Marrying the Rebel Prince

by Janet Gover

  ‘Nick?’ She took his hands in hers. He didn’t seem to hear her, but his fingers closed around hers, grasping them so tightly she almost cried out. ‘Should I call someone? A doctor?’

  He shook his head slowly. His ragged breathing began to slow until at last his eyes focused on her face.

  ‘Lauren …’

  The pain in his voice almost broke her heart.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  He nodded. ‘Just … just give me a minute.’

  She would give him forever, if that was what he needed.

  When his painful grip on her fingers lessened, she eased herself free and fetched some water for him. He drank gratefully, and when he looked back at her, she was relieved to see the man she knew was back.

  ‘Last year, when I was still serving in the military, my unit was escorting a refugee convoy towards a UN camp near the Jordanian border. There was an airstrike. They said later it was a mistake, but it was too late by then. The bombs … Most of the victims were refugees. Women and children mostly. Innocents. And five of my men died. I was their officer. I was supposed to protect them and I couldn’t.’

  ‘Nick …’

  ‘They hushed it up of course. Bad politics. I was sent home. I might only be the spare heir … but that was too close. Then there are moments like this … when I lose control. The doctors call it PTSD. All I know is that when I saw those scenes in London, it all came back. I saw my mother as one of those women. My brother …’

  There were no words; she could only hold his hands and hope he understood that she cared.

  Nicolas took a deep breath. ‘So now I have to go back to the capital. The Prime Minister will be making a speech. I need to as well. And I can monitor the situation from there.’

  ‘You won’t be going to London?’

  ‘No. I’m no longer a spare heir. I might be the only heir. They won’t let me board a flight to London.’

  ‘That’s not fair. You should be with them.’

  ‘It’s my job. I’m so sorry you got caught up in all this. It’s not what you signed up for.’

  ‘I’ll get my things.’

  ‘You don’t have to come. You could stay here and work on the portrait.’

  Lauren shook her head. ‘I’m coming. That’s … if you want me to.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then I’m coming. I’ll be there if you need me. Or if you just want someone to be with.’

  A discreet knock heralded the appearance of Courtauld. ‘Sir. The helicopter is waiting.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Nick took Lauren’s face in both his hands. He tilted her head forward ever so slightly and gently kissed her forehead. ‘I have to go now. Come soon.’

  He turned and walked out of the room without looking back.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lauren sat in the armchair, staring at the TV. The images on the screen were the same ones she’d seen a dozen, a hundred times since last night. Each time the news channel flagged breaking news, she hoped it would be about Queen Charlotte and her eldest son. It wasn’t. So many countries had been affected by the blast, the royal family of a small kingdom garnered little airtime from the international media.

  She reached for the remote control, to tune to a local channel.

  ‘… the arrest of several men. Police say the men have been taken for questioning, but have refused to release further details.’ It was the same information she’d already heard.

  A screen behind the news anchor showed a still picture of the hotel looking even more shocking in daylight than it had last night. The front terrace had been reduced to rubble and the elegant white marble facade was blackened with soot. It looked like a war zone, and Lauren realised that, in many ways, it was. She was beginning to have a faint understanding of what military service meant to people who wore the uniform. To people like Nicolas.

  ‘Police have, however, confirmed that the bombing has so far claimed two lives. A security officer with the Special Forces Unit, who was part of the protection detail assigned to the heads of government meeting, and a waiter, aged twenty-two, who was serving refreshments on the terrace when the blast occurred.’

  The picture changed to show the face of a man. He was young, short-haired and laughing into the camera. As the newsreader continued to talk, Lauren studied the face of the man who had simply been doing his job – and had died for it. She shivered, as if someone had walked over her grave. She didn’t know this man. But he could just as easily have been one of her friends. Her mother had once worked as a waitress and so had Maria. If could have been any one of them. Or it could have been Nicolas.

