by Donald Robyn
‘But it does not seem to me that you are yet lovers.’
Max’s eyes narrowed. ‘It isn’t possible, as you well know. The family rules forbid it.’
Giovanni studied his face for an intent few moments. ‘If I told you it was possible,’ he said heavily, ‘would you marry her?’
‘What is this?’ Max demanded, reining in a sudden anger. ‘We are cousins—first cousins! Our fathers were half-brothers. The rules of the royal house say that it is not possible for blood relations to marry.’
Giovanni said, ‘I think I will sit down after all.’
Max said swiftly, ‘So, sit.’ He helped the elderly man into a chair—the one that Rosa usually sat in. ‘You do not look well. I’ll call the doctor.’
‘No,’ Giovanni said. He dragged in a breath and went on, pausing between the words as though each one hurt. ‘You and the princess are not cousins. There is no blood connection between you. Your father was not the king’s son.’
Any other man Max would have knocked to the ground, but this man was known over the whole island for his integrity. In all the years he’d known him, Max had never heard him lie.
Mind working furiously, he said, ‘You’re saying that my grandmother—Queen Eva—wasn’t faithful to my…to the king.’
Giovanni closed his eyes. ‘That is so.’
‘Then who was my grandfather?’
Another long silence, until Giovanni said in a deeply shamed voice, ‘I am.’
Max picked up his brandy and drank half of it down in a gulp. With the liquid burning his stomach, he asked icily, ‘And how do you know this? Birth dates are notoriously difficult to link to the act that causes them.’
‘I don’t blame you for finding it difficult to believe,’ Giovanni said, his voice trembling. ‘I don’t know that the queen knows herself, and the king obviously doesn’t because he accepted your father as his son.’ He hesitated before finishing starkly, ‘Although I think he suspects.’
‘Then why are you so certain?’ Max demanded.
In answer Giovanni pulled a photograph out of his pocket and held it out. ‘This,’ he said succinctly.
For the second time in his life, Max didn’t want to face what lay ahead of him. He had to force himself to take the few steps to take the photograph, and then to look at it.
An old photograph of a young man, smiling at the lens.
At first he thought it was a photograph of himself, taken when he was eighteen or nineteen, but almost immediately discarded that idea. The clothes were wrong, and he’d never owned a motorcycle.
‘Who is this?’ Each word was clear and cold and short.
‘My younger brother, Vittorio,’ Giovanni said and crossed himself reverently. ‘Our mother was English; she met my father when he was in England working for an uncle, a wine-seller in London. They married, but she could never settle here, and when Vittorio was only five she went back to England and divorced my father there. We never saw my brother again—when he was nineteen he was killed on that motorcycle. Our mother sent this photograph back just before it happened. She died shortly after him.’
Max said nothing, searching the face in the photograph. At some cell-deep level he sensed that, not only was Giovanni telling the truth, but that the old man in front of him was his true grandfather.
‘I first saw you when you were three, and I knew then,’ Giovanni said. He shook his head. ‘Your father looked like the queen, his mother, but you—you were Vittorio all over again. I wondered whether I should tell anyone, but it seemed that nothing needed to be done, because who would have thought that your cousins and your brothers would refuse the throne?’
Max fought back a cold fury. ‘You’d have let me ascend it, knowing I had no right to it?’
Giovanni shrugged. ‘You are a good man,’ he said simply. ‘You know the islanders, you have worked hard for them, and you have been successful in the world also. What better man could be our king?’
‘So why…?’ He stopped, because he knew why. ‘Rosa,’ he said harshly. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘No!’ Giovanni stared at him. ‘I—know you well. When she came back, I saw that you wanted her. And because you have the sort of integrity that makes everyone uncomfortable, I knew that you would send her away. And I could not bear that. I have loved you ever since I saw you. I have thought long and hard about this, and it seems to me that I cannot make you suffer because of a lie.’
