Royally Bedded, Regally Wedded Read online

  ‘You’re not English.’

  The first man’s eyebrows rose as he turned back to her. ‘Of course not,’ he said, as if that were a ridiculous observation. Then, with a note of impatience in his voice, he went on, ‘Miss Mitchell, we have a great deal to discuss. Please be so good as to go inside. You have my word that you are perfectly safe.’

  The other man was reaching forward, pushing open the gate and ushering her along the short path to her front door. Numbly she did as she was bade. Tension and a deep unease were still ripping through her. As she gained the tiny entrance hall of the cottage she paused to unlatch Ben from his safety harness. He struggled out immediately, and turned to survey the two tall men waiting in the doorway to gain entrance.

  Lizzy straightened, and flicked on the hall light, surveying the two men herself. As her gaze rested on the younger of the two, she saw he was staring, riveted, at Ben.

  There were two other things she registered about him that sent conflicting emotions shooting through her.

  The first was, quite simply, that in the stark light of the electric bulb the man staring down at Ben was the most devastatingly good-looking male she’d ever seen.

  The second was that he looked terrifyingly like her sister’s son.

  In shocked slow motion Lizzy helped Ben out of his jacket and boots, then her own, then folded up the buggy and leant it against the wall. Her stomach was tying itself into knots. Oh, God, what was happening? Fear shot through her, and convulsed in her throat.

  ‘This is the way to the kitchen,’ announced Ben, and led the way, looking with great interest at these unexpected visitors.

  The warmth of the kitchen from the wood-burning range made Lizzy feel breathless, and the room seemed tiny with the two men standing in it. Instinctively she stood behind Ben as he climbed on to a chair to be higher. Both men were still regarding him intently. Fear jerked through her again.

  ‘Look, what is this?’ she demanded sharply. Her arm came around Ben’s shoulder in a protective gesture. The man who looked like Ben turned briefly to the other man, and said something low and rapid in a foreign language.

  Italian, she registered. But the recognition did nothing to help her. She didn’t understand Italian, and what the man had just said to the other one she’d no idea. But she understood what he said next.

  ‘Prego,’ he murmured. ‘Captain Falieri will look after the boy in another room while we…’ he paused heavily ‘…talk.’

  ‘No.’ Her response was automatic. Panicked.

  ‘The boy will be as safe,’ said the man heavily, ‘as if he had his own personal bodyguard.’ He looked down at Ben. ‘Have you got any toys? Captain Falieri would like to see them. Will you show them to him? Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ben importantly. He scrambled down. Then he glanced at Lizzy. ‘May I, please?’

  She nodded. Her heart was still pounding as she watched the older man accompany Ben out of the kitchen. Supposing the other man just walked out of the house with Ben. Supposing he drove off with him. Supposing…

  ‘The boy is quite safe. I merely require to talk to you without him hearing at this stage. That much is obvious, I would have thought.’

  There was reproof in the voice. As though she were making trouble. Making a nuisance of herself.

  She dragged her eyes to him, away from Ben leading the other man into the chilly living room.

  He was looking at her from across the table. Again, like a blow to her chest, his resemblance to Ben impacted through her. Ben was fair, and this man was dark, but the features were so similar.

  Fear and shock buckled her again.

  What if this was Ben’s father?

  Her stomach churned, his heartbeat racing. Desperately she tried to calm herself.

  Even if he’s Ben’s father he can’t take him from me—he can’t!

  Faintness drummed through her. Her hand clung on to the back of the kitchen chair for strength.

  ‘You are shocked.’ The deep, accented voice did not hold reproof any more, but the dark eyes were looking at her assessingly. As if he were deciding whether she really was shocked.

  She threw her head back.

  ‘What else did you expect?’ she countered.

  His eyes pulled away from her and swept the room. Seeing the old-fashioned range, the almost as old-fashioned electric cooker, ancient sink, worn work surfaces and the scrubbed kitchen table standing on old flagstones.

  ‘Not this,’ he murmured. Now there was disparagement clear in his voice. His face.

