The Prince's Chambermaid

Instead, he merely caught hold of her own inert fingers and slowly brought them up to his lips—his mouth brushing against their unmoving tips in a parody of courtly manners. She could feel the warmth of his breath and could do nothing to stop the involuntary shudder of longing which shivered its way down her spine.

‘Goodbye, Cathy.’ Their eyes met in a long moment and then he let her go. ‘Now run along and find the King,’ he said softly.

Somehow she managed to leave the room without stumbling—but the tears had started spilling down her cheeks and she took a couple of moments’ refuge in one of the out-of-the-way cloakrooms before she dared head for the King’s quarters.

A quick glance in the mirror at her deathly pale face and the shadows beneath her eyes bore testimony to the strain she’d been living under in the days since Casimiro’s recovery.

During Casimiro’s convalescence, her husband had spent much of his time with his brother—being close to hand as the King’s health and strength had rapidly returned. He had also been making arrangements to travel to South America—and for a trust to be set up in Cathy’s name, as well as a house in London which was to be hers. Her threats to immediately sell the pretty Georgian property and donate all the money to charity had been met with a careless shrug.

‘I don’t care what you do with it,’ he had drawled.

And why should he? Her decision to leave had been made and Xaviero had accepted it. In fact, to Cathy’s horror, he seemed to have compartmentalised her—it was as if she were already in his past. As if she had ceased to exist.

Only in bed at night was there a temporary type of truce when they came together for some pretty explosive sex. And, while Cathy had no real experience of other men, she had learned enough to realise that they viewed sex in an entirely different way from women. Xaviero could still enjoy her body and give her delirious amounts of enjoyment in return—it didn’t actually mean anything, not to him. Whereas for her…

For her it was something else entirely. Every poignant and exquisite caress entranced her. As she gasped out her orgasm beneath his hard, powerful body she was haunted by the terrible knowledge that she would never know pleasure like this again. But she also knew that deep down her reasons for leaving were sound—and that Xaviero had made no attempt to talk her out of them.

Brushing the last rogue tear from her eye and realising that she was keeping the King waiting, Cathy hurried from the cloakroom to his offices at the far end of the palace, where an aide showed her straight in. Casimiro was seated at a huge desk and he looked up as she walked in.

‘Catherine,’ he murmured. ‘At last.’

She sank into a deep curtsey. ‘I’m sorry I’m late—’

‘It isn’t something which happens very often,’ he said drily. ‘Come in, and sit down.’

She slid onto the seat opposite him and, even though it was probably discourteous to stare at the monarch, Cathy simply couldn’t help herself. Because his recovery was like a miracle. Like something you might see in a film but could never imagine happening in real life. The pale and unmoving figure who had been hooked up to all those wires and tubes in Intensive Care was now looking as vital and as vibrant as life itself.

The ebony hair, which had been shaved during his time in hospital, was fast growing back, showing the hint of a recalcitrant wave. Regular exposure to the sun meant that his olive skin had lost its pallor and now glowed with good health. He had been receiving physiotherapy, too—and had hit the gym with his trainer, so that lean muscle had returned to bulk out a fairly formidable physique.

He was an amazingly handsome man who looked, Cathy thought, very like Xaviero. But Casimiro’s eyes were a much darker gold than his brother’s and, curiously, his lips—although innately arrogant—were not nearly as cynical.

‘So, Catherine,’ he said, in a voice which sounded faintly amused. ‘You study the King very intently today. What is your verdict?’

‘You are looking very well, Your Majesty.’

He smiled. ‘And I am feeling very well,’ he said in a satisfied voice before his eyes narrowed and his voice grew thoughtful. ‘Such praise is praise indeed from you, who saw me at my very sickest.’ He looked at her and gave a soft sigh. ‘You know I have a duty to thank you.’

‘You don’t have to thank me, Your Majesty.’

‘Oh, but I do,’ he demurred, his voice now underpinned with a stubborn quality which reminded Cathy painfully of Xaviero. ‘The doctors don’t know why I came out of the coma—and perhaps they never will—but they said I should never underestimate the healing power of another human voice. And your voice was the one I heard most of all during my time in hospital.’ His voice grew even more thoughtful. ‘In fact, the only one I heard so consistently.’