How to Love a Princess Page 3

  “Oh, dear Lord.” Her head spun at all the implications of what he was saying. “You saw the explosion? You were there?”

  She felt the blood drain from her face at his silence, knew she was fast approaching the same state he was in. She couldn’t fall apart. Not now. But, dear Lord, hadn’t fate jeered at her enough? Had she not suffered enough for both of them?

  She’d tried to save Nicolas and instead she’d haunted him.

  “I was called back home. My brothers had just been—” She stopped herself. That wasn’t important now, not to him. “I didn’t know, Nicolas. I swear I didn’t know. I would never have left you thinking I was dead for all this time.”

  “Thinking?” He sounded stronger, his tone underscored by accusation and contempt. His eyes were closer to black than brown. “I know what I saw. It wasn’t some hypothetical conclusion. It wasn’t some random thought to be confirmed. I saw you die. I was there.”

  She heard the bitterness in his voice and understood his anger. “Our electronic equipment picked up an unusual frequency within minutes of lifting anchor. Gascon pushed me into the river and jumped after, to see me safely to shore. Another two of my bodyguards remained aboard to investigate. We didn’t know.” Her voice broke and she had to take a moment to regroup. “We didn’t know it was a bomb for sure, until the explosion almost blew us clear from the water.”

  “So you fled the scene?” Some of the colour was restored to his face, blackening his expression.

  “Gascon’s first priority was to get me to safety. Afterwards, he contacted the Metropolitan Police and issued the names of the two men, and explained the circumstances.”

  “And I suppose a cloak of secrecy was ordered.” Anger fed his voice, making it harsh. “I couldn’t get any decent information from the Met. I guess I should have realised. The whole thing stank of a cover up. Every way I turned for answers, I reached a hastily bricked up wall.” He jumped to his feet and glared down at her. “Then again, I shouldn’t be so hard on myself.” He sounded more sarcastic now than angry. “I was an idiot in my grief, blinded by misplaced love. Cazzo. I was so caught up in misery, I didn’t even give your goodbye note a second thought. Fool that I was, I convinced myself that I’d misread your intention, that you meant to come back, that you’d simply been called away unexpectedly, that your engagement ring had mistakenly slipped from your finger.”

  “I was called away,” Catherine said quietly. “My brothers had just been assassinated. I had to return home.”

  “I read something about the Ophella Princes.” His expression softened for a moment; sympathy, compassion, and something more, as if he had a deeper understanding than most she’d received condolences from, as if he’d shared the experience with her.

  Her throat clogged with emotion as she, too, suddenly understood. It was a shared experienced. He’d thought her dead. How many times in the last four years had he, too, turned a corner, heard a laugh, seen a face in the crowd and, for just a split second, imagined what wasn’t there, forgotten that a loved one was no longer with them?

  She watched as Nicolas turned and descended the stairs, helpless to call him back, wanting to offer him more, a better explanation, belated consolation, but not knowing how to. Not even knowing where to start.

  Before he reached the bottom, he stopped and swung back to her. His jaw was etched in steel, no remnant softness to betray his earlier compassion. “I know grief. I know all about losing someone you thought you loved. But tell me, cucciola, surely at some point during these four years, your grief subsided long enough to remember me?”

  The endearment sounded anything but. Still, her heart went out to him. “I’m sorry, Nicolas.”

  What else was there to say? She didn’t have the words. She wanted to jump up, fold her arms around him, assure him that he was never far from her thoughts. She couldn’t do that either. She didn’t have the right.

  “I don’t think you are.” His hard gaze burned into her. “You did intend to leave me, to turn your back and disappear with nothing but that callous note.”

  Catherine lowered her eyes. She had no defence. Every word he spoke was true. And nothing had changed. She couldn’t have him now anymore than she could have had him four years ago. Better he keep his bitter memories and hate. Hadn’t that been part of her intent? Better she remain the cold, duplicitous woman who’d made promises she couldn’t keep. Who’d written that empty goodbye and left her ring behind.

  “Why did you summon me here?” Nicolas demanded suddenly with hard suspicion. “To gloat? To make amends? Surely this is not some deluded ruse to try to win me back?”

