

‘And I'm telling
you
that I will not be held hostage to emotional black mail!'

He saw her flinch and for one moment Casimiro
stared into the bright green glimmer of her eyes, at the brimming tears which smote at his conscience before he resolutely silenced it. Because it was preferable this way, he told himself grimly, and the sooner Melissa accepted that he would not be swayed by tantrums and tears—then the better it would be for them all.

He left the breakfast room, slamming the door behind him, and Melissa just sat there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where he'd been. Waiting until the awful pounding of her heart had quietened. Then she went to find Ben—her spirit heavy—feeling as if the weight of the world had settled on her shoulders. But although she clutched her son tightly to her chest, the misgivings left in the wake of that bitter argument refused to budge—leaving all kinds of fears swirling around in her head. Had her challenge to Casimiro about his behaviour broken the already tenuous thread which linked them, she wondered—and where the hell did they go from here?

Her diary was empty for that day—when she would have gladly valued the distractions of some queenly activities—and instead she threw herself into her role of mother. She took Ben swimming in the outdoor pool and then did some drawing with him—even if he was still at the stage of not really being able to hold a crayon properly. He needed some friends the same age, she realised—and wondered if he was going to be restricted to purely aristocratic buddies or whether he would be allowed to mix with ordinary children.

But her heart was still full of nameless fears and she felt stifled by the palace—as if the walls were crowding in on her, as if the building itself had outed her as
some kind of interloper.
You're only here because you have given birth to the King's son
, it seemed to say. And wasn't that the truth?

When Ben went down for his nap, she told Sandy that she was going out for a walk and that she wouldn't be long.

But Melissa did not follow any of the rules she knew she should follow. She did not say where she was going—because she had no idea—and she did not tell palace security either. Silencing the voice of her conscience, she went back to her suite and fished around in the back of one of the dressing rooms until she found a pair of jeans and a T-shirt from her old life which she hadn't quite been able to bring herself to throw away.

She stared at them. What a long way away that life seemed now—when she'd only had one pair of jeans and used to hang them to dry over night on the radiator after she'd washed them. As Queen, she rarely wore jeans, where before she'd absolutely lived in them—and the smart, neatly pressed variety which graced her wardobe these days bore little resemblance to the faded pair she now clutched.

After first slipping on a modest black swimsuit, she put them on—along with an equally old T-shirt, welcoming the oddly comforting feel of the worn fabric before going outside into the fresh air. As she began walking around the grounds she knew so well she remembered her sense of awe when she'd first arrived to help with the ball. She sighed. It was strange, but today she almost felt like the woman who had arrived to help plan the celebrations not so very long ago—and not just because
of the way she was dressed. It was as if memories were crowding into her mind to taunt her.

Look, there was the little staff cottage they'd given her—the house where Casimiro had made that cold-blooded seduction after she'd told him about Ben. It stood alone and at some distance from the palace itself and at that moment it seemed to symbolise everything about her own position there.

She knew where the guards were stationed and she slipped out of the complex without anyone noticing, experiencing a heady rush of pleasure as she did so and realising that this was the first time since they'd returned to the palace that she had escaped from the apparatus of power. No butlers. No ladies-in-waiting. No guards. And no formidable husband who only ever seemed to connect with her when they were exploring each other's bodies.

She walked for a good while before setting off down one of the rocky tracks which led to the sea—and although she knew that she was still within the vast reaches of the royal estates, the sense of freedom she felt was liberating.

Down on the soft white sand, she realised she'd forgot ten to bring a towel—or a drink of water—and the sun was baking down hard. But she wasn't planning to stay long. Just long enough to pretend that she was simply Melissa again—with all the lack of restrictions she'd once completely taken for granted.

But deep down she knew it wasn't as easy as that. Yes, she could go through all the motions of escape. She could stand on this warm sand and try to imagine what her old self would have said about this opportunity
of having a great big beach all to herself. But that old self was gone. Gone forever—and she could never get her back, no matter how hard she tried. She felt as if she didn't know her new self very well—this
Queen
Melissa—and suddenly she wondered what on earth the future held for her.

But I will not give into self-pity
, she told herself fiercely.
Okay, I have a husband who sometimes acts as if he's nothing more than a beautiful, efficient machine—but I have plenty of other things to be grateful for. A beautiful son. Health. Freedom from financial worry.

