Be My Prince

by Julianne MacLean

  “I hope your father will be feeling better when we arrive,” she said.

  Rose nodded. “I say a prayer every night for such a blessing.” She was quiet for a moment; then she lifted her chin and regarded Alexandra earnestly. “But that is enough talk of politics and illness. Now that we have laid our cards on the table, let us talk about something else.”

  They stared at each other questioningly.

  “What would you like to talk about?” Alex asked.

  Rose drummed her fingers on the table. “Oh, for pity’s sake. Tell me about your sisters, so I can plan for their arrival in Petersbourg. When will they join you?”

  More than a little surprised by this unexpected turn in the conversation, Alexandra described the looks and temperaments of her three siblings, starting with the youngest, who was uncommonly pretty but enjoyed catching bugs and frogs.…

  “They will join us next spring.”

  An hour later Alex walked out of Rose’s cabin feeling slightly more relaxed about their encounter, for they did not mention politics or thrones again after they began to discuss other things.

  Alex was surprised to learn that Rose was already betrothed to marry an Austrian archduke whom she had met only once. Rose admitted it was an arranged marriage but insisted that the gentleman was extremely handsome and she was overjoyed to do what she must to foster a strong political alliance with Austria.

  This from the woman who had concocted a plan for her brothers to switch places in order to find true love …

  A short while later Alex returned to her own cabin, but was startled to discover another person occupying the space, pacing back and forth impatiently.

  She walked in and closed the door behind her.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Alex asked. “As if I have been colluding with enemies and sharing state secrets.”

  Her husband’s accusing eyes raked down the length of her body. “Where were you?” he asked. “I’ve been waiting here for a quarter of an hour, and was about to go searching the ship.”

  “I do beg your pardon,” she replied. “I didn’t realize we had an appointment.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question. Where were you?”

  “If you must know, I was with Rose discussing fabrics and gowns for my sisters for their presentation at court. Does that suffice? If you don’t believe me, go and ask her. She will confirm my whereabouts, and you will be able to sleep soundly tonight, knowing I am not plotting a coup d’état.”

  He ripped his jacket off and angrily began to unbutton his waistcoat. “I don’t want to sleep. All I want to do is make love to you.”

  A burst of heat flared through her blood at the sight of her husband’s impressive arousal.

  “And what if I am offended by your demands?” she replied as she quickly toed off her slippers, lifted her skirts, and rolled her stockings down her legs. “What if I think you are behaving in a tyrannical fashion?”

  “Then I will remind you that you are my wife and you quite enjoy the benefits of my tyrannical demands, since most of them result in you feeling exceptionally well pleasured.”

  He removed his waistcoat, tossed it onto the floor, untied his cravat, and ripped his shirt off over his head.

  She stood before him, desperate for his touch and angry with him at the same time, speechless and short of breath as she admired the smooth contours of his chest and the broad muscles at his shoulders.

  “Do you need assistance with your gown?” he asked in a demanding voice that sent her passions into a wild frenzy.

  “Yes.” She furiously turned her back on him, as if it were his fault the gown fastenings were so complex, and he was quick to take up the task.

  Her heart raced feverishly at the sensation of his hands moving slower now, delaying the pleasure she knew awaited her. It was enough to drive her mad with yearning.

  When the gown came loose, he slid the delicate satin and crepe fabric off her shoulders and brushed his lips across the sensitive flesh at her nape.

  Gooseflesh tingled across her skin, and she sucked in a breath of eager anticipation as the gown fell lightly to the floor and she stepped out of it, while turning slowly to face him.

  The waters were calm tonight, she noticed suddenly. The floor was steady beneath her feet.

  His gaze dipped to her breasts, crushed tight beneath her corset. She shivered with arousal and glanced down at his breeches.

  “You’ll need to take those off,” she said in an impatient rush of desire.

  “Why don’t you do that for me,” he suggested, “so that I can put my hands to better use.”

  More than willing to oblige, she reached out to work the fastenings while he untied the laces of her corset. They undressed each other with impressive efficiency and indulgence.

  Soon they stood naked in the cabin, saying nothing in the flickering glow of the lamplight.

  “All day long, I thought of nothing but bedding you,” he irritably confessed. “You have cast some sort of spell on me, and I don’t know what to make of it.”

  “You have cast a similar spell on me,” she replied as she laid her open palms on the firm muscles of his chest. “I feel drunk with desire most of the time at the mere sight of you. All I want to do is touch you, and I fear it will be my undoing.”

  He ran a hand from her bare shoulder down to her breast; then at last he covered her mouth with his own—a deep soul-reaching kiss of uncompromising possession. For a moment she felt as if she were floating, then realized that she was indeed floating—in the middle of the North Sea—but that was something different. It wouldn’t matter where she stood. Whenever he put his hands on her body, she was instantly cast adrift into an erotic sea of surrender, and there was no escaping it.

  Leading her to the bed, he eased her onto her back, then came down upon her.

  “What would you like tonight, Wife?” he asked. “Fast or slow? Rough or gentle?”

  “Slow and gentle,” she replied. “Let us make it last.”