  Her gaze flew up to him, eyes wide and startled and, if he wasn’t mistaken, filled with panic. “Of course not.”

  “Then you’d better start talking, because I’m not in the mood to linger.” He should just leave. Walk straight out those gates. There must be at least one taxi somewhere in this godforsaken kingdom.

  Instead, he looked at her. The foolish heart that had let him down so badly in the past still clutching at an impossible explanation, a miraculous resolution that would right his upside down world and make the last four years of heartbreak disappear.

  He wanted to crush her in his arms.

  He wanted to forgive.

  “My mother needs you, Nicolas,” she said, speaking slowly, each word brimming with emotion. “If you leave now, my mother will die.”

  As unlikely as it may have seemed, her answer achieved the impossible anyway.

  She hadn’t called him back for herself. His heart turned as cold and hard as the stone used to build her elaborate castle.

  If her mother weren’t dying, if he weren’t their last hope, he’d never have heard from Catherine again.

  His world spun on its axis and came to a tottering halt, right side up.

  She hadn’t spent the last years pining for him, regretting her actions, driven to a point where she simply had to see him again, beg forgiveness, plead for the sake of a love that refused to be pushed aside. Nothing could ever take away the heartache he’d already suffered, but the supply could be shut off.

  She begged him with shimmering blue eyes. She pleaded with trembling lips. She implored him with a quivering chin that could not be lifted in the stubborn defiance he waited for.

  All in vain. He took the steps back up, two at a time. When he reached the top, he looked down at her with cold, empty eyes. “I’m not doing this for you, Catherine.”

  He pushed through the doors and into the dim hall, for the first time in his life wishing he could walk away from responsibility, conscience and duty. But somewhere in this palace a woman was dying, somewhere he was needed, somewhere years of research might just possibly save a life. He came to a stop in the cavernous hall, suddenly at a loss.

  He felt lost, he felt dead, he felt as if his heart was pumping icicles.

  A whoosh of cold air hit his back as the door behind him opened. He swirled around and found himself confronted by Gascon, the man who’d come to him in London to plead on behalf of the de’Ariggos. Gascon pushed me into the river…

  Nicolas swore under his breath. Wasn’t hindsight a completely useless thing. Now, he recognised the bald-headed giant as the man who’d been with Catherine that day on the Thames. Now, when he already knew that he’d walked into a haunted scene from his past.

  Disgusted at everyone and everything, he gave the man his back again and called out loudly, “Serge. Serge. Dammit man, where are you?”

  The aged butler appeared from one of the many doors leading off the hall, approaching slowly with the decorum of a man who would not be rushed or put into a panic.

  “There are buttons in every room which may be used to summon me, sir,” he said, pointing to a small, obscure blue button well blended into the patterned decor on the wall. “You wish to be shown to your rooms?”

  “I wish to be shown to the patient,” Nicolas corrected.

  Serge gave a small bow of his head, then beckoned for him
to follow.

  Gascon watched Nicolas ascend the stairway in silent contemplation. Once again, he wondered if Catherine hadn’t been mistaken. If this man wasn’t very different from all the rest. Unbeknownst to Catherine, he’d been there the day the two had met.

  Such an innocuous meeting, a bump of shoulders on the busy Oxford Street. From the other side of the wide street, he’d observed the exchange with a wry grin, but his bemusement had soon changed to concern. They’d paused for but a moment, that all too usual apologetic smile, maybe a mumbled apology, then Catherine had proceeded on her way. Nicolas, on the other hand, hadn’t moved a muscle. He’d stood there, staring after her, distracting Gascon enough to wait with him instead of hurrying quietly after his charge. Just as she rounded a corner, however, Nicolas found his legs. By the time Gascon had caught up, they were sharing a table in the cosy coffee shop that was to become their favourite.

  And then everything had fallen apart and, as ridiculous as it might be, he felt as if he’d had a heavy hand in it.

  Once Nicolas had disappeared onto the landing, he pushed back through the door to join Catherine on the steps. “He’s angry.”