Yet despite her determination to count her blessings, Melissa could do nothing about the terrible pain which ripped right through her as she acknowledged the dark centre which lay at the very heart of her marriage.

Peeling off her jeans and T-shirt, she decided to go for a swim, remembering what her darling mother had always told her. That exercise would wipe worry from a troubled mind. But Melissa's heart was still heavy as she walked down towards the deserted shore line, where azure water lapped onto the fine sand. The sea wasn't particularly cold—but the silky wash as it slid through her toes was irresistible and, slowly, she began to wade in.

Further in she went, the water reaching to her ankles and then submerging her thighs. It made her shiver as it reached her hips and belly-button—and she gave a little squeal as it tickled against her waist, glad to forget her worries for that one brief moment.

And somewhere in the distant sky, she heard the rhythmical clatter of a helicopter.

‘A
ND
the Greek government are perfectly willing to negotiate—that is, if you are agreeable to this last concession, Your Majesty?'

A pin-drop silence fell around the polished table. Suddenly realising that ten pairs of eyes were fixed on him, Casimiro also became aware that he was being asked a question. And that he didn't have a damned clue what the question was. Because for once he hadn't been listening properly—his attention only half given over to the contentious subject of fishing rights in a disputed area of sea. His ministers had come to the meeting well briefed, the subject was one with which he was familiar—and yet although Casimiro had tried his best to concentrate it had been to no avail.

Because all he could think of was that stubborn and out spoken wife of his and the way she had dared to remonstrate with him over breakfast!

For a while he let himself remember her stinging words. Her emotional claim that he didn't ‘do' feelings. His mouth twisted with scorn. What did she think he was—one of these
new men
who treated every conversation as if it were a therapy session?

Her accusation about not spending enough time with
his son had hit him even harder. He thought of Ben's gurgling little smile. The way his chubby little arms clamped themselves tightly around his papa's neck. Did she imagine that he didn't miss playing and swimming with his son? Didn't she realise that honeymoons were not like real life—and that he would leap at the opportunity to spend more time with Ben if he were not so weighed down by the demands of being ruler? The ministers were still looking at him expectantly and Casimiro tried to shift the haunting memory of Melissa's bright green eyes and trembling lips, and to play for time instead.

Because something was troubling him and it all boiled down to a simple sense of logic…if he didn't ‘do' feelings—then what the hell could explain this bleak kind of emptiness which seemed to have descended on him like a dark cloud?

He tried to shake off the inexplicable gloom by glancing across the table at Orso—knowing that his loyal aide could always gauge the mood of others, and could instinctively communicate to him what that mood was. And there had been many times when he had been grateful for Orso's instinct in the past—when he had been shielding his memory loss from the world.

Yet now he was free of that amnesia—and it had been Melissa who had jogged his memory and made it return. Melissa who had freed him from the burden and the worry about the blankness in his mind. Had he ever thanked her for that? Made her realise how liberating it felt?

Raising his eyebrows, he turned to his aide. ‘What do you think about this proposed concession, Orso?'

Orso bowed his head in response. ‘You are the King, Your Majesty.'

Casimiro knew that his aide was playing the procrastination card and that this was a term suggesting that the deal should not be sealed today. But for once, he saw beyond the diplomatic short hand they habitually used. For once, he took the words at face value—and what he saw in them brought him up short, so that he frowned with a mixture of concern and comprehension.

Because, yes, he
was
the King, yet sometimes he felt more of a puppet—his strings jerked by the demands of his people. By their expectations of him and his own ideas about how those expectations should be met. Ideas which had been passed on down to him by his father, who had governed in a very different time. Yet
he was the King
, he reminded himself again. And his power was absolute. He could rule this kingdom of Zaffirinthos as
he
saw fit—and the monarchy was not set in stone. It was
his
—to be forged and formed as suited him and
his
life. And Casimiro suddenly realised that if he did not embrace the changes which were necessary to take the monarchy forward, then surely the institution ran the risk of stultifying, or dying—or simply becoming a crushing burden which no one in their right mind would want to take on.

And what kind of poisoned chalice would that be to hand onto his own son?

He was about to suggest reconvening the meeting, when they were interrupted by one of the Queen's assistants, her face so wreathed with anxiety and her curtsey so clumsy that Casimiro bit back his instinctive rebuke at the unexpected disruption.

