The Royal Bastard

by Nicole Burnham

  Pride? “I don’t follow.”

  “What do you love about Justine? If it is her strength, you must let go of your own pride and trust that strength rather than your own.” They rounded a corner, taking them on a path parallel to an iron fence. A dense evergreen hedge rose ten feet high on the opposite side. “I’m keenly aware of my faults and the harm they’ve caused to those I love, especially Fabrizia. She loves me despite my faults, and I love her despite her personality quirks.”

  He smiled at Rocco. “With her, they are never faults.”

  “Of course not.”

  Carlo paused beside a narrow break in the hedge. A gate, one so well-designed it was nearly impossible to differentiate from the rest of the fence, opened to Carlo’s touch. The king stepped off the gravel path and onto the grass, leading Rocco through the tight opening before closing the gate behind them.

  The scene spread out before Rocco’s eyes drew a low whistle. “This is impressive.”

  “Our own secret garden.”

  “It’s nothing like the rest.”

  The garden wasn’t large, maybe eighty feet by twenty feet. The evergreen hedge surrounding the space was trimmed low enough to allow the sun to reach the center, yet shielded all within from view. The innermost section of the garden sported a riot of colorful blooms in the style of a wild English garden, while the outer edges, where the hedge cast its shadow, was filled with a variety of shade-loving plants in tones of green, pink, and burgundy. No formal paths appeared to exist. Instead, narrow belts of grass and moss gave visitors just enough room to meander.

  “The rest of the palace gardens were professionally designed centuries ago to be used for state events. They’re meant as a showplace, especially during the day. Perfect for postcards. This is only for the family. Few on the staff even know it exists.”

  He led Rocco toward the heart of the garden along a well-trod strip of grass. “I brought Fabrizia here a few weeks before we wed. I told her about Teresa and about you. I gave her the chance to back out of the wedding gracefully…offered to take the blame myself with the media and with our parents. She asked if I still wished to go through with the wedding. I told her that I did. However, I was still in love with Teresa, or at least thought I was. It wasn’t long after my wedding to Fabrizia that I realized how wrong I was. True love was never possible between me and your mother. She had a hold over me, but it wasn’t love.”

  The king approached a pair of stone benches nestled in the very center, where a small fountain shaped like a vase bubbled away. He waited until Rocco was seated opposite him before he spoke again. “I brought the queen here again when I found out Teresa was pregnant with Enzo and Lina. It was—bar none—the worst moment of my life. I knew how deeply it would hurt Fabrizia. I told her I wanted to end the marriage. She refused. She looked me in the eye, just as I am looking at you now, and asked if I loved Teresa. I told her I didn’t, but that I had felt a sense of obligation to her after you were born. I was wracked with guilt over leaving Teresa in a small one-bedroom apartment to raise a child alone while I had such a luxurious life here in the palace. Then the queen asked if I loved her. I couldn’t lie. I was deeply in love with her, but I knew that to continue the marriage would only bring her harm.”

  The king closed his eyes for a moment. Rocco was sure Carlo could picture the conversation as if it had happened yesterday. “I told Fabrizia that if the news of my infidelity ever broke, let alone the fact that I’d been involved with Teresa while Teresa was my tutor, it would be terrible for all of us, but that she would be the one harmed the most, despite the fact that Teresa and I were the ones to blame. I told her that it would be easier if the marriage ended before it all came to light. That she’d be better able to protect herself and the twins she carried.”

  When Carlo opened his eyes once more, his gaze turned steely. “She leaned toward me, held my jaw in her hand so I couldn’t look away, and uttered three words that forever changed my life. She said, ‘respect my strength.’”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Rocco regarded the king. He appeared so powerful, so in control. It was difficult to imagine the man who wore the crown and led a population of hundreds of thousands being so vulnerable.

  “That’s why you said I need to trust in Justine’s strength.”

