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Phoebe couldn’t even imagine the tensions and rivalries that must have poisoned the royal household, the home Leo had grown up in. How had it affected him? Changed him? ‘What happened then?’ she asked in a whisper.
‘Anders was born and Havard died,’ Frances said simply, ‘and everything changed.’
‘How …?’
‘Nicholas had an heir and Leo had nothing. His mother was sent back to Italy post-haste and Leo was treated like the poor relation. It’s no wonder—’ Frances stopped, shaking her head. ‘But I shouldn’t gossip like this, even if you deserve to know.’
Phoebe laid her hand on Frances’s arm. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘tell me.’ She needed to know this history, needed to understand Leo.
Why …?
She couldn’t even say, couldn’t untangle the kaleidoscope of feelings tumbling through her. Fear, of course, was prevalent, but there was also compassion, wonder, hope.
Hope …?
That made no sense.
Phoebe turned back to Frances, who pursed her lips then gave a little shrug. ‘It’s no wonder he went off the rails a bit, that’s all,’ she finally said.
‘The Playboy Prince,’ Phoebe murmured, and Frances nodded.
‘Exactly.’ Christian rose from the table, gleefully holding out his jam-covered hands. ‘Come here, love,’ Frances said, bustling over to him, clearly glad to have a reason to end the conversation with Phoebe. ‘Let’s get you washed off.’
Christian went for a wash off with Frances, and Phoebe was left alone in the nursery with its high sashed windows and pale oak floor. She sank onto a sofa, her mind spinning. She felt she understood Leo so much more now … why he’d been such a playboy, so cynical, and why he’d changed. For he had changed, she thought. The unneeded spare had become the heir, the prince who would be king, and duty rather than desire—a lust for pleasure—drove him now.
Yet could she really think she knew—understood—Leo? She wanted to know him, to trust him, even to like him. She touched her finger to her lips, and knew she wanted more than to like him. Desire, consuming, endless, flooded her.
Yet was it wise—safe—to trust such a man? To desire him? Was Leo truly being kind, or just softening her for the kill? Did he intend to take away her son? Phoebe swallowed back the acid taste of fear. She didn’t, Phoebe realised, really know Leo at all.
‘Mommy!’ Christian came back into the nursery, his face brightening as he turned to the door. ‘Leo!’
Phoebe froze. The room, the whole world seemed to stand still as she turned slowly. Leo stood in the doorway, smiling, natural, and entirely at ease, his relaxed stance starting to dispel her fears of moments before even as her heart rate kicked up at the sight of him. She could almost taste the memory of his lips on hers, inhale his scent …
‘Hello, Christian,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d come and see how you are.’
‘There are lots of toys here,’ Christian told him matter-of-factly, ‘but some of them are old.’
‘Ah.’ Leo’s laughing eyes met Phoebe’s over Christian. ‘Those would be mine.’
Phoebe let out a little bubble of surprised laughter, and Leo smiled back, his eyes so very warm on hers, melting her fears clear away. If only I could stay in the same room with this man, she thought suddenly, and have him smile at me forever.
Strange, when his smile had used to scare her. Years ago it had been so cold, so cruel and callous and calculating. Yet now she basked in the sunlight and warmth of Leo’s smile and wondered how she could have ever doubted that he’d changed. At that moment, it seemed so wonderfully obvious.
‘I thought,’ Leo said, coming farther into the nursery, ‘that you could have dinner in your rooms tonight. Since you’re most likely tired.’
‘I’m not—’ Christian began and Leo’s eyes met Phoebe’s once more.
‘I think,’ he said softly, ‘it would be best.’
Phoebe nodded slowly. ‘Thank you,’ she said slowly. The farther away she stayed from King Nicholas, the better.
‘And tomorrow,’ Leo continued, ‘I thought we’d go ice-skating. Every year a rink is created in Njardvik’s main square, by the biggest Christmas tree you’ve ever seen. It is quite a sight.’
