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‘And I’m telling you that I can’t live like that,’ she whispered. ‘That if our marriage carries on in such a…a sterile environment—then it probably won’t last, because nothing can grow in that kind of atmosphere. And one of these days I might not be here when you return from one of your trips, Casimiro.’
There was a long, dangerous pause as he studied her. ‘That sounds awfully like an ultimatum, cara,’ he observed softly.
She bit down more of her qualms even though something in the quiet flame of his eyes warned her off saying any more. And yet how could they have any kind of relationship if she was not true to herself? ‘I’m just telling you how I feel.’
‘And I’m telling you that I will not be held hostage to emotional blackmail!’
He saw her flinch and for one moment Casimiro stared into the bright green glimmer of her eyes, at the brimming tears which smote at his conscience before he resolutely silenced it. Because it was preferable this way, he told himself grimly, and the sooner Melissa accepted that he would not be swayed by tantrums and tears—then the better it would be for them all.
He left the breakfast room, slamming the door behind him, and Melissa just sat there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where he’d been. Waiting until the awful pounding of her heart had quietened. Then she went to find Ben—her spirit heavy—feeling as if the weight of the world had settled on her shoulders. But although she clutched her son tightly to her chest, the misgivings left in the wake of that bitter argument refused to budge—leaving all kinds of fears swirling around in her head. Had her challenge to Casimiro about his behaviour broken the already tenuous thread which linked them, she wondered—and where the hell did they go from here?
Her diary was empty for that day—when she would have gladly valued the distractions of some queenly activities—and instead she threw herself into her role of mother. She took Ben swimming in the outdoor pool and then did some drawing with him—even if he was still at the stage of not really being able to hold a crayon properly. He needed some friends the same age, she realised—and wondered if he was going to be restricted to purely aristocratic buddies or whether he would be allowed to mix with ordinary children.
But her heart was still full of nameless fears and she felt stifled by the palace—as if the walls were crowding in on her, as if the building itself had outed her as some kind of interloper. You’re only here because you have given birth to the King’s son, it seemed to say. And wasn’t that the truth?
When Ben went down for his nap, she told Sandy that she was going out for a walk and that she wouldn’t be long.
But Melissa did not follow any of the rules she knew she should follow. She did not say where she was going—because she had no idea—and she did not tell palace security either. Silencing the voice of her conscience, she went back to her suite and fished around in the back of one of the dressing rooms until she found a pair of jeans and a T-shirt from her old life which she hadn’t quite been able to bring herself to throw away.
She stared at them. What a long way away that life seemed now—when she’d only had one pair of jeans and used to hang them to dry overnight on the radiator after she’d washed them. As Queen, she rarely wore jeans, where before she’d absolutely lived in them—and the smart, neatly pressed variety which graced her wardobe these days bore little resemblance to the faded pair she now clutched.
After first slipping on a modest black swimsuit, she put them on—along with an equally old T-shirt, welcoming the oddly comforting feel of the worn fabric before going outside into the fresh air. As she began walking around the grounds she knew so well she remembered her sense of awe when she’d first arrived to help with the ball. She sighed. It was strange, but today she almost felt like the woman who had arrived to help plan the celebrations not so very long ago—and not just because of the way she was dressed. It was as if memories were crowding into her mind to taunt her.
Look, there was the little staff cottage they’d given her—the house where Casimiro had made that cold-blooded seduction after she’d told him about Ben. It stood alone and at some distance from the palace itself and at that moment it seemed to symbolise everything about her own position there.
She knew where the guards were stationed and she slipped out of the complex without anyone noticing, experiencing a heady rush of pleasure as she did so and realising that this was the first time since they’d returned to the palace that she had escaped from the apparatus of power. No butlers. No ladies-in-waiting. No guards. And no formidable husband who only ever seemed to connect with her when they were exploring each other’s bodies.
She walked for a good while before setting off down one of the rocky tracks which led to the sea—and although she knew that she was still within the vast reaches of the royal estates, the sense of freedom she felt was liberating.
Down on the soft white sand, she realised she’d forgotten to bring a towel—or a drink of water—and the sun was baking down hard. But she wasn’t planning to stay long. Just long enough to pretend that she was simply Melissa again—with all the lack of restrictions she’d once completely taken for granted.
But deep down she knew it wasn’t as easy as that. Yes, she could go through all the motions of escape. She could stand on this warm sand and try to imagine what her old self would have said about this opportunity of having a great big beach all to herself. But that old self was gone. Gone for ever—and she could never get her back, no matter how hard she tried. She felt as if she didn’t know her new self very well—this Queen Melissa—and suddenly she wondered what on earth the future held for her.
But I will not give into self-pity, she told herself fiercely. Okay, I have a husband who sometimes acts as if he’s nothing more than a beautiful, efficient machine—but I have plenty of other things to be grateful for. A beautiful son. Health. Freedom from financial worry.
Yet despite her determination to count her blessings, Melissa could do nothing about the terrible pain which ripped right through her as she acknowledged the dark centre which lay at the very
heart of her marriage.
Peeling off her jeans and T-shirt, she decided to go for a swim, remembering what her darling mother had always told her. That exercise would wipe worry from a troubled mind. But Melissa’s heart was still heavy as she walked down towards the deserted shoreline, where azure water lapped onto the fine sand. The sea wasn’t particularly cold—but the silky wash as it slid through her toes was irresistible and, slowly, she began to wade in.
Further in she went, the water reaching to her ankles and then submerging her thighs. It made her shiver as it reached her hips and belly-button—and she gave a little squeal as it tickled against her waist, glad to forget her worries for that one brief moment.
And somewhere in the distant sky, she heard the rhythmical clatter of a helicopter.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘AND the Greek government are perfectly willing to negotiate—that is, if you are agreeable to this last concession, Your Majesty?’
A pin-drop silence fell around the polished table. Suddenly realising that ten pairs of eyes were fixed on him, Casimiro also became aware that he was being asked a question. And that he didn’t have a damned clue what the question was. Because for once he hadn’t been listening properly—his attention only half given over to the contentious subject of fishing rights in a disputed area of sea. His ministers had come to the meeting well briefed, the subject was one with which he was familiar—and yet although Casimiro had tried his best to concentrate it had been to no avail.
Because all he could think of was that stubborn and outspoken wife of his and the way she had dared to remonstrate with him over breakfast!
For a while he let himself remember her stinging words. Her emotional claim that he didn’t ‘do’ feelings. His mouth twisted with scorn. What did she think he was—one of these new men who treated every conversation as if it were a therapy session?
Her accusation about not spending enough time with his son had hit him even harder. He thought of Ben’s gurgling little smile. The way his chubby little arms clamped themselves tightly around his papa’s neck. Did she imagine that he didn’t miss playing and swimming with his son? Didn’t she realise that honeymoons were not like real life—and that he would leap at the opportunity to spend more time with Ben if he were not so weighed down by the demands of being ruler?
The ministers were still looking at him expectantly and Casimiro tried to shift the haunting memory of Melissa’s bright green eyes and trembling lips, and to play for time instead.