‘Yes, what is it?' he clipped out.

‘It's…it's the Queen, Your Majesty!'

Casimiro rose from his chair. ‘What of the Queen?'

‘She has…gone!'

‘Gone?' he bit out, unprepared for the sudden chill which iced his skin. ‘Gone where?'

‘We don't know, sire. All we know is that the Prince Benjamin has been crying for his mother and that the Queen always wishes to be informed whenever he—'

‘Where the hell is she?' he demanded again. ‘
Somebody
must know.'

‘She just said she was going out for a walk, Your Majesty.'

‘She didn't say where?'

‘No, sire.'

With a heart which now felt like ice, Casimiro recalled more of the words Melissa had whispered to him:
I'm telling you that I can't live like that—and one of these days I might not be here when you return from one of your trips, Casimiro.

Had she meant it?
Literally
meant it? Found him so overbearing and forbidding that she had run away? He felt the sharp tearing of pain and the realisation of what a fool he had been. A stupid, thoughtless fool.

‘Send out search parties immediately,' he commanded. ‘And mobilise the helicopter. Alert the airport, too. I don't care what you have to do, just find her.
Find
her.' Hands gripping into tight fists, he headed towards the door—his aides and ministers instantly moving aside as they looked at him with fear written on their faces.

He ran into the grounds, his eyes scanning the vast expanse of green lawns—as if expecting to see her
suddenly walking towards him. But there was no sign of her—and the nearby whoosh of air as the helicopter began its ascent somehow filled him with a new sense of foreboding instead of providing reassurance.

Uselessly, he watched as the helicopter grew smaller—a small black dot which began to head for the dark sapphire haze of the sea—and Casimiro set out at a run in the opposite direction, when his cell phone began to sound furiously in his pocket.

Snatching it up, he listened in silence for a moment and then his mouth hardened. ‘Send the car to me.
Now!
' he ordered tersely, in Greek.

Within minutes, the four-wheel drive came scorching to a halt beside him and Casimiro leapt into the front seat, exchanging no conversation with the driver or the body guard other than the clipped order to hurry as they raced along the cliff path.

Overhead, the helicopter was buzzing in one particular spot and as soon as the car screeched to a halt Casimiro jumped out, running to the edge of the jaggedly high cliff—to see the unmistakable vision of his wife wading into the clear blue water beneath.

The fierce, ragged sound he made was a cry—but instead of issuing from his lungs it seemed to have been torn from his soul itself.

‘Melissa!'

But the wind must have carried the word away—either that or she was just ignoring it—for she continued to wade into the sea. ‘Get rid of that damned helicopter!' he demanded, and as the driver barked instructions into a handset the aircraft began to move back through the sky towards the palace.

Shaking his head as his body guard at tempted to accompany him, Casimiro began to scramble down the rocky steps—and never had a journey seemed to take so long. Only when he was almost at the bottom did he shout out her name again.

‘
Melissa!
'

In the water, Melissa stilled as a new sound disturbed the silence of the day. A shout which sounded louder even than the helicopter which had been circling overhead but which had now flown away. A shout she would never have recognised if she hadn't turned around and seen the tall, dark figure of her husband descending the steep stone stairs which led down to the beach. She narrowed her eyes—wondering if the bright sunshine had conjured up some sort of illusion.

Casimiro?

He was in wall-to-wall meetings followed by a trip to the naval base, wasn't he? But no, the renewed shout was louder still and it was definitely no illusion, for now he had reached the beach and was tearing off his jacket while running across on the sand towards her with the grace and speed of a natural athlete.

Casimiro? She stood stock-still and watched him.

Kicking off his shoes, he moved fast. So fast that Melissa barely realised what he was doing until he had plunged half dressed into the sea and started wading and then swimming. All she was aware of was his hard, honed body ploughing through the azure water towards her.

‘Casimiro!' she croaked.

But by then he had reached her, had caught hold of her—effortlessly half lifting her from the water against
the water-plastered silk of his chest—his dark face a series of stark and shifting emotions: fear and anger and anguish. So that for a moment it didn't look like Casimiro at all.

‘
Che cazzo stai facendo?
' he demanded fiercely, and then when he saw her blank expression, pulled her closer still—his amber eyes burning like flames as they engulfed her in their angry blaze. ‘What the hell do you think you're doing?'