Christian cocked his head, clearly sceptical. ‘Bigger than the tree at the Rockefeller Center?’
‘Hmm.’ Leo pursed his lips. ‘I’m not sure about that, actually. But the rink is most certainly bigger.’
Christian nodded in acceptance, excitement lighting his eyes, and Phoebe touched Leo’s sleeve. ‘Leo—’ she said quietly, and he turned to her, his gaze warming her once more.
‘There will be time for us to talk later, Phoebe,’ Leo said softly, so only she could hear. ‘When we are rested … and alone. I promise.’
Alone. And what would happen when they were alone? Nerves and something else—something wonderful and intoxicating—fluttered deep in Phoebe’s belly. ‘And when will that be?’ she asked, knowing Leo could hear the longing in her voice. Desire had made her transparent.
‘Soon.’ His voice was a caress. ‘I promise.’
Phoebe nodded, knowing she would have to leave it at that, even though her mind seethed with questions and her body ached with unfulfilled yearning. ‘All right,’ she murmured, and a few minutes later he excused himself to return to work. Phoebe took Christian back to their suite and, despite many mighty protests, he quite promptly fell asleep.
Phoebe remained awake, restless, anxious, both her body and mind unsated, unfulfilled. And yet, even so, amidst all the turbulent uncertainty coursing through her, she felt hopeful as well. She gazed out at the palace gardens, the bare branches of the trees stark against the darkening sky, the grounds shrouded in winter, and wondered what on earth she had to hope for.
Yet it was there, deep inside her, a tightly furled bud ready to burst open and bloom in the light of day, in the warmth of a man’s smile, in the memory of his kiss, in the belief—naïve and misplaced as it might be—that she could trust him, that perhaps he could be a friend … or perhaps—perhaps—even something more.
‘The king is expecting me,’ Leo coolly informed the aide standing guard outside Nicholas’s bedchamber. The aide moved aside and Leo let himself into the darkened room.
King Nicholas sat up in bed, an ornately carved four-poster, several pillows piled behind him and the coverlet folded over his knees.
‘Well?’ he demanded in a rasp. ‘Did it work?’
‘Did what work?’ Leo asked laconically, and Nicholas gave a growl of impatience.
‘Whatever this plan of yours is, to get the girl out of the way.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Leo replied. He propped one shoulder against one of the bedposts as he surveyed Nicholas’s frail form. ‘It’s working.’
‘I don’t see why we couldn’t just buy her off,’ Nicholas grumbled. ‘Or run a smear campaign—’
‘Trashing her in the tabloids would hardly benefit your heir,’ Leo pointed out sardonically, ‘and I told you, she can’t be bought.’
‘And as I told you, everyone can be bought, Leo,’ the old man said. He paused, his eyes glinting with malice. ‘Your own mother’s price was fifty thousand.’ He paused, clearly savouring Leo’s surprise. ‘American.’
Leo froze, his gaze sweeping over his uncle in icy assessment. He didn’t want to believe what he’d just heard; he wanted to call the king a liar. Desperately. Surely his mother wouldn’t have accepted money in the place of her son. Yet, looking at Nicholas’s sleek smile of satisfaction, he knew he wasn’t lying. His mother had accepted cash to abandon her child to the royal family and their machinations, and clearly Nicholas had been waiting for such a moment as this to tell him so.
He felt a wave of icy shock at the realisation, and underneath a deeper hurt he couldn’t bear to probe. He snapped his unfocused gaze back to his uncle and smiled lazily.
‘At least she got something out of it, then,’ he said in a drawl, and Nicholas let out a raspy laugh.
‘So what is your plan with this American?’
Leo smiled coldly. It was a sign of the old man’s unbelievable arrogance that he trusted Leo to carry out his bidding even now, when he’d told him he would no longer be his heir. He’d cut him out of the succession as ruthlessly as if he’d wielded scissors, yet Nicholas didn’t doubt or question Leo for a moment. He simply wasn’t accustomed to disobedience. The only one who’d dared to go against him in a moment of childish folly had been Anders, and look where it had got him … abdicated, exiled, dead. A waste of a life. Leo swallowed back the rush of guilt such thoughts always caused him and turned to address his uncle.
