His Majesty's Child (10 page)

Injecting her voice with enthusiasm, she smiled. ‘No, not at all.'

‘Liar,' he retorted softly. ‘There are shadows as dark as the night-time sea beneath your eyes.'

‘Are there?' She touched her fingertips to the delicate skin beneath her eyes. ‘To be honest, they're probably just labouring under the weight of all this mascara they put on me.'

The absurdly in consequential little feminine response—the detail of which would never normally have entered his radar—now made his lips curve into a smile. ‘I'd noticed,' he said drily.

‘You don't like it?'

‘No man likes a woman to wear too much make-up. We prefer to drift along under the illusion that beauty is effortless.'

Beauty. He had called her beautiful earlier and it was not a word that Melissa was used to hearing—well, not when it was associated with her. Was it something that he felt obliged to say now that they were married—that if he repeated it often enough he might end up believing it? She wanted to tell him that he didn't have to. She knew that it was nothing other than a marriage of convenience
and she was striving for some kind of workable union, not reaching for the stars. That she'd rather have truth than diplomatic compliments he didn't mean. But she might run the risk of sounding ungrateful if she did that, so she simply smiled.

‘Thank you,' she said quietly.

He found something in her voice oddly soothing—like sinking into a soft feather bed after long, uncomfortable days on horse back. His gaze drifted down to the terrace below—where the table was decked with roses and tall candles stood waiting to be lit. The staff would be discreet, he knew that. He could even imagine what they had been told.
The King is on his honeymoon—so do not disturb him unnecessarily
.

But suddenly Casimiro didn't want to sit on a moon-washed terrace and be served course after course of food by shadowy figures. Was a little shared solitude too much to ask on his wedding night? ‘Hungry?' he questioned.

‘Not…not particularly.'

‘Yet you hardly ate a thing during the wedding breakfast.'

She was both touched and surprised that he'd noticed—particularly as he'd been deep in conversation with the Italian Prime Minister for much of the meal. ‘We can eat if you're hungry,' she said.

He stared at her—at the floaty dress she'd changed into, in a shade of dark purple like one of those indigo shadows which sometimes drifted across the moon. At the elaborate twists of her hair—like gleaming dark snakes coiled high on her head. And some deep yearning took hold of him—a desire for the lure of the uncomplicated past he had shared with her. When for a few brief
and heady days he had been able to cast off the burden of responsibility.

‘I'm not in the least bit hungry,' he said unsteadily. ‘At least, not for food.' He saw her eyes widen, saw her obvious uncertainty—which was slightly bizarre under the circumstances and yet somehow completely understandable. ‘We can have champagne up here, if that's what you'd like?'

Melissa would have welcomed the cold, fizzing taste of dry champagne and the corresponding warmth which would bubble through her veins and maybe make her relax a little. But champagne had all kinds of connotations and the main one was of celebration—and wouldn't that seem a bit contrived after a marriage of convenience?

She didn't want Casimiro to think she needed some kind of mild intoxication before she could bear to go to bed with him. Even though inside she felt a trembling which was like a ka lei do scope of butterflies fluttering around at the base of her stomach.

Lifting her hands to his shoulders, she moved her face close to his. ‘No,' she whispered. ‘I don't want a drink.'

‘What do you want?'

‘I'm…I'm not sure.'

‘This?' He leaned forward and brushed his lips over hers and they tasted cool and sweet.

Mutely, she nodded, her grip on him growing tighter as she was swept away by the sheer beauty of that kiss. They stood like that for an age, their mouths exploring like first-time lovers and the poignancy of
that
did not escape her.

Feeling her shiver, he moved away, looking down at her closed eyes, which fluttered open to look at him. He began to take the clips from her hair. Five clips in all he removed, until every strand of it had tumbled free—mahogany and shining. Next, he slid down the long zip of her dress, slipped it down over her pale shoulders until it pooled to the ground in a silken whisper. And then he stepped back to look at her, narrowing his eyes like a connoisseur.

‘Ah, that is better!' he breathed appreciatively. ‘A vast improvement,
mia bella
.'

She knew what he meant. He was comparing her to the woman she had been before and acknowledging that this silk-satin underwear came nowhere close to a baggy old grey T-shirt. And yet, back then, she had surely felt more true to herself than the pampered creature who stood before him now.

Her breasts were encased in apricot silk-satin, edged in finest lace—the kind of bra which you sometimes saw sleek Hollywood blondes wearing in those ultra-glossy magazines which sat on the top shelf of news-agents. High-cut panties matched the bra and made her already long legs seem endless. Yet the feel of such butter-soft silk against her skin made her feel decadent—and she guessed that was no bad way for a woman to feel on her honeymoon. She glanced at him from between slitted and heavy lashes—and the darkening of his eyes told her loud and clear just how much he wanted her.

