Читать книгу Royal Christmas: Royal Love-Child, Forbidden Marriage - Кейт Хьюит - Страница 10

PALE sunshine slanted through the gauzy curtains of Phoebe’s bedroom as she slowly swung her legs over the side of her bed and rested her head in her hands. It had only taken a second of consciousness for the comforting veil of sleep to be ripped away, replaced by the clamorous memories of last night.

Leo. Leo was here in New York, and would be coming to fetch them to take them to Amarnes in—she looked at the clock and felt a lurch of panic. In less than two hours. Quickly Phoebe rose from the bed, showered and dressed before Christian woke up and demanded his breakfast. She peeked in on Christian, and saw him sprawled across his sheets.

When she’d taken him home from the consulate he’d been bubbling over, fear so easily replaced by excitement. Phoebe had told him they were going to Amarnes for two weeks, preparing herself for questions, demands, even tears. But Christian’s eyes had simply widened and he’d breathed one word: ‘Cool.’ Five-year-olds, even ones as precocious as her son, were easily appeased.

She’d also had to break the news to her mother, Amelia, in Brooklyn. She’d called her mother after Christian was asleep, her heart aching slightly at the sound of her cheerful hello.

‘What’s up?’

‘A lot, actually,’ Phoebe had said, trying for a laugh, but her mother, as always, heard the concern and worry underneath.

‘Phoebe, what’s wrong?’

Phoebe knuckled her forehead and closed her eyes, fighting a sudden, overwhelming wave of weariness. ‘Two government agents from Amarnes showed up at my door a few hours ago.’

‘What?’ Her mother’s breath came out in a hiss of surprise. She knew everything about Phoebe’s hasty marriage to Anders; she’d been waiting at the airport with a hug and a smile when Phoebe arrived, weary and heart-sore, with a three-month-old Christian in her arms. ‘Why?’

Phoebe pressed her lips together before she said shortly, ‘Christian.’

Her mother was silent. ‘They don’t …’

‘No,’ Phoebe said quickly. ‘They don’t. And they won’t know if I can help it.’

‘Oh, Phoebe.’ Phoebe nearly buckled under her mother’s compassion. She was just about holding it together, making herself see this as the little adventure she’d promised Christian it was, but hearing the sorrow and worry in her mother’s tone made Phoebe want to cry and confess all her fears.

What if they want him? What if they keep him? What if there are custody battles and lawsuits and horrible things I can’t control? I’m so afraid.

She didn’t give voice to any of these questions, merely continued in a rather flat voice, ‘We’re leaving tomorrow for Amarnes.’

‘No—’

‘For two weeks,’ Phoebe clarified. ‘Apparently the king wants to see his grandson. And then we’ll come home.’

‘Phoebe, don’t give in to them. Once you’re in Amarnes you’ll have very few resources, very little power—’

‘I have no choice, Mom,’ Phoebe said. ‘They’re royal. They have millions. Billions, probably, and if it came to a court case—’

‘Will it?’ her mother asked quickly and Phoebe closed her eyes once more.

‘I hope not. I pray not. But … I don’t know.’ Her hand felt slippery around the receiver. ‘If I go willingly now, it might … help me later.’

‘Or not,’ Amelia said darkly and Phoebe blew out an exasperated sigh.

‘Then what should I do?’

‘I have a friend, a human-rights lawyer …’ Phoebe could hear her mother scrabbling for one of the many business cards she kept stuck on her fridge with colourful magnets.

‘Oh, Mom, I can’t afford a lawyer. Not for the kind of court case we’re talking about, and I don’t want to drag Christian through that anyway.’ Besides, she added silently, she doubted one of her mother’s hippie friends, leftovers from the flower-power days of the sixties, would give her much credibility in court. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, keeping her voice firm, ‘I’ve been thinking that Nicholas should see Christian anyway. I always felt the way they cut Anders out of their lives was so unfair, and I’d be a hypocrite to do the same thing with Christian.’

‘Phoebe, these people don’t deserve your sympathy—’

‘Perhaps not,’ Phoebe agreed, ‘but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be like them.’ Strong words, she knew. She only wished she felt as strong and certain inside.

After speaking to her mother, she’d called her assistant, Josie, who had been more than happy to take over the boutique for two weeks.

