‘Can I come with you?’ Georgina asked.
‘Better not,’ Luka said. ‘Your dad will go mad. You’re not even supposed to be seeing me. And with your mum ill…She doesn’t need the stress of your dad in one of his moods.’
‘Dad’s just going to have to accept it,’ Georgina said, lifting her chin.
‘His daughter moving in with what he calls a “dirty bloody gyppo”?’ Luka shook his head. ‘Don’t push it, Georgie. You don’t break a horse by smashing its spirit. You get it to trust you and work with you as a partner, so you’re a team.’
‘And you think you can make Dad change his mind?’
‘It just takes time. Softly, softly. The more he gets to know me, the more he’ll realise that true Romanies aren’t thieves or liars or unclean—that he’s got the wrong idea.’
‘Dad never admits to being wrong.’
‘He will this time.’ Luka squeezed her hand. ‘I’m not going to kiss you. I don’t want you to get this. But everything’s going to be all right.’
The irony wasn’t lost on Dragan. It was the same situation as his own: Malcolm Somers, the owner of the riding stables, might just as well be the king of Contarini. Just like Melinda’s father, Malcolm Somers wasn’t going to want his daughter seeing someone he considered to be of inferior social status.
Whether Luka would be able to work a charm offensive on Malcolm and make the older man realise that there was no disgrace—that Luka was Georgina’s equal and would treat her with the love and respect she deserved—Dragan didn’t know. But he seriously doubted that he’d be able to do that with Melinda’s family. Which meant they’d cut her off. She’d be isolated from her family.
So he was going to have to do the right thing and let her go. Let her be what she was born to be: a princess.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DRAGAN wasn’t answering his phone. Melinda frowned. He’d probably left it at home while he took Bramble for a walk. Dio. She missed the dog pattering around. She missed holding Dragan’s hand while they strolled down to the cliffs. She missed Cornwall. And, oh, how she missed Dragan.
But soon she’d be home. And she couldn’t wait to see him. She quickly tapped in a message. On way home. Will call you from Newquay.
‘Your Highness, are you sure about this?’ the pilot asked when she boarded the small plane. ‘Your mother…’
She smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry. She’ll be angry with me, but I’ll make sure you won’t get into trouble. I just want to go home.’
The pilot gestured out towards the airfield. ‘Contarini is your home, Your Highness.’
She shook her head. ‘Not any more. Please, can we go?’
‘No, you jolly well can’t,’ a voice said from the doorway. ‘You’re supposed to say goodbye first.’
‘Rena! What are you doing here?’ Melinda asked, surprised to see her sister.
‘Just making sure you’re all right.’ Serena boarded the plane and sat next to her sister. ‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing? This isn’t…a…well…’
‘Fling?’ Melinda supplied.
The pilot withdrew to a discreet distance.
‘No.’ Melinda was very definite. ‘Dragan is the love of my life. For the first time I can ever remember, I belong somewhere. With him. And I want to be with him, Rena.’
‘Well, if his personality’s as gorgeous as his looks…’
‘It is,’ Melinda confirmed.
‘And he makes you happy?’
Melinda nodded. ‘Happier than I’ve ever been in my life.’
Serena hugged her. ‘Then follow your heart. I wish you both all the best. And I’m most definitely coming to the wedding—and I expect to be a bridesmaid—so you ring me as soon as you’ve sorted out a date.’
Melinda bit her lip. ‘I don’t think Mamma and Papà will be there.’ Her mother had expressly decreed that morning that there would be no wedding. And Melinda had finally snapped, telling her mother a few things she should have said years ago.
The ensuing row had practically blistered her ears.
They’d presented a united front at the funeral, for the sake of the media. But Viviana Fortesque had made it very clear that if Melinda went back to Cornwall it should only be to sort things out. ‘And then you will come back here, to your rightful place. You are next in line to the throne,’ she’d said coldly. ‘And you know your father needs to abdicate, to take things easier and leave the running of the kingdom to someone else. You cannot walk away from your duty.’