  “I understand the instinct to protect those you love from your failings. It’s a virtuous one. But your situation is different than mine. First,” —the king held up his thumb— “the failings in this case are not yours, but mine and your mother’s. And second,” —he extended his index finger— “in cutting Justine out of your decision, you failed to show respect for her strength.”

  “I never said I cut Justine out of the decision.” Though he had. He’d flat-out told Justine that he needed to let her go, then refused to say another word until she was out of the car.

  Carlo’s raised brow showed he knew it, too, and that Rocco’s slip of the tongue was an admission that there had, in fact, been a decision.

  “When you talked it through, you both agreed that ending your marriage was the best course of action?” Carlo didn’t wait for Rocco’s response before adding, “I thought not.”

  “I promised her I’d do anything to protect her. Her career is a big part of who she is in here.” Rocco put a hand to his heart. “I can’t take that from her by making her marriage the topic of conversation when she’s on the slopes. It’ll hurt her chances for endorsements and sponsorships, let alone any future in broadcasting or other public roles.”

  She’d said as much herself when they were in Baltimore. The network was tired of hiring analysts only to discover they had scandals in their past.

  “Shouldn’t that be for Justine to decide?” the king pressed. “Haven’t you ever had an argument where you promised that, in the future, you’d talk through your issues? Surely you’ve been married long enough to have had such a conversation.”

  “Once or twice.” That very same night in Baltimore, on the heels of her job offer. They’d told each other that as long as they kept talking, their marriage would work. But he’d also promised to be by her side and support her in her career. He’d made the promise believing that the risk of doing so was in having his connection to Carlo exposed. Not in unmasking his mother as a criminal of the worst kind: an adult who abused her position of trust with a minor.

  He couldn’t both be by Justine’s side and support her career. Not anymore.

  “I can’t have the world look at Justine and think of my mother and imagine the disgusting things she…” He flailed for the right way to finish, but there wasn’t one. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. That was offensive, and you’ve been nothing but kind to me. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s perfectly all right. You’re not saying anything I haven’t thought about myself a thousand times over the years. Especially when I look at my wife and my children. All my children.”

  Carlo leaned forward and put a hand on Rocco’s shoulder. “By the way, when we’re out of the public eye, there’s no need to address me as Your Highness. Carlo will do. Or whatever makes you comfortable.”

  Before Rocco could respond, the king stood and allowed his hand to fall away. “I have a meeting with the Minister of Education in an hour and I promised you a tour of the palace. There’s much more to the place than this garden, though it’s my favorite part.”

  “I thought the queen said that the kennel is your favorite.”

  He rolling laugh boomed from his chest. “Here, I’m not a king or a statesman. I’m only Carlo Barrali. I can think without the world intruding. Chew gum, blow bubbles, walk barefoot. Lie on my back and look at the stars. Even sing if the mood strikes. However, allowing my wife to believe the kennel is my favorite is far more masculine than admitting that it’s this garden.”

  He couldn’t imagine this man blowing bubbles. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  When they were back through the gap in the hedge, the king surveyed the gardens and cut to the
far side of the palace, away from the wing containing the library. For the next forty-five minutes, they explored the kennel, where the king stopped to greet two trainers and a breeder by name, and cut back to the palace to stroll through several rooms filled with antiques and paintings, with Carlo sharing stories about several of the pieces as he had for the Degas painting they’d seen earlier. Finally, the king paused beside a thick wooden door that stood in the center of a high-ceilinged hallway that connected two wings of the palace.

  “I’m afraid this is where I leave you,” he said. “Umberto’s office is through here. He’ll ensure you’re given proper access so you can join us for dinner tonight.”

  “You keep a very busy schedule.”

  “I’m in a position to help a lot of people. It makes the schedule very rewarding.” A sparkle lit his eyes. “Given the nature of your own work, I’m sure you can relate.”

  He could. “Thank you for taking the time to give me a tour, Your Highness…Carlo.”