  The face that looked so terrifyingly like Ben’s.

  ‘Why are you here?’ The words burst from her.

  The dark eyebrows snapped together. So dark, he was, and yet Ben so fair. And yet despite the difference in colouring, the bones were the same, the features terrifyingly similar.

  ‘Because of the boy, obviously. He cannot remain here.’

  She felt the blood drain from her.

  ‘You can’t take him. You can’t swan in here five years after conceiving him and—’

  ‘What?’ The single word was so explosive that it stopped Lizzy dead in her tracks.

  For one long, shattering moment he just stared at her with a look of total and utter stupefaction on his face. As if the world completely and absolutely did not make sense. Lizzy stared back. Why was he looking at her like that? As if she were insane. Deranged.

  ‘I am not Ben’s father.’

  The words bit from him. Relief washed through her, knocking the wind out of her. The terror that had been dissolving her stomach—the terror that, for all her defiance, this man invading her home had the power to take Ben from her, or at the very least to demand a presence in her son’s life—the fear that had gripped her since she had seen the startling resemblance in their faces, began to subside.

  ‘I am Ben’s uncle.’ The words were flat. Irrefutable. ‘It was my brother, Paolo, who was Ben’s father. And, as you must know, Paolo—like your sister Maria, Ben’s mother—is dead.’ Now his voice was bleak, stark.

  Lizzy waited for the flush of relief to go through her again. The man who had got her sister pregnant was dead. He could never threaten her. Could never threaten Ben. She should feel relief at that.

  But no such emotion came. Instead, only a terrible empty grief filled her.

  Dead. Both dead. Both parents. And suddenly it seemed just so incredibly, blindingly sad. So cruel that Ben had had ripped from him both the people who had created him.

  ‘I’m…I’m sorry,’ she heard herself saying, her throat tight suddenly.

  For just a moment the expression in his eyes changed, as if just for the briefest second they were both feeling the same emotion, the same grief at such loss. Then, like a door shutting, it was gone.

  ‘I’ve…I’ve never known who Ben’s father was.’ Lizzy’s voice was bleak. ‘My sister never regained consciousness. She stayed in a coma until Ben was full-term, and then—’ She broke off. Something struck her. She looked at the man who looked so much like Ben, who was his uncle. ‘Did…did you know about Ben?’

  The brows snapped together. ‘Of course not. His existence was entirely unknown. That might seem impossible, given the circumstances of his parents’ death, which seem to have concealed even from you the identity of his father. However, thanks to the mercenary investigations of a muck-raking journalist, about which thankfully I have been recently informed, his existence is unknown no longer. Which is why—’ his voice sharpened, the initial impatience and imperiousness returning ‘—he must immediately be removed from here.’ His mouth pressed tightly a moment. ‘We may have located you ahead of the press, but if we can find you, so can they. Which means that both you and the boy must leave with us immediately. A safe house has been organised.’

  ‘What journalist? What do you mean, the press?’

  A frown darkened his brow.

  ‘Do not be obtuse. The moment the boy’s location is discovered, the press will arrive like a pack of
jackals. We must leave immediately.’

  Lizzy stared uncomprehendingly. This was insane. What was going on?

  ‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this. Why would the press come here?’

  ‘To find my nephew. What do you imagine?’ Impatience and exasperation were snapping through him.

  ‘But why? What possible interest can the press have in Ben?’

  He was staring at her. Staring at her as if she were completely insane.

  Across the hall, Ben’s piping voice came from the living room, talking about his trainset.

  ‘This is the level crossing, and that’s the turntable.’

  His voice faded again.

  The man who was Ben’s uncle was still staring at her. Lizzy started to feel cold seep through her.

  ‘We haven’t done anything.’ Her voice was thin. ‘Why would any journalist be interested in Ben? He’s a four-year-old child.’

  That look was still in his eye. He stood, quite motionless.