‘Casimiro,' she whispered.

Reading the blatant hunger in that slanted glance she sent him made him wonder briefly what it might be like
to take her there, on the balcony. For their mingling skin to be washed by the warmth of the moonlit night as they came together. But he thought of her soft cries echoing in the silent night and the flash of her diamond ring which might attract the attention of a long-range camera, or guard…

‘Come here,' he said throatily, pulling her into his arms, and he picked her up and carried her into their bedroom. She seemed all coltish arms and legs as he laid her down on the bed and she reached up for him, her dark hair spilling back against the pillow.

‘Kiss me,' she whispered. ‘Kiss me again.'

It was a curiously intimate little command and as Casimiro lowered his head to hers once more he felt himself poised on the brink of some brand-new discovery. The sensation that a kiss could somehow take on a million different guises and that he had just discovered a brand-new variation.

But something in its subtle magic made him instinctively wary and, freeing himself from its disconcerting spell, he got up and moved away from the bed—gesturing to his shirt and trousers with a rueful expression. ‘There is little point,
mia bella
, in you wearing very little and me wearing all
this
…now, is there?'

‘No,' she said dully, watching him as he removed his clothes. Watching—as she knew she was supposed to watch and savour—this highly privileged strip tease. The sight of his powerful body gradually becoming naked was more than a little intimidating. As was the formidable power of his arousal as it sprang free. And studying him amid the opulence of this magnificent suite, she couldn't help thinking back to when they'd first
been lovers. Of Casimiro in her teeny little bedsit—with the row of terraced houses opposite and the cramped bed in which they'd lain, all tangled and sleepy.

Yet as he stepped out of silken boxer shorts and her eyes were drawn to the definition of his powerful thighs, she thought that, beneath all the splendour, surely he was essentially the same man? Even if he had hidden that oh-so-human side to him this time around. Was that because he was still angry that she had trapped him into a life he had already chosen to reject? And would he ever be able to let that go—to let her close to him as once he had?

Well, she would not help matters by imagining the worst or by clamming up. He had told her in no uncertain terms that it was in appropriate to show her emotions—but surely that didn't apply when they were in bed together?

‘Come here,' she said softly, and opened her arms to him.

Her sweetness affected him more than he had bargained for. Casimiro didn't know what he had expected on their wedding night. Coyness or shyness perhaps. Maybe triumph—or even anger.

Instead, he got passion. Pure and unequivocal. Unrestrained gasps of pleasure as he thrust deep into her. The tight slick as he moved inside her with gathering pace and felt her orgasm swelling up until it could no longer be contained.

‘Casimiro,' she breathed, clutching onto his shoulders and clinging to him as if he were her only rock in a wild and thrashing sea. ‘Oh. Oh.
Oh!
'

He felt her buck beneath him and then he too was lost
in the mindless bliss of sexual fulfilment—taken by the tide, like a surfer riding the biggest wave of all. For a while afterwards he just lay there, his mind blissfully free of thought or time table, idly stroking back damp strands of hair from her sweat-sheened brow.

‘So how was it?' he questioned eventually as he felt the ecstatic trembling of her body quieten at last.

It took a moment before she had the composure to answer him.

‘It?'

‘The day. The wedding. The crowds and the cameras. You seemed…' his voice grew thoughtful as he considered her reaction to what must have been a bizarre experience ‘…remarkably composed.'

Melissa thought about it. ‘It wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be,' she admitted. ‘To be honest, I was so busy worrying that I'd be able to make my vows without stumbling and that Ben wouldn't have a paddy in the church or that the crown wouldn't topple from my head—that there wasn't really time to be self-conscious.'

‘
Eccellente
,' he murmured, his hand smoothing down over her bare bottom. ‘If a queen is self-conscious it does her country no favours. If, for example, she becomes obsessed with her image and her appearance instead of her country's needs, then her role as consort is compromised.'

‘Thanks,' she said, wondering if that was supposed to be a compliment or a warning.

The pressure of his fingers over one buttock increased by a fraction to become a warm squeeze ‘And how was
this
?' he questioned softly.

She knew exactly what he meant this time but was curious to know how he would phrase it. ‘This?' she echoed. ‘Perhaps you could be a little bit more specific.'

‘The consummation of our marriage vows.'

