So that explained it, really. I read an article about Driedish history, which made me think about Thea, remembering the last time I saw her on her wedding day, and of course this would make me recall her long-lost fiancé. Obviously, this would make me see his face in a nearby café during my morning walk to the market.
I did a double-take when I saw the man. So similar to Christian, yet leaner, perhaps. More unkempt. An air of nervousness that the urbane Christian Fraser-Campbell had never given off.
So I continued my day. A quick stop at the ATM. A new automatic coffee pot for the rental apartment, as the last review had said the current one was “glitchy.” Rain started to fall, cold and offensive. As a Northern European myself, I found the very idea of Italian rain to be extraordinary. To my mind, Italy was supposed to be languid heat and endless hazy days. It should not have winter of any sort.
But I kept thinking of Ghost Christian. It wasn’t him, I knew that for a fact. All the news outlets had reported his death by suicide.
I decided to go the long way back home. Call it restlessness, call it boredom, but four months of doing nothing but hiding like some overly dramatic diva of Italian cinema was wearing thin.
Thin enough that I walked through the freezing rain to settle the question once and for all.
I passed by the café again; it was rather sad-looking in winter. The awning was bedraggled and a tent of clear plastic formed a kind of a vestibule around the door. I gazed in the window where I had seen the Ghost’s reflection and saw nothing but mine.
Whoever the man was, or whatever resemblance he bore to my sister’s dead fiancé, would be a mystery I would never solve.
I turned back to the street that led home and smack. Someone ran into me. A man, a bit taller than me, his face turned down as he clutched his coat around him in the rain.
“Pardon,” he said.
In English.
And with a Scottish accent I definitely recognized.
I grabbed at the man because he stumbled as he coughed. But then his face lifted and I knew that this was a ghost. Or a long-lost twin. One of those highly unlikely possibilities now was 100 percent.
The name Christian got stuck in my throat. Ghost or long-lost twin of Christian Fraser-Campbell—his name wouldn’t be Christian…would it?
So he was the first to speak. “Caroline?” He croaked. “You aren’t—”
He broke off in another fit of coughing.
It would be rude to ask, “Who are you?” so instead I stuttered. “You’re not…I mean, how…who…” He rubbed his eyes and looked back at me. “Christian? How are you?” I finished lamely, as if we were old classmates who had just run into each other at the cinema.
“Fine, fine,” he said, but his voice was rough and raw and I saw now there was purplish bruising under his eyes.
I knew this man. He knew my name. Somehow, improbable as it was, my sister’s ex-fiancé was not dead, as the whole world believed, but very much alive.
With me. Here. Now.
He started coughing again and I realized he really was ill and had no place standing in the winter rain rushing in off the lake.
The next thing I realized was huge.
Princess Caroline of Drieden and Christian Fraser-Campbell were standing in the street. In public. And we were the potential news story of the decade.
“You must come back with me,” I heard myself saying. “You’re too sick for this weather.”
Of course, I was tremendously concerned about the health and wellbeing of this man who had been just hours away from being my brother.
But it would be a lie if I said I was unconcerned about anyone seeing us together.
After I half hauled Christian through the town then up to my apartment, he passed out in my spare bedroom.
For nearly an hour, I couldn’t relax. So many questions were flying through my mind, not least of which was—what if whatever Christian had was contagious?
To be fair, I didn’t know where this supposedly dead person had been. If this was a case of some sort of zombie virus, I didn’t want to be cavalier about it.
I went over the possibilities. One—Christian Fraser-Campbell had an identical twin brother that no one knew about. One who answered to the same name. Coincidentally.
Two—Christian Fraser-Campbell had committed suicide but had been reanimated by either a zombie virus, a mad scientist or some miraculous act of God.
Three—Christian had faked his death. Because that was something it was well known almost-royal princes did all the time. /sarcasm font/
Still, of the three explanations, when the one about a faked suicide seemed most likely…I got a funny feeling in my stomach. This was a Big Deal. I could see the headlines now. Classy ones, of course, not those tabloid conspiracy-theories ones. An exposé on the stress of public life, perhaps, or the need for more mental health care among Europe’s aristocratic class.
And not to brag, but…I had tons of expertise in those two topics. A yelpy groan broke the silence. I ran into the spare bedroom and saw that Christian had reanimated himself. He was still pale and sweaty, but his eyes were clear and bright.
I picked up the glass of water and aspirin I had left earlier and offered them to him. “Do you think you can manage these?” I asked.
He nodded, gave me a small, grateful smile and took the pills and water.
“Do you think—” I broke off, not sure how to phrase my question. “This is probably just the flu, right? I mean, you haven’t been in an equatorial jungle or around any secret government labs?”
I got a frown and a little shake of the head, which I chose to interpret as a negative response to my question. “Can I get you anything else? A cup of tea? Some toast?”
Christian made a face. “I think I just need some sleep. That is, if you don’t mind me being here?”