Max finished off the rest of the brandy, welcoming its smooth heat, waiting for its warmth. None came. ‘I see. But although it’s true that if Rosa and I are not related we could marry—if we decided it was what we want—she will still be bound by the rules. The first one, if you remember, is that no member of the royal family can be joined in marriage without the consent and approval of the ruler. If you think the king will give his consent for her to marry me—the product of an adulterous liaison of his wife—then I can tell you you’re wrong.’
Testily Giovanni countered, ‘There is no need for scandal! Why stir up mud when it’s not necessary? Let things go on as they are, achieve the throne and then as King you can amend the rule to something a little less severe.’
Of course Giovanni, pragmatic to the core, would think that a perfectly feasible way to deal with this situation!
Max fought temptation, seductive and sweet as honey. Harshly he said, ‘I don’t know if I’d be able to change the rules, but, even if I could, to marry Rosa without scandal is impossible. All my life I have been brought up to respect the monarchy and the people of Niroli. I can’t change now.’
Watching Giovanni—his grandfather!—get to his feet, he said abruptly, ‘But whatever I do, know this—I could not have had a better grandfather.’
Giovanni’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Nor I a better grandson,’ he said, and hauled Max into his arms for a fierce, quick hug.
When it was over they looked at each other with some embarrassment, a moment ended when Giovanni said, ‘I shall go now. But remember what I have always told you—don’t do anything in a hurry. Decisions made when the emotions run hot are always bad.’ He paused, then said with a brave attempt at a smile, ‘Such as the one that eventually led to your birth. But I was young and easily impressed by beauty. And how can I regret it when I have such a grandson?’
That was all very well, Max thought after he’d taken the old man home, but what the hell was he going to do now?
And more to the point—should he tell Rosa? Mind in turmoil, he walked across to his bedroom window and stared out at the vines, line upon line of them stretching along the riverside and up to braid the foothills, precious beyond belief.
He’d reconciled himself to selling up his financial and commercial interests, and to loosening his hands on the reins here, but he’d assumed that as King he’d be able to watch over the industry. The castello would always be his; it had come to him through Queen Eva’s father, a nobleman of the island, but after Giovanni’s astounding revelation he’d have to tell the old king that he couldn’t take the throne.
And that, he thought wearily, would almost certainly mean a voluntary exile from Niroli, while the king worked his way through the constitutional crisis that would follow.
The sun leapt above the horizon, gilding the valley and the mountains as a chorus of cocks around the city welcomed it with a full-throated chorus. Max’s involuntary smile faded.
He couldn’t go to the king without proof. The old man wouldn’t accept a photograph, so that meant DNA testing. He frowned. That would take about six weeks.
No, there must be a way to hurry things along. He remembered a court case that rested on such tests; they had been completed in a week.
But if it proved that Giovanni’s story was correct, Rosa was the only person left to ascend the throne.
Chapter 8
Max’s hands tightened into fists. The people of Niroli—most of them salt-of-the-earth peasants with a strong attachment to tradition—would find it difficult to accept a reignin
g queen.
And Rosa would hate it. As she’d probably hate being Queen Consort, he reminded himself with brutal honesty.
Of course, he could be wildly off the mark thinking that he’d seen love in her eyes and not just a passionate attachment with sexual satisfaction as its only aim.
Disconnected thoughts tumbling through his brain, he stood there, watching the light bring the soft colours of a Mediterranean autumn to life, the sounds and smells and warmth. A massive yawn took him by surprise.
‘Four hours’ sleep,’ he said grimly, alerting the clock in his brain, and went to bed.
Rosa spent the morning in the vineyard. When the sun strode up to its zenith in the burning sky she straightened up and asked the three technicians who’d been helping, ‘What do you think?’
After a startled moment the boldest said, ‘Nothing. They’re all clear—it’s definitely insect infestation, not shot blight.’
‘OK, tell me what you base that decision on.’