‘There’s no need for you to know the details,’ he said coolly. ‘I’m carrying it out and it will deal with … the inconvenience … in due course.’
‘Inconvenience.’ Nicholas snickered. ‘Yes, she is that.’ He shifted in his bed, adjusting the pile of pillows behind him. ‘Well, as long as you take care of it, and soon.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Leo assured him, his voice terribly bland. ‘I’ll have it dealt with by tomorrow night.’
‘Good.’ Nicholas pulled the coverlet up over his chest, a cough rattling in his bony chest. For a moment Leo felt a flicker of sympathy for the old bastard; even he couldn’t defeat Father Time. ‘Now I’m tired,’ Nicholas said. ‘I’ll speak to you in the morning.’
‘Of course.’ Leo sketched a short, mocking bow before leaving his uncle’s bedroom.
Back in his own suite of rooms, Leo automatically went to the drinks tray before, with a muttered curse, he turned away. He unlocked the French doors leading to a terrace and stepped outside.
The wrought-iron railing was cold under his bare hands, the night air freezing and sharp, like a knife to the lungs. Stars glittered in a mercilessly black sky, the moon no more than a pale sliver of silver. In the distance the harbour gleamed blackly in the moonlight, and Leo smelled the promise of snow in the frigid, damp air.
He cursed aloud.
He’d never felt so trapped, so backed into a corner, as he did right then, and the king didn’t even realise. No one did. He had to protect Phoebe. He had to protect the crown. And he could see only one solution. A solution that required him to manipulate and use Phoebe with cold precision.
He had to make Phoebe his wife.
It would save her, but it would also condemn her. Condemn her to the politics of the royal family, a life she didn’t choose in a foreign country, a loveless marriage to him.
There was passion between them, Leo knew—oh, how he knew; he still felt it in every restless, unsatisfied sinew and limb. He felt it every time he saw her, uncoiling deep within him, radiating out to his fingertips that ached to touch her, brush the creaminess of her skin, the softness of her lips, her hair …
It was that latent sense of need that had given him the idea in the first place, and yet was it enough? Would Phoebe agree? Accept …?
And would she hate him when she knew … discovered what he’d done, what kind of man he was?
Would it even—ever—come to that?
Leo closed his eyes. Phoebe was a good woman, a better woman, perhaps, than even his own mother, who, he now knew, had given in to if not greed, then desperation. Thirty years after the fact he could feel pity—despite the pain—for a woman who had been so bullied by the royal family she’d allowed herself to be bought off.
Yet Phoebe didn’t let herself be bullied or bought; despite her fear, she’d stayed strong. She was a good woman, Leo thought with a pang of guilty regret. Far too good for him.
A cold wind blew over him, rustling the tree branches, making him shiver. Suppressing another curse, Leo resolutely turned and went back inside.
CHAPTER SEVEN
PHOEBE awoke to a pearly pink sky and dawn streaking its pale fingers along the floor. Next to her Christian lay sprawled across the bed. He’d had a restless night and sometime between midnight and dawn Phoebe had brought him into bed with her.
Now she lay still, enjoying a moment of peaceful solitude even as the memories and implications of yesterday trickled slowly through her.
They were in Amarnes. Nicholas might very well want custody of her son. Leo had kissed her.
She rolled off the bed, carefully extracting herself from the rumpled covers so as not to wake Christian. The sun was rising now, a pale sliver of yellow above the mountains, turning their snow-capped peaks to the colour of cream. A glance at the clock told her it was already after eight o’clock; in November the sun didn’t rise until quite late in this part of the world.
Hurriedly, Phoebe washed and dressed. Today they were going ice-skating with Leo. And despite all her fears and anxieties, the terror that Nicholas would find a way to take Christian from her and, even worse, that Leo might aid him, she found herself looking forward to the outing with absurd excitement.