It was, Phoebe thought, all too easy to arrange, almost as if it were meant to be. And perhaps it was. If she simply clung to the belief that this was for merely two weeks, she could be generous. She could allow the king access to her son, she could forgive them all for being so cold-hearted and bloody-minded, she could accept that Leo was simply doing what he had to do …

Leo. And, Phoebe asked herself with uncomfortable shrewdness, did any of this have to do with Leo, with the wellspring of desire he’d plumbed in her, with the memory of his brief touch still burning up her senses? Was all this magnanimity simply because she wanted a chance to see Leo again?

He’s a playboy, a rake, a reprobate, Phoebe lectured herself, but the words bounced off her heart meaninglessly. She didn’t know what Leo was any more. And this trip to Amarnes gave her a chance to find out.

Now, as morning broke, the Washington Square Arch bathed in the pink light of dawn, Phoebe steeled herself for the day ahead. She’d packed quickly last night, throwing in most of their clothes as well as a few of Christian’s books and toys. She dressed simply in grey wool trousers and a pale pink sweater and tried to ignore the flutter of nerves—or was it actually excitement?—in her stomach.

The next hour passed in a flurry as Christian awoke and Phoebe rushed to get breakfast and pack last-minute things. Harassed and her hair half-brushed, Phoebe watched in dismay as a limousine with tinted windows pulled up to the apartment building, idling at the kerb. Her heart leapt into her throat as she watched Leo, dressed superbly in a dark suit, a wool trenchcoat over one arm, exit the car and press the bell.

Leo’s dark gaze swept over the apartment building with its crumbling steps and soot-stained walls. It was charming, he supposed, in a slightly run-down way. His lips twitched as he imagined teasing Phoebe about it, before he clamped down on that thought. He couldn’t afford it, couldn’t allow Phoebe to matter at all. It would only hurt them both in the end.

Leo pressed the bell again, impatience biting at him. He knew this had to be difficult for Phoebe, knew it was the last thing she wanted, and who could blame her? The royal family had spat her out six years ago and now they wanted to chew her back up. Hardly an enticing proposition, yet one she would have to accept, just as he had.

He pictured her then, not as he remembered her six years ago with her still childishly rounded face and college student’s clothes of torn jeans and a T-shirt, but the woman she’d become. The woman he’d seen yesterday, whose hair was still curly and dark, whose slight figure still possessed improbably lush curves. He thought of how her wide grey eyes sparked defiance—and an irrepressible desire—when she looked at him.

It infuriated her perhaps, that desire, but it was there. It had been there last night; he’d seen it, felt it humming in the air between them when she’d entered the room and had seen the candlelit room with a meal laid out like a planned seduction.

Of course, he couldn’t seduce her, as much as his body begged for that release. Sex was a complication he couldn’t afford. Last night had simply been a way to gain her confidence, her trust, even her friendship.

He needed Phoebe pliant and willing, ready to do the royal family’s bidding … whatever it might be.

Phoebe called for Christian, who had been racing around the apartment like a wild thing, and reached for her suitcase. She didn’t want Leo in her apartment, filling up the small space with his formidable presence, yet she realised it was unavoidable as she heard his tread on the stairs, light yet purposeful. Mrs Simpson must have let him in, Phoebe thought. She never could resist a handsome face or a charming smile, and Leo had both.

And then he was there, knocking on the door, which Christian wrenched open before Phoebe could stop him—not that there would be any point, delaying the utterly inevitable.

‘Hello.’ Leo stood in the doorway, dressed in a dark suit, looking calm and unruffled and unusually solemn. He surveyed Christian, who stared at him in open curiosity. ‘My name is Leo, and I suppose I’m your cousin.’

Christian’s eyes widened. ‘I have a cousin?’

Leo’s gaze moved questioningly to Phoebe, who bit her lip. ‘We hadn’t quite got round to discussing that yet,’ she said quietly and Leo inclined his head.

‘Well, it’s quite a nice surprise for you, isn’t it, Christian?’ He smiled easily. ‘I like surprises. Do you?’

‘Ye-es,’ Christian agreed after a moment, and Leo reached for the rather large, green plastic dinosaur poking out of Christian’s backpack.

‘My goodness, I wouldn’t want this fellow to catch me in a dark alley,’ he said, inspecting the toy with considerable interest. ‘He’s got a lot of teeth, hasn’t he?’