What about her duty to her patients, to her colleagues? Melinda refused to leave them in the lurch. And, most of all, she refused to leave Dragan. And she’d made that just as clear to her mother—who’d responded with the stoniest, iciest silence Melinda had ever encountered.
‘Mamma will calm down. In a week or so,’ Serena said. ‘Papà will talk her round, like he always does.’ She grinned. ‘Though I never thought I’d see the day you got the headlines above Raffi.’
‘It’s not funny, Rena. The timing was atrocious.’ And it had taken every ounce of backbone she’d had that morning, to face her mother’s fury as she’d banged the newspaper onto the table. ROYAL VET’S SECRET LOVER
‘Mamma would’ve had a fit whatever day she’d seen that headline,’ Serena said wryly. ‘Though yes, today was probably not the best of days for it to happen.’ She hugged her sister. ‘Be happy, Lini. And I’ll speak to you soon. Let me know you’ve arrived safely.’
‘I will. And thank you, Rena. For being there.’
‘It’s how families are supposed to be,’ Serena said softly. ‘How I wish ours had been when we were growing up. And how I hope yours will be now.’
So do I, Melinda thought. So do I.
The flight back to England seemed interminable. But finally they landed. As soon as she was through customs, she rang Dragan. And how good it was to hear his voice.
‘I’m in Newquay. I missed you so much, amore mio.’
‘Do you want me to come and pick you up?’
‘Better not—there are paparazzi everywhere.’ And she didn’t want her reunion with Dragan all over the front pages. She wanted that to be very, very private indeed. ‘Have they been bad to you?’
‘They’ve followed me everywhere. But I took your advice: I just smiled and said nothing.’
‘Good. We’ll draft a statement to the press and it will quieten down.’ She bit her lip. ‘Dragan, I’m so sorry it happened like this.’
‘You can’t change the past.’
He sounded calm, but she could hear the hurt seeping through his stoicism. ‘I’m still sorry. Because I never meant to hurt you.’ She paused. ‘I’ll sneak into yours the back way, yes?’
‘Won’t they follow you?’
‘Believe me, I’ve had a lot of practice in avoiding them,’ she said dryly. ‘I could have a PhD in it by now.’
‘I’ll leave the French doors unlocked.’
‘Thank you.’ She paused. ‘Dragan? Volim te.’
‘I’ll see you soon.’
Hell, hell, hell. If he wasn’t responding when she used his own language…this was going to be hard. Knowing Dragan, he was still thinking about her duty and he was putting distance between them to make it easy for her to go back to Contarini.
But that wasn’t what she wanted.
She’d fight for her man.
Because he was worth it.
The drive back from the airport dragged on and on and on. But finally the taxi drove into Penhally—and how good it was to see the bay spreading out in front of her. Home.
The driver dropped her by the Higher Bridge; she knew that the paparazzi, even if they had information that she was on her way back, would be camped outside the veterinary surgery and she would be shielded from their view by the houses in Gull Close. Any other photographers would be stationed at the front of Fisherman’s Row; they wouldn’t expect her to cut round the back of the houses in Bridge Street and through the little alley at the back of Dragan�
��s house.
She could see him sitting at the table in front of the French doors, reading some medical journal or other. And just the sight of him made her catch her breath. She tapped softly on the glass, then opened the door, locked it behind her and closed the curtains. Just in case.
And then she was in his arms. Holding him so tightly, as if she’d never let him go again.
She had no intention of ever letting him go again.
‘Volim te. I’ve missed you so much.’ She reached up to draw his head down to hers, brushed her mouth against his.
She could feel a reserve there—well, he’d learned the truth about her in the worst possible way, so of course he’d be hurt and wouldn’t quite be sure of her—but please, please, just let him kiss her back. Let him give her the chance to show him exactly how she felt. Skin to skin, body to body, no barriers between them. Let her tell him without words how much she loved him, make him believe the truth: that she was completely his and nothing was ever, ever going to change that.
