Marrying the Rebel Prince

by Janet Gover

  At last, figures appeared in the doorway. Queen Charlotte stepped into the sunlight. She was impeccably presented, as always. Her dress was light blue, but she wore no hat. The camera zoomed closer to show her face. Lauren thought she looked tired, but that was to be expected. Her arm was in a sling.

  She paused for a few seconds, as if to muster her resources to walk down the stairs. Before she did, Nicolas appeared at her side and offered her his arm. With one hand clutching the stair rail and her son’s hand on the elbow of her injured arm, Queen Charlotte descended the stairs, slowly and with infinite care.

  The descent seemed to take a long time. At the bottom of the stairs, the Queen paused to shake hands with the Prime Minister, and speak to the Archbishop. She waved briefly at a small group of well-wishers and airport staff who had gathered behind the security barriers. Then she got into the limousine that stood waiting, disappearing behind the tinted windows. Nicolas followed her.

  As the royal vehicle moved away, several police and security cars slid into place on either side of it. The other dignitaries moved towards their own waiting transport.

  Lauren sighed. The event had been a seamless exercise in public relations, but she was beginning to know better. She had seen the tension in Nicolas. Seen the small frown of weariness or pain on his mother’s face. The television screen changed back to the faces of the commentators, then just as quickly back to slow motion replays of the scene she had just witnessed. She was about to turn it off when a phrase caught her attention.

  ‘… in the cathedral a week from today. The Archbishop will conduct the service of thanksgiving. It is hoped Prince Edouard will have returned and will attend with his mother and brother.’

  The limousine had vanished, and Lauren turned the television off. She’d had more than enough television during the past few days. Once more her fingers itched to be painting, but all her equipment was still at the hunting lodge. Instead, she picked up the phone. Watching Nicolas with Queen Charlotte had made her long to talk to her own mother.

  * * *

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ The operator’s voice seemed unusually loud in his ear. ‘The extension is still engaged. I will keep trying and ring you back.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Nicolas dropped the phone back into its cradle with a harsh clatter that seemed to echo his own impatience.

  ‘She’s still engaged?’

  ‘Yes she is.’ Nicolas flung himself down in an armchair and looked across at his mother. ‘I don’t know who she could be talking to for so long.’

  ‘Nicolas! Stop pouting.’ Queen Charlotte smiled to take the sting off her words. ‘She is a grown woman who had a life of her own before she met you. She is allowed to make a phone call.’

  Nicolas glanced sharply at his mother, and then grinned. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Queen Charlotte was lying on a chaise longue that was at least a century or more older than its occupant. Nicolas thought she looked a little tired but remarkably well considering the ordeal she had been through. Nicolas was trying, unsuccessfully, to talk his mother into going to bed for a proper rest.

  ‘I’m not the one who deserves an apology,’ she said. ‘In fact, I quite enjoy seeing my son at the mercy of a woman. It’s usually the other way around. The more I know about Lauren, the more I like her. And I suspect you feel exactly the same way.’ Queen Charlotte raised one carefully groomed eyebrow.

  Nicolas was spared the need to answer by the ringing of the telephone. He reached for it like a drowning man snatching a life preserver.

  ‘One moment, sir.’ Nicolas heard a phone ring once, twice then …

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Lauren.’

  ‘Nick!’ Lauren sounded very pleased to hear his voice.

  ‘I’ve been trying to call you for a while, but the line was engaged.’

  ‘I was talking to my mother.’

  Nicolas felt a moment of shame at his jealousy.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Fine. But more importantly, how is your mother? I saw the arrivals on television,’ Lauren continued without giving him time to answer. ‘Your mother looked tired.’

  ‘She is a little tired.’ Nicolas looked across at the subject of the discussion, who simply held out her hand. ‘But she insists on talking to you before she has a rest.’

  ‘To me?’ Lauren was obviously shocked. ‘Why does she want to talk to me?’

  ‘I suggest you ask her. Hold on.’ Nicolas handed the receiver to his mother.

