Marrying the Rebel Prince

by Janet Gover

  Lauren pulled a face at the door, and the unknowing, uncaring soldier behind it, and then turned to examine her surroundings.

  The room was large enough to hold a dozen or more people. The elegant shades of blue and grey that covered the walls, the paintings above the well-padded sofas and the tasteful coffee table couldn’t disguise the fact that this room was built for reasons other than comfort.

  A security matter, her escort … her guard … had said. And there was no doubt this room was secure. Lauren had always laughed off the tabloid stories about the royal family’s underground safe rooms and the government bomb shelters. It appeared she had to change her mind – sometimes the voices on the internet got it right.

  A security matter. Lauren’s feet stopped their restless pacing as a series of terrifying images raced through her brain. No! Not in this city. Their tiny kingdom wasn’t a player on the world stage. Surely they were safe in this almost forgotten nation. She reached for the television remote control that was lying on the coffee table. The set was already tuned to an international news service.

  ‘… attack during the European Leaders’ Conference in London. The number of casualties is not yet clear.’

  The news presenter’s words dropped into the silence of the room even before the screen brightened. As the picture swam into focus, Lauren’s hand flew to her mouth.

  ‘Oh … no,’ she whispered in horror.

  The screen showed a building blackened by smoke, the devastated outer walls surrounded by flashing lights. Lauren dropped into one of the sofas, the remote control dangling from her fingers as her mind struggled to take in the words she was hearing.

  ‘… still unknown. The bomb, or bombs, exploded just before eleven o’clock, as the leaders were gathering on the terrace to watch a fireworks display that signalled the end of the evening’s entertainment. Among the injured …’

  Lauren ceased to hear the words. Her mind was struggling to focus on the pictures in front of her. A face appeared on the screen. It was the face of a woman she had met only twice, but liked very much on their brief acquaintance. Nicolas’s mother.

  Through a blurred haze, Lauren began to understand the words on the television set. A terror group had attacked the European leaders’ summit. Delegates from several countries had been caught up in violence that was not of their making, over an issue that had nothing to do with them, or their homelands.

  Lauren’s heart pounded with anger at the injustice of the attack, but at the same time, tears pricked her eyes. The pain Lauren felt was personal. A second photograph appeared on the screen. A young man with short, light brown hair. With a strong face and deep blue eyes, Nicolas’s older brother, the Crown Prince Edouard, shared a strong family resemblance. But for luck or fate, it could be Nicolas’s face on the screen.

  Oh, Nicolas!

  Lauren spun in her seat to face the door. Somewhere out there, Nicolas must be waiting for news about his mother and brother. Or maybe had already received news that hadn’t yet been released to the TV stations. She got to her feet. She had to find him. She took two steps towards the door and stopped.

  They wouldn’t let her go to him. That had already been made very clear. She had to stay here, alone, until someone decided she should be somewhere else. It didn’t matter to them that she wanted – needed to be with Nicolas. She wanted to help him deal with the awful events taking place so far away. He must want her with him. He’d ordered them to bring her to this bomb shelter or whatever it was.

  In something approaching despair, she flung herself back onto the sofa. She pulled her legs up, heedless of her bare feet on the expensive upholstery. She clasped her hands around her calves and settled her chin in her knees, her eyes fixed on the TV screen. She hated watching this – she had no way of knowing if what she was hearing was even correct – but there was nothing else she could do. Frustration compounded the fear and pain and anger inside her, and tears streamed unchecked down her face.

  The sound of the door opening caught her totally by surprise.

  She leaped to her feet, brushing the tears from her cheeks. ‘Nico—’

  ‘Miss Phelps.’ Courtauld entered the room carrying a bundle.

  ‘Mr Courtauld!’ Lauren had never thought to be so glad to see him. ‘I’ve seen the news. What’s happening? Where’s Nicolas?’

  ‘His Highness is with his security advisers.’