  The thought sent an icy shaft of fear through her heart. Lauren ran her hands through her hair. This was a side of royal life she had never even considered. All those times she had railed against the world of wealth and privilege, she had never considered there was another side. A side that very few people saw. She was seeing it now, and it seemed a very high price to pay.

  The news report had moved on to the conditions of the injured.

  ‘Queen Charlotte’s condition is reported to be improving after surgery last night. Her son, the Crown Prince Edouard, is still being treated in the intensive care unit. His condition is listed as serious.’

  Serious. Last night, the word was critical. Did that mean he was improving? For the millionth time that day, Lauren wished Nicolas were with her.

  ‘His Royal Highness, Prince Nicolas, will be making a statement shortly. We will be bringing that to you live here as part of our continuing coverage of these shocking events.’

  ‘Excuse me, Miss Phelps.’

  Lauren jumped and spun around. A middle-aged woman was standing in the open doorway, her face creased with concern.

  ‘Sorry, Miss Phelps. I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  ‘No. No. That’s fine.’

  ‘I was just wondering, Miss Phelps, if you needed anything.’

  ‘Ah, no. Well, yes. I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are.’

  ‘My name is Ruth Mayer.’ The woman seemed completely unconcerned by Lauren’s admission. ‘His Royal Highness asked me to ensure that your stay here in the palace was comfortable. That you had everything you needed.’

  ‘That’s kind. Thank you.’

  Ruth Mayer had an open, friendly face. Her hair was liberally flecked with grey and she wore very little make-up. A housekeeper, Lauren assumed, although she didn’t know how to ask without seeming rude.

  ‘You haven’t had anything to eat. Would you like me to bring you something?’

  Lauren was about to decline the offer, then realised that she was hungry. And she would kill for coffee.

  ‘Please. I would love some coffee. Perhaps a sandwich, or some fruit or something light. If it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘It’s no trouble at all, Miss Phelps.’

  Lauren turned back to the television.

  * * *

  Nicolas waited for the red light to tell him the camera was live. His eyes wandered over the screen where the words he was to speak would scroll in front of him. Somewhere in the darkness behind the glare of the lights, Leo Falconer would monitor his every word. If he deviated from the speech that the press secretary had spent hours preparing, those deviations would be noted for inclusion in the subsequent press release. Not that he would deviate, of course. This statement was too important. This was not the time to be anything other than what he had been trained to be.

  Nicolas wondered if Lauren was watching. She had arrived in the palace that morning, and he’d tried to find the time to see her before doing this speech, but every time he’d thought of slipping away for a few minutes, someone had interrupted with a more important call on his time.

  The speech had to be read and rehearsed. He had spoken to the Prime Minister and the ambassadors of several countries. He had received reports from the security services here and in London. No one seemed to take account of the fact that as well as being a prince, he was als
o a man with an injured mother and brother, who would much rather have been in London with those he loved. Or alone, to deal with his feelings of anger and fear. Or in some quiet place with the one person who seemed able to calm him when he was troubled.

  The red light blinked on. Nicolas didn’t need the production manager’s cue.

  ‘Good afternoon.’

  The words began to scroll up the screen.

  ‘Last night’s events in London have left us all shocked and saddened. Her Majesty and the Crown Prince are receiving the best medical attention. Her … my mother is awake and resting after her surgery and I am planning to speak to her shortly. My brother’s condition is improving, although he remains seriously ill. I hope to have news very soon about when they might be coming back home.’

  Nicolas bit back the lump in his throat and continued.

  ‘The Prime Minister will be making a statement regarding the police investigation into the attack later today. However, be assured that the British authorities are sparing no efforts in their investigation into the incident, and will be keeping our own police fully informed.’

  Nicolas’s voice faltered. This wasn’t right. He hated speaking the formal platitudes, and he was sure the people at home hated hearing them. Formality and protocol were not needed now. This was one of those occasions that demanded something more of the royal family. Demanded more of him.

