Rand moved to the nearest chair, sat down, rested his elbows on his knees, and buried his forehead into the heels of his hands. “Bloody hell, I always knew this day would come, but it’s never as you expect it will be. He’s my father, Alex. He was a great man. I never imagined I would see him like this.”
The floor seemed to shift beneath Alexandra’s feet. It was as if someone had whisked her back to that painful day six years ago when she sat at her adoptive father’s bedside and watched him take his last breath. She had not yet known about her true identity, and in her eyes he was still the greatest man who ever lived. She had loved him desperately, and the grief had been debilitating.
Slowly she knelt down before her husband. “I understand. Is there anything I can do?”
He lifted his weary eyes and sat back in the chair. “No.”
“Were you able to tell him about our marriage?” she carefully asked.
“Yes, I told him.”
“How did he respond?”
Randolph rested his temple on a finger. “He didn’t believe it at first. He felt certain you were an impostor, and that I had been tricked.”
Alex rose from her kneeling position and stood. “Did you also tell him that you had put on a great performance as well, and that you tricked me into falling in love with you?”
His dark eyes glimmered with what appeared, to her surprise, to be admiration. “Yes, Wife. I told him that very thing. Exactly.”
“And what did he say to that?”
Rand stood up, and her body grew tense with anxiety.
“He asked to see you with his own eyes, and to speak to you. Alone.”
“How very convenient, for that is exactly what I wish for as well.” Yet her heart was racing with fear.
“Then let us go now while he is still lucid enough to understand who you are.”
Chapter Twenty-four
The door to the king’s bedchamber swung shut behind Alexandra before she had a chance to glance over her shoulder at her husband, and all at once she found herself standing in an enormous candlelit room that smelled of spices and incense. Colorful tapestries lined the walls, rich velvet curtains covered the windows, and a massive canopied bed stood elevated upon a dais against the far wall.
Her gaze fell instantly upon the man in that bed, frail and sickly. He was sitting up against the thick feather pillows, though it looked as if someone had propped him up that way. A magnificent fur cape had been draped around his shoulders.
Inexplicably overcome by an inherent sense of duty, she dipped into a deep curtsy, then rose again to meet the king’s frowning expression.
“Your Majesty,” she said while her heart pounded heavily with trepidation.
He continued to frown at her in the flickering candlelight, then waved her over with a shaky gnarled hand. “Come closer so I can get a look at you.”
Taking a few deep breaths, she walked to the foot of the bed and held her head high.
“I did not believe it at first,” he said, his eyes sparkling with wetness. “I thought it was another Royalist plot, but you are an exact likeness of your mother, Queen Isabelle. It is quite something to behold.”
Alexandra wasn’t sure what to make of this response. “Unfortunately, I never had the pleasure of meeting her,” she said.
His shoulders beneath the fur cape rose and fell with a deep sigh that appeared to cause him some discomfort in his abdomen. “She was a kind woman who enjoyed dancing and always seemed to be smiling. She was an exceptionally beautiful woman as well. You have her eyes, and your hair color is the same. I cannot get over it.”
Taking note of the painful grimace on his face, Alex moved slowly to the side of the bed. “I see that you are suffering, Your Majesty. Is there anything that can be done for you? Should I send for your physician?”
Discreetly she glanced around the room, surprised by the fact that they were completely alone. There were no servants here, no one to bear witness to their conversation. Was there something he wished to say that he did not want others to hear? Not even his own son?
“There is nothing anyone can do for me now,” he told her. “I am filled with a cancer, they tell me. It won’t be long.”
She had come here expecting to confront a tyrant, to demand to know the truth about what had happened to her family twenty years ago. She’d expected to feel hatred and a measure of satisfaction after she spoke her mind. But somehow pity was nudging its way in, especially when she looked at this man and saw something of his son in him—the son who had bewitched her with his charm and convinced her that his heart was true.
“Please, sir, I wish to know what happened to my parents.”
The king wet his lips and spoke hoarsely. “Randolph told me you heard rumors that your father was murdered. A moment ago, he asked me if those rumors were true.” He paused and winced with pain. “It was the first time he had ever dared to ask such a thing.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“The truth, of course. That I did not order your father’s death. I may be a military man, and I may have killed more than a few of my enemies in times of war, but I am not an executioner, nor would I ever kill a king. I sent him into exile with a staff of guards and servants.”
“Then how did my father die?” she asked. “Why is it so impossible to learn the facts? All I ever hear is conjecture. A brief illness. A fall from a horse. Which was it?”
The king tried to answer but began to cough. “Ack, my mouth tastes like metal. A drink of water, if you would be so kind.”
She reached for the goblet on the side table and poured water from a heavy pewter jug. Realizing the king was too weak to hold the goblet, she sat beside him and held it to his lips.
A heavy ache settled into the pit of her stomach as she remembered Randolph’s expression when he first entered the library.
This was her husband’s father—and he was dying.