An hour later they were leaving the palace, just the three of them, bundled against the chilly wind blowing in from the sea.
‘What, no entourage?’ Phoebe asked as they simply strolled through the palace gates. ‘No guards?’
‘Amarnes is a small country,’ Leo replied with a shrug. ‘Very safe. And I think I can take on any comers.’ His wry smile as he flexed one arm made Phoebe laugh aloud. She needed this, she realised. She needed to laugh, to let go, to enjoy a day apart, a day just for pleasure … with Leo.
Next to her, Christian was practically dancing in excitement. So much for the Rockefeller Center, Phoebe thought wryly. He obviously thought this was much more fun.
She’d certainly agree with that.
The sun was just emerging behind some ribbony white clouds as they entered the city’s main square. Phoebe’s last visit to Njardvik had been such a blur that she now found herself looking around in genuine interest. The square was surrounded by tall, narrow townhouses painted in varying pastel shades, elegant and colourful.
In the middle of the square, now strung with fairy lights, an ice rink had been formed, sparkling with sunlight. A Christmas tree decorated in red and gold, at least forty feet high, towered over the rink. Even Christian was impressed by its size, and declared it better than the tree at the Rockefeller Center.
‘I’m so relieved,’ Leo told him with a little smile.
They fetched skates from a hut erected near the rink, and then sat on a rough wooden bench to put them on. Phoebe saw the way the people—the man who rented them the skates, the red-cheeked woman who sold pebber nodder, the little shortbread cookies flavoured with cinnamon—looked at him. Spoke to him. She saw and heard respect, admiration, even affection. Leo, Phoebe realised, had won his people over.
The thought made her glad.
‘Have you skated much?’ Leo asked with an arched brow, and Phoebe smiled, suddenly mischievous.
‘A bit.’ She tightened the laces on her skates. ‘What about you?’
‘A bit as well,’ Leo replied.
‘I fall a lot,’ Christian confided. He stretched out his legs for Leo to lace up his skates. Phoebe watched the simple sight of Leo doing up her son’s skates and felt her heart both constrict and expand all at once. There was something so right about this, and it scared her. It was all too easy to imagine them as a family, to imagine this was more than just a day’s outing. To imagine—and want—this to be real.
‘There.’ Leo stood up, reaching a hand down to Christian, which the little boy took with easy trust. He held out his other hand to Phoebe, and after the briefest of hesitations she took it. They both wore gloves, yet even so it felt all too good—too right and too wonderful—for his hand to clasp hers.
They walked awkwardly on their skates to the rink and Christian’s bravado faltered at the sight of the sheer ice. Skating backwards with long, gliding movements, Leo took the boy’s hands and helped him move along. Phoebe watched from the side as they skated around the rink. Leo had skated more than a bit, she thought wryly. He skated backwards with effortless ease, helping Christian along, encouraging him with ready smiles and praise. Christian beamed back, delighted when he was finally able to let go of Leo’s hands and skate for a few wobbly feet by himself.
Leo skated towards Phoebe, who remained leaning against the rink wall.
‘You’re good,’ she said and he gave a modest shrug.
‘Growing up in Amarnes … all children learn to skate.’ He gave her a little smile. ‘Are you going to get out on the ice?’ His eyes glinted with humour. ‘You’re not afraid, are you?’
‘Me? Afraid?’
‘You said you’d only skated a bit …’
‘So I did,’ Phoebe agreed, and then pushed off the wall. She wasn’t able to see the expression on Leo’s face as she glided to the centre of the rink, did a graceful figure-of-eight before spinning in a dizzying circle, one leg stretched out in a perfect right angle.
‘Way to go, Mom!’ Christian crowed, then turned to Leo. ‘She used to skate a lot.’
‘So it would appear,’ Leo murmured, and Phoebe, skating back, couldn’t help but grin.
‘I took figure-skating lessons for five years. I had dreams of being the next big star, actually.’
‘And what happened?’