‘And he makes a noise, too,’ Christian said eagerly, pushing a button so the dinosaur let out a fearsome mechanical roar and clawed the air for a few seconds. Leo let out a little yelp, pretending to jump back in fright, thus earning a great belly laugh from Christian. ‘It’s just pretend,’ he said with a child’s scorn, and Leo returned it to his backpack.

‘Thank goodness for that,’ he said, his eyes meeting Phoebe’s over Christian’s head. Phoebe smiled in gratitude, amazed and thankful at how effortlessly Leo had diverted Christian from the thorny question of his relations. Yet Leo was charming, always had been; why not with children as well as women? That was why he was so dangerous.

‘We should go,’ she said a bit stiltedly, conscious of Leo’s warm gaze on her, as well as the fact that she hadn’t had time to blow-dry her hair. It framed her face in wild, dark curls, and she could see Leo eyeing them. Did she not look smart enough? He turned back to Christian.

‘Yes, we should. The car, not to mention the royal jet, is waiting.’

‘Royal jet?’ Christian repeated, and his eyes bugged out. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, Amarnes is an island. We’ll take my limousine to the airport, and fly from there.’

‘Wow.’ Christian looked completely thrilled now, and Phoebe managed a smile.

‘Pretty cool, eh?’ she said, keeping her voice light even as her heart hammered within her in a staccato beat that seemed to say two weeks, two weeks, two weeks. Only two weeks.

Leo stepped in front of her, taking the suitcase from her with an easy smile. ‘Please. Allow me.’

‘Thank you,’ she murmured and with Christian by her side she followed Leo down the stairs.

They didn’t speak as he loaded the cases in the back of the limo himself, or even when they arranged themselves on the plush leather seats, Christian’s eyes wide as he took in the mini-bar and fresh flowers.

Leo slipped into the limo across from her, and she was achingly aware of his presence, his heat, his scent. Her fingers felt thick and clumsy as she fumbled with Christian’s seat belt, wishing her senses were not so heightened when it came to Leo and yet craving it—him—anyway.

‘Here.’ Quietly, competently, Leo clicked Christian’s buckle closed, his long brown fingers over hers. Touching hers. And in her emotionally heightened state, Phoebe felt a rush of something—what? Gratitude, or something more? No, something less, something so basic, this fascination with Leo, with his aura of excitement and danger.

Except right now he wasn’t being dangerous. He was just being kind.

‘Thank you,’ she mumbled before sitting back and buckling her own seat belt.

‘Not a problem.’ Leo leaned back against his seat, stretching his legs in front of him. ‘Now, Christian, would you like something to drink? I think there’s orange juice in the fridge, as well as some cola if your mother allows it.’

‘Christian doesn’t …’ Phoebe began, but her son was already leaning forward to inspect the contents of the mini-bar.

‘All right, fine,’ she finally said, striving for that light tone once more. ‘This is a holiday after all.’

‘Exactly.’ Leo smiled, and Phoebe tried to ignore the effect of that gesture on her insides, tried to think of something else—anything else—as the limo pulled away from the kerb and headed into town, towards the Holland Tunnel.

They rode in silence to a private airstrip on the outskirts of the city. A sleek silver jet waited there, with the recognisable emblem of the twin eagles emblazoned on its tail.

‘Wow,’ Christian breathed as they boarded the plane. Leather sofas and a mahogany coffee table adorned with yet more freshly cut flowers made Phoebe feel as if she were entering a living room rather than an airplane. Christian was looking at all the luxury with wide eyes, and Phoebe tried to suppress a spurt of anxiety. She’d been afraid the royal family would want more of Christian … but what if he wanted more of them? How could she compete with all of this?

‘Just enjoy it,’ Leo murmured, his lips nearly brushing her ear, his breath fanning her cheek. Uneasily Phoebe wondered if she’d spoken aloud. Or had Leo just read her mind?

She chose not to answer, busying herself with settling Christian. Soon enough they were all seated and the plane was gliding down the runway and then up into a grey November sky.

‘I’ve never been on a plane before,’ Christian said after a few minutes of rather tense silence. His cheeks were flushed and he was clutching his dinosaur to him. ‘That I remember, anyway.’

Leo glanced at him, his features seeming to soften. ‘Then this should be quite an adventure for you.’

‘I guess so,’ Christian mumbled, shooting Phoebe an uncertain look. Phoebe knew that underneath the excitement her son was confused, and she would have to talk to him soon. Explain … except how could she explain? She wasn’t even sure what was going to happen, and the last thing she wanted to do was tell him about relatives who might ultimately reject him.