  ‘I know you are all horrified by what has happened.’

  The autocue screen stopped moving as Nicolas ignored the text and spoke from the heart.

  ‘I’m sure that you’re angry. I know that I am. But my mother would ask you … ask all of us … to put that anger aside. Anger and hatred cause violence, and we have seen far too much of that. We need tolerance and understanding. We need to let the police in London do their work. In that way justice will be served. There is nothing to gain and much to lose in seeking retribution or revenge.

  ‘My heart goes out to the family of the two young men who lost their lives. My prayers are with them, as I’m sure are yours. Our thoughts are with all those injured in this attack.

  ‘When my mother went to London to attend this summit, her only desire was to promote friendship and brotherhood between neighbours. In your response to this incident – in everything you say and do – please let her know that she has not failed.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Nicolas looked at the camera lens for a few seconds more, then lowered his gaze to his hands on the desk in front of him. He barely heard the production manager’s voice as he announced that the transmission was over.

  ‘Ah … Sir. Excuse me. The mic …’

  Nicolas looked up at the harried technician. ‘Of course.’

  He forced himself to sit still while the man unclipped the almost invisible microphone from the lapel of his suit. As soon as possible he was on his feet and moving away from the bustle of men and equipment. Leo Falconer followed him.

  ‘Sir, your deviation from the prepared text … it was … very good. Sincere. I’ll have an official release of the full text on the news wires within a few minutes.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Falconer nodded and began to escort the technicians out of the room. A few moments later, Nicolas was alone. He collapsed onto the sofa, and ran his hands over his face. When the gentle knock came on his door, his heart leaped. Lauren!

  ‘Come in.’

  Courtauld appeared. He looked both relieved and suddenly exhausted. He held a phone.

  ‘Your mother.’

  Nicolas grabbed the phone and held it to his ear.

  ‘Nicolas?’

  ‘Mother. It’s such a relief to talk to you at last. How are you?’

  ‘I’m all right. I don’t feel too much pain, but I suspect the drugs are helping with that.’

  ‘Then keep taking them. What about Ed?’

  Nicolas almost held his breath, dreading the answer.

  ‘He regained consciousness about twenty minutes ago.’ The relief in the Queen’s voice was palpable. ‘The doctors say he is out of danger. It’s going to take some time, but he will recover.’

  Someone lifted the weight of the world off Nicolas’s shoulders. ‘Thank God for that. Tell him from me that he’d better get well soon. Then he can have his job back.’

  He was rewarded with a soft chuckle from the other end of the phone. ‘That was a good speech. Particularly the last part.’

  ‘I’m glad you liked it.’ As he spoke the words, Nicolas realised that he genuinely was pleased.

  ‘It was much better than the one the Prime Minister will be giving this afternoon.’

  Nicolas smiled. His mother didn’t particularly like her current prime minister. Although she was always careful to avoid involvement in the political process, she privately hoped the next election would see someone else in that chair.

  ‘How much longer are you staying there?’

  ‘I want to come home now, but they tell me I can’t.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. You’ve been through quite an ordeal. Maybe this time you should take orders. Rest, Mother. I can look after things until you get back.’

  ‘I’m sure you can.’ Queen Charlotte paused for a few seconds, as if listening to someone in the room with her. ‘I have to go. The doctor is back.’

  ‘Well, you take notice of what he says,’ Nicolas admonished his mother. ‘I’ll talk to you soon.’

  ‘Goodbye, Nick.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mother. I love you.’

  Nicolas hung up the phone, wondering at his last words. Of course he loved his mother, but it was a long time since he’d said the words out loud. Was it simply a reaction to the terrible fear he’d had for her safety? Or was there some fundamental change in him? If it was the latter, he knew who had caused it.

  * * *

  When Nicolas walked into the room, Lauren leaped to her feet. Without a thought to the figure still standing behind him in the open doorway, she rushed to Nick and flung her arms around him. The strength of his response as he pulled her tightly against his chest was almost overwhelming. By the time they broke apart, they were alone.

