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

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      ‘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. СКАЧАТЬ