  “He’s not angry,” Catherine exclaimed. “He’s absolutely furious.”

  Gascon narrowed his gaze on her. “He has reason.”

  “More than you know.” She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment. “He must have seen me board the Blueberry. He thought that I’d been killed in the blast.”

  Gascon said nothing, but inside his despair increased ten-fold.

  She opened her eyes to look at him. “All that matters is that he has agreed to stay for my mother,” she said evenly.

  Gascon wasn’t fooled. He’d carried her through that first year of grieving that was as much for Nicolas as for her brothers. He alone saw the clouds dull her eyes whenever the name of Nicolas Vecca came up. The tightening at her lips. Even after all this time, he watched her stroll often through the gardens with tears glittering her eyes and her hands clutched to her heart. And what could he do but stand up there in one of the turrets and watch?

  “This is too difficult for you,” he said at last. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

  Catherine gave a sad laugh. Dearest Gascon. How would she have survived without him? “I’m no longer a little girl, Gascon. I can look after myself.”

  “And this is not some minor knee scratch that needs only a kiss and band-aid to make it better.” He grabbed her hand. “You could go away for a while. I’ll deal with Nicolas and see to your mother’s care.”

  “No.” She withdrew her hand to stand up. “I will not leave my mother. I’d never forgive myself if I wasn’t here when—if—” She ran, unable to finish that sentence.

  As she opened the door, Gascon called out, “He’s with your mother.”

  She nodded, then slammed the door behind her and rested against it. What was done was done. He was here. He was staying. What kind of ruler would she make one day if she couldn’t put her country before herself? And right now, healing Ophella’s queen was of paramount importance.

  To save her mother, she’d suffer much more than a few weeks of Nicolas’s hate.

  She found Nicolas standing beside her mother’s bed.

  He put a finger to his lips and whispered, “She’s sleeping.”

  She waited, watching him, wondering what he saw when he looked at the frail woman in the bed.

  Hope?

  Imminent failure?

  She blinked back a tear and rebuked her lack of faith. She couldn’t give up now. She notched her chin up high. She wouldn’t give up. Tears and morbid thoughts were signs of defeat she’d no longer tolerate. Not for her mother. And certainly not for a man she’d already given up.

  As if to deliberately spite her new resolution, her mind wandered back in time and her hungry gaze feasted on the man she’d loved and left behind.

  His hair was longer than the clipped style he used to prefer, a glossy brown and incredibly thick. Her blood heated at the memory of his warm, firm lips, so capable of driving her to distraction. His eyes, so dark, always alive, either with laughter or in busy contemplation, or smouldering even darker with passion.

  Dear God, how she loved him. How protected from the world she’d felt in his arms. His shoulders were broad enough to bear the universe…and therein lay the problem.

  She sighed and caught his frown. The next moment, he was ushering her out the room into the passage beyond.

  “Your mother needs optimism,” he barked. “Not sighs and tears.”

  “I’m well aware of that.” Her shoulders straightened to match the irritation in his eyes. But she didn’t want to fight with him. “Tell me what you need. I’ll do everything I can to help.”

  His gaze locked her down for a long minute, then disconnected with a brief nod. “Serge is setting a room up for me to use as a lab. Once he’s done, I’ll move in my equipment. The sooner I run some tests, the better, but we’ll wait until tomorrow. Your mother needs her rest.”

  “What of the other doctors attending her? Should I dismiss them?”

  “I won’t be taking on the duties of physician. Your mother needs constant care. Too many opinions, however, are worse than none.” He paused, rubbing at his jaw, then added, “Does she have a family doctor? Someone who knows her body and reactions well?”

  “Dr. Stanzis.”

  “Engage him alone and dismiss the others. I want him here immediately and I want him in residence at all times.”

  “That’s not possible,” Catherine exclaimed, amazed at the arrogance she’d forgotten. “He has other patients.”

  “Then he’ll have to arrange a stand-in for them.”

  She started to shake her head. “I don’t think—”

  “Is this Dr. Stanzis a subject of Ophella?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then his first loyalty is to his queen,” Nicolas stated as he walked away.

