Royal Christmas: Royal Love-Child, Forbidden Marriage. Кейт Хьюит

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      The question he’d asked her six years ago slipped slyly into her mind, and the answer Phoebe had given back then—nothing—seemed to echo uselessly through her.

      All right, so she was attracted to him. Phoebe straightened in her seat and forced herself to look away, out of the window. The plane had risen above the city fog and now there were only a few wisps of cottony cloud in an otherwise perfect blue sky.

      Of course she was attracted to him; he positively oozed sexuality and charm. And, to be perfectly blunt, she’d been without male companionship of any kind for too long.

      Yet it still shamed her to admit to something so basic, so impossible to ignore or deny. How could she be attracted to Leo, the man who had insulted her, belittled her, tried to buy her? Was she so enslaved to her own senses?

      Again Phoebe felt that dark tug of longing, of need.

      Apparently she was.

       ‘You mean you haven’t changed?’

       ‘Judge for yourself.’

      Was it possible that Leo had really changed, put his playboy days behind him? She thought of him bantering with Christian, the glimmer of humour in his amber eyes, and forced back another treacherous wave of desire and, worse, hope.

      She couldn’t afford to believe Leo had changed. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t afford to trust him. She was on her own here, and she’d better remember that.

      ‘Look.’ Leo reached over and touched her shoulder, causing Phoebe to jump as if he’d branded her with a hot poker. She must have fallen into a doze without realising it. ‘Amarnes,’ he told her, and, swallowing audibly, Phoebe refocused her gaze on the vista outside.

      Amarnes. It nestled in a slate-blue North Sea, a tiny, perfect jewel. The eastern side of the island was carved into deep fjords; from the sky Phoebe could see the steep sides of the valleys they created, lush and green, their rocky peaks capped with snow. As the plane moved over the fjords, Phoebe saw a cluster of brightly painted fishermen’s cottages near the shore, and then, on a plain on the northern end of the island, Amarnes’s capital city, Njardvik.

      For a moment Phoebe let herself remember the last time she’d come to Amarnes, standing on the deck of a ferry, the salt spray stinging her face, Anders at her side. Back then she hadn’t known Anders was a prince, hadn’t known anything. She’d met him ten days earlier, while backpacking through Norway, and she’d fallen for him right away. Anders had had a gift of making her feel as if she were permanently fixed at the centre of his universe. It was only later—when a single piece of paper declared them married—that she realized he made everyone feel that way.

      On the ferry he’d pointed to Amarnes, just a smudge of dark green on the horizon, and said, ‘That’s my home.’ He had leaned against the railing and with a self-conscious smile added, ‘I should probably tell you, I’m a prince.’

      Phoebe had laughed disbelievingly, until Anders explained that he wasn’t joking; he was actually heir to a throne. Phoebe had stared.

      ‘I don’t want any of it,’ he’d told her. ‘You can’t imagine the pressure, the expectations.’ His brilliant blue eyes had met and held hers. ‘I just want you, Phoebe.’

      What a joke. An outright lie. Anders might have believed it at that moment, Phoebe thought fairly, but it was simply that. A moment. Yet six years on Phoebe couldn’t summon the energy to feel bitter or angry. She’d been as reckless as Anders, plunging into a marriage with a man she barely knew, and now that he was dead she only felt a distant kind of sorrow and even pity for the man he’d been and the life he’d wasted.

      The plane began its descent, and Christian stirred. Phoebe’s gaze slid involuntarily to Leo, and she was unsettled to realise he’d been watching her, his lips curved in a knowing smile that she didn’t like.

      ‘Welcome home,’ he said softly, just for her ears, and Phoebe bristled.

      ‘Hardly.’

      Leo just smiled.

      The next few minutes were a blur as they exited the plane, the cold, clean air hitting Phoebe like a slap—she’d forgotten how fresh everything was here, so new and bright and clean. Even the colours seemed sharper, the deep green of the fir trees that flanked the winking blue sea, the grey, craggy mountains with their majestic white peaks. And the sleek black limousine that purred to a halt as Leo directed their luggage to be loaded in a van and ushered them into the car.

      ‘The palace is only a few minutes away,’ Leo said as the limousine pulled away from the airstrip, heading down a narrow road that snaked along the valley floor. Phoebe glanced at Christian; he was taking in everything with wide, amazed eyes. He must, Phoebe thought, feel as if he’d stepped into a TV show, or a fairy tale.

      Within minutes the limousine emerged from the closed valley to the outskirts of Njardvik, the boulevard into the city lined with pastel-coloured townhouses, a leftover relic of the island’s Dutch possession four hundred years earlier. Unwillingly Phoebe gazed around at the quaint plazas with their flowerpots and pavement cafés, now shuttered for the oncoming winter. There could be no denying that Njardvik was an unspoiled jewel of a city, and just the sight of its pretty streets and elegant homes made her remember the optimism and excitement that had buoyed her along this very route with Anders.

      Was her hope that this would end after two weeks just as misplaced?

      ‘Wow,’ Christian breathed, and Phoebe turned to see the limousine enter the eagle-crested gates of the palace courtyard. The palace itself was several hundred years old, a rambling and impressive edifice of mellow gold stone. A rather grim-faced official in royal livery waited by the main entrance, guarded by two soldiers resplendent in their royal blue uniforms and polished helmets.

      ‘Here we are,’ Leo said lightly, and opened the door.

      Numbly Phoebe followed him, Christian clutched in her arms. She heard Leo speak a few words of Danish to the official, who opened the doors to the palace and, with a sweep of his arm, bade them enter.

      She’d only been to the palace once before, hustled like some criminal by royal agents, afraid, alone, to be confronted by Leo. It almost made Phoebe feel dizzy and sick to be back here. Once again she was afraid, alone, and she had no idea what was going to happen.

      She pushed the feelings away, tried to summon back her courage. Her confidence. She was changed, no matter if Leo was or wasn’t. She was stronger now, and she had to remind herself of that strength as she stood in the palace’s huge foyer, feeling tiny and insignificant on about an acre of black and white checked marble.

      ‘The king would like to see you,’ Leo said. ‘But first you will want to rest, freshen up. Johann will lead you to your rooms.’ Another servant, also in royal livery, seemed to appear almost magically, and wordlessly Phoebe followed him from the cool marble foyer up the ornate curving staircase, Christian at her side.

      Johann led them to a suite of rooms in the back of the palace. Phoebe took in the two king-sized bedrooms, joined by an elegant little parlour, and the wide terrace overlooking the palace gardens, now rimed in frost.

      She dropped her handbag next to her suitcase on the floor, the carpet thick and sumptuous, and took a deep, steadying breath. Christian was already investigating the huge walk-in wardrobes, СКАЧАТЬ