The Royal Baby Revelation

by Sharon Kendrick

  She knew what he meant. He was comparing her to the woman she had been before and acknowledging that this silk-satin underwear came nowhere close to a baggy old grey T-shirt. And yet, back then, she had surely felt more true to herself than the pampered creature who stood before him now.

  Her breasts were encased in apricot silk-satin, edged in finest lace—the kind of bra which you sometimes saw sleek Hollywood blondes wearing in those ultraglossy magazines which sat on the top shelf of newsagents. High-cut panties matched the bra and made her already long legs seem endless. Yet the feel of such butter-soft silk against her skin made her feel decadent—and she guessed that was no bad way for a woman to feel on her honeymoon. She glanced at him from between slitted and heavy lashes—and the darkening of his eyes told her loud and clear just how much he wanted her.

  ‘Casimiro,’ she whispered.

  Reading the blatant hunger in that slanted glance she sent him made him wonder briefly what it might be like to take her there, on the balcony. For their mingling skin to be washed by the warmth of the moonlit night as they came together. But he thought of her soft cries echoing in the silent night and the flash of her diamond ring which might attract the attention of a long-range camera, or guard…

  ‘Come here,’ he said throatily, pulling her into his arms, and he picked her up and carried her into their bedroom. She seemed all coltish arms and legs as he laid her down on the bed and she reached up for him, her dark hair spilling back against the pillow.

  ‘Kiss me,’ she whispered. ‘Kiss me again.’

  It was a curiously intimate little command and as Casimiro lowered his head to hers once more he felt himself poised on the brink of some brand-new discovery. The sensation that a kiss could somehow take on a million different guises and that he had just discovered a brand-new variation.

  But something in its subtle magic made him instinctively wary and, freeing himself from its disconcerting spell, he got up and moved away from the bed—gesturing to his shirt and trousers with a rueful expression. ‘There is little point, mia bella, in you wearing very little and me wearing all this…now, is there?’

  ‘No,’ she said dully, watching him as he removed his clothes. Watching—as she knew she was supposed to watch and savour—this highly privileged striptease. The sight of his powerful body gradually becoming naked was more than a little intimidating. As was the formidable power of his arousal as it sprang free. And studying him amid the opulence of this magnificent suite, she couldn’t help thinking back to when they’d first been lovers. Of Casimiro in her teeny little bedsit—with the row of terraced houses opposite and the cramped bed in which they’d lain, all tangled and sleepy.

  Yet as he stepped out of silken boxer shorts and her eyes were drawn to the definition of his powerful thighs, she thought that, beneath all the splendour, surely he was essentially the same man? Even if he had hidden that oh-so-human side to him this time around. Was that because he was still angry that she had trapped him into a life he had already chosen to reject? And would he ever be able to let that go—to let her close to him as once he had?

  Well, she would not help matters by imagining the worst or by clamming up. He had told her in no uncertain terms that it was inappropriate to show her emotions—but surely that didn’t apply when they were in bed together?

  ‘Come here,’ she said softly, and opened her arms to him.

  Her sweetness affected him more than he had bargained for. Casimiro didn’t know what he had expected on their wedding night. Coyness or shyness perhaps. Maybe triumph—or even anger.

  Instead, he got passion. Pure and unequivocal. Unrestrained gasps of pleasure as he thrust deep into her. The tight slick as he moved inside her with gathering pace and felt her orgasm swelling up until it could no longer be contained.

  ‘Casimiro,’ she breathed, clutching onto his shoulders and clinging to him as if he were her only rock in a wild and thrashing sea. ‘Oh. Oh. Oh!’

  He felt her buck beneath him and then he too was lost in the mindless bliss of sexual fulfilment—taken by the tide, like a surfer riding the biggest wave of all. For a while afterwards he just lay there, his mind blissfully free of thought or timetable, idly stroking back damp strands of hair from her sweat-sheened brow.

  ‘So how was it?’ he questioned eventually as he felt the ecstatic trembling of her body quieten at last.

  It took a moment before she had the composure to answer him.