At last, he found the strength to continue. “The circumstances of your father’s death were kept secret because it was not something I felt the world should know.”
“Why?”
He paused again. “I regret to say this, Alexandra, but your father took his own life.”
For a moment she was too taken aback to speak. Then she stood abruptly. “Surely that cannot be true. Do you have proof of this?”
His eyes closed, as if he was drifting off to sleep, but thank God he answered her question first. “There was a letter written in his own hand. It is a sad farewell to your mother.”
“Does he mention me at all in this letter?” she asked desperately, reeling with horror, needing to know more. “Does he say anything about the unborn child he was about to leave alone in the world?”
The king opened his eyes and regarded her with melancholy. “No, but I do not believe he knew about you, for you were born eight months after his death. I doubt the queen even knew she was with child when she learned what he had done. Perhaps if he had known, he may not have chosen such a dark path for himself.”
Overcome by a sharp, piercing sensation of grief, Alex turned away from the king and fought to control her emotions, but there was nothing she could do to prevent the tears from flooding her eyes and spilling onto her cheeks. Quickly she wiped them away.
“I am deeply sorry,” he said in a voice that was somehow peaceful in the hush of the room. “I have always blamed myself. I led the rebellion that resulted in your father’s deposition. I now understand that the shame of that defeat was too great a burden for him. If only there was something I could have done differently to prevent him from coming to such a tragic end. I have always believed it was my greatest failure.”
Alexandra turned to face her husband’s father. “I have lately begun to see that there are certain events in our lives we are not meant to control. We do our best to make the world work the way we want it to, but sometimes God has other plans.”
The king laid a hand on his stomach and clenched his jaw against another bout of pa
in. “As he has a plan for me now.”
She returned to his side and took hold of his hand until the pain subsided and the look of agony departed from his face.
“I must rest,” he said. “If you could send for my children and Father Cornwell…”
“I will do so immediately, sir, but first may I ask one more thing? Does the letter still exist? I feel I must see it for myself.”
He nodded. “I expected as much, and I have already told Randolph where to find it. He will take you there.”
She bent forward and kissed his hand. “Thank you, Majesty. I will go now and send for the priest.”
She turned to leave.
“Alexandra,” he said, struggling to sit up.
She stopped and turned.
“I was not aware of your existence until today. I was told the queen died before she could deliver you into the world.”
“And I was told she held me in her arms for an hour before she passed.”
“Told by whom?” he asked, lying back. “Who knew of your birth?”
“Nigel Carmichael, my father’s secretary. He did not believe I would be safe in the wake of the Revolution, so he smuggled me away to England. It was he who arranged for my introduction to your son. Do you remember him?”
“Yes,” the king replied. “He and I did not agree on much of anything when it came to ruling this country, but if things were simpler, there would have been no need for a revolution, would there?”
* * *
Outside in the corridor, Randolph rose quickly from his seat on an upholstered bench as soon as Alex appeared. He studied her with curious eyes.
“He wishes to see you, Nicholas, and Rose,” she said to him, “and for the priest to return as well.”
Randolph made no move to leave just yet. “Did you find the answers you were seeking?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Then I presume you will wish to see the letter.”
She nodded. “I will, but it can wait. You must go to your father’s bedside now, Randolph. Have my rooms been prepared?”
He waved a hand at one of the servants, who quickly came to show her to her royal chamber.
* * *
It was past midnight by the time Randolph left his father’s chamber and made his way through the palace corridors on a dark errand, then eventually found his way back to his wife’s door.
He felt almost sick to his stomach as he raised his hand to knock but steeled himself against the bitter sense of dread, for it was a task he was duty bound to complete.
Alexandra’s maid answered the door but quickly disappeared after announcing him. He walked fully into the room to find his wife sitting in her nightgown before a roaring hot fire in the eight-foot stone hearth.
She stood as he approached, and the sight of her ebony hair falling loose upon her shoulders kindled a very different sort of fire deep inside him. All he wanted to do was hold her in his arms and forget the letter in his breast pocket.
“How is your father?” she asked. “Is there any improvement?”
“No, he is the same, but at least he is resting now. He is not in pain.”
“That, in itself, is a blessing.”
A gust of wind moaned down the chimney while they regarded each other in uneasy silence.
“You have something for me,” she said. “I see it in your eyes.”
He nodded, reached into his jacket pocket, and handed her the letter.
She took it from him but did not unfold it right away. Instead she held it at her side and stared into the dancing flames.
For a moment he thought she might simply toss it in and watch it burn, but then she turned away from the blaze and crossed to the window, where a single candle was burning on the sill.
He waited while she unfolded the letter and read it. When she finished, she set it down on the sill and lifted her eyes to meet his.
Driven solely by instinct, he strode toward her as quickly as his legs would carry him, gathered her into his arms, and held her while she clutched onto his shoulders and pressed her hand to the nape of his neck.
She did not sob or weep. She merely held him.