Two weeks, her mind reminded her, her heart still beating fast. Two weeks, two weeks, two weeks.

The next few hours passed in silence punctuated only by Christian’s occasional question—did they have pizza in Amarnes, and what about milkshakes?—as well as the tinny roar of his dinosaur as he played.

Phoebe sat tensely across from him, watching as Leo took out a sheaf of papers and a gold-plated pen and set to work. What was he working on? she wondered. What kind of work did a playboy prince have to do? Except he wasn’t a playboy prince any more, she reminded herself. He was the heir apparent.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked when Christian had fallen into a doze and the silence seemed to stretch on for ever, taut and unyielding. Leo glanced up.

‘A pet project of mine,’ he said with a little shrug. ‘Facts and figures, very boring.’

‘You’re quick to dismiss many things as boring,’ Phoebe replied, and with surprise she heard the teasing lilt in her voice. Was she actually flirting? Or just being friendly?

Leo shrugged again. ‘It’s a charity,’ he said after a moment. ‘I’m one of the trustees and I’m simply going over the endowment figures.’

‘What kind of charity?’ Phoebe asked, now genuinely curious.

‘A relocation programme for political refugees. Amarnes was a neutral country during World War Two, and we took in many of those fleeing persecution. I like to see the tradition continue today.’

‘Very admirable,’ Phoebe said, yet her mind was spinning. This new version of Leo—a man who concerned himself with refugees—bore little resemblance to the pleasure-seeking playboy she’d encountered six years ago.

Had he really changed so much? Yet his smile was as sardonic as ever as he remarked in a drawl, ‘It’s easy to be admirable when you have the money and time.’ He capped his pen and put his papers away. ‘You should get some sleep. The jet lag can be brutal.’ And, seeming to dismiss her, he settled back in his own seat and closed his eyes.

Although he kept his eyes closed, sleep remained elusive. Leo was aware of the uncomfortable prickling of his conscience as he’d spoken with Phoebe. He wanted to gain her trust, he needed her pliant, and the best way to do that was to show her how he’d changed. How he was on her side. It would be all too easy, and yet when the opportunities came Leo found he didn’t want to take them. He didn’t want to use Phoebe. He wanted to … protect her. What a ridiculous and inappropriate notion. The only reason he was bringing her to Amarnes at all was because he knew he couldn’t pay her off in New York. Sooner or later he would find a way to keep her out of the picture—or at least removed from it.

Just like your own mother was.

His jaw clenched and he forced his conscience back into the shadowy corner of his mind, where it had remained for most of his playboy years. Back then he hadn’t had a conscience because he hadn’t cared; he was the unneeded spare, and so he’d do what he damn well liked.

Yet Anders’s abdication had changed everything. Leo felt the familiar guilt eat at him and he pushed it resolutely away. For the last six years he’d lived the life of a monk, a saint, chaste and diligent, and had won the respect of his people. He’d put his country and crown first, always, and he would continue to do so. No matter what it cost him … or Phoebe.

They were more important than the tender feelings of a woman he couldn’t afford to care about. He shouldn’t even want to care, he told himself irritably. Phoebe was an inconvenience, that was all. All she could be.

Forcing himself to relax, to forget that woman sitting across from him with every anxiety and fear reflected in her wide grey eyes even as she kept her tone light and upbeat for the sake of her son, Leo finally—by sheer force of will—drifted into a doze.

Phoebe couldn’t sleep. Christian was snoring, his cheek pillowed against the plastic back of his dinosaur, and even Leo seemed to have dozed off, yet Phoebe sat there, tense, anxious, too many emotions and questions and desires coursing through her. What would happen when they arrived in Amarnes? How would the king receive Christian … and her? What was she going to do?

Too many questions, and none of them had answers. Yet. Phoebe pushed them away, and her gaze fell on Leo’s sleeping form. He’d shed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, exposing strong, tanned forearms now loosely crossed. Phoebe’s gaze fell on those arms and stayed there, noticing the fine dark hairs, the sinewy muscles, the long, elegantly tapered fingers. She knew she should look away—she should want to look away—but she couldn’t.

That dark tug of fascination was pulling at her insides, and while Leo slept she found her gaze roving over him almost hungrily, noting the cropped, dark hair, the chiselled cheekbones and sculpted lips, the ridiculously long eyelashes. She let her gaze drop from his face to his shoulders—how did a plain white shirt emphasise the powerful muscles of his chest so wonderfully?—and lower still to his trim waist and hips and long legs, stretched out in front of him, his butter-soft leather loafers just inches from her own feet.