  ‘I want to see him!’ Lauren tried to copy some of the authority she had so often heard in Nicolas’s voice. She tried to sound impossible to refuse. She didn’t succeed.

  ‘His Highness knows you’re here. I’m sure he will come to see you as soon as duty permits.’

  ‘Duty!’ Lauren spat out the word as her fear found expression in anger. ‘And you? I suppose you’re doing your duty. Don’t you care?’ The last was almost a scream.

  ‘I care more than you could possibly imagine, Miss Phelps.’ He held out the bag he’d been carrying since he entered the room. Lauren saw his hand was shaking. One of his shirt cuffs was unbuttoned. She looked at his face, which seemed unusually taut.

  ‘You were still in the capital, Courtauld. How did you get here?’

  ‘Military helicopter. I came as soon as we received the news.’

  He answered without looking away from the television screen. The flickering emergency lights on the screen reflected in eyes that Lauren realised were close to tears.

  ‘Courtauld, I’m sorry. Of course this is hard for you.’ Instinctively she stepped forward and placed a hand on his forearm. He looked down at her as if seeing her for the first time.

  ‘They told me you had been disturbed while painting. I brought some clothes for you.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.’ She gently took the bundle of clothes from his hands, wondering how their roles had reversed, and she was now trying to ease his fears. ‘Where can I …’

  ‘The bathroom is across the hall.’

  Courtauld did not take his eyes from the screen as she left the room. The guard made no attempt to stop her. ‘You will please return to this room after you have changed.’

  Lauren nodded and darted for the sanctuary behind the door that had no guard.

  Whoever had gathered the clothes had chosen well. There were clean jeans and a simple cotton shirt. And underwear. Lauren blushed as she wondered if Courtauld had taken these very necessary items from her room. The thought of the cold courtier opening her drawers was – uncomfortable.

  Lauren slipped a light sweater over her head and looked at herself in the mirror. What right had she to worry about her privacy when people were hurt so far away? Why should she be concerned over Courtauld’s opinion of her room when somewhere nearby Nicolas was waiting to hear his family’s fate? Lauren ran her fingers through her hair and studied her face in the mirror.

  ‘Being royal isn’t all parties and glamour,’ she told herself sternly. That was something of an understatement. Here she was, huddled in an underground bathroom, waiting to hear if a woman she held in high regard was dead or alive. She had just been rushed past an unknown number of soldiers – while wearing no underwear.

  Well, she told her reflection, perhaps they hadn’t noticed? She giggled at the thought – and didn’t like the sound of it. Hysteria wasn’t far under the surface. She couldn’t afford that. Not now. She had to keep herself under control. The last thing Nicolas needed was a hysterical woman. And she had a strange feeling that Courtauld also needed her to be calm. He was showing signs of being human … and of being hurt.

  She took a deep breath and turned on the taps. She threw cold water over her face and neck and took a deep breath. Perhaps this was what Courtauld meant by duty. Lauren slipped into the clothes and felt ready to face the world again.

  The soldier was waiting for her when she left the bathroom. He opened the door opposite, obviously expecting her to return to the room from which she had come. Lauren looked down the corridor. Doors opened off either side. From behind at least one of
them, she could hear the hum of voices. Nicolas would be in one of those rooms, she was sure of it. More than anything else in the world, she wanted to go to him. To offer him any comfort she could. She could risk the response of the security guard, but she didn’t know where Nicolas was – or even if he would welcome her. Resigned, she walked back into the waiting room.

  Courtauld was standing near the television, watching and listening with such concentration that he didn’t hear Lauren enter the room. His back was to her, his body rigid. Lauren could almost feel the outrage flowing from him as he watched the scenes unfolding on the screen.

  ‘Is there any news?’ she asked.

  Courtauld turned to look at her, and for a moment she caught a glimpse of unguarded emotion in his eyes. It wasn’t just outrage. A second later, the anguish was gone and the courtier had resumed his official demeanour.