  His eyes clouded over with uncertainty. “I must know that you will be faithful to me,” he said.

  Surprised at this unexpected plea, she nodded. “Of course I will be. If ever you doubt it, think only of that day in your carriage when I believed you had no claim to the throne, yet I wanted you regardless with more passion than I ever dreamed possible. Imagine us escaping to Scotland together. Married by a blacksmith.”

  He slid into her body then, and she threw her head back in rapture at the intense sensation that flooded through her veins.

  They made love twice that night, then slept soundly together in the darkness until dawn, when they woke to the sound of the ship’s bell ringing up on deck.

  Again they made love and spoke nothing of the future, or what would happen when they reached the coast. It was a subject they chose to avoid.

  All that mattered was the passion they shared as they found pleasure in the darkness. Alexandra even began to believe that one day her husband might begin to understand who she truly was, and a mutual trust would eventually find its way into their marriage.

  When he stood up to leave her cabin later that morning, she felt surprisingly sated and optimistic about their future and began to wonder if the throne of Petersbourg was not her destiny after all.

  Perhaps this man was her destiny, and she might very well have been born to be his queen. It was a lovely thought that filled her with inconceivable pleasure.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, somewhere along the rugged coast of northern England, another ship set sail for Petersbourg but remained a full day behind the Abigail so as not to be seen. It was unfortunate that Alexandra knew nothing of the plots that were taking shape on that particular ship, for if she had known, she may have been able to do something about it, or at least she could have warned her husband of the danger that awaited them at the palace.

  All she knew, however, was a nightly passion so intense, she was comp
letely blinded by it.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The wind blew sure and true for the remainder of the journey, and the Royal Party reached the Petersbourg coast a half day sooner than expected. Standing at the rail, Alexandra laid a gloved hand on top of her bonnet to keep it from flying off in the fierce coastal winds and, with great fascination, took in the awe-inspiring sight of her homeland.

  “Is it what you were expecting?” Rose asked as she approached, shouting over the thunderous roar of the sea and the wind in the sails.

  Alexandra tried to make sense of what she was feeling. “I am not sure. A part of me is eager to reach the dock and set foot on Petersbourg soil. I want to see the city and the palace that was home to my parents, yet another part of me feels anxious. What if I am not welcome here? What if the people don’t want me as their queen?”

  Rose laid a gloved hand on top of her arm. “Think no more of that. You will do fine. I am certain you will capture everyone’s hearts—especially when they learn about Randolph’s clever switch of identities. Nicholas has already composed the announcement for the Petersbourg Chronicle. He will present your marriage as a great love match and the stuff of fairy tales. What are the odds, after all, that a secret prince could unwittingly fall in love with a secret princess? And vice versa?”

  “It sounds very romantic when you put it that way,” Alexandra replied, “but as you know, it has not been entirely without obstacles.”

  There was compassion in Rose’s voice. “Perhaps you will overcome them in time, as long as you are truthful and open from this day forward.”

  Alexandra wondered how long it would take to earn her husband’s trust. “I give you my word that I will never again keep anything from your brother.”

  Except for her dread about curtsying before his father and her shame at having wished, on countless occasions in the past, for the king’s early demise.

  She was not proud of those angry and degenerate thoughts.

  For that reason, they would follow her to her grave.

  * * *

  “Look out the window,” Randolph said as the coach approached the palace gates. “This was the birthplace of your father, Alexandra, and it will be your home from this day forward.”

  As the coach and its team of gray thoroughbreds clattered across the cobblestones, Alex leaned closer to the window to see an extraordinary white Baroque palace beyond a flat tree-lined expanse of grass and a rectangular reflecting pool. The building spanned a number of acres and boasted ornamental statues and brass-topped domes. She’d once heard it rivaled the Palace of Versailles in France, and she was inclined to agree.

  The coach drove up to the steps, and a flood of liveried servants poured out the front doors.

  Rand and Nick exited first and spoke in low tones to the man who came to greet them. A moment later, Rand leaned into the coach and offered his hand. “Come. They say Father has rallied. He is well today.”

  “Oh, thank heavens for that,” Rose replied as she stepped out of the coach.

  A few minutes later they entered the great marble hall with four lavish crystal chandeliers overhead. Gilded statues of dancing cupids lined the walls.

  With great haste they climbed the grand staircase and began the long trek down a red-carpeted corridor with double-oak doors at the end, safeguarded by two uniformed guards with swords. The instant the guards spotted Randolph, they opened the door for him and bowed with a theatrical flourish.

  Alexandra barely had time to prepare herself for this momentous entry into the king’s apartments before the doors swung shut behind them and she found herself standing in the reception hall that had once belonged to her parents.

  A chill ran down her spine, and she halted on the thick Persian carpet. “I do beg your pardon,” she said. “I am not prepared.”

  Her eyes lifted to the frescoed ceiling above her head—a colorful depiction of Phaëthon and the horses of the Sun, which made her feel small and insignificant and filled her with an unexpected wave of contempt.