He told her, the others nodding agreement, but when he’d finished they looked somewhat anxiously at her.
Grinning, she said, ‘You’re dead right. They’re clear as a bell.’ She waited until their excited whoops died down before cautioning, ‘Not that you can relax. You’ll need to keep checking every vine, every week until the outbreak is only a memory.’
‘When will that be?’ a quiet, serious young woman asked.
‘Six months,’ she said soberly. ‘But after that there should be monthly checks. Once shot blight has appeared anywhere, it tends to recur at irregular intervals. Eternal vigilance is necessary.’
One of them, a young man fresh out of university, ventured, ‘Some of the peasants say we’re overdoing the destruction of the vines.’
‘I know,’ she said to murmurs of assent. ‘What do you think?’
She watched keenly as they replied, especially a young woman who’d argued previously that it might be better to wait and see rather than risk antagonising the vineyard owners with such drastic measures.
‘She still believes that,’ she told Max later as they ate lunch at the castello.
‘What’s her name?’ When she’d told him, he nodded. ‘She has roots deep in Cattina—of course she sympathises with the growers. However I’ll have her taken off the assessment team.’
Rosa said in a troubled voice, ‘I understand that you know these people well, but are you positive that’s the best way to tackle it?’
‘I’ll make sure she has an equivalent position where she can’t hamper the on going surveillance,’ he said, a note of ruthless determination tempering his voice. ‘If she isn’t committed she may be tempted to leave someone’s vineyard just one more day to see what happens.’
‘And that could be fatal,’ Rosa agreed. But after a moment’s consideration she added, ‘She’s good, though, with an excellent degree from Italy. Is there a system here to pick out talent and send them for further study?’
Max surveyed her keenly. ‘No. Do you think she’s worth it?’
‘I do.’
‘I’ll put someone onto it. One of the things I’m going to make sure of is that…’ The pause was so slight Rosa almost missed it. Barely missing a beat, he finished on a bland note, ‘Niroli needs a formal process and funding to search out these excellent students and sponsor them for further education. We can’t afford to waste talent.’
What had he been planning to say? Rosa’s lashes drooped. Max was…different, somehow. Not merely aloof and withdrawn, as he had been after that searing kiss, but guarded.
Or was she fantasising?
He went on, ‘You’re too fine-drawn, and those tilted eyes have shadows. Now that you’re confident you’ve trained your people to interpret any signs of shot blight, a few days at the villa with nothing more to do than swim and laze in the sun will set you up for the trip home.’
One swift glance from beneath her lashes showed that he had no intention of accompanying her. He just wanted to get rid of her. That odd sound must be the noise of forlorn hope splintering, she thought wearily.
She tried to infuse her voice with calm composure. ‘I’ve been thinking of that, and you were right—if I don’t visit my parents’ grave soon it will get more and more difficult to go back. And a few days there will give me time to collect my thoughts about the outbreak for the final report.’
Final only if no further outbreaks happened, of course.
Once the decision was made Max moved swiftly. Early next morning she left for the island, the ancient personal domain of the Niroli ruling family. From that fiefdom a bold, ruthless Fierezza ancestor had launched the power bid that brought him the throne; still fiercely loyal, the islanders always gave the royal family the privacy they needed.
Her arrival at the villa was every bit as traumatic as she’d feared. Although she fought to control her feelings, her eyes filled with tears when the housekeeper and maids greeted her. One of the maids began to cry, and to Rosa’s horror she couldn’t hold back her own grief.
Clucking sympathetically, the housekeeper embraced her in motherly arms, patting her back until she hiccupped back the sobs.
‘I’ll make you a soothing tea,’ she said, shooing the maids away. And when Rosa had washed her face and drunk the herb and honey concoction the older woman made, they talked about her parents and the happy holidays they’d spent there.
‘At least they went together,’ the housekeeper said pragmatically. ‘They wouldn’t have liked being separated, those two.’ She sighed, and then brightened. ‘They’d be glad to know you’ve come back.’
