Some dark and unknown emotion in his face made her wonder if she’d done something wrong and Melissa sat up, brushing her tousled hair back from her face. ‘You’re…you’re up very early.’
Casimiro nodded. Her lips were kiss-crushed and her eyes looked as green as grass in the morning light. Glossy brown hair tumbled down over her naked breasts and each tiny rosy tip seemed to invite him to take it into his mouth…
But Casimiro silenced the clamouring call of his body. He had found her tender—no, prying—questions more than a little unsettling. Because somehow it seemed all wrong to break the habit of a lifetime and allow anyone to get that close—and she needed to understand that. She must be under no illusion that he was intending to share such confidences with her night after night—for what good would that do when the past was dead and buried, and best left that way?
‘I have a few things I need to deal with before breakfast.’
‘Things?’
‘King things.’
His lips curved into a mocking smile but beneath the sardonic humour Melissa could sense his unmistakable detachment. As if a faintly forbidding presence had inhabited the body of her husband overnight—so that this morning he seemed like nothing more than a familiar stranger. And suddenly she found herself longing for the man who had opened up his heart to her.
She leaned back against the pillows, telling herself that a woman on her honeymoon was surely allowed to be a little bit provocative. ‘Can’t it wait?’
Temptation hit his blood like a warm storm spattering over dry rocks. But somehow Casimiro resisted it—telling himself that he needed to resist it in order to shrug off the sudden rawness of his senses. Instead, he touched the tips of his fingers to his lips and mimed blowing her a kiss. ‘Later,’ he promised.
Then he was gone—leaving Melissa lying back against the bank of feather pillows, not only aching with frustration but feeling very slightly foolish, too. A woman having to ask her husband to come back to bed with her and then having her request refused on their honeymoon was pretty shaming. And she found herself wondering if this was how it was going to be from here on in.
Yet he joined her and Ben in time for a late breakfast and afterwards suggested taking them for a walk up the hills behind the house and she looked at him with hope flaring in her eyes.
‘But what about Ben—how will he manage?’
‘I’ll carry him, of course.’
And that was exactly what he did—despite Melissa’s reservations about whether or not Ben would deign to be carried for such a long walk. Or, indeed, whether Casimiro might flag beneath the child’s sturdy and sustained weight. As it happened, neither of these eventualities occurred and the day went perfectly. So did the next—and the one after that. At least, that was what she kept telling herself. Trying to convince herself that it was true when deep down she knew that something was different and she couldn’t put her finger on what it was.
To the outsider, Melissa knew they would appear to be having as perfect a honeymoon as was possible, given the unusual circumstances. She had seen the quick smiles of approval from the staff when the King lifted his baby son high onto his shoulders or coaxed him to eat a piece of watermelon at breakfast. She also knew that no new bride could possibly complain about what took place in their marital bed every night. Because even Melissa—with her complete lack of experience of any other lover—realised that Casimiro was a textbook lover. Maybe that was the problem. A textbook lover wasn’t a real lover, was he? You could go through every permutation of sex possible and you could make a woman shudder in your arms again and again and again, but…
Melissa stared out at the sapphire of the distant sea. Somehow she couldn’t stop herself comparing the man Casimiro had been in the past to the man he was now. She tried telling herself that the person who held her night after night was far more real than the lover who had drifted in and out of her life during that rainy summer.
So why didn’t it feel that way? Why did their snatched affair feel more real than this honeymoon—and more honest? Was it because back then he had been there by choice, rather than necessity, as now? She wondered if she was imagining the distance which seemed to be growing between them—had she done something to offend him? But when she asked him he gave her a cool and faintly surprised look—as if he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. Leaving Melissa to wonder what life was going to be like when they returned to their royal life back at the palace.
Their last dinner at the villa was delicious and they drank champagne the colour of honey which tasted as dry as a bone. And afterwards, Casimiro dismissed the staff and carried her upstairs to the vast bed where they had shared so many intimate moments over the last fortnight.
‘Our last night,’ he murmured as his lips whispered a soft path over one soft cheek. ‘That’s right.’
He kissed away the faint frown at her brow. ‘You are sad at leaving?’
She wanted to tell him that the only thing making her sad was his refusal to let her get close—but wouldn’t that spoil their last night? ‘A little,’ she conceded diplomatically. ‘It’s been…it’s been a wonderful honeymoon, hasn’t it, Casimiro?’
‘Of course.’
She stared at him, her heart beating fast. ‘I’m just a bit nervous about what’s going to happen when we get back. I mean, how the hell do I go about being your Queen?’
His hand found the silken mound of her small breast. ‘You will have plenty of help, cara.’
‘From…oh, Casimiro!’ She swallowed, trying desperately hard to concentrate, but it wasn’t easy when he was flicking his finger against her nipple like that. ‘From you?’
He gave an impatient little click. ‘Not from me, no. There will be a whole host of people to advise you, Melissa—but let’s not talk of it now, mmm? Not when there are so many more satisfying things we could do in bed.’
She succumbed to his lips and his fingers and the irresistible thrust of his body because it seemed that was what she was programmed to do. And she waited for words of love which never came—and consequently bit back her own.