  ‘Lauren, my dear.’

  Queen Charlotte listened to Lauren speaking for a few seconds. ‘Thank you. Nicolas told me you were both at the estate when it happened.’

  The Queen listened again, this time for a slightly longer time. Nicolas got to his feet and walked to the window. He hated hearing only his mother’s side of the conversation.

  ‘I’m glad you were with him when the news came, Lauren. I’m glad he wasn’t alone.’ His mother’s voice, although soft, carried clearly to him.

  He was glad too. He had been unaware how much strength and comfort he could take from another person, until the moment Lauren put her arms around him.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m going to take him away from you for a few days now. I want to spend some time with him. But I will send him back to you soon,’ his mother said behind him. ‘After the service next week.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Thank you. Goodbye, Lauren.’

  Nicolas turned back, his hand extended to take the phone. He stopped when he saw his mother place the device back in its cradle.

  ‘You can talk to her later,’ Queen Charlotte said. ‘Now, I think I will take a short nap, after all.’

  ‘Let me help you, Mother.’ Concern overruled his desire to ask what his mother and Lauren had talked about. He crossed quickly to the chaise and took his mother’s hand as she slowly got to her feet.

  ‘Thank you, son. Walk with me. She’ll still be here when you get back.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nicolas took the steps two at a time, his ceremonial sword clasped in his hand. He was already undoing the stiff collar of the red military jacket as he walked through the door of his suite.

  ‘Courtauld!’

  He need not have yelled. His aide was already there, his hand outstretched to take the jewelled sword.

  ‘Please have my car brought round.’ Nicolas walked through the study towards his bedroom. ‘I shall be driving myself.’

  ‘It’s waiting, sir. And I have taken the liberty of packing a few things.’ Courtauld walked two steps behind him, ready to take custody of the jacket, with its array of medals and ribbons. A leather bag, already packed, was sitting on the trunk at the end of the bed.

  Nicolas stopped. Was it that obvious what he was about to do? Of course it was, and he really didn’t care. ‘Thank you, Courtauld,’ he said.

  Courtauld didn’t reply. He simply continued picking up after his prince, as Nicolas divested himself of his uniform and changed into casual slacks and shirt.

  ‘I shan’t need you to accompany me,’ Nicolas added. ‘Please take care of any appointments for the next few days.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Nicolas reached for the leather bag, knowing it would scandalise his aide that the prince should carry his own luggage. He was out the door, once more touching only every second step as he made his escape. A dark sedan was parked at the foot of the steps. Thomas Lawry was leaning against the driver’s door, his arms folded and a firm expression on his face.

  ‘Not this time, Thomas,’ Nicolas said. ‘I’m going to the lodge and I shan’t need you.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but you aren’t going anywhere without me.’

  ‘Thomas.’ Nicolas dropped the bag onto the gravel near the rear of the car. ‘Are we going to argue about this?’

  ‘No, sir. We are not. After recent incidents, I am coming, and that is the end of it.’ The bodyguard’s voice was a symphony in determination.

  ‘But, Thomas
, this isn’t London. I shall be perfectly safe.’

  ‘Yes, sir, you will. I’ll see to that.’

  Nicolas could have strangled him. Would he never get on the road? The service this morning had lasted more than an hour. He suspected it would have been longer, but organisers had been concerned for his mother and brother. Queen Charlotte had improved during the week she’d been home. Nicolas had rarely left her side, and had taken as much of her load as he could.

  His brother had flown back two days ago. He was still very weak, but had insisted on being part of the service. He’d walked with his family down the aisle of the cathedral, although had avoided the reception that followed. Queen Charlotte had remained at the reception only for a short time, before returning to her rooms. Nicolas had played the role of host. But at last his formal duties were over, and he could return to the country estate, where Lauren had been this past week, working on his portrait. The problem was that now his bodyguard was standing in his way.

  ‘Sir,’ Thomas said, ‘I know where you are going. And I think I know why. I shall accompany you, and you can rely on me to be … discreet.’