  Conversation over. So be it. He had dismissed her!

  Catherine followed on his heels, about to inform Nicolas of exactly how things worked here in Ophella. But as she crossed the landing, she changed her mind and hurried down the stairs in search of Erling, her secretary.

  If Dr. Stanzis was to be summoned, it’d best be done at once. Nicolas, however, could issue his own orders to the doctor. Let him discover for himself that Ophella was a democracy, not a dictatorship. Loyalty aside, they didn’t throw their subjects into shackles and command obedience to the exclusion of all else.

  A few hours later, she was the one to be amazed. The royalty of Ophella might not command, but apparently Nicolas Vecca did.

  She’d called Nicolas down to Erling’s office as soon as Dr. Stanzis arrived. He’d chatted amiably with the doctor for a while, asking pertinent questions of his patient’s health. And then he’d bluntly asked, “How soon can you move in?”

  “Move in?” Dr. Stanzis frowned.

  Nicolas shot Catherine a dark, questioning gaze. She lifted a shoulder and smiled. He turned that gaze on the doctor. “The queen needs constant attendance. You’ll take one of the inter-leading royal rooms.”

  “With all due respect, Dr. Vecca, that will not be possible. I have other duties—”

  “More important than your queen?”

  “My family—”

  “Are not at death’s door.”

  Catherine’s heart jumped at the reference to her mother’s condition.

  The doctor’s eyes, however, narrowed. “I will come as often as I can.”

  “Not good enough.” Nicolas folded his arms, tilted his head a little to one side. She could no longer see his eyes, but imagined they’d narrowed far more than the doctor’s. “Let me say this in a language you understand. You will move in and give Queen Helene your full devotion. Her life rests in your hands until I can establish the nature of her illness. If she stops breathing, you’ll be at her side to resuscitate her. If she requires apparatus to keep her alive, you will personally monitor it. Quite simp
ly, doctor, if the queen dies on your shift, you’ll never work again. Not in Ophella. Not anywhere in the civilised world. Now, have I made myself understood?”

  The silence stretched until Catherine could hear her own heart pumping. His arrogance was unbelievable. How dare he blackmail one of her subjects?

  Erling just stood watching everything with wide eyes.

  “Quite clear, Dr. Vecca,” the doctor replied at last. He turned to Catherine, whom he’d treated from a child. “Would you be so kind as to send someone home for my things? I’ll call my wife and ask her to pack a bag.”

  Catherine’s mouth hung open. She snapped it shut. “Thank you, Dr. Stanzis. We appreciate the sacrifice.”

  “Not at all, Princess Amelia.” He smiled at her. When he looked back at Nicolas, she could swear there was grudging respect in his eyes. “We all want the queen to recover. My duty is to Ophella and the queen, above all else. I’d never forgive myself if I did not do everything in my power to that end.”

  2

  Catherine was not in the mood for a state dinner, but duty could not be neglected. The ambassadors of Italy, Norway and Sweden were to be entertained, along with their wives. Oh, and lest she forget, Geoffrey. He’d called out of the blue and wheedled himself a week’s stay at the castle.

  She frowned at Gascon, who was sitting at the other end of the large oblong desk in her office, wondering if he had a hand in this. Geoffrey Talacon was not a man to take the initiative, not when it took him away from his endless partying.

  “Do you need help with the place settings?” Gascon asked innocently into her sceptical stare, then promptly went back to his newspaper, as if satisfied that her problems had little to do with whom sat where.

  Satisfied? She grimaced at the word, but this wasn’t the first time she’d gotten that odd impression from Gascon in the last week or two. As if he found something satisfying in her continuous inner struggle. She put her head down to finish the last minute changes to the schedule, rubbing out Eleanor Gavatale and inserting her in between Nicolas and Geoffrey. The Italian ambassador’s wife was incredibly beautiful and there were rumours of an affair with the Norwegian ambassador. Unfortunately his wife had heard the rumours and tempers were likely to fly. Best to keep Eleanor neatly occupied during dinner. She did so enjoy admiration and no doubt both Geoffrey and Nicolas would oblige.