  ‘I think we should discount the news reports, Miss Phelps. It would be advisable to wait for the official reports from the embassy in London.’ He sounded almost as if he was trying to convince himself as much as her.

  ‘How long will that be?’ She had no idea how long she had been in this underground room. It felt like hours.

  ‘I’m afraid I have no idea. The incident occurred almost two hours ago.’

  Lauren looked back at the pictures on the screen. It was dark in London. She marvelled at how quickly the news teams had assembled their resources for the non-stop coverage. It was the way of the world, she supposed.

  ‘What time is it?’ She wasn’t wearing a watch.

  ‘Almost three in the morning. It’s two hours earlier in London.’

  ‘Mr Courtauld …’ She hesitated a moment, then continued before she lost the courage to speak. ‘I want to apologise for the way I spoke to you earlier. It was wrong of me.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Phelps. But no apology is necessary. We are all feeling the strain of the moment.’

  They watched the screen in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘Would you like some refreshments, Miss Phelps? Coffee perhaps?’

  ‘I don’t know if coffee is such a good idea.’ Her nerves were taut enough. ‘Tea might be better.’

  ‘Of course.’ Courtauld moved towards the door.

  Lauren wasn’t sure what to do next. Not that she really had any choice. Like everyone else, she just had to wait. She dropped back onto the couch. The television news reports might not be entirely accurate, but they were the only thing she had.

  * * *

  ‘I’m standing outside the emergency department, where some of the injured were brought in the minutes following the explosion.’ The reporter was middle-aged, male and rumpled. Not as rumpled as I feel, Nicolas thought as he entered the room, his eyes automatically turning to the screen. ‘Details remain sketchy, but at this point it’s understood that several of the injured are undergoing emergency surgery. They include the Prime Minister of …

  Nicolas had had enough. He wanted to hear a different voice. See a different face. ‘Lauren?’

  She was on her feet even before he had finished speaking her name. Her eyes were brilliant with tears.

  ‘Nicolas.’

  Oblivious to Courtauld and the soldiers and bodyguards, Nicolas stepped across the room and opened his arms to her. She stepped into them as if she had always belonged there. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he buried his face in her hair. He could feel her breathing against him. Smell the warmth of her. Feel her concern and love. He closed his eyes and wished that the world would just fade away.

  ‘How are they?’

  ‘Alive. Hurt. I don’t know how badly. They’re both in surgery.’ He whispered the words into her hair, and felt her arms tighten around him in a gesture of sympathy.

  He allowed himself a few moments more of sanctuary, then reluctantly began to push her gently away. She held him for another few seconds, and stepped back.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said.

  Nicolas led her to one of the big sofas. As they settled themselves, he saw Lauren cast a quick glance at the doorway. Thomas Lawry was there. So too was an armed soldier. They might be in a secret room inside a sealed security area, but his bodyguards weren’t letting him out of their sight. If privacy had been hard to come by before, it had just got a lot harder.

  Nicolas paused to gather his thoughts before speaking. So much had happened in the past few hours. He was only beginning to grasp the details himself. What should he tell Lauren? She was new to his world. And she had been dragged through a few days of personal hell. Tricked, lied about and besieged by the media, she had been forced from her home to a place where she was surrounded by virtual strangers. A simple job had turned her whole world upside down.

  And now this. How much more could she take? He searched her face – and found a startling answer. Dark shadows of tiredness and concern ringed her eyes, and her mouth was set in a firm line, but everything about her told him she was ready to face whatever was waiting for her. She was ready to be whatever she needed to be. Whatever he needed her to be. Such strength was amazing. Why had he ever doubted her? Why had he ever doubted what they could be to each other? On this night, he finally was beginning to understand what really mattered … and it had nothing to do with birth or status or wealth.

  ‘Most of the news reports are pretty accurate,’ he told her. ‘My mother and Edouard were at a reception given by the British Prime Minister. It was one of the formal events attached to the conference. Ed almost always accompanies our mother to these functions … since Father died.’