  ‘He was born. That is quite enough. His parentage ensures that.’ Exasperated anger suddenly bit through his voice. ‘Surely to God you have intelligence enough to understand that?’

  Slowly, Lizzy took another careful step backwards. She did not like being so physically close to this man. It was overpowering, disturbing. Her heart was hammering in her chest.

  What did he mean, Ben’s parentage? She stared at him. Apart from his being so extraordinarily, devastatingly good-looking, she did not recognise him. He looked like Ben, that was all. A dark version. Very Italian. He must be quite well-off, she registered. The four-by-four was a gleaming brand-new model. And he was wearing expensive clothes; she could see that. He had the sleek, impeccably groomed appearance of someone who wore clothes which, however deceptively casual, had cost a lot of money. And he had that air about him of someone who was used to others jumping to do his bidding. So he could easily be rich.

  But why would that bring the press down in droves? Rich Italians were not so unique that the press wrote stories about them.

  A frown crossed her face. But what about his brother, Paolo? His dead brother who was Ben’s father. Had he been someone the press would be interested in?

  He’d said that surely she must know that Paolo was dead. But how should she? She knew nothing about him.

  Carefully, very carefully, she spoke.

  ‘My sister was not a supermodel, she was just starting out on her career—just making a name for herself. No journalist would be interested in her. But your brother—the man she…she had a child by. Was he—I don’t know—someone well known in Italy? Was he a film star there, or on the television? Or a footballer, a racing driver? Something like that? Some kind of celebrity? Is that what you mean by Ben’s parentage?’

  She stared at him, a questioning look on her face. Slowly, it changed to one of bewilderment.

  He was looking at her as if she were an alien. Fear stabbed her again.

  ‘What—what is it?’

  His eyes were boring into her face. As if he were trying to penetrate into her brain.

  ‘This cannot be,’ he said flatly. ‘It is not possible.’

  Lizzy stared. What was not possible?

  He was holding himself in; she could see it.

  ‘It is not possible that you have just said what you said.’ His expression changed, and now he was not talking to her as if she were retarded, but as if she were—unreal. As if this entire exchange were unreal.

  ‘My brother—’he spoke, each word falling as heavy as lead into the space between them ‘—was Paolo Ceraldi.’

  Nothing changed in her expression. She swallowed. ‘I’m sorry—the name does not mean anything to me. Perhaps in Italy it might, but—’

  A muscle worked in his cheek. His eyes were like black holes.

  ‘Do not, Miss Mitchell, play games with me. That name is not unknown to you. It cannot be. Nor can the name of San Lucenzo.’

  Her face frowned slightly. San Lucenzo? Perhaps that was where Ben’s father had come from. But, even if he had, why the big deal?

  ‘That’s…that’s that place near Italy that’s like Monaco. One of those places left over from the Middle Ages.’ She spoke cautiously. ‘On the Riviera or somewhere. Lots of rich people live there. But…but I’m sorry. The name Paolo Ceraldi still doesn’t mean anything to me, so if he was famous there, I’m afraid I just don’t—’

  The flash in his eyes had come again. With cold, chilling courtesy he spoke, but it was not civil.

  ‘The House of Ceraldi, Miss Mitchell, has ruled San Lucenzo for eight hundred years,’ he said sibilantly.

  There was silence. Complete silence. Some incredibly complicated arcane equation was trying to work itself out in her brain, but she couldn’t do it.

  Then the deep, chilling voice came again, icy with a courtesy that was not courteous at all.

  ‘Paolo’s father is the Ruling Prince.’ He paused, brief and deadly, while his eyes speared hers. ‘He is your nephew’s grandfather.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  MIST was rolling in, like thick cotton wool. She felt the room start to swirl around her. Instinctively, she grabbed out with her hand and caught the edge of the kitchen table. She clung on to it.

  Not true.

  Not true. Not true. Not true.