  ‘It?’

  ‘The day. The wedding. The crowds and the cameras. You seemed…’ his voice grew thoughtful as he considered her reaction to what must have been a bizarre experience ‘…remarkably composed.’

  Melissa thought about it. ‘It wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be,’ she admitted. ‘To be honest, I was so busy worrying that I’d be able to make my vows without stumbling and that Ben wouldn’t have a paddy in the church or that the crown wouldn’t topple from my head—that there wasn’t really time to be self-conscious.’

  ‘Eccellente,’ he murmured, his hand smoothing down over her bare bottom. ‘If a queen is self-conscious it does her country no favours. If, for example, she becomes obsessed with her image and her appearance instead of her country’s needs, then her role as consort is compromised.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, wondering if that was supposed to be a compliment or a warning.

  The pressure of his fingers over one buttock increased by a fraction to become a warm squeeze ‘And how was this?’ he questioned softly.

  She knew exactly what he meant this time but was curious to know how he would phrase it. ‘This?’ she echoed. ‘Perhaps you could be a little bit more specific.’

  ‘The consummation of our marriage vows.’

  It was possibly the most cold-blooded way he could have described it but, since she had asked the question, there was no one to blame but herself. ‘It…’ Melissa swallowed. ‘It was perfect. You know it was.’

  ‘Really? You mean there’s no room for improvement?’ he teased.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ She rolled over, leaning on her elbow to look at him, knowing that the first night of a honeymoon was special. That this was the night when, traditionally, words of love were exchanged. But what had Casimiro said to her that very morning? I hardly think we’re a shining example of traditionalism.

  So what would he say if she told him that women loved men for all kinds of reasons? They loved them even when they probably shouldn’t have loved them in the first place. He would probably turn round and say that nobody could possibly ‘love’ after those few passion-filled days which had been nothing more than time out from their normal lives. But he would have been wrong—and every woman in the world would testify to that. Just as every mother would admit that you never really stopped loving the father of your child; for how could you?

  And what would he say if she confessed that she could still love him if only he would give her half a chance? That she wanted to love him, if only he’d let her.

  Perhaps kings never really let anybody close. Maybe the only way he would ever let her get close to him was in the purely physical sense. So couldn’t she just settle for that?

  ‘I think there’s plenty of room for improvement,’ she whispered. ‘In fact, I think we could start improving right now.’

  And he groaned as she bent her head and began to kiss the shadowy hollow at the base of his throat.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE following morning—feeling a little self-conscious from lack of sleep—Melissa stood on the steps of the villa as Ben arrived in a small fleet of cars, accompanied by Aunt Mary. He gave a little shout as he launched himself at his mother and clung to her neck but it was with a pang that Melissa realised she didn’t recognise any of the clothes he was wearing…and that made her feel even more disconnected from reality than her blissful wedding night had done.

  ‘Who bought him that suit?’ she asked her aunt as she carried him inside.

  ‘Oh, wait till you see—there’s a w
hole new wardrobe for the little fellow,’ replied the older woman. ‘Which he’ll have grown out of before he can possibly wear all of it. I do hope it won’t go to waste, Melissa,’ she added anxiously. ‘There are plenty of babies in the world who really need new clothes.’

  ‘Oh, I think you’ll find we are not so profligate as to squander babies’ clothes, Mary,’ came Casimiro’s wry comment as he walked into the salon, and Melissa saw her aunt sinking down into a deep curtsey.

  ‘You don’t have to keep curtseying to Casimiro, Aunt Mary!’ she protested.

  ‘Oh, but I do—and I want to,’ said her aunt firmly. ‘I’ll be back in the supermarket aisles on Monday wondering if I dreamed the whole thing—and anyway, it’s just respect. And tradition.’

  ‘You’ll find that Casimiro has very strong views of traditionalism,’ said Melissa, holding the mocking gleam of his golden glance.

  ‘Indeed I do. Speaking of which—do you know that your niece didn’t curtsey when we first met, Mary?’ he murmured. ‘In fact, her very first words to me were: “Go away”.’