She pulled back slightly to look into his face. His dark eyes were unreadable. ‘Dragan?’
‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ He untangled himself from her arms.
The kettle? She hadn’t seen him for days, he hadn’t kissed her back, and he was talking about making a cup of coffee?
This wasn’t the man she’d left in Penhally.
And she wanted her man back. Right now.
She followed him to the kitchen and, after checking that the blinds were drawn, slid her arms round his waist and rested her cheek against his back. ‘I’ve missed you, zlato.’
Gently, he prised her arms away.
‘Dragan? What is it?’
He turned round to face her, leaning back against the kitchen worktop. ‘I can’t do this.’
‘Can’t do what?’ Ice began to trickle down her spine.
‘You and me. I…don’t think this is a good idea.’
She stared at him. ‘But…only a few days ago you asked me to marry you.’
‘I asked our local vet to marry me,’ he corrected her. ‘But you’re Princess Melinda. A stranger. I don’t even know what I should be calling you. Your Majesty? Ma’am? Your Royal Highness?’
‘Ma’am and Majesty are for queens. And don’t you dare start on that “Highness” rubbish. It’s an accident of birth that my parents are who they are. I’m just Melinda. The same as you’ve always called me.’ She dragged in a breath. ‘I haven’t changed, Dragan.’
‘Yes, you have,’ he corrected quietly. ‘Because I don’t know you at all. The woman I asked to marry me—I thought I knew her. But I was wrong. You’re a princess.’
‘I’m sorry. I know I should have told you the truth about me, a long time ago. I should have prepared you properly for what it would be like, not left you to the mercy of the paparazzi. I just didn’t think they’d be here so soon. Stupid of me.’ She shook her head. ‘I just want to be like any other woman. I want to marry the man I love. Work among people I care about. Be myself.’
‘But you have duties, Melinda. Responsibilities.’
Now, this she’d expected. She’d prepared her arguments. ‘I’ve talked to my parents about this. I’m not going to be queen. This stuff with the paparazzi—it’ll last a few more days, maybe, and then it will all go away and we can get on with our lives as normal.’
‘But what’s normal?’ he asked.
‘You and me. Penhally. Seeing patients. Matching up our call lists so we can grab half an hour to ourselves at lunchtime.’ She shook her head. ‘Dragan—look, I know I hurt you and I’m sorry for that. I know I was wrong not to trust you with everything—but it isn’t you. It’s my own stupid fault, for being too scared that you’d walk away if you knew who I was, for letting my fears blind me to the kind of man you are. I didn’t want to lose you—I don’t want to lose you.’ She gritted her teeth. ‘I hate this royal stuff. I always have. When I was younger, it was like growing up in a fishbowl. I couldn’t open my mouth or do anything without people analysing what I did or said—and most of the time they put completely the wrong interpretation on it. Every mistake I made, the press blew it way out of proportion. I couldn’t do anything like a normal person, and the paparazzi were there every minute of every day, telephoto lenses poking into my life.’
Dragan could understand that. He’d had a taste of that the past few days.
‘Everything I did was in the public eye,’ Melinda continued. ‘And my days were one long round of protocol, protocol, protocol. Even when I knew someone was a devious, lying snake and I wouldn’t trust them a millimetre, I had to be gracious to them at official receptions or it would turn into a diplomatic incident and undo years and years of work.’ She shook her head. ‘No, it’s not a fishbowl, it’s a straitjacket. I loathe politics and all the politeness and the lies and the spin and the protocols. That’s not the world where I want to be.’
But it was the world she’d been born into.
‘I can’t live in your world, Melinda.’
‘My world is your world,’ she said softly.
‘How? I’m the village doctor here in Penhally and you’re a princess—the heir to the throne of a Mediterranean island.’
‘I haven’t called myself “princess” in years.’
‘That doesn’t stop you being one.’
‘I’ve never felt like a princess, Dragan.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You told me about your family…now let me tell you about mine. You want to know the truth, why I don’t talk about my past? Because I was unhappy, and I don’t want to dwell on all that misery.’