  Lauren reached out to touch his arm. He closed his fingers around her hand and held it.

  ‘The British police don’t know very much yet. The bomb was planted by a group of separatists – and was aimed at another visiting Prime Minister. Like the other victims, Mother and Ed were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘How badly are they hurt?’ Lauren asked.

  Nicolas took a deep breath and answered slowly. ‘I really don’t know. Our embassy in London says all the wounded have been taken to the same hospital. They hospital is pretty much in lockdown – no one is getting in. I have no idea about Ed’s injuries. I caught a glimpse of him in one of the videos sent to our security team. There … there was a lot of blood. I do know Mother was unconscious when they loaded her into the ambulance. ‘

  Beside him he heard a sharp intake of breath from Courtauld. He glanced up at his equerry and saw that, for the first time in their long acquaintance, the man was shaking with emotion.

  ‘They will be fine. I just know they will.’ Lauren’s voice carried total conviction.

  How he wished he could believe her.

  Time crept past as they sat in silence. The television was still on. Nicolas stared at the screen, barely registering the images of the bombed building, the emergency teams at work. Words drifted past him. Reporters. Politicians. Security services. All had a lot to say – but none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was what was happening in that hospital so far away. And the only comfort to be had came from the woman whose hand he still held.

  ‘Sir.’ Nicolas hadn’t heard the officer enter the room. He was holding out a phone. ‘London.’

  Nicolas leaped to his feet. He crossed the room in a few strides and reached for the instrument.

  ‘Ed?’

  ‘Your Royal Highness, Ambassador Lang here.’

  ‘Yes, of course. What news do you have, Ambassador?’

  ‘Both Her Majesty and Prince Edouard are now out of surgery. They are in the intensive care unit. I have spoken to the doctors …’

  As the man hesitated, Nicolas’s heart sank.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Her Majesty has a broken arm and several broken ribs where she was hit by debris. She also has lacerations and has lost a great deal of blood. However, the doctors assure me the prognosis is good. It will take time, but she is expected to make a full recovery.’

  The relief he felt lasted but a few seconds.


  ‘And my brother?’

  ‘Prince Edouard was apparently standing between Her Majesty and the blast. That protected her, but he took most of the force of the explosion. He has significant internal injuries. Doctors say the surgery went well, but he is still in critical condition. He’s unconscious in the intensive care unit.’

  The voice in his ear, the faces staring at him faded into a dull blur as the impact of the words hit home. His beloved big brother, with whom he had climbed trees, fallen off ponies, and slid down the banisters in this very building … Ed was lying unconscious in a hospital bed, while he sat in a guarded underground bunker a thousand miles away, unable to do anything.

  With a supreme effort, he pulled himself together long enough to instruct the ambassador to call as soon as he had any more news. It was an unnecessary instruction, but it gave him a few moments to compose himself before ending the call and looking around the room.

  Nicolas fixed his eyes on Lauren’s face, taking the support he saw there as he addressed the room.

  ‘My mother is out of surgery. She is badly hurt, but the doctors expect she will make a full recovery.’

  Relief swept the room. Courtauld seemed to sag against the wall for a few seconds, while Lauren’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Unfortunately, the news is not so good for my brother.’

  As he outlined the ambassador’s news, he felt the mood in the room change and he knew why. ‘I will of course immediately return to the palace. Please make the necessary arrangements. And could you all please give me and Miss Phelps a few moments?’

  * * *

  When they were alone, Nicolas dropped his calm demeanour. He sank onto the sofa next to Lauren and buried his face in his hands.

  ‘I am so sorry.’ She put hers arms around him and held him tightly. His whole body was shaking.

  ‘Nicolas? They will be all right, I’m sure of it. Nick?’

  When he turned his head to look at her, his face was ghostly. His brilliant blue eyes were dry, but seemed to look straight past her to some distant horror. Sweat beaded his forehead.