  He could. Thomas Lawry was more than a bodyguard. He knew more about Nicolas than almost anyone. The suggestion that he was a friend would have shocked the sergeant, but it wasn’t far from the truth.

  ‘All right, Thomas. But I’m driving.’

  ‘No, sir. I am.’ Thomas moved to the back of the car and, taking the keys from his pocket, he lifted the boot and dropped Nicolas’s bag inside.

  Short of grappling for the keys, there was nothing Nicolas could do. He moved to the passenger-side door. Thomas was there ahead of him and held it open. Nicolas got inside.

  * * *

  Lauren stood looking at the painting. After a solid week of little sleep and almost non-stop work, the portrait was complete. It was good. Very, very good. The best thing she had ever done. She could submit it to the curator of the royal collection with pride. The painting was worth hanging on the walls of the palace, deserving of a place in the portrait gallery, rather than being consigned to some back corridor with paintings considered not quite good enough for display. It might even hang near the lovely portrait of the Princess Sophia – who had loved and been loved by the artist who painted her.

  Now she had to let go. Walking away was always the hardest thing for her to do, and in this case it was harder than ever before. This time she was leaving not just her painting, but also the subject. In such a short time, Nick had filled her life – with joy and anger and fear and emotions so strong they sometimes frightened her. Without him her life would seem empty. Deep in her heart a tiny hope flickered, but she would not acknowledge it. That was for fairy tales. She had lived her Cinderella moment and it was a memory she would always treasure. This wasn’t her world. That fact had been proven to her over and over again. Now she must return to reality.

  Lauren put down her brush and palette. She wiped her hands on a cloth and turned away from the painting. Long before the oil was properly dry, she would be gone.

  She closed the studio door behind her and looked around. With her task complete, she had no purpose here. Nothing to do. No reason to stay. Nor could she just leave. For a start, she had no transport; more importantly, though, she had told Nicolas she would stay. She would not break her word. Nor could she leave without seeing him one more time, even if it was just to say goodbye.

  In the meantime, she needed to restore herself. Her heart and soul had gone into that painting and she felt utterly drained. She needed peace and solitude to find herself again. She needed to breathe crisp air free of the taint of paint and varnish. She needed to be surrounded by living things.

  Lauren found her way to a door that opened onto the gardens. To her left, manicured lawns and brilliant flower beds lined smooth paths, with benches offering rest. That wasn’t what she wanted. Instead she turned towards a long sweep of lawn that led down to a copse of deep green trees. She would be sheltered from prying eyes under those protective branches, and there might even be a stream.

  She walked quickly across the lawn. The sun shone brightly above, the blue arc of the sky broken here and there by clouds. They looked like storm clouds, which might explain the strange electric feeling in the air. Or perhaps it was her. Lauren felt unable to contain the energy stirring in her limbs. The sward in front of her was too inviting, and she started to run, revelling in the exertion. Faster and faster she went, her sneakers flying across the grass. She opened her mouth, taking great gulps of the crisp air, free of city smog and dust.

  Almost at the trees, Lauren slowed to a walk and halted just before stepping into their shadow. She turned her face to the sun, her eyes shut tight, and flung her arms wide, as if welcoming the sun’s rays, shaking her head to feel the air moving against her skin. Then she stepped into the welcoming shade.

  * * *

  ‘Stop the car.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Just stop the car,’ Nicolas ordered.

  The big sedan slid quickly to a stop. Sergeant Lawry looked about in time to catch a glimpse of a slight figure disappearing under the trees. Nicolas was already out of the car.

  ‘Sir …’ Lawry was also on his feet, moving as if to stop the prince.

  ‘No. Thomas. This time I am going alone.’

  The bodyguard stopped. After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded. Nicolas didn’t wait to see if Lawry got back in the car; he was already running across the lawn, his eyes fixed on the place where Lauren had vanished. He knew without conscious thought that Lawry would alert the lodge security services. But that didn’t matter. All he wanted was to be with Lauren.