“Of course I don’t,” I assured him. “You must get better.” I smiled. “There will be all the time in the world to catch up.”
A wretched cough erupted from him and I stayed until he could recover his composure, in case he wanted to take me up on that offer of tea.
But he said something I never expected.
“Clémence Diederich.”
Now it was I who needed some water. “What?” Maybe it wasn’t what it sounded like.
“Or is it Cordelia Lancaster?” Christian grimaced. “I haven’t seen her in a bit, though.”
It felt like the bottom of my stomach had just disappeared. “I don’t—”
He cut me off. “I know, Caroline. I know your secrets.”
I should not have been so terrified of a thin, pale ghost of a man.
“How?” I managed to ask.
He waved a hand. “Unimportant.” Christian’s wide, serious eyes met mine. “But I need your help. Clémence’s, that is.”
If I had known everything, I wouldn’t have offered my assistance so readily. But as I said, I was bored, and concerned about this man who had almost been my brother-in-law and who seemed to be on the brink of death.
“Yes, what is it?”
“I want Clémence Diederich to tell my story. The true story.”
Chapter Five
As was to be expected from a princess, my cooking skills were barely adequate. Still, it was one of the unexpected benefits of being a commoner for the last nine months that I now knew how to boil water, toast bread and sauté eggs.
As Christian slept off his hopefully-not-fatal flu, I tried to keep busy preparing a simple meal and a short list of questions.
I know. I’m sure it seems very selfish of me. A man was on his sick bed and I was trying very hard not to use his illness in my self-interest. But as I scribbled my questions on a notepad, I decided it was evidence of my boredom.
It was all well and good to opt out of public life, to adopt a new name and an
anonymous presence but, clearly, I needed a little more excitement.
And the Christian Fraser-Campbell story was going to be just the hit I needed. As soon as he woke up and could string coherent sentences together.
Here I had been, simply biding my time out of the public eye, counting the days until I could fashion some sort of new life for myself, and now, the perfect story had dropped into my lap.
Who better to interview Christian, to explain the trauma he had gone through, put it in a larger perspective for the world?
There was no one better than me. Or Clémence Diederich. Since she was me.
I itched to open up my computer and send a quick query to my editor at The Times. It would be informal; I couldn’t give anything away. Hi, it’s me. Been tossing around a few ideas for my next piece. Heard a crazy story about an infamous person who may have faked their death (or become a zombie. Or maybe he’s Jesus.)
Right. I might need some more information from Zombie Christian before I send that email.
But the thought of reanimating Clémence Diederich and Christian Fraser-Campbell at the same time…
It could also end in further disaster.
Personal disaster or career reinvigoration. Decisions, decisions.
An alert sounded from my laptop and I jumped, guiltily. No, I hadn’t emailed my editor. Yet. I was going to ask Christian for permission first before I spilled all of his personal details over the international media. Obviously.
I pulled the laptop over to me and checked my email. A very unprincess-like oath fell from my lips. It was the website where I listed the villa apartment for rent.
I cursed my Driedish practicality all those months ago when I listed it. I had thought it was wasteful, having the whole villa for only my occasional use. Yes, it was my escape house, but why not make some extra money and let Elena earn her rather substantial housekeeper salary?
Oh, why did Elena have to leave? My finger hovered over the email buttons. I could reject the reservation. The money wasn’t important to me, but the thought of Elena’s judgy face made me hit the “accept” button.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
Re: Varenna Rental inquiry
Apologies for the late reservation. I am running through Varenna this evening and wondered if you had availability.
Two nights, one guest. Please respond as quickly as you can, so that I may find other accommodation, if need.
Grazie.
Two nights. One tourist who had obviously used a translating app to write an email in Italian. Easy enough. I could do this.
What did I have to do again?
Elena would never let me live it down if I screwed this up. Worse, she might quit in a fit of Italian pique and then I would have to find another tenant, another manager, another face for the outside world.
Not that it would be terribly hard. All sorts of celebrities and notable persons were able to buy help—if they threw enough money and legal contracts around. But honestly, the thought of trying to find someone else exhausted me, and I liked Signore Rossi and his irascible daughter. They were the only people in the world who cared if I woke up each morning.
I typed out a quick response to the last-minute renter: “Yes, there is availability. Please see the attached policies and payment instructions.”
I would have to double-check the rental apartment. Make sure there were linens and amenities. I wished I had paid more attention to what Elena usually did, but I had spent the last few months recovering and working, burying myself in the Formula One piece.
But just as I made my mental list of things I’d need to prepare and got up to go out via the back stairs, I saw Christian in the doorway.
His shirt hung open and his brown hair was dark from the shower he’d obviously taken.
“You’re feeling better, I see?” I said hopefully.
“Very much so,” he said with a grimace. “I hate so much that I’ve imposed upon you.”
He’d always had such perfect manners. It was no wonder my sister had thought him prince material.