  The man had such gravitas, it seemed wrong to address him by his first name. Then again, he wasn’t Mr. Barrali. Nor would Rocco call the king anything having to do with being his father. In Rocco’s mind, that term was reserved for Jack Cornaro. Though as the king smiled in response to the self-correction, Rocco wondered if they’d find a middle ground someday.

  More and more, he was coming to admire this man.

  “I do want you to consider something.” The king’s voice was low. “I know you believe you are protecting Justine and her career, but put that aside for a moment to think about your own future. What do you have to lose if you don’t trust her? If I hadn’t trusted in Fabrizia’s inner fortitude all those years ago, I’d still be lost. It was Fabrizia who got me through the years without you, Enzo, and Lina. It was Fabrizia who helped me maintain as normal a relationship with Teresa as was possible. It was Fabrizia who showed me love and gave me children and now grandchildren. If I didn’t have Anna and Dario now…I couldn’t imagine.”

  The king’s brow furrowed and his voice took on a note of urgency. “Everything I have in life—everything—I have because I allowed Fabrizia in. I was certain it would be to her detriment, but it wasn’t. It took me a long time to believe it, but I know that she’s as happy in the marriage as I am. It’s made both of us who we are today. I’m a better head of state for her love and she’s better at her projects because she has mine. Neither of us would forsake it, even knowing what we’ll face in the press in the coming weeks and months. I’m telling you, you have no idea what you’re throwing away…for you, for Justine, and for all the others who benefit when each of you live up to your potential.”

  Behind Rocco, a throat cleared. Carlo looked past Rocco to a uniformed man who stood at the far end of the hallway. “Thank you, Roderick. Please inform the minister that I am on my way.”

  The king met Rocco’s gaze and once again, Rocco had the sensation he was looking at an older version of himself…and that the older version found the younger version lacking. It was simultaneously unsettling and irritating.

  “Anything is possible if you get your damned pride out of the way,” Carlo said. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  * * *

  “You ready for this?”

  Justine gave her new coach the thumbs-up signal. After seeing Rocco on television at King Carlo’s press conference, Justine interviewed four coaches and ended up going with Marit Brekken, a former Olympian from Norway. She’d nearly hired Marit the last time she’d looked for a coach, and in the two hours they’d been working together on the slopes this morning, Justine knew she’d made the right choice. Marit was only ten years older than Justine and had competed with a go-for-broke, ski-from-the-gut style similar to Justine’s. On the other hand, Marit was known for the rigorous training regimen she’d pursued during her competitive years. The days she wasn’t racing, Marit had planned every workout and every training run in order to obtain the maximum payoff for the hours she invested. Better still, Marit had raced until she was nearly forty. She understood the vagaries of training at an age when most others had retired.

  If Justine was to nab a spot on the podium at the end of this year’s World Cup season, she’d need to train the way Marit had, which explained why they were standing on the side of a mountain high above the village of Hemsedal, Norway, facing Justine’s first expert level run in over a year, and on the very first day she’d stepped into her ski boots.

  Marit raised one of her poles and pointed downhill, indicating a fork on the lefthand side of the run. Orange signs indicated that the trail was closed for training. “We have it to ourselves for the next hour, so you won’t have to worry about other skiers. We should be able to get in two full runs before they open it to the public. Take this first one easy. Get to know the feel of the course. Tomorrow you can open it up and see what you have.”

  “Got it.” Justine tightened her right glove and adjusted her grip on the pole. Her first runs this morning had been on much easier terrain, allowing her to pick up only enough speed to crave more. She wanted to fly. To feel the wind on her face, hear the light scrape of her skis carving the snow, and thrill to the adrenaline rush that came whenever she got air on a jump.

  “You’re not going to listen to me and take it easy, are you?”

  Justine laughed. “I’m going to try.”