  By the time Nicolas reached the trees, Lauren had vanished into the cool darkness. He recognised this place. He and Edouard had played in the grove as children, but he hadn’t been here for some years. There was a path ahead, faint and slightly overgrown. Nicolas followed it, as he knew Lauren would have. He didn’t hurry. There was no need to hurry. She was just ahead of him. He wouldn’t lose her. Not now.

  He found her in the clearing at the far edge of the copse, where a high stone wall marked the boundary of his sanctuary. She had slipped off her running shoes, and stood barefoot in the glade, her toes curling into the green softness of the moss and grass. The sun was shining on her upturned face, and a gentle wind lifted her hair in a shining multi-coloured halo.

  Nicolas stopped in the shadow of a tree, spellbound. She was a wild spirit. A forest nymph and the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

  As he watched, a sharp gust of wind raced through the glade. The sun vanished as a jolt of lightning lit the treetops. A second later came the low, thunderous rumble of the approaching storm. The wind grabbed Lauren’s white shirt, pulling it tight around her body as she faced the elements, her arms spread wide in welcome. Her eyes tightly closed, she raised her face as the first soft drops of rain fell. Her laughter echoed among the trees as she opened her mouth to taste the sparkling drops.

  Nicolas stepped out of the shadows.

  ‘Lauren.’

  The word was little more than a whisper, but she heard him. She opened her eyes and turned to face him, showing no surprise that he should be there.

  * * *

  In a few strides he was standing in front of her. The wind whipped around them, cocooning them in a world entirely their own. He reached out one hand to run his fingers through the brilliantly coloured strands of her hair as they danced in the wind. The light rain was still falling, the first drops now running down his cheek. Lauren ran a fingertip along his strong jaw, catching the drops of water. As she did, he turned his face, his lips closing around her fingertip to taste the moisture there.

  He reached up to clasp her wrist, turning her hand to run his lips and the tip of his tongue over the soft skin of her palm. She slid her hand down his neck and onto his chest. Her hand hovered over his heart as if to feel it beating. Both his hands were in her hair now as he cupped her face and turned it up to his. The rain c
aressed her cheeks as she looked into his deep blue eyes and knew she was where she belonged.

  The kiss was long and slow; the taste of raindrops and the touch of an autumn breeze. It was the sweet softness of mossy ground; the strength of the earth and the essence of all living things.

  When at last they stepped apart, they both became aware of the cold rain streaming over them. Nicolas grabbed Lauren’s hand and dragged her back under the shelter of the trees. She was laughing as she ran under the boughs, laughter that he caught with his kisses. He pushed her back against a tree and looked down at her. They were both dripping wet, their clothes clinging to their bodies.

  Lauren reached up and began to undo the buttons of Nicolas’s shirt. Under the wringing-wet cloth, his skin was warm as her fingers trailed over the dark hair, outlining the hard nipples. He caught his breath and grabbed her hand. Pinning her to the tree with his whole body, he kissed her again, a strong passionate kiss with the promise of even more to come. Caught between the rough strength of the tree and the ardour of her lover, Lauren kissed him back with a fervour that matched his own.

  A loud crash of thunder pulled them apart. The storm was upon them with a fury. Lightning flashed. The deafening thunder followed almost immediately.

  ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’ Nicolas had to yell to make himself heard.

  Lauren nodded. She pointed into the clearing, where her shoes lay in the sodden grass.

  ‘Wait!’ Nicolas darted out into the driving rain and was back in an instant carrying the shoes. He waited impatiently while Lauren slipped her feet into them. ‘With all that lightning, it’s not safe here. We have to get back to the house. Come on! That way.’

  He pushed Lauren in front of him and she began to run, weaving through the storm-tossed trees, following a path she could barely see. Several times she would have fallen but Nicolas was right there, his hand reaching to steady her. She was breathing heavily when at last they emerged from under the trees. The rain was heavier in the open, a solid grey wall that almost hid the house from view.