He was a beautiful man. A dark angel with the heart of a devil … or so he’d seemed all those years ago. But now …?

‘What would have happened, do you suppose, if you’d met me first?’

The question he’d asked her six years ago slipped slyly into her mind, and the answer Phoebe had given back then—nothing—seemed to echo uselessly through her.

All right, so she was attracted to him. Phoebe straightened in her seat and forced herself to look away, out of the window. The plane had risen above the city fog and now there were only a few wisps of cottony cloud in an otherwise perfect blue sky.

Of course she was attracted to him; he positively oozed sexuality and charm. And, to be perfectly blunt, she’d been without male companionship of any kind for too long.

Yet it still shamed her to admit to something so basic, so impossible to ignore or deny. How could she be attracted to Leo, the man who had insulted her, belittled her, tried to buy her? Was she so enslaved to her own senses?

Again Phoebe felt that dark tug of longing, of need.

Apparently she was.

‘You mean you haven’t changed?’

‘Judge for yourself.’

Was it possible that Leo had really changed, put his playboy days behind him? She thought of him bantering with Christian, the glimmer of humour in his amber eyes, and forced back another treacherous wave of desire and, worse, hope.

She couldn’t afford to believe Leo had changed. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t afford to trust him. She was on her own here, and she’d better remember that.

‘Look.’ Leo reached over and touched her shoulder, causing Phoebe to jump as if he’d branded her with a hot poker. She must have fallen into a doze without realising it. ‘Amarnes,’ he told her, and, swallowing audibly, Phoebe refocused her gaze on the vista outside.

Amarnes. It nestled in a slate-blue North Sea, a tiny, perfect jewel. The eastern side of the island was carved into deep fjords; from the sky Phoebe could see the steep sides of the valleys they created, lush and green, their rocky peaks capped with snow. As the plane moved over the fjords, Phoebe saw a cluster of brightly painted fishermen’s cottages near the shore, and then, on a plain on the northern end of the island, Amarnes’s capital city, Njardvik.

For a moment Phoebe let herself remember the last time she’d come to Amarnes, standing on the deck of a ferry, the salt spray stinging her face, Anders at her side. Back then she hadn’t known Anders was a prince, hadn’t known anything. She’d met him ten days earlier, while backpacking through Norway, and she’d fallen for him right away. Anders had had a gift of making her feel as if she were permanently fixed at the centre of his universe. It was only later—when a single piece of paper declared them married—that she realized he made everyone feel that way.

On the ferry he’d pointed to Amarnes, just a smudge of dark green on the horizon, and said, ‘That’s my home.’ He had leaned against the railing and with a self-conscious smile added, ‘I should probably tell you, I’m a prince.’

Phoebe had laughed disbelievingly, until Anders explained that he wasn’t joking; he was actually heir to a throne. Phoebe had stared.

‘I don’t want any of it,’ he’d told her. ‘You can’t imagine the pressure, the expectations.’ His brilliant blue eyes had met and held hers. ‘I just want you, Phoebe.’

What a joke. An outright lie. Anders might have believed it at that moment, Phoebe thought fairly, but it was simply that. A moment. Yet six years on Phoebe couldn’t summon the energy to feel bitter or angry. She’d been as reckless as Anders, plunging into a marriage with a man she barely knew, and now that he was dead she only felt a distant kind of sorrow and even pity for the man he’d been and the life he’d wasted.

The plane began its descent, and Christian stirred. Phoebe’s gaze slid involuntarily to Leo, and she was unsettled to realise he’d been watching her, his lips curved in a knowing smile that she didn’t like.

‘Welcome home,’ he said softly, just for her ears, and Phoebe bristled.

‘Hardly.’

Leo just smiled.

The next few minutes were a blur as they exited the plane, the cold, clean air hitting Phoebe like a slap—she’d forgotten how fresh everything was here, so new and bright and clean. Even the colours seemed sharper, the deep green of the fir trees that flanked the winking blue sea, the grey, craggy mountains with their majestic white peaks. And the sleek black limousine that purred to a halt as Leo directed their luggage to be loaded in a van and ushered them into the car.

