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CHAPTER THREE
Seven years later
THEWOODWASdark and dense and it was easy for Corso to remain concealed as he waited for her, beneath the shaded canopy of leaves. There was nobody else around, he had insisted on that—despite the words of warning and handwringing on behalf of his security people. There were guards stationed discreetly throughout the woodland—that much he had conceded—but he had been afforded the privacy he wanted, because he was the King, and in the end everyone always did what the King wanted.
Would it be contrary of him to wish that sometimes they wouldn’t?
The woodland was quiet. Everything was quiet, save for the rustle of a nearby squirrel, or the whisper of the breeze in the leaves overhead. There was a sense of green and sylvan calm, for this was England and it felt a long way from the warm beaches of Monterosso. Yet it was curiously life-enhancing to be completely on his own in a foreign country—for solitude had become an almost forgotten luxury since he had inherited the throne, along with so much else. A deep breath escaped his lungs. Was he imagining the brief sense of peace which had washed over him as he had walked through the forest towards Rosie’s cottage, or was that simply wishful thinking? A brief moment of anonymity seducing him into thinking that a better life existed than the one he had.
His mouth hardened. Because didn’t everyone think that, to some degree? Surely the fantasy of the unknown had always been more seductive than the demands of the here and now.
The sudden cry of startled birds scattering from the treetops warned him of someone’s approach and Corso tensed as, several minutes later, he saw a figure on a bicycle weaving its way along the uneven path towards the cottage.
It could only be Rosie but he would never have recognised her—not in a million years—and not just because her skinny shape had filled out. A safety helmet was crammed down over her head and she wore dark and unprepossessing clothes.
He wondered what her reaction would be when she saw him, and whether she would approve of this covert method of contacting her. He supposed he could have picked up the phone, but instinct had urged him to choose an element of surprise—because in many ways he knew her well enough to break with convention, and wasn’t there somethingexhilaratingabout such an unorthodox approach? Usually his timetable was calculated right down to the precise second and the rigid regimentation of his life inevitably made him feel constrained. But not so today. Today he was master of his own destiny.
Plus, he suspected she wouldn’t exactly be overjoyed at seeing him again after their last meeting—particularly as his dramatic accession to the throne meant he hadn’t spoken to her since. And that state of affairs would probably have continued, if he hadn’t realised that Rosie Forrester was the one person who could provide him with what he needed. Some men might have felt a shimmering of doubt about what he was to ask of her, but not Corso—for he was certain that she would bend to his formidable will. Her father had been a loyal man of service—and his daughter was undeniably cast from the same mould.
She dismounted the bike and disappeared inside the humble house and he crunched his way up the path and knocked on the door. A couple of minutes later the door was opened to reveal Rosie Forrester standing staring at him, with disbelief on her face.
He was prepared for her surprise, but not her dislike. That much was evident from the sudden flash of fire in eyes whose colour he had never really noticed before, which was grey. Grey as the wings of the doves which sometimes darkened the skies over Esmelagu, Monterosso’s capital city. He felt momentarily startled—as if he had just stumbled on something unexpectedly beautiful—but her shuttered lashes quickly veiled their stormy hue.
‘Hello, Rosie,’ he said softly.
She was shaking her head. ‘I can’t...’
‘Can’t, what?’
‘I can’t believe it’s you.’
At this, he smiled but he noticed she didn’t smile back. ‘You are surprised I have awarded you such an honour?’ he questioned benignly.
‘That’s not exactly how I would have described it,’ she said, before adding, as if she had only just remembered, ‘YourMajesty.’
Corso felt her unfriendliness crash over him in almost tangible waves and he narrowed his eyes, because such a reaction was rare. Even if they hated him—as he was sure many did—his position always daunted people. Thus, they presented what they thought he wanted from them. Grovelling and deference were high on this list—usually delivered in obscene amounts, which sometimes amused him—because those who fawned over him clearly had no idea just how much such an attitude bored him. But Rosie clearly had no such ambition to impress him. Her lips remained set in a mulish line and Corso’s brow knitted together for women never reacted to him this way. He was used to provocation. To guile and glamour. Perhaps it was down to the awkwardness of their last conversation when diplomacy and convention had been eroded by her startling disclosure about Tiffany, and he shuddered now to think how careless he had been up until that night.
But that experience had been a wake-up call and perhaps he should be grateful to her for enlightening him. Alongside his sudden accession to the throne, Rosie’s revelation had changed him. Hardened him. Made him acknowledge there were few people in this world you could trust. His mouth twisted. But it had also made him better able to withstand the even more bitter truths which had been hovering in the background like malignant forces. Unpalatable facts just waiting for him, once he had begun to delve into the late King’s affairs.
And ultimately, that was what had brought him here today.
Once again, he smiled. ‘I would like to talk to you,’ he said.
But she seemed oblivious to any kind of charm offensive, or indeed to the unthinkable reality that he remained standing on the doorstep, like a cold-call salesman! And now she was peering suspiciously over his shoulder.
‘Where is everyone? Your security detail? The armoured car and the heavy mob? The men with suspicious bulges in their jackets?’
‘They are present, but concealed throughout the woods. There’s no need to worry about my safety, Rosie.’
‘It’s not your safety I’m worried about, Corso—it’s my privacy.’
‘Your privacy?’
‘Yes.’ She bit down on her lip, hard. ‘I don’t want tomorrow morning’s papers carrying some kind of cloak and dagger story about a Mediterranean king paying a surprise visit to a quiet English hamlet.’
‘King being the operative word and one which you might do well to remember,’ he prompted lazily.
Their gazes clashed, and perhaps she responded better to authority than persuasion for she seemed to pull herself up—stepping back within the confines of the small cottage.