It was possibly the most cold-blooded way he could have described it but, since she had asked the question, there was no one to blame but herself. ‘It…' Melissa swallowed. ‘It was perfect. You know it was.'

‘Really? You mean there's no room for improvement?' he teased.

‘I didn't say that.' She rolled over, leaning on her elbow to look at him, knowing that the first night of a honeymoon was special. That this was the night when, traditionally, words of love were exchanged. But what had Casimiro said to her that very morning?
I hardly think we're a shining example of traditionalism
.

So what would he say if she told him that women loved men for all kinds of reasons? They loved them even when they probably shouldn't have loved them in the first place. He would probably turn round and say that nobody could possibly ‘love' after those few passion-filled days which had been nothing more than time out from their normal lives. But he would have been wrong—and every woman in the world would testify to that. Just as every mother would admit that you never really stopped loving the father of your child; for how could you?

And what would he say if she confessed that she could still love him if only he would give her half a chance? That she wanted to love him, if only he'd let her.

Perhaps kings never really let anybody close. Maybe the only way he would ever let her get close to him was
in the purely physical sense. So couldn't she just settle for that?

‘I think there's plenty of room for improvement,' she whispered. ‘In fact, I think we could start improving right now.'

And he groaned as she bent her head and began to kiss the shadowy hollow at the base of his throat.

T
HE
following morning—feeling a little self-conscious from lack of sleep—Melissa stood on the steps of the villa as Ben arrived in a small fleet of cars, accompanied by Aunt Mary. He gave a little shout as he launched himself at his mother and clung to her neck but it was with a pang that Melissa realised she didn't recognise any of the clothes he was wearing…and that made her feel even more disconnected from reality than her blissful wedding night had done.

‘Who bought him that suit?' she asked her aunt as she carried him inside.

‘Oh, wait till you see—there's a whole new wardrobe for the little fellow,' replied the older woman. ‘Which he'll have grown out of before he can possibly wear all of it. I do hope it won't go to waste, Melissa,' she added anxiously. ‘There are plenty of babies in the world who really need new clothes.'

‘Oh, I think you'll find we are not so profligate as to squander babies' clothes, Mary,' came Casimiro's wry comment as he walked into the salon, and Melissa saw her aunt sinking down into a deep curtsey.

‘You don't have to keep curtseying to Casimiro, Aunt Mary!' she protested.

‘Oh, but I do—and I want to,' said her aunt firmly. ‘I'll be back in the supermarket aisles on Monday wondering if I dreamed the whole thing—and anyway, it's just respect. And tradition.'

‘You'll find that Casimiro has very strong views of traditionalism,' said Melissa, holding the mocking gleam of his golden glance.

‘Indeed I do. Speaking of which—do you know that your niece didn't curtsey when we first met, Mary?' he murmured. ‘In fact, her very first words to me were: “Go away”.'

Melissa shot him a beseeching glance, aware that her aunt's face was wreathed in smiles at what must have sounded like a fond lover's memory—and how misleading was
that
?

‘Mu-mu-mu-mu-mu!' babbled Ben, clearly feeling ignored and choosing just this moment to grab a fistful of Melissa's hair and to tug on it as if he were training for a career in bell-ringing.

‘Say hello to…to…Daddy,' she said, aware that she was blushing and aware how bizarre it sounded. But what else could she say? The King? His Majesty?

‘I would prefer Papa,' said Casimiro, as if he had read her thoughts.

Papa. It was only a little thing—but it wasn't a word Melissa was used to. ‘Of course.'

Casimiro turned to Mary with an urbane smile. ‘You will stay for dinner, I hope?'

‘Thank you, but no, ‘ said Mary. ‘Much more of this and I might get a bit too used to it. I'm flying back to England this afternoon—I can't get out of my stint on the hospital book trolley
that
easily!'

Melissa felt an unexpected wave of sadness as she hugged her aunt goodbye and had to gulp back tears as the four-wheel drive disappeared in a cloud of dust down the snaking track. She stood there watching until it was completely out of sight, looking up to find Casimiro's thoughtful gaze on her.

‘She can come and stay any time she likes, you know,' he said softly.

‘Unfortunately, she's not really used to a lot of flying.'

‘But she'll get used to it.'

Melissa nodded. ‘I guess,' she said quietly.

He wondered if the reality of how curtailed her life would be from now on was sinking in at last—and how she was going to deal with it. There was also the question of how he was going to deal with the tousle-haired baby in her arms, who was looking up at him with fearless eyes. And Casimiro held his son's gaze, his own slightly more troubled. Would he learn to know him, and to love him—as all fathers did their sons?