  She was about to meet the man who had raised an army to invade this palace and seize her father’s crown. That man was now lying in her father’s bed while her own father was cold and dead in his grave. How in the world could she walk into that room and bow to him?

  Randolph turned to her. “You must wait here then,” he said. “I will go in first with Rose and Nicholas. We will speak of our visit to England and explain the situation. I must prepare him for the truth in my own way.”

  “You fear he may not approve?” she asked, fighting against the umbrage she felt deep in her core at the idea that she must seek his approval for something that was hers by hereditary right.

  “We’ll know soon enough.”

  “I will wait for you here then,” she replied, willing herself to gain the upper hand over her emotions.

  Randolph turned to a footman standing in the corner of the reception hall. She had not noticed him there.

  “Take Princess Alexandra to the library and send for a light tea.” With that, he turned and led his brother and sister to a separate corridor.

  The footman approached her and bowed. She regarded him carefully, for he had crafty eyes.

  “Your Royal Highness, if you will follow me this way.”

  She nodded, and he took her in the opposite direction.

  * * *

  “I don’t know what to expect,” Rose said as they reached their father’s bedchamber door. “Father was fine when we left here not so long ago.”

  “He was not completely fine,” Nicholas reminded them. “He was complaining of headaches and fatigue for weeks. It’s why he was so anxious for Rand to take a wife and produce an heir. I believe he may have known that he would not be long for this world.”

  Rose shot Nicholas a look. “But we were just told he was rallying.”

  Nicholas glanced uneasily at Rand.

  “Let us go in,” Rand said, “and see for ourselves.”

  He opened the door, and they entered the darkened chamber. The window curtains were drawn and the velvet bed curtains were pulled closed. Three tall floor candelabras blazed at each corner of the room, and a priest in heavy black robes sat beside the bed.

  He looked up from the Bible on his lap when he heard them enter and immediately rose to his feet and bowed. “Your Royal Highness. Welcome home.”

  Rand’s heart turned over in his chest, for he had expected to see the palace physician, not the priest.

  “Good afternoon, Father Cornwell,” he said. “How is he?”

  “Better today. His Majesty was lucid for a full hour.”

  “Only an hour?” Rose stepped forward in shock. “No wonder he’s ill. It’s dreadfully dark in here. It’s like a tomb. Why are all the curtains drawn closed?”

  “His Majesty prefers it that way,” Father Cornwell explained. “He says he cannot sleep with the light in his eyes, and all he wishes to do, I regret to say, is sleep.”

  Rand and Nicholas remained at the foot of the bed while Rose hurried to pull open the heavy velvet bed curtains. “Father…” She sat down on the edge of the mattress and took his hand.

  Rand could barely speak or move. Stains from frequent bloodletting marked their father’s nightshirt. His thin hair was damp with sweat. He looked gaunt and frail, as if he had already succumbed to the angels.

  “Christ Almighty,” Nicholas whispered.

  “Is there any hope?” Rand asked the priest.

  “Very little, I’m afraid. Though you should speak to Sir William for the particulars.”

  Sir William was the palace physician—a man of great learning and expertise, one of their father’s most trusted servants.

  “Where is he? Why is he not here?”

  “He has been at the king’s bedside for a fortnight, sir. This morning I implored him to go home to his family and rest.”

  Rose turned her stricken eyes to Rand. “Is there nothing we can do?”

  “I believe it is in God’s hands now,”
he replied.

  Just then, their father’s eyes flew open and he tried to sit up. “My son, is that you? Have you come home? Speak to me, Randolph.”

  Rand moved to the edge of the bed. “Yes, I am here, Father. I have returned from England. I have commissioned the ships you wanted.”

  The king lay back down on the pillows. “I dreamed you were dead.”

  “No, I am very much alive, and I have good news. I have taken a wife.”

  “A wife…” The king wet his dry lips. “Bring her to me. I wish to meet her.”

  Rand glanced sharply at Nicholas, who nodded with encouragement.

  “She wishes to meet you, too,” Rand replied, “and I will fetch her straightaway. But first I must tell you something about her.”

  He sat down on the edge of the bed and wondered how in all the world he was going to explain this.

  * * *

  Two footmen—or perhaps they were guards—stood outside the library door chatting idly while Alexandra sat waiting to be summoned to the king’s bedside.

  She had not been able to eat a single bite of the cakes that had been brought to her, though she did manage to sip a little tea.

  She waited a full hour while Randolph attended to his father. She passed the time by examining the impressive collection of leather-bound books on the shelves and the brightly colored upholstery on the chairs—all the while planning what she would say to His Majesty when she finally confronted him. It was not difficult to work out, for she’d been imagining that particular conversation in her mind for six years.

  When the door finally swung open and her husband strode into the room, she turned confidently to face him. “Will he see me now?”

  Randolph’s eyes were stricken, however, and all thoughts of confrontation with that malicious usurping king flew out of her mind.

  “Are you all right?” She moved closer. “Was he worse off than you expected?”

  Rand glanced at the bookcases along the wall and loosened his neckcloth. “He won’t last long. I’ve never seen him look so frail.”