  “Remember that your shin isn’t used to the pressure you’ll need to control the turns on this run. Stay in control and work up to full speed, even if that’s not your natural tendency. Another injury would set you back weeks or months. Right now, you’re going for efficiency…getting the most you can out of each run so you’ll be able to compete when the season opens. The point of today’s workout is to get your legs accustomed to your equipment. Not to break records.” Marit grinned. “That’ll come.”

  Justine pressed a hand to the base of her throat, rubbed the necklace she wore under her training jacket for luck, and nodded.

  On a deep breath, she set off along the course with Marit close behind. Conditions were perfect. Early May sunshine filtered through the evergreens lining the slope, affording her good visibility, and the cold winter followed by a burst of late season snow provided a solid base under the fresh powder, creating unusually good skiing for the last two official weeks of the season in Hemsedal. As Justine picked up speed, a warm spring breeze lifted her braids so they flew behind her ski helmet.

  It should’ve felt wonderful. She should be freaking ecstatic. She felt hollow.

  It’ll come.

  Once she made it to the bottom of the slope, once she knew she could do it.

  An image of Rocco filled her mind; how she wished he could see her take this first real run. Much as she wanted to deny it, it meant more to her than when he’d missed watching her in competition. Or even the day of her accident.

  Eventually he’d realize that he needed to track her down and he’d find her. He had to. Until then, she needed to keep her head up and stay focused on the task at hand.

  Muscle memory took over and she leaned forward, grounding her shins to the front of her boots, allowing her weight and gravity to pull her down the mountain. She rounded a turn that changed the angle of the sun, putting it directly into her eyes. At the last second, she spotted the flash of gray against the white snow. A skier, one whose cautious stance showed he didn’t belong on such a steep slope, shuffled down sideways. Behind Justine, Marit yelled to cut right at the same time instinct took Justine the same way.

  The skier looked up, his surprise evident as his mouth dropped open before he used his poles to shove himself forward in an attempt to avoid the collision.

  Justine missed him. Marit missed him. They stopped just in time to see the man lose his balance, tilt on one ski, then tip over sideways and slide headfirst down the steep slope, a mess of arms, legs and poles. One of his skis caught in the snow and released, then the other, then he lost a pole, leaving a trail of gear on the side of the mountain.

  “He must’ve
gotten lost,” Marit said as they took off after the man. He began to slow about fifty yards downhill as his outstretched arms carried the loose powder in front of him like a snowplow.

  “You get his skis, I’ll check on him,” Justine said.

  Marit crossed the slope to gather the man’s equipment while Justine cruised downhill, then slowed to a stop and turned sideways in front of the man to prevent him from sliding further. He spun around so his feet were aimed downhill instead of his head, then dug his heels into the slope. The guy appeared tall and plenty athletic, but his awkward movement as he’d tried to get out of their way made it clear he wasn’t much of a skier. Justine cursed herself for sending Marit after the skis instead of going herself, since she didn’t know a word of Norwegian. Hoping the guy spoke English, she asked, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Embarrassed as hell, but fine. I came all this way to see you, and here I am—”

  Justine did a double take, staring down at the snow-covered man in gray. She recognized that voice. That snow-caked beard. Her mouth went dry as dust even as her heart soared. “Rocco?”

  He unsnapped the strap on his helmet, raised his goggles, then yanked it from his head and dropped it into the snow. His cheeks flamed red from the cold and a deep red goggle line ringed his eyes, but he was all smiles as he looked up at her. “Hello, Justine.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “What in the world are you doing? You don’t even ski!” Even as Justine stared at Rocco in disbelief, she was overwhelmed by how amazing he looked as he grinned up at her in the mid-morning sunlight, surrounded by bright blue skies and snow-flocked trees.

  “I ski.”

  “Barely! You could’ve gotten yourself hurt.” He’d been maybe four or five times in his life, all with her. While he’d made it off the bunny slopes and onto the easier trails faster than most novices, he’d only tackled two or three intermediate runs. Never an expert run.