“Please, Christian. It’s no imposition at all.” I went to the toast I’d made earlier. It was cold and slightly charred, but that made it dry, and wasn’t dry toast supposed to be just the thing?
I held the plate out. “Are you feeling up to some food?”
He nodded and sat down at the table in the kitchen where I put his plate. Perhaps I really had conquered the whole domestic-goddess thing because he actually ate the toast, blackened edges and all.
And as he was apparently feeling better, I felt I could start a conversation without being too cold-hearted. “This comes as a bit of a shock, so I have to ask.”
“Which part is a shock?”
“Seeing you,” I admitted. “Alive. Here in Varenna, especially.” When he didn’t explain his still beating heart, I wondered if perhaps he didn’t know. “You heard, of course, that the entire world believes you’re…” I paused because suddenly this felt a bit rude. It was all those years of royal etiquette training. Say this, not that. Address this topic, not those.
No one had ever explicitly given me permission to call someone “dead” to their face. It seemed a bit indelicate.
Still. I reminded myself that I was no longer a royal. No longer bound by formal protocol. I was an international journalist who had exposed a safety scandal after watching my husband die on television.
I could certainly tell a man to his face that he was dead. Or not, as the case might be. Just spit it out, Caroline.
“I was led to believe that you were no longer living,” I said, slowly picking out the words.
Christian did not seem surprised. But then, he seemed to have almost no reaction at all. He frowned slightly, pushed back his plate of toast crumbs and regarded me solemnly.
“I see. And who gave you this information.” His eyebrow rose. “Your sister? Theodora?” He said her name carefully, like he hadn’t said it in a while.
Just like a zombie would.
I shook that silliness out of my head once and for all. Obviously, whatever had happened to Christian was far more catastrophic than zombiehood. He was a changed man—I could tell just by looking at him. Yes, he was leaner, his hair different, and there was a tattoo on his chest that hadn’t been there on that last holiday we’d all taken to Mykonos. But also, this Christian was less suave, less charming, than the man who had laughed loudly at the house parties with a royal princess on his arm.
A chill ran down my spine. This Christian was a different person and he’d signaled that he knew…things…about me. He knew about my pen names, so what else did he know?
I needed to handle this delicately. The way he’d said Theodora’s name, the way he’d reacted to my “news” of his death, there was something I had to unravel, tissue by tissue, like a surgeon. Or catastrophe would strike.
“Thea and I don’t speak,” I said, not quite answering his question.
“Ah.”
I waited. No need to respond to that.
“You don’t speak often? Or not at all?”
There was a gleam in his eye when he asked these questions, which seemingly sounded an alarm in the distant part of my brain.
But then I realized. My brain had not just emitted a beeping sound. It was my security system.
I murmured an apology to Christian and went to the front door, where I had several discreet monitors placed. I saw nothing, but the system showed that someone had just let themselves into the building.
Either Elena had come back or my new tourist tenant had already arrived. Ugh. I should have specified a check-in time. “Christian, I have to run downstairs for just a moment!” I called out as I traversed the hall to the back entrance.
Of course there’s a back entrance to a penthouse apartment in a villa overlo
oking Lake Como. I may have had my royal titles stripped, but I wasn’t living in some sort of hovel.
When the villa was split into the three apartments, they kept the servant’s stairs that connected them and I had installed code boxes to get into all three. What use was a hidey-hole if I didn’t know all the ins and outs?
I skipped down to the second level and punched in the code, wincing at the loud beeps it made and already regretting saying yes to letting out the apartment. What if the beds weren’t made? What if I had to restock the toilet? This could be supremely awkward.
The back door to the apartment, like the other two, led to a utility area. This one had once been a small kitchen and the sink and storage still remained. I quietly opened the door to a broom closet and was relieved to find that yes, my intuition was correct and this was where Elena kept the spare soap, towels and cloths. Excellent. I tucked several of each into my arms and decided to act like I was just running in and out.
“Hello?” I called out in English, then added in Italian, “Scusami?” The apartment was dark, I noted as I carefully crept out into the main rooms. Perhaps I had been mistaken—or my security system had. Perhaps the new tenant had dropped off their bags and then left to find dinner or meet a friend.
When no one replied, I exhaled with relief. Perfect. I would just go put these extra supplies in the washroom, check that there were sheets on the bed and sneak out. Elena would be so proud of me.
Then I was hit by a truck.
Chapter Six
Right before I was hit, I saw a flash out of the corner of my eye. A blurry movement. Gray rubbed on black and then I was slammed into a wall.
I was face to face with a monster.
Dark, angry, the size of a bear. Golden eyes gleaming in the night. His heavy forearm was pressed against my collarbone and throat. He could crush me, but then…he froze. He wasn’t expecting me. Good. This was my chance.
I opened my mouth to scream. I should have used that energy to run instead. Because before I got a breath in, his forearm rolled just so slightly into the soft flesh of my neck, cutting off any ability to scream. His other hand, he clamped over my mouth.
The Royal Bodyguard Page 3