How to Love a Princess Page 2
Catherine changed direction, hurrying to the kitchen and pulling out the drawer that held stationery. With trembling fingers, she jotted down her goodbye, then pushed the paper beneath the whisk. Her fingers might be trembling, but her heart was shattering into a million pieces. She didn’t want to be this strong. She wasn’t this strong.
Slowly, she twisted the ring on her fourth finger. Love fortified her weakness.
Forgive me Nicolas. This is the only way I know of to save you. Think kindly of me and then move on with your life. Be happy, my darling. Find someone to love you as much as I do.
The silent goodbye was punctuated with tears. Words she dare not write down, lest he tried to find her, lest he continued to love her.
“Let us go,” she called through blind sobs, running for the door. “Please, let’s just go…”
Nicolas strolled down the path lined with the cherry and apple blossoms of spring, breathing in the fresh air and feeling rather foolish at his heart that seemed as light and breezy as the air blowing in from the Thames and threatening to take flight. Romantic fool. No one would believe you were a scientist at this moment.
He turned the corner, about to walk up the street that led to his Chelsea home, when a wisp of blue caught his eye. He stopped, frowning at the couple further up the bank for a minute as he watched them step aboard the motorised boat, a sleek yacht with a large front cabin and no sails, the type that relied solely on the motors at the rear. Such yachts were not common in this part of the Thames. One was more likely to see barges, tourist ferries and the entertainment boats that hosted parties and candlelight suppers on the river.
But it wasn’t the boat that held his attention.
The woman’s vivid blue sundress and long, dark auburn hair clutched at his heart and he was unable to breathe for a moment. From this distance, he didn’t recognise the bald-headed man helping her into the boat before.
Nicolas groaned aloud at his ridiculous insecurities and cursed himself yet again for a fool. Catherine was not the only auburn haired woman in London who owned a blue sundress. Catherine was at home, in his kitchen, waiting. He continued abruptly on his way, refusing to glance over his shoulder, angry at the unsettling feeling in his gut. Weakness of any nature was foreign to him. As wonderful as love was, he’d never felt so vulnerable.
Deal with it.
He was grinning again as he unlocked his front door, remembering the love in Catherine’s eyes, the passion awakened in his arms, his own assertion that nothing would ever come between them.
He found the note even before he had a chance to call or look for her. The white paper attracted his attention as he hung the keys on the peg.
Curiosity aroused, he tugged it free from beneath the whisk and gave the words a precursory scan. Then the faint feeling of unease in his gut turned foul and his expression blackened. His jaw tensed as he held the note closer, quite willing to doubt his twenty-twenty vision.
Thank you for last night. I’ll always treasure what we shared.
The words had the power to crack his heart more easily than the fragile eggs they’d cracked earlier. But maybe it wasn’t what he thought, maybe it didn’t mean…and then he saw what he’d missed, what had remained behind when he’d tugged the note from beneath the whisk. He picked up the sapphire ring and balanced it in his palm, staring at the gleaming stone, refusing to believe, unable not to anymore.
Cazzo. He dropped the ring onto the counter and ripped the note into a hundred pieces.
And then he raced out the door and down the street, not stopping until he came in view of the Thames. The yacht had already lifted anchor, the powerful engines growling deep as it sliced waves in the water to turn and head in the direction of Greenwich and the river mouth.
He zipped across the street, mindless of the car that bleated a warning at him, charging down the walkway along the Thames, not knowing what he hoped to achieve, not capable of rational thought.
The engines roared and the yacht gathered speed, leaving a frothy rippled trail in its wake as it sped away from him.
Panting, Nicolas forced himself to stop. The smaller the boat became, the smaller his heart shrunk.
What? Why? If it took him the rest of his life, so help him God, he’d find the answers.
The explosion rocked the Sunday morning calm, carrying thunder and lightening and all the wrath of the God he, in that instance, doubted out of existence.
In stupefied pain, he watched the yacht rip apart at the seams, shooting wood and steel and glass into the air in a burst of flames. The inferno tormented him, taking him to the edge of insanity, skittering a dull ache up his arm and into his heart. He thumped his chest, knowing well that he was in excellent health and not suffering any heart attack. Still, it felt as if his heart was under attack, would succumb and be held a prisoner forever.
His legs started to move, no longer running, the fog of pain blocking out the world and reality as he walked up the bank.
The sirens came long before he reached the burning wreck.
His heart died long before the rescue workers salvaged what was left of the bodies, not even enough parts to make one whole person, let alone two.
1
Catherine descended the elegant stairway with a heavy heart. So lost was she in her thoughts, she failed to see Gascon step out to greet her at the bottom and walked straight into his massive chest.
He caught her in his strong arms and set her aside. “Any improvement with the Queen?”
Her stricken blue gaze went to him and held, begging an answer none seemed to have. “What are we going to do, Gascon? How is it possible that in this day and age of science, they can’t even tell us what is wrong?”
“We wait and pray,” he replied.
“She grows weaker every day.” Catherine shook her head wearily. This could not continue. It had been fourteen long weeks already. She would not watch the life ebb from her mother another day. Her chin went up, her shoulders squared back and some of the blue fire that had been missing for these last months returned to her eyes. “No more waiting. I know what I must do.”