  ‘I spoke to my mother.’

  ‘How is she? And your brother?’

  ‘Ed’s regained consciousness. The doctors say he’ll be fine.’

  Tears of relief pricked Lauren’s eyes for the man she had never even met.

  ‘I’m worried about Mother. She sounded terribly tired. Frail. I’ve never thought of my mother as frail before.’

  ‘Is she staying in London to recover?’

  ‘She wants to come home. My mother is a very determined woman. I think she’ll be home earlier than the doctors want her to be. She said she liked my speech.’ He sounded almost like a small boy boasting about his homework.

  ‘I loved your speech. Did Leo Falconer write it?’

  ‘He did write a speech, and I did read some of it. Most of the words were mine.’

  ‘They were good words. Especially the ones about tolerance and understanding,’ Lauren said. ‘I’ll bet Falconer is almost as annoyed at you as he is at me.’

  ‘No. He’s not allowed to be annoyed at me.’ The tone of his voice made it a joke.

  Lauren chuckled. ‘What does a girl have to do to get to that place?’

  ‘It comes with the job,’ Nicolas replied. ‘I was born with it. In your case, you’d have to marry into it.’

  The sudden silence was deafening. That was a joke too, Lauren told herself. Now would be a good time to change the subject.

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘I’ll mind the shop until my mother returns. I suspect she’ll come first and Ed may need to stay in hospital a bit longer. I’m going to be busy. I won’t have much time …’

  ‘Do you want me to leave?’

  ‘No. I need … I need someone here with whom I can relax. Who won’t judge me or call me a coward if my hand starts to shake. Someone who understands …’

  The words were like a warm blanket env
eloping her and softening the ugliness of the events they had faced together. ‘I’ll stay as long as you need me.’

  She stayed for three days. She and Nick had a few stolen minutes each day to be together, and one evening they spent watching films in the palace’s viewing room. They were seldom alone for more than a few minutes, but Lauren took pleasure from seeing how the lines faded on Nick’s face whenever he was with her.

  She spent her time calling her mother and her friends, assuring them she was fine. She talked to Maria about her salon. She cheered quietly when Josef told her that Else was perhaps ready to leave her drunken husband. And she longed to get back to her portrait. She knew how to paint him now.

  * * *

  The camera followed the jet as it moved smoothly down the taxiway. The lead car guided the aircraft to a place slightly away from the main terminal. As a stairway was wheeled into position, the camera panned down to the group of people waiting on the tarmac. As it zoomed in, Lauren leaned forward, trying to get a better look at Nicolas.

  There he was. Even with his back to the camera, she would recognise him anywhere. He was surrounded by officials, including the Prime Minister. She thought she recognised the archbishop she had met at the palace reception. That fairy-tale evening now seemed a lifetime ago.

  Lauren reached for the cup of coffee on the table beside the sofa. She was back in the small sitting room from where she had watched Nicolas’s speech three days before. The maid had brought her a late lunch of a sandwich and coffee. The sandwich lay untouched on the tray. Lauren’s attention was solely on the scene unfolding in front of her. The Queen’s arrival had been scheduled for two o’clock, and the plane was right on time.

  The stairs were in place and the aircraft doors opened. Before anyone else could move, Nicolas almost ran up the stairs and disappeared inside the aircraft. His reunion with his injured mother would be held away from the prying lens of the camera.

  ‘That’s good,’ Lauren told the empty room. ‘They need the time alone.’

  As the camera remained centred on the aircraft doorway, the television commentators chatted on to fill the empty space. They gave updates on Prince Edouard’s recovery, noting that he too was expected home within a few days. They talked about the charges laid by London police against the bombers. They read from the statements by the Prime Minister, by Queen Charlotte’s doctors and even quoted Prince Nicolas’s speech. Lauren barely heard a word of it.