Her eyes were sparkling with anger and pain, and he could tell just how strongly she felt because her accent had deepened. ‘My parents were always distant, too busy with affairs of state to see what was happening with their children. My brother Raffi was left to grow up like a wild child. When he was just fifteen, he was photographed by the paparazzi in a bar, drinking alcohol, despite being way under the legal age limit. It snowballed from there. He followed our Uncle Benito—my father’s younger brother—in being a playboy, except Benito at least worked hard to balance it out. Raffi…well, he just laughed and said it didn’t matter, because he was the heir to the throne and the favourite and he’d do whatever he liked.’ She spread her hands. ‘He had no self-discipline, no thought for others. Which was why he ended up wrapping his car round a tree last week. Thank God he was the only one involved and didn’t hurt anyone else.’ She shuddered. ‘I think that’s why my father didn’t suggest abdicating before—because he knew Raffi was too young and irresponsible to make a good king.’
Dragan looked at her. ‘You’re the heir to the throne now. And you have the self-discipline your brother lacked.’ Studying for a degree in veterinary sciences wasn’t an easy option, and doing it in her second language would have made it even harder.
‘But I don’t have the rest of the princessy accomplishments. I was never the elegant young debutante who was happy with her ballet lessons and piano lessons and deportment and whatever else a princess is supposed to learn—the only thing I enjoyed out of that lot was riding, and that was only because I could escape to the stables and could learn how to look after the horses. The number of times my mother dragged me out and told me that I shouldn’t be playing around in all the mess—how I should act like a princess instead of having straw in my hair like a stablehand. And I couldn’t do it. I never fitted in.’ She sighed. ‘You know, most girls spend their time dreaming they’re princesses in disguise—like the princess and the pauper. For me it was the other way round. I wanted to be the ordinary girl, not the princess.’
That was what she’d been when she’d met him. An ordinary girl. The newcomer to the village—a stranger in a strange land, like himself.
But all the time she’d been playing a part. Pretending to be someone she wasn’t.
Was she playing a part now? He couldn’t help wondering.
‘You’re not an ordinary girl. You’re Princess Melinda of Contarini.�
��
‘I’m Melinda Fortesque, MRCVS. Soon to be Melinda Lovak.’ She paused. ‘Unless you’ve changed your mind.’
It was breaking his heart to do this, but he had to do the right thing. Families were important, and he couldn’t let her cut herself off from hers. ‘It can’t happen. I don’t fit into your world—and you know it, or you would have asked me to go with you.’
‘You think I asked you to stay because I was ashamed of you?’ She shook her head. ‘Far from it. I’m proud of you. But you have to understand, my mother is a cross between Queen Victoria and Attila the Hun. She’s a terrible snob. I didn’t want her being rude to you and hurting you.’
‘Your parents are never going to accept me,’ he pointed out softly. Just as Georgina’s parents would never accept Luka. Different class, different culture.
‘They will.’
Typical Melinda. Stubborn. But for her own sake he had to make her face the truth. ‘So how did they react to that newspaper story?’ he asked.
‘Not well,’ she admitted.
‘Exactly. No way will they let you marry a commoner.’
‘I don’t want to marry some prince or other they’ve chosen for me. I want you,’ she said.
‘The papers brought out all the stuff about me being a refugee.’
She spread her hands. ‘So? Dragan, it wasn’t your fault there was a war. And you have nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing! You had a horrible time that wasn’t of your making, but you came through it. You’ve worked hard and you’ve made something of yourself. You haven’t just taken and taken—you’ve given back. You’re a good man. And that’s exactly what I told my mother. That you’re kind and compassionate, that you’re a brilliant doctor, that you’re clever—for goodness’ sake, you were going to study law and you speak more languages than I do! I told her that every day is better for me now when I wake up because I know you’ll be there. I love you, Dragan.’
Brides of Penhally Bay - Vol 2 Page 9