When they arrived back at the palace, Casimiro went off for a meeting with his staff while Melissa tried to settle Ben into his nursery after a dinner which ended up mostly over him and on the floor. But he grizzled all through bath-time and couldn’t even be placated with a tune from his old plastic mobile which she’d brought with them from England—even though it looked slightly shabby and out of place in his smart new palace bedroom.
She waited for Casimiro to appear, but there was no sign of him and she didn’t want to go looking around the still-unfamiliar palace or asking one of the many staff where she should be. Or where dinner was. But there was no way she was going to sit in a formal dining room eating on her own while her husband was nowhere to be seen.
She supposed she could lift the phone and ring to ask for something to be sent to their rooms—like room service in a posh hotel. But she wasn’t really that hungry and, besides, what could she order? She didn’t even know what the national dish of Zaffirinthos was! Well, tomorrow she would hit the Internet and the library and start learning all about her new home and life. As Casimiro had said—there were plenty of people to teach her.
And tonight?
Tonight she would put away all her stupid and nameless fears and prepare to greet her husband in the most traditional way known to all new brides…
Drenched in perfumed oils, she splashed around in the deep, sunken bath in her huge bathroom and afterwards slid on a green silk nightgown with a matching peignoir which felt as fine as gossamer against her scented skin. And then, picking up a novel whose world seemed infinitely less absorbing than her own did right now, she settled down to wait for Casimiro.
She waited until ten before wandering into the smaller of their three sitting rooms—where she turned on the television in an attempt to feel normal. But the array of films held as little allure as her book and watching the news bulletins from the res
t of the world only increased her feelings of isolation.
At ten-thirty she tried his cell phone—but it was switched off.
By eleven she had fallen into a fitful sleep and when eventually she felt his naked body slip into bed beside her, she opened her eyes to see that the luminous dial on the face of the clock read almost midnight.
‘Where have you been?’ she questioned sleepily as his hand moved round to cover her silk-covered breast. ‘Shh.’
‘Casimiro—’
But he was now rucking up her silk nightgown and cupping the globes of her bottom—his skin cool against her bed-warmed flesh as he skated his palms over them with a skill which soon had her trembling with anticipation. Pushing her hair aside to kiss the nape of her neck, he blatantly pressed his hard body into hers so that she was left in no doubt about how much he wanted her.
His silent and sensual onslaught continued to filter through her still-dreamy state and she just let the feelings grow. His fingers found her honeyed slickness and touched her there until she was gasping his name out loud in frustration and need. And only then did he turn her over and pull her towards him and wordlessly thrust deep inside her as his lips found hers.
She came almost immediately—already her body was growing accustomed to the pleasure he could give her—and his fingers tightened around her breasts as she made a soft little cry against his shoulder. She heard the escalation of his breathing—the sudden urgency of his movements and then that distinctive little moan which shuddered on and on.
But once that floaty, dreamy feeling had left her Melissa remembered the long, empty evening she’d spent—without even a phone-call from her new husband.
‘Casimiro?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Where have you just been?’
‘Inside you, cara,’ he murmured, and tightened his arms around her. ‘Or hadn’t you noticed?’
In the darkness, she blushed. ‘That’s not what I mean and you know it.’
Fractionally, he loosened his grip on her, and yawned. ‘Just what did you mean?’
‘What have you been doing all evening?’
‘I had a stack of paperwork a mile high to tackle.’ There was a pause. ‘I have just been away on my honeymoon,’ he added softly.
‘I know.’ But she could tell that he was being evasive and she could not hold in the faltering little sigh which seemed to come from the very bottom of her lungs.
‘You’re tired. It’s been a long day.’ He pulled her against him and smoothed her hair. ‘You need to sleep and so do I. Goodnight, Melissa.’
He said it in a kind way. But it was the way in which you might speak to someone who wasn’t terribly bright. It was dismissive and it was kindness cloaked in steely control—and Melissa had never felt more patronised in her life.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘WILL you be back for dinner?’ The smile on her face was fixed and bright and beneath the table Melissa’s fingers twisted the napkin in her lap as the butler poured Casimiro another of the inky little coffees he favoured in the morning. ‘It’s just the two of us tonight. Nothing in the diary for once!’
Casimiro glanced up from his study of the pages of the Zaffirinthos Times and shrugged. ‘I will try, cara, but I can’t promise anything. I have wall-to-wall meetings with ministers all day—and later I am due to visit the naval base and will stay for cocktails on the new freighter afterwards. So if I’m not back then just carry on without me. Don’t bother waiting.’
Don’t bother waiting. Melissa’s smile didn’t waver even if she felt one of those faint flickers of rebellion which had become increasingly frequent of late. Because didn’t those few words perfectly capture the very essence of a royal marriage which was little more than an empty shell? A forced union with a man who ticked the boxes as being a perfect lover and part-time father. And one who displayed all the emotional depth of one of the marble statues of his ancestors! She twisted the napkin a little more, knowing that it was a better outlet for her frustration than biting her nails.