From the way she held herself, Gascon knew at once. She’d mentioned this option a few times. He also knew how much courage her decision took. “I’ve summoned another leading expert from Switzerland. He arrives tomorrow. Maybe he can tell—”
“He’ll examine his results and tell us nothing new,” she blurted angrily. “They find and cure diseases every other day. Why and where in hell did my mother contract the single ailment on earth that cannot be understood or cured?”
“That’s not quite true, Catherine. Many things are not yet understood—”
“This is my mother. Our queen. She will not die.” Her voice grew smaller as the fury ebbed. “I will not permit it.”
“Give them time.”
“She doesn’t have time,” Catherine argued softly, once more in control. “You must go to him, Gascon. Offer him anything he wants.”
“His reputation is phenomenal. His research grants are overwhelming, awarded from the American government as well as half the European governments, not to mention the private Pharmaceutical Industries.”
Catherine knew. She’d followed Nicolas Vecca’s astounding success on the satellite news broadcasts, the international newspapers imported from around the word and the Internet. Ophella might be a minute European Kingdom stuck away behind the mountains, but the universe wasn’t large enough to hide Nicolas Vecca from her. And she had tried to hide him. At least for a while. “Our mines are rich enough to offer him the world.”
“Are you so sure he doesn’t already own it?” Gascon muttered as he took his leave.
Catherine stood at the bottom of the stairwell, clutching the oak railing with fingers that had developed a sudden tremor. If he came…he had to come.
He would come and he would hate her.
He would hate her with every fibre of his being.
He would hate her with every cell in his body.
All that hate and she deserved every bit of it. She grit her teeth and lifted her chin.
Or maybe he would be totally indifferent. Was that better or worse?
Her heart had broken four years ago and never healed. What more could happen that hadn’t already? And if there were a few pieces that could still be shattered into smaller fragments, so be it. Her mother was all the family she had left and Catherine was determined not to lose her.
Footsteps sounded on the lush carpet behind her and she turned to look up at Dr. Arrogalis coming down the stairs. He was a short man, yet carried himself with the stature earned from his three decades of being nominated the best in his field of leukaemia research. But her mother’s case had stumped him. Whatever her blood disorder, it wasn’t leukaemia, he’d assured Catherine.
A cold shiver crawled down her spine as he set that professional smile on her. So compassionate, so warm, so apologetic. And so, so empty, promising nothing at all.
“I gave Queen Helene something to help her sleep. There should be someone at her side—”
“I know, Dr. Arrogalis. I’ll go up to her now.”
He nodded as he came to a halt on the step above her, putting his eyes level with hers. “We’re doing everything that we can.”
It’s not good enough, she wanted to scream. Instead, she offered him her own form of professional smile, the royal slant of lips just tipped up at the edges and a regal nod. “Thank you. I know you are, and we appreciate it.”
She made her way up the stairs and into her mother’s room, drawing a chair close to the bed so she could sit and hold the thin, frail hand. “He will come, mother, and he will work his magic. I refuse to let you go.”
Nicolas gazed down from the rounded cabin window as the Cessna circled wide to land on a narrow private strip, captivated by the fairytale castle reaching up to him from the verdant green valley. It had everything one might expect from a Hans Christian Andersen tale, the five turrets at the points of the crenulated walls that formed a hexagon shape, the expanse of mansion in the same creamy stone that reached from the west wall to the east, the square lawn with a long, winding driveway up to massive front doors, even a stream flowing at the base and disappearing into dense woodland.
Ophella. He’d come across mention of the Kingdom once before, years ago, at a time he still remembered too avidly, with too much difficulty.
When the police had given up, or at least stopped telling him what they knew, his own search had touched on this strange, tragic-ridden family, but the connection had been too fanciful to warrant further investigation. Besides, it had come at a time when he’d admitted to clutching at bent straws, had known he must give up looking for Catherine’s family or lose himself completely in the abyss of grief. It was as if she’d come from the sea and disappeared back into it. Why push himself to find a family that would only open up raw wounds? He’d rather grieve on his own.
He shook his head grimly now, wondering at the turn of the axis that had brought him to this hidden part of the world.
As they touched down, a limousine came down the landing strip at high speed, chased closely by three Land Rovers, all with tinted windows, reminding him that he was about to meet royalty. They tried to bustle him into the limousine, but Nicolas insisted on supervising the unloading of his equipment and boxes of medical supplies. His personal luggage, he was happy to leave to the men who’d swarmed him in their black suits and dark sunglasses.
Here we go again, he thought when he was finally settled into the back of the limousine, uncertain that he’d live up to all that was expected of him from this desperate family, but willing to do his damn best. All his research was worth nothing, after all, if it could not be used to save lives.
That is what pushed him, what kept him awake through the night, what drove him from one seeming miracle to the next. A search to save the one life he never could. Even a hundred years from now, he knew that medical science would never evolve to the point of sewing limbs and organs back together from scattered debris and resuscitating life.