  Melissa shot him a beseeching glance, aware that her aunt’s face was wreathed in smiles at what must have sounded like a fond lover’s memory—and how misleading was that?

  ‘Mu-mu-mu-mu-mu!’ babbled Ben, clearly feeling ignored and choosing just this moment to grab a fistful of Melissa’s hair and to tug on it as if he were training for a career in bell-ringing.

  ‘Say hello to…to…Daddy,’ she said, aware that she was blushing and aware how bizarre it sounded. But what else could she say? The King? His Majesty?

  ‘I would prefer Papa,’ said Casimiro, as if he had read her thoughts.

  Papa. It was only a little thing—but it wasn’t a word Melissa was used to. ‘Of course.’

  Casimiro turned to Mary with an urbane smile. ‘You will stay for dinner, I hope?’

  ‘Thank you, but no, ‘ said Mary. ‘Much more of this and I might get a bit too used to it. I’m flying back to

  England this afternoon—I can’t get out of my stint on the hospital book trolley that easily!’

  Melissa felt an unexpected wave of sadness as she hugged her aunt goodbye and had to gulp back tears as the four-wheel drive disappeared in a cloud of dust down the snaking track. She stood there watching until it was completely out of sight, looking up to find Casimiro’s thoughtful gaze on her.

  ‘She can come and stay any time she likes, you know,’ he said softly.

  ‘Unfortunately, she’s not really used to a lot of flying.’

  ‘But she’ll get used to it.’

  Melissa nodded. ‘I guess,’ she said quietly.

  He wondered if the reality of how curtailed her life would be from now on was sinking in at last—and how she was going to deal with it. There was also the question of how he was going to deal with the tousle-haired baby in her arms, who was looking up at him with fearless eyes. And Casimiro held his son’s gaze, his own slightly more troubled. Would he learn to know him, and to love him—as all fathers did their sons?

  Amber eyes a shade lighter than his own were studying him intently and Casimiro suddenly realised that babies and children were no respecters of privilege or position. That they cared about who you were and not what you represented. Yet countless other men must have dealt with this kind of situation before. How had they coped?

  He looked down at the child’s small limbs and tried to accept the somewhat unbelievable idea that one day this little creature would be as tall as he was.

  ‘Can he swim?’ he questioned suddenly.

  ‘No, of course not!’

  ‘Then I’m going to him teach him.’

  And despite Melissa’s protests that thirteen months was much too young, Casimiro set about doing just that. A bodyguard was dispatched to purchase several sets of water-wings from heaven only knew where and Melissa realised with a start the subtle extent of her new husband’s power. Water-wings or palaces. Private planes or diamonds. Didn’t matter what it was—whatever the King wanted, the King got.

  Yet as she watched Ben splashing around in the turquoise waters of the infinity pool, being lifted aloft by his powerfully built father, she couldn’t dampen down the faint spark of hope which began to flare inside her. For hadn’t that image been what she had always dreamed of? That Ben should have a father of his own—and a hands-on father, too? And perhaps learning to know and to love Ben might make Casimiro more approachable—so that he might lose that sometimes icy air of detachment which could be so intimidating.

  She was nervous about their first proper shared meal as a family that night—but Ben was so overawed at being waited on and so worn out by swimming and by the presence of this interesting new adult that he behaved impeccably. No food was dispatched anywhere other than in the direction of his mouth. He even ate a sliced banana with a dexterity which made her glow with pride. Nothing whatsoever ended up in the King’s lap.

  To Melissa’s surprise, Casimiro even volunteered to help at bath-time and she had to hide her bittersweet pleasure as she watched him wielding a little plastic watering can and tipping it over the baby’s head. She thought how ordinary he seemed—laughing as Ben splashed him with warm water—but there was an additional benefit to having a man around, she realised.

  Although her aunt had been a fantastic babysitter, this was Melissa’s first real experience of sharing child-care and it made such a difference to a mother’s life. It was the little things which meant so much—like being able to dry her hair without Ben trying to swipe the hairdryer. Or being able to shut the door when she visited the bathroom.

