Royal Christmas: Royal Love-Child, Forbidden Marriage. Кейт Хьюит
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right then, and the king didn’t even realise. No one did. He had to protect Phoebe. He had to protect the crown. And he could see only one solution. A solution that required him to manipulate and use Phoebe with cold precision.
He had to make Phoebe his wife.
It would save her, but it would also condemn her. Condemn her to the politics of the royal family, a life she didn’t choose in a foreign country, a loveless marriage to him.
There was passion between them, Leo knew—oh, how he knew; he still felt it in every restless, unsatisfied sinew and limb. He felt it every time he saw her, uncoiling deep within him, radiating out to his fingertips that ached to touch her, brush the creaminess of her skin, the softness of her lips, her hair …
It was that latent sense of need that had given him the idea in the first place, and yet was it enough? Would Phoebe agree? Accept …?
And would she hate him when she knew … discovered what he’d done, what kind of man he was?
Would it even—ever—come to that?
Leo closed his eyes. Phoebe was a good woman, a better woman, perhaps, than even his own mother, who, he now knew, had given in to if not greed, then desperation. Thirty years after the fact he could feel pity—despite the pain—for a woman who had been so bullied by the royal family she’d allowed herself to be bought off.
Yet Phoebe didn’t let herself be bullied or bought; despite her fear, she’d stayed strong. She was a good woman, Leo thought with a pang of guilty regret. Far too good for him.
A cold wind blew over him, rustling the tree branches, making him shiver. Suppressing another curse, Leo resolutely turned and went back inside.
CHAPTER SEVEN
PHOEBE awoke to a pearly pink sky and dawn streaking its pale fingers along the floor. Next to her Christian lay sprawled across the bed. He’d had a restless night and sometime between midnight and dawn Phoebe had brought him into bed with her.
Now she lay still, enjoying a moment of peaceful solitude even as the memories and implications of yesterday trickled slowly through her.
They were in Amarnes. Nicholas might very well want custody of her son. Leo had kissed her.
She rolled off the bed, carefully extracting herself from the rumpled covers so as not to wake Christian. The sun was rising now, a pale sliver of yellow above the mountains, turning their snow-capped peaks to the colour of cream. A glance at the clock told her it was already after eight o’clock; in November the sun didn’t rise until quite late in this part of the world.
Hurriedly, Phoebe washed and dressed. Today they were going ice-skating with Leo. And despite all her fears and anxieties, the terror that Nicholas would find a way to take Christian from her and, even worse, that Leo might aid him, she found herself looking forward to the outing with absurd excitement.
An hour later they were leaving the palace, just the three of them, bundled against the chilly wind blowing in from the sea.
‘What, no entourage?’ Phoebe asked as they simply strolled through the palace gates. ‘No guards?’
‘Amarnes is a small country,’ Leo replied with a shrug. ‘Very safe. And I think I can take on any comers.’ His wry smile as he flexed one arm made Phoebe laugh aloud. She needed this, she realised. She needed to laugh, to let go, to enjoy a day apart, a day just for pleasure … with Leo.
Next to her, Christian was practically dancing in excitement. So much for the Rockefeller Center, Phoebe thought wryly. He obviously thought this was much more fun.
She’d certainly agree with that.
The sun was just emerging behind some ribbony white clouds as they entered the city’s main square. Phoebe’s last visit to Njardvik had been such a blur that she now found herself looking around in genuine interest. The square was surrounded by tall, narrow townhouses painted in varying pastel shades, elegant and colourful.
In the middle of the square, now strung with fairy lights, an ice rink had been formed, sparkling with sunlight. A Christmas tree decorated in red and gold, at least forty feet high, towered over the rink. Even Christian was impressed by its size, and declared it better than the tree at the Rockefeller Center.
‘I’m so relieved,’ Leo told him with a little smile.
They fetched skates from a hut erected near the rink, and then sat on a rough wooden bench to put them on. Phoebe saw the way the people—the man who rented them the skates, the red-cheeked woman who sold pebber nodder, the little shortbread cookies flavoured with cinnamon—looked at him. Spoke to him. She saw and heard respect, admiration, even affection. Leo, Phoebe realised, had won his people over.
The thought made her glad.
‘Have you skated much?’ Leo asked with an arched brow, and Phoebe smiled, suddenly mischievous.
‘A bit.’ She tightened the laces on her skates. ‘What about you?’
‘A bit as well,’ Leo replied.
‘I fall a lot,’ Christian confided. He stretched out his legs for Leo to lace up his skates. Phoebe watched the simple sight of Leo doing up her son’s skates and felt her heart both constrict and expand all at once. There was something so right about this, and it scared her. It was all too easy to imagine them as a family, to imagine this was more than just a day’s outing. To imagine—and want—this to be real.
‘There.’ Leo stood up, reaching a hand down to Christian, which the little boy took with easy trust. He held out his other hand to Phoebe, and after the briefest of hesitations she took it. They both wore gloves, yet even so it felt all too good—too right and too wonderful—for his hand to clasp hers.
They walked awkwardly on their skates to the rink and Christian’s bravado faltered at the sight of the sheer ice. Skating backwards with long, gliding movements, Leo took the boy’s hands and helped him move along. Phoebe watched from the side as they skated around the rink. Leo had skated more than a bit, she thought wryly. He skated backwards with effortless ease, helping Christian along, encouraging him with ready smiles and praise. Christian beamed back, delighted when he was finally able to let go of Leo’s hands and skate for a few wobbly feet by himself.
Leo skated towards Phoebe, who remained leaning against the rink wall.
‘You’re good,’ she said and he gave a modest shrug.
‘Growing up in Amarnes … all children learn to skate.’ He gave her a little smile. ‘Are you going to get out on the ice?’ His eyes glinted with humour. ‘You’re not afraid, are you?’
‘Me? Afraid?’
‘You said you’d only skated a bit …’
‘So I did,’ Phoebe agreed, and then pushed off the wall. She wasn’t able to see the expression on Leo’s face as she glided to the centre of the rink, did a graceful figure-of-eight before spinning in a dizzying circle, one leg stretched out in a perfect right angle.
‘Way to go, Mom!’ Christian crowed, then turned to Leo. ‘She used to skate a lot.’
‘So it would appear,’ Leo murmured, and Phoebe, skating back, couldn’t help but grin.
‘I took figure-skating lessons for five years. I had dreams of being the next big star, actually.’
‘And what happened?’
Phoebe smiled wryly. ‘I wasn’t that good.’
‘Better than me,’ Leo told her. ‘And you don’t need to look so smug,’ he added as she leaned against the wall once more. ‘I was looking forward to giving you lessons.’
‘Perhaps it should be the other way round,’ Phoebe replied, and he laughed aloud.
‘Or perhaps,’ he murmured for only her ears, ‘we should have lessons in some other … field