Amber eyes a shade lighter than his own were studying him intently and Casimiro suddenly realised that babies and children were no respecters of privilege or position. That they cared about who you were and not what you represented. Yet countless other men must have dealt with this kind of situation before. How had they coped?

He looked down at the child's small limbs and tried to accept the somewhat unbelievable idea that one day this little creature would be as tall as he was.

‘Can he swim?' he questioned suddenly.

‘No, of course not!'

‘Then I'm going to him teach him.'

And despite Melissa's protests that thirteen months was much too young, Casimiro set about doing just that. A body guard was dispatched to purchase several sets of water-wings from heaven only knew where and Melissa realised with a start the subtle extent of her new husband's power. Water-wings or palaces. Private planes or diamonds. Didn't matter what it was—what ever the King wanted, the King got.

Yet as she watched Ben splashing around in the turquoise waters of the infinity pool, being lifted aloft by his powerfully built father, she couldn't dampen down the faint spark of hope which began to flare inside her. For hadn't that image been what she had always dreamed of? That Ben should have a father of his own—and a hands-on father, too? And perhaps learning to know and to love Ben might make Casimiro more approachable—so that he might lose that sometimes icy air of detachment which could be so intimidating.

She was nervous about their first proper shared meal as a family that night—but Ben was so overawed at being waited on and so worn out by swimming and by the presence of this interesting new adult that he behaved impeccably. No food was dispatched anywhere other than in the direction of his mouth. He even ate a sliced banana with a dexterity which made her glow with pride. Nothing whatsoever ended up in the King's lap.

To Melissa's surprise, Casimiro even volunteered to help at bath-time and she had to hide her bittersweet pleasure as she watched him wielding a little plastic watering can and tipping it over the baby's head. She thought how
ordinary
he seemed—laughing as Ben
splashed him with warm water—but there was an additional benefit to having a man around, she realised.

Although her aunt had been a fantastic babysitter, this was Melissa's first real experience of sharing child-care and it made such a difference to a mother's life. It was the little things which meant so much—like being able to dry her hair without Ben trying to swipe the hair-dryer. Or being able to shut the door when she visited the bathroom.

She felt almost shy as she waited each night for her new husband to return from reading Ben a good night story, and shyer still when his fingers grazed over her skin. One evening, as he played idly with her breast, her hand began to tremble so much that he plucked the half-drunk glass of champagne from her fingers and put it down.

‘I don't think you want this, do you?'

‘Not…not really, no.'

‘Then let's go to bed.'

‘We can't keep missing dinner.'

‘We can do whatever we want.'

‘No, Casimiro,' she said firmly. ‘Actually, we can't. The cook has gone to a lot of trouble to prepare a honeymoon feast. Tonight, let's eat first and
then
go to bed.'

He raised his eyebrows in a challenge which was only half mocking. ‘Are you ordering me around, Melissa?'

‘Not at all. I'm saying what you know happens to be right.'

Unexpectedly, he laughed at her outrageous remark, unused to the sensation of being over ruled by anyone—let alone a woman. Somehow he endured a dinner he could have easily forgone—though he couldn't miss the
smiles of delight bestowed on her by the staff who waited on them during the meal and concluded that Melissa had been right. But knowing that only seemed to increase his desire, so that by the time they reached their suite he could barely wait to undress her before he lost himself in the welcoming warmth of her soft body.

‘You made me wait,' he declared unsteadily.

‘Aren't you used to waiting, then, Casimiro?'

‘Never.' But she was very good at resisting him, he realised—for hadn't she refused to make love with him in her apartment back in England? And didn't such proper—and unusual—resistance only make her surrender all the more exquisite? So that tonight she seemed to be composed of honey and silk—sliding through his fingers with slick sweetness.

Never had his exploration of a woman's body seemed so thorough and complete. Her soft moans only increased his own pleasure—his orgasm shuddering on and on and on so that it felt as if she had stripped him bare…on every level. And later they lay there as moon light streamed in and turned their bodies silver, his fingers locking lazily in the glossy tendrils of her hair.

By his side, Melissa stirred. ‘Are you awake?'

‘Mmm.'

‘You were…are…absolutely brilliant with Ben,' she said softly.

‘Am I?'

‘Yes.' She turned onto her side and stared into his face, touching her fingertips to the dark shadow of new growth at his jaw reflectively. Tonight she was determined that they would talk, maybe get to know each
other on a deeper level during that soft, quiet time after making love. ‘Casimiro?'

‘Mmm?'

‘What was your relationship with your own father like?'