  She felt almost shy as she waited each night for her new husband to return from reading Ben a goodnight story, and shyer still when his fingers grazed over her skin. One evening, as he played idly with her breast, her hand began to tremble so much that he plucked the half-drunk glass of champagne from her fingers and put it down.

  ‘I don’t think you want this, do you?’

  ‘Not…not really, no.’

  ‘Then let’s go to bed.’

  ‘We can’t keep missing dinner.’

  ‘We can do whatever we want.’

  ‘No, Casimiro,’ she said firmly. ‘Actually, we can’t. The cook has gone to a lot of trouble to prepare a honeymoon feast. Tonight, let’s eat first and then go to bed.’

  He raised his eyebrows in a challenge which was only half mocking. ‘Are you ordering me around, Melissa?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m saying what you know happens to be right.’

  Unexpectedly, he laughed at her outrageous remark, unused to the sensation of being overruled by anyone—let alone a woman. Somehow he endured a dinner he could have easily forgone—though he couldn’t miss the smiles of delight bestowed on her by the staff who waited on them during the meal and concluded that Melissa had been right. But knowing that only seemed to increase his desire, so that by the time they reached their suite he could barely wait to undress her before he lost himself in the welcoming warmth of her soft body.

  ‘You made me wait,’ he declared unsteadily.

  ‘Aren’t you used to waiting, then, Casimiro?’

  ‘Never.’ But she was very good at resisting him, he realised—for hadn’t she refused to make love with him in her apartment back in England? And didn’t such proper—and unusual—resistance only make her surrender all the more exquisite? So that tonight she seemed to be composed of honey and silk—sliding through his fingers with slick sweetness.

  Never had his exploration of a woman’s body seemed so thorough and complete. Her soft moans only increased his own pleasure—his orgasm shuddering on and on and on so that it felt as if she had stripped him bare…on every level. And later they lay there as moonlight streamed in and turned their bodies silver, his fingers locking lazily in the glossy tendrils of her hair.

  By his side, Melissa stirred. ‘Are you awake?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘You were…are…absolutely brilliant with Ben,’ she said softly. ‘Am I?’<
br />
  ‘Yes.’ She turned onto her side and stared into his face, touching her fingertips to the dark shadow of new growth at his jaw reflectively. Tonight she was determined that they would talk, maybe get to know each other on a deeper level during that soft, quiet time after making love. ‘Casimiro?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘What was your relationship with your own father like?’

  There was a pause. Was it the wine he’d drunk with dinner or the proximity of her silken flesh which made him answer without first weighing it up? ‘Businesslike,’ he said.

  ‘That’s a funny word to use.’

  ‘Not really. Things were much more formal in those days. We—Xaviero and I—weren’t encouraged to show any outward kind of affection. At least, not towards our father.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘No hugs?’

  ‘Definitely no hugs.’ Hugs were seen as needy. Weak. ‘We learnt lessons from our father—hugs we got from our mother.’

  ‘But then your mother died?’

  Casimiro’s mouth tightened. Why the hell was she interrogating him like this? ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Oh, darling.’

  The way she said it disturbed him. Just as the way she touched his face disturbed him. Was it because her actions and her words were coated in sympathy and the last thing he wanted or needed was that—especially from someone who was still brand-new to all the constraints of royal life?

  He wished that her naked breasts weren’t pushing against his chest because how the hell could a man think when a woman was as unknowingly provocative as this one? And hadn’t he better teach her now that he wasn’t intending to subject himself to amateur analysis sessions every time they had sex? That peeling back the layers offered nothing but pain and then more pain. ‘I’m tired—and you must be, too. Go to sleep,’ he said, almost roughly.

  But Melissa’s night was restless and haunted by insubstantial but faintly threatening dreams and when she awoke the following morning Casimiro was standing by the window—already dressed in a pair of faded jeans which hugged the muscular length of his legs and a T-shirt which kissed every taut sinew of his torso.