When at last they stepped apart, he cupped her cheek in his hand and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear.
“It has not been an easy day for either one of us,” he said.
“No, it has not. Will you come and lay with me for a while?”
He needed no further bidding as she moved to the bed and climbed on top of the covers. He removed his jacket and joined her there, sitting up against the pillows with his boots still on, while she curled her body into his and rested her head on his shoulder.
“I am not sure what to do with this letter,” she said. “I considered burning it just now, but perhaps that would be a mistake.”
“You don’t have to decide right away,” he said. “Things will seem clearer in the morning.”
For a long while they lay without talking, and Randolph wondered how it was possible that he could feel so protective of this woman he did not yet trust. It was inconceivable to him that she could somehow temper the depth of his grief simply by lying beside him.
She lifted her head and looked up at him. “You have not yet asked me about my meeting with your father. Are you not curious what was said?”
“That is between you and him,” Rand replied, “but if you wish to tell me…”
She laid her cheek on his shoulder again. “I did not say all the things I imagined I would say. I did not call him a usurper or a tyrant. I feel rather ashamed of myself, if you must know, for despite his weakened state, I found myself immensely intimidated by his greatness. And he reminded me of you.”
Rand listened without judgment. He merely stroked her shoulder with the pad of his thumb.
“But I did accomplish what I set out to accomplish,” she continued. “I made myself known to him, and I learned the truth about what happened to my father.”
“And you accepted it?” Rand carefully asked.
She lifted her head and blinked up at him. “Why? Didn’t you?”
He paused. “I wasn’t sure, so I felt a need to confirm it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I compared the penmanship of the letter to other palace documents. It was indeed written in your father’s hand. There can be no doubt about it. I can show you tomorrow if you wish, so that there will be no questions in your mind about what my father told you.”
“I would be most grateful,” she said. “I also wish to learn more of my father’s legacy. Are there any portraits here, or other artefacts from his reign?”
Rand sighed heavily. “I regret to say that most of it was destroyed during the Revolution. The mob was not easily subdued. There was thievery and violence.”
She sat up. “But it was your father who subdued them, was it not?”
“Yes. He had the benefit of an army at his disposal, and he has a talent for calming heated tempers.”
Alexandra met his gaze with a look of strength and determination, and he was unnerved by the intensity of his feelings for her when he wanted to remain guarded. “I wish to learn everything there is to know about my father’s reign. I want to know what incited the rebellion. There was so little information in England, and most of it painted your father with a very unflattering brush, for our king was not pleased about what happened here. No king wishes to see another king deposed. And Mr. Carmichael … He, too, has led me to believe that my father was greatly wronged by those who were greedy for wealth and power, but I wish to learn the truth for myself, now that I am here.”
“That can be arranged,” Randolph said, pleased that she was not afraid to face a painful truth—and she would most definitely be forced to face it once she learned more about this country’s volatile past.
Lying down again and snuggling close to him, she very quickly fell asleep in his arms. Still wearing his boots and exhausted from the day, he, too, let himself drift into a deep slumber, for h
e hadn’t the heart to wake her, nor did he wish to let her go.
* * *
Shortly before dawn, Rand woke to the sensation of his wife’s hand sliding across his pelvis and massaging his erection through the fabric of his breeches.
Instantly aroused and in need of distraction from the grief that weighed so heavily upon him, he turned his head to kiss her. She reached to unfasten his breeches, and his body exploded with desire.
A flashing heartbeat later, he was rolling on top of her and settling himself between her soft, luscious thighs. She was slick and wet down there, and when she thrust her hips upward he slid right in.
“Am I dreaming?” he whispered as he made love to her slowly on the soft bed, gazing down at her in the murky pre-dawn light.
It felt dreamlike. He had no sense of reality. He was floating in a thick haze of eroticism, but he preferred it that way, for life was not easy at the moment.
“No, you are awake. Perhaps I am the one who is dreaming.”
He pushed in as deep as possible, repeating each thrust with an equal measure of fortitude until he felt the white-hot flooding of sensation in his groin.
A low groan escaped him. It was a cry of resistance, for he had traveled to England with the noblest intentions of marrying for love yet had discovered he could not give in to it after all, for he had been burned once before, and burned yet again by Alexandra when she did not run away with him to Scotland, and yet again when he discovered her true identity.
His body and mind were waging war against each other. Part of him relished the euphoria he felt in her arms, while another part wrestled violently with such dangerous, trusting vulnerability.
Suddenly the throbbing contractions of her womanhood—so hot and tight around his sex—sent him into a spinning vortex of pleasure, and he poured into her with a hot gush of seed that drained him of all strength and the ability to reason. He collapsed upon her in shock and disbelief, for he had never known such ecstasy.
For a long while he lay there, still inside her, unwilling to withdraw until he feared he might crush her with his weight.
Carefully he rolled off her, and she gazed up at him in rapture, then kissed him on the cheek.
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