  If she just kept saying it, it would be true. True that it was not true. Not true what this man had just said. Because of course it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. It was absurd. Stupid. Impossible. A lie. Some stupid, absurd, impossible lie—or joke. Maybe it was a joke. That must be it. Just a joke. She threw her head back to suck in deep draughts of air. Then she steadied herself, forcibly, and made herself look across at the man who had just said such a stupid, absurd, impossible thing.

  ‘This isn’t true.’

  Her voice was flat. As flat, she realised, with a hideous, gaping recognition in her guts, as his had been when she’d said she had no idea who…

  Ben’s father. Ben’s father was.

  ‘No.’ She’d spoken out loud. Her legs were starting to shake. ‘No. This is a joke. It’s impossible. It has to be. It’s just not possible. I haven’t understood it properly.’

  ‘You had better sit down.’ The voice was still chill, but less so. Lizzy gazed at him with wide, shock-splintered eyes. Her eyebrows shot together in a frown.

  That complicated, arcane equation was still running in her head.

  He had just said that Ben’s father had been the son of…she forced her mind to say it…the son of the Prince of San Lucenzo. But he had said he was Ben’s uncle. His dead father’s brother. Which meant that his father was also…

  She stared. It wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t possible.

  He let her stare. She could see it. Could see he was just standing there while she clung to the edge of the table in the kitchen in her tiny little Cornish cottage where, a few feet away, from her stood.

  ‘I am Enrico Ceraldi,’ he enlightened her.

  She sat down. Collapsing on the kitchen chair with a heavy thud.

  He cast a look at her.

  ‘Did you really not know who I was?’ There was almost curiosity in his voice. And something flickered in his eyes.

  ‘Of course I bloody didn’t.’ The return burst from her lips without her thinking. Then, as if she’d just realised what she’d done, her face stiffened.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she spoke abruptly. ‘I didn’t mean to be—’ She broke off. Something changed in her face again. She lifted her chin, looking directly into his eyes. ‘I didn’t mean to speak rudely. But, no,’ she said heavily, yet still with her chin lifted, ‘I did not recognise you. I’ve heard of you—it would be hard not to have.’ Her voice tightened with disapproval. ‘But not with the surname, of course. Just your first name and…’ she paused, then said it ‘…your title.’

  She got to her feet. The room swayed, but she ignored it. A bomb had exploded in her head, ripping everything to shreds. But she had to cope
with it. She straightened her spine.

  ‘I find this very hard to deal with. I’m sure you understand. And I am also sure you understand that I have a great many questions I need to ask. But also—’ she held his eyes and spoke resolutely ‘—I need time to come to terms with this. It is, after all, quite unbelievable.’

  She looked at him directly. Refusing to look away.

  Long, sooted lashes swept down over his dark eyes. Eyes, she realised, with the now familiar hollowing still going on inside her stomach, that were more used to looking out of photographs in celebrity magazines and the gossip pages of newspapers.

  I didn’t recognise him. I simply didn’t recognise him. He’s all over the press and I never recognised him.

  But why should I? And why should I think that someone like him could turn up here and tell me that…that Ben is…

  Shock kicked through her again.

  She bowed her head. It was too much. It was all too much.

  ‘I can’t take any more.’

  She must have spoken aloud, defeat in her voice.

  For one long, hopeless minute she just stared blankly into the eyes of the man standing opposite her. The brother of Ben’s father. Who was dead. Who had been the son of the Reigning Prince of San Lucenzo. Who was also the father of the man standing opposite her.

  Who was therefore a prince.

  Standing in her living room.

  ‘I can’t take any more,’ she said again.

  Rico shifted his head slightly, and glanced behind him as the occasional dazzle of other traffic on the motorway illuminated the interior of the vehicle.

  She was asleep. So was the boy. She was holding his hand, reaching out to him in the child seat he was fastened into.

  His mouth pressed together and he looked away again, back out over the glowing stream of red tail-lights ahead of him. Beside him, Falieri drove steadily and fast, the big four-by-four eating up the miles.

  Rico stared out over the motorway.

  Paolo’s son. Paolo’s son was sitting in the car. A son that none of his family had known about.

  How could it have happened?