When the limousine pulled up in the circular driveway, resplendent with stone fountain spouting gargoyles, he jumped out before yet another black-suited man coming forward, this one considerably older and more frail than his airport escort, could reach him and open his door.
Nicolas noted the look his jeans and jumper got and he grinned in response.
“Welcome to Ophella, Dr. Vecca,” the man greeted.
“Nicolas,” he corrected the elderly retainer, deciding he’d had enough of pomp and ceremony. “Call me Nicolas. I suspect I’m going to be around for a while.”
“Very well, Dr. Vecca,” the man replied dourly, as if he weren’t resolutely ignoring Nicolas’s request for informality. “I am Serge, the head butler. You may come to me with all your requirements.”
Head butler? Nicolas lifted a brow as he followed the elderly man up the ornate front steps that led to the huge door he’d seen from the sky. How many butlers were there? He wasn’t exactly living on the breadline, but neither was excessive opulence his style. Then again, he wasn’t royalty and he didn’t live in a castle.
The entrance hall was majestic, at least triple volume, the walls lined with formal portraits and the floor covered with thick, woolly carpets. The furniture was solid oak and bulky, inlaid with leather and navy velvets, and ranged from a reception table near the door to a comfortable arrangement of sofas around a fireplace with various pieces strewn in between. The place had a masculine, homely feel, dispelling some of his earlier discomfort.
At the far end of the hall, he observed a woman descending the left branch of the grand stairway that split from a wide landing. She wore a neat businesslike suit of dove grey that nevertheless hugged her form seductively, her hair pulled back sharply from a face that appeared proportional with typical classic beauty, her movement graceful, reminding him of the swans on the Serpentine back in London. At the bottom, she hesitated, her chin tilted up, her face turned directly at him. He returned the stare, waiting for his vision to adjust to the indoor dimness, contemplating her hesitation.
Then she was moving, closer and closer, her face playing a trick more cruel and horrific with each step she took. The brilliant blue eyes that had once prompted him to choose sapphires over diamonds. The high curve of cheekbone, the elegant nose, the bow of rose-pink lips, that stubborn chin.
He fought for air, unable to draw his gaze from the vision, the spectre tormenting his sanity. Too many nights of working straight through, too few decent meals, too many haunted dreams…the explanations failed abysmally as she stopped before him.
“Nicolas.”
That was all she said. And how well he remembered the way his name fell from her lips. He stepped back, shaking his head, gasping for each and every breath.
“Nicolas, please…”
“No.” He shook his head, taking unsteady steps back and back, until he was pressed against the door.
This wasn’t real.
None of this was happening.
The turreted fairy castle, the primitive kingdom that didn’t even own a commercial airport, the swarm of body guards, Catherine… Catherine de’Ariggo.
No!
It wasn’t possible.
He spun about, turned the giant iron ring on the door and fled outside into the brisk winter air. His knees threatened to collapse. He put his back to the wall, cradling his bowed head in his hands and felt himself being carried by a wave of panic.
But he wasn’t going anywhere. And neither was his ghost.
“Nicolas? What are you doing?”
He raised his head to look at her in the sharp daylight. She seemed so solid, so real, he reached out to touch her cheek and instantly dropped his hand at the contact of warm skin. “Who are you?” he asked hoarsely.
Catherine’s brows crossed as she stared at him uncertainly. She’d rehearsed for many reactions, but this one hadn’t bee
n on her list. But no, of course he recognised her. He simply hadn’t expected to see her here. “Are you feeling all right? You look a little pale.”
With shaky fingers, she grabbed his arm, trying to lead him to the steps so he could sit. In the last few minutes, from seeing him as she descended the stairway until now, her heart had pounded fast enough to use up its lifetime of beats and suddenly she needed to sit as well. After a moment’s resistance, he allowed her to tug him along and he sank down beside her on the top step.
No sooner had he sat, than he swung his head her way. “Catherine?”
She nodded thoughtfully. Could he truly be so shocked? Had he not known whom she was when he’d promised Gascon that he’d come? The pallor of his skin was her answer. She was so accustomed to being attuned to every mention of his name, living in her memories whenever duty allowed, she’d assumed he would have automatically made the connection on the de’Ariggo name alone. But why should he? He’d moved on with his life. He had no reason to spare her a second thought.
“I’m sorry, Nicolas.” She reached for his arm again, but he shrank from her. That might be understandable. His deathly pale face was not. Her concern grew. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
“I—” Nicolas blinked hard a couple of times, but every time he opened his eyes, Catherine was still there, sitting beside him on the steps. “I honestly don’t know.”
“Perhaps some water?”
His jaw went slack. The woman locked inside his heart for four years had risen from the dead to offer him water? He rubbed at the pain in his temple, shaking his head again. “You’re not here. I know you’re dead.”
“Dead?” Catherine’s brows shot up. She could well imagine that he’d long since considered her dead to his heart and emotions, maybe even wished it on her, but from the way he was acting, one would almost think he thought her really dead. “That’s not even remotely funny, Nicolas,” she said.
“I saw you climb onto that yacht.” His voice was scratchy and his words had a dull echo to them. “I saw it explode about me. I watched them pick out pieces of you and that other man from the Thames.”