‘The palace is only a few minutes away,’ Leo said as the limousine pulled away from the airstrip, heading down a narrow road that snaked along the valley floor. Phoebe glanced at Christian; he was taking in everything with wide, amazed eyes. He must, Phoebe thought, feel as if he’d stepped into a TV show, or a fairy tale.

Within minutes the limousine emerged from the closed valley to the outskirts of Njardvik, the boulevard into the city lined with pastel-coloured townhouses, a leftover relic of the island’s Dutch possession four hundred years earlier. Unwillingly Phoebe gazed around at the quaint plazas with their flowerpots and pavement cafés, now shuttered for the oncoming winter. There could be no denying that Njardvik was an unspoiled jewel of a city, and just the sight of its pretty streets and elegant homes made her remember the optimism and excitement that had buoyed her along this very route with Anders.

Was her hope that this would end after two weeks just as misplaced?

‘Wow,’ Christian breathed, and Phoebe turned to see the limousine enter the eagle-crested gates of the palace courtyard. The palace itself was several hundred years old, a rambling and impressive edifice of mellow gold stone. A rather grim-faced official in royal livery waited by the main entrance, guarded by two soldiers resplendent in their royal blue uniforms and polished helmets.

‘Here we are,’ Leo said lightly, and opened the door.

Numbly Phoebe followed him, Christian clutched in her arms. She heard Leo speak a few words of Danish to the official, who opened the doors to the palace and, with a sweep of his arm, bade them enter.

She’d only been to the palace once before, hustled like some criminal by royal agents, afraid, alone, to be confronted by Leo. It almost made Phoebe feel dizzy and sick to be back here. Once again she was afraid, alone, and she had no idea what was going to happen.

She pushed the feelings away, tried to summon back her courage. Her confidence. She was changed, no matter if Leo was or wasn’t. She was stronger now, and she had to remind herself of that strength as she stood in the palace’s huge foyer, feeling tiny and insignificant on about an acre of black and white checked marble.

‘The king would like to see you,’ Leo said. ‘But first you will want to rest, freshen up. Johann will lead you to your rooms.’ Another servant, also in royal livery, seemed to appear almost magically, and wordlessly Phoebe followed him from the cool marble foyer up the ornate curving staircase, Christian at her side.

Johann led them to a suite of rooms in the back of the palace. Phoebe took in the two king-sized bedrooms, joined by an elegant little parlour, and the wide terrace overlooking the palace gardens, now rimed in frost.

She dropped her handbag next to her suitcase on the floor, the carpet thick and sumptuous, and took a deep, steadying breath. Christian was already investigating the huge walk-in wardrobes, the big-screen plasma TV hidden behind mahogany doors, the king-sized bed with its fluffy feather mattress.

‘This place is so cool,’ he said, reaching for the TV’s remote control and stabbing curiously at the buttons. ‘How long are we staying?’

‘Two weeks,’ Phoebe replied tightly. She felt wound up, ready to snap, and they hadn’t even seen the king yet. They hadn’t seen anything, done anything, and already the tension was biting at her, fraying her calm, her strength. She went to the bathroom to splash water on her face, and grimaced at her pale, strained reflection.

Christian wandered in, the remote control still clutched in one hand. ‘If the prince is my cousin, what should I call him?’ he asked, wrinkling his nose. ‘And if he is a prince, does that make me one too?’

A light knock on the door kept Phoebe from answering those alarming questions. She opened the door to another blank-faced servant, who informed her in flawless English that King Nicholas awaited in the throne room.

‘Already?’ Phoebe asked, to which the servant simply gave a helpless little shrug. She hadn’t changed or even brushed her hair, but if the king was going to be so rude as to demand her attendance before she’d even caught her breath, he could take her as she was.

She gestured to Christian and, ever ready for an adventure, he quickly trotted to her side. They followed the servant through a maze of corridors and down another, more private staircase until finally they were standing in front of a pair of ornate doors decorated in gold leaf.

Phoebe swallowed. This part of the palace she’d never seen.

‘His Majesty, King Nicholas the First of Amarnes,’ a servant intoned, and the doors were thrown open. Phoebe started forward, Christian at her side, only to have a burly, solemn-faced servant step straight in front of her, so she smacked into his chest.

‘What—?’ she cried in dazed confusion. A hand came down hard on her shoulder.

‘Only the boy,’ a voice, low and final, spoke in clipped English, and before Phoebe could frame a protest she was hustled away as Christian disappeared behind the heavy, ornate doors.