There was a pause. Was it the wine he'd drunk with dinner or the proximity of her silken flesh which made him answer without first weighing it up? ‘Businesslike,' he said.

‘That's a funny word to use.'

‘Not really. Things were much more formal in those days. We—Xaviero and I—weren't encouraged to show any outward kind of affection. At least, not towards our father.'

Her eyes widened. ‘No hugs?'

‘Definitely no hugs.' Hugs were seen as needy. Weak. ‘We learnt lessons from our father—hugs we got from our mother.'

‘But then your mother died?'

Casimiro's mouth tightened. Why the hell was she interrogating him like this? ‘That's right.'

‘Oh,
darling
.'

The way she said it disturbed him. Just as the way she touched his face disturbed him. Was it because her actions and her words were coated in sympathy and the last thing he wanted or needed was that—especially from someone who was still brand-new to all the constraints of royal life?

He wished that her naked breasts weren't pushing against his chest because how the hell could a man think when a woman was as unknowingly provocative as this one? And hadn't he better teach her now that he wasn't
intending to subject himself to amateur analysis sessions every time they had sex? That peeling back the layers offered nothing but pain and then more pain. ‘I'm tired—and you must be, too. Go to sleep,' he said, almost roughly.

But Melissa's night was restless and haunted by insubstantial but faintly threatening dreams and when she awoke the following morning Casimiro was standing by the window—already dressed in a pair of faded jeans which hugged the muscular length of his legs and a T-shirt which kissed every taut sinew of his torso.

Some dark and unknown emotion in his face made her wonder if she'd done something wrong and Melissa sat up, brushing her tousled hair back from her face. ‘You're…you're up very early.'

Casimiro nodded. Her lips were kiss-crushed and her eyes looked as green as grass in the morning light. Glossy brown hair tumbled down over her naked breasts and each tiny rosy tip seemed to invite him to take it into his mouth…

But Casimiro silenced the clamouring call of his body. He had found her tender—no,
prying
—questions more than a little unsettling. Because somehow it seemed all wrong to break the habit of a lifetime and allow anyone to get that close—and she needed to understand that. She must be under no illusion that he was intending to share such confidences with her night after night—for what good would that do when the past was dead and buried, and best left that way?

‘I have a few things I need to deal with before breakfast.'

‘Things?'

‘King things.'

His lips curved into a mocking smile but beneath the sardonic humour Melissa could sense his unmistakable detachment. As if a faintly forbidding presence had inhabited the body of her husband over night—so that this morning he seemed like nothing more than a familiar
stranger
. And suddenly she found herself longing for the man who had opened up his heart to her.

She leaned back against the pillows, telling herself that a woman on her honeymoon was surely allowed to be a little bit provocative. ‘Can't it wait?'

Temptation hit his blood like a warm storm spattering over dry rocks. But somehow Casimiro resisted it—telling himself that he
needed
to resist it in order to shrug off the sudden rawness of his senses. Instead, he touched the tips of his fingers to his lips and mimed blowing her a kiss. ‘Later,' he promised.

Then he was gone—leaving Melissa lying back against the bank of feather pillows, not only aching with frustration but feeling very slightly foolish, too. A woman having to ask her husband to come back to bed with her and then having her request refused on their honeymoon was pretty shaming. And she found herself wondering if this was how it was going to be from here on in.

Yet he joined her and Ben in time for a late breakfast and afterwards suggested taking them for a walk up the hills behind the house and she looked at him with hope flaring in her eyes.

‘But what about Ben—how will he manage?'

‘I'll carry him, of course.'

And that was exactly what he did—despite Melissa's reservations about whether or not Ben would deign to
be carried for such a long walk. Or, indeed, whether Casimiro might flag beneath the child's sturdy and sustained weight. As it happened, neither of these eventualities occurred and the day went perfectly. So did the next—and the one after that. At least, that was what she kept telling herself. Trying to convince herself that it was true when deep down she knew that something was different and she couldn't put her finger on what it was.

To the outsider, Melissa knew they would appear to be having as perfect a honeymoon as was possible, given the unusual circumstances. She had seen the quick smiles of approval from the staff when the King lifted his baby son high onto his shoulders or coaxed him to eat a piece of watermelon at breakfast. She also knew that no new bride could possibly complain about what took place in their marital bed every night. Because even Melissa—with her complete lack of experience of any other lover—realised that Casimiro was a textbook lover. Maybe that was the problem. A textbook lover wasn't a
real
lover, was he? You could go through every permutation of sex possible and you could make a woman shudder in your arms again and again and again, but…