But Rosa couldn’t persuade herself to visit their grave. Her flight to the island had been sheer self-protection; staying with Max had turned into irresistible torture, and for his sake and her own she had to get away.
For the next few days she dutifully swam and slowly polished her tan. In the mornings she collated the notes on her laptop, sending copies to Max by email.
His replies were reassuring—no new outbreaks, even the dissidents amongst the growers had settled down to a simmer, and the young woman who’d raised objections to the strict and rigorous regime was happily planning an academic year in a prestigious university in America.
The messages were short to the point of curtness, without any echo of sentiment—yet Rosa pored over each one and couldn’t delete them. Working beside Max had transformed the remnants of a childish crush into something much more vigorous and dangerous.
She should never have come back to Niroli. But she couldn’t have turned her back on the vine-growers’ plight.
Rebellion ate into her. The stupid rules—drawn up in days when the king was an autocrat who needed to control his relatives in case they deposed him—still stood above the law of the land.
She snapped shut the book she’d been trying to read, and stared out to where the Mediterranean slept, blue and calm, the smallest of waves breathing gently onto the hot sand. The sun beat down on her, tenderly gilding skin exposed by skimpy shorts and a bra top, but for once she didn’t relish its heat. Her grandfather must realise what those rules had cost him—heir after heir had given up their right to the throne rather than obey their strictures.
But Max wouldn’t. She’d seen how deeply duty was ingrained in his personality; he’d sacrifice his life for the people of Niroli.
And of course, she thought bleakly, she had no idea what he felt for her. Passion, yes, but people could feel passion for lovers they didn’t even like. Her angst and misery were useless and unprofitable, as well as being heavily larded with self-pity.
In spite of the languorous heat, she shivered. There was no hope for her.
So she’d have to find some way to get over this forbidden love, because it was doomed. In time she might even come to accept her loss with a sense of resignation—
‘Rosa?’
Shocked delight fountained through her. She turned her head and saw him, a dark, forbidding figure beneath the pergola, his face shaded by the bougainvill
ea.
Her throat worked; she swallowed, but her voice was still uneven. ‘What—what are you doing here?’
His broad shoulders lifted fractionally and he came out into the sunlight. Rosa blinked.
He looked grim, the darkly arrogant features set as though he’d reached some decision, one that had cost him sleepless nights and a lot of painful thought.
But his voice was even and unemotional as he said, ‘Everything’s all right on Niroli. I just needed to see you before you go.’
With a small, smothered sound, she bolted up from the lounger and hurled herself into his arms.
Just once, she thought with a fierce determination to match his, she was going to know him in the most intimate, carnal sense. Although there could never be a future for them, there was the present. If anyone was going to take her virginity, she wanted it to be the man she’d loved and wanted for years.
‘Oh, Max!’ she said into his throat as his arms closed tightly around her. ‘I’ve missed you.’
His voice—raw with unspoken hunger—filled her ears.
‘I’ve missed you too,’ he said, and then swore, and when she lifted a startled face he gave a taut, mirthless smile and set her gently aside.
Humiliated by her own stupidity—flinging herself into his arms, for heaven’s sake!—Rosa took refuge on the nearest lounger, sitting on it like a stool and folding her arms across her chest in a vain attempt to hide as much exposed golden skin as possible.
If only the furniture weren’t so obviously made for sprawling. Why, oh, why hadn’t she put on a shirt after her swim?
She flicked a glance at Max, who’d half turned away, no doubt giving her time to regain some composure.
‘We have to talk,’ he said in a level voice.
Chilled by the hard determination she glimpsed in his eyes, Rosa said as steadily as she could, ‘About what?’
‘First of all, there’s a security expert checking the villa to make sure it’s safe.’
‘Safe?’ Her voice rose on the word. ‘What could be safer than the villa?’