She was trying her best to be upbeat and mostly she succeeded—even though it had been a baptism of fire settling into her new role. Royal life was certainly packed and—although she had known that every single second was accounted for—she had not expected it to be such a challenge.
There had been balls and tea parties with visiting ministers and dignitaries to meet—each engagement requiring a different change of clothes and a briefing about each person who would be introduced to her. And she’d been given a list of charities so that she could decide which of these she planned to support as patron.
Had this constant pace—this social merry-go-round—been one of the reasons why Casimiro had been so close to abdication when she had reappeared in his life? The abdication which had never again been mentioned—as if the very real prospect of it happening had been nothing but make-believe. Every time she had attempted to bring the subject up, she had been stonewalled by a cool censure delivered in an icily aristocratic tone by her husband.
Melissa took a sip of coffee—trying to tell herself that her feelings of inadequacy and confusion were understandable. No transition from commoner to Queen was ever going to be straightforward, but when you factored in that she had borne the King’s child, in secret—well, that made the people of Zaffirinthos view her with understandable curiosity. Will she make our King happy?— their eyes seemed to say, and Melissa wanted to tell them that, yes, she would—oh, she would—if only he’d let her.
And that was the crux of the matter—he just wouldn’t. All too quickly she’d discovered that Casimiro had been independent for too long to allow anyone to get really close on a normal daily basis. Isolated by an accident of birth which had placed the crown on his head, he seemed supremely comfortable with his own company.
Deep down, she didn’t have a clue what was going on behind the beautiful golden mask of his face. A lifetime of protocol had taught him the most effective methods of blocking unwanted questions and making those questions feel like an intrusion, so that in the end she gave up asking.
Sometimes it felt as if her life with him consisted of a series of formal engagements, punctuated by meals or receptions. Where she would see him seated on the opposite side of a room or a table—unless hers was a solo engagement, in which case she didn’t get to see him at all.
And, yes, he still played with Ben—but all the routine of the close father-son relationship they’d forged on the honeymoon had evaporated. These days he saw Ben only on his terms—while she ended up feeling like the lowest priority of all in his life.
Only in the bedroom did she ever feel his equal—even if it was purely in a physical sense. There he would kiss her. Cajole away any concerns with the soft caress of his fingers before she had a chance to air them. He would lift her up in his arms and make her feel all woman as he brought her down slowly onto his aching shaft. Melissa swallowed as vivid erotic recall flew into her mind. You wouldn’t need to be experienced to realise that Casimiro was an exemplary lover and that she was the most fortunate of wives in that respect.
So why did it increasingly seem as if it wasn’t enough? Why, despite Ben’s obvious happiness and her own material comfort, did she sometimes feel emptier than she’d ever done in her tiny little apartment back in England? Was it because there at least she’d known who she really was, whereas here…
Here she felt as if she were a ghost of a woman who had chased an illusion, wanting it to be something else—only it had turned out to be an illusion all along.
But Casimiro had never pretended to be anything else, had he? He had warned her off emotion and she had stupidly carried on hoping and hoping that things might some day change. Nothing was going to change—or, rather, he wasn’t. He wasn’t about to turn into a different man overnight—the kind who discussed everything with his wife, who confided all his thoughts and hopes and fears. Who wanted the kind of close-knit and warm relationship she’d secretly longed for. He was as closed off as he’d ever
been maybe because he didn’t know any other way.
And Melissa was slowly coming to realise that nothing was going to change unless she made it change.
Putting down her half-eaten piece of bread and honey, she looked at him across the breakfast table and forced a smile. ‘Can’t I come too?’ she questioned suddenly.
Realising that he was going to get no more reading done, Casimiro put the paper down. ‘Where?’
‘On your visit to the naval base. I could bring Ben along with me—I’m sure he’d love to see the big ships.’
He dropped a lump of sugar into his coffee and stirred it. ‘That won’t be possible, I’m afraid. It’s much too short notice—and it’s not really a suitable trip for a baby.’
‘It isn’t?’
‘Not really, no.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘Anyway, it would be wasted on someone of Ben’s age.’
‘I suppose so.’ She tried to keep the frustration from her voice but it wasn’t easy. He was missing the point completely and she found herself wanting to slam her cup down onto the table. To tell him to stop being so calm and so polite and so damn reasonable and to really open up and talk to her!
Casimiro saw the way her lips were pursing up and the memory of how they had whispered over certain parts of his anatomy during the night made him adopt a more conciliatory tone. ‘Anyway, you have your own diary, bella—certainly enough to keep you occupied. And your own programme of visits.’
Aware that she was being fobbed off, Melissa nodded. ‘Yes, I know.’
‘How are you getting along with your lady-in-waiting?’
‘She’s lovely.’
‘And the nanny? She meets with your approval?’
Melissa sipped her coffee. She had baulked against the idea of having child-care—jealously wanting to have Ben all to herself. And wondering guiltily if she could justify having help when she wasn’t going out to work. But she had quickly worked out that she was being unrealistic and that she couldn’t really manage without help. ‘Sandy’s lovely, too—in fact, all the staff are.’
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