Royal Christmas: Royal Love-Child, Forbidden Marriage

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 of interest.’

Suddenly Phoebe was breathless, the camaraderie of the moment replaced by something deeper, needier and more elemental.

She wanted him. She wanted to touch him, kiss him, to feel every bit of his skin, his hair, his mouth and eyes—his body. She wanted his body inside her, wanted to feel him move against her—

She turned away, afraid her thoughts—her need—would be reflected in her eyes. Leo was so adept at reading her emotions, and she wasn’t ready for him to know this.

Although perhaps he already did. Perhaps he’d always known it, from the moment he’d first touched her all those years ago, and she’d felt as if he’d reached right inside to her soul. Perhaps he had … perhaps her ill-fated marriage had never had a chance from that moment.

Perhaps, Phoebe thought hazily, it had always been Leo.

‘Aren’t we going to skate some more?’ Christian demanded, and Leo reached for his hands.

‘Yes, we are,’ he said as he started skating backwards again, Christian following him. ‘And then we’re going to get some hot chocolate.’

They skated for another half-hour before the cold defeated them, and they returned their skates.

‘There’s a café near here,’ Leo said, ‘with the most delicious hot chocolate.’ He smiled at Christian. ‘With whipped cream.’

The air was sharp with brine and damp with cold as they left the rink, even though the sun was shining.

They walked in easy silence down the narrow streets to the promised café, a small, wood-panelled room in the front of a townhouse, its scarred oak tables and chairs relics from another century.

The owner hurried towards them, all welcoming smiles and excited chatter, which Leo, looking almost discomfited, waved away. Within seconds they were seated at a more private table in the back, scarves and mittens shed, and coats hung over their chairs.

One of the waiters brought Christian a colouring book and some crayons, and he was soon hard at work. Phoebe took the opportunity to study Leo, her heart—and something else—lurching at the sight of him. A few stray snowflakes glittered in his hair, and his cheeks were bright with cold. She could see the glint of stubble on his jaw, and it made her ache to reach out and touch the bristles, compare the feel of it to the softness of his lips …

On the table she curled her hand into a fist, determined—for the moment—to resist the impulse. Leo glanced at her, amusement quirking his mouth.

‘You look as if you’re deep in thought,’ he said. ‘Or perhaps working out a difficult maths problem. What are you thinking about?’

Phoebe had no intention of telling him the nature of her thoughts. She smiled and began to shrug, surprising them both when she suddenly said, ‘You have changed.’

Leo stilled, his long, brown fingers flat on the table. He didn’t quite look at her as he asked lightly, ‘Have I?’

‘Yes,’ Phoebe said more forcefully. ‘You’re not … you’re not …’

‘A reckless, womanising playboy any more?’ he asked, his voice still light, but she heard—felt—the darkness underneath. The same emotion she’d felt from him all those years ago, a kind of pain or sorrow.

‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘But it’s more than that.’

Leo opened his menu and scanned the pages. ‘How intriguing,’ he murmured, but Phoebe could tell he wanted to deflect the conversation from himself, and she wondered why.

A waiter returned with mugs of creamy cocoa, and Phoebe dipped her spoon in the frothy confection. ‘So did you put your partying days behind you when you realised you’d become king?’

Something flashed in Leo’s eyes—something bleak and angry—and then he shrugged. ‘Something like that. I told you before, didn’t I, some things can be sordid and boring?’

She felt a flicker of disappointment. ‘So the party scene just got old?’

‘It always does.’

Christian looked up from his mug of hot chocolate, his entire face flecked with whipped cream. ‘What does sordid mean?’

And that, Phoebe thought, was a signal to change the conversation if there ever was one. Yet she was curious, far too curious, about Leo. About his childhood, about his change of heart, about the man he was now. A man, she realised with both alarm and excitement, that she could more than like. A man she could love.

They finished their hot chocolate in comfortable silence, before Leo said they should return to the palace. ‘You, young man, look tired.’

‘I am not!’ Christian protested with five-year-old indignation.

‘Well,’ Leo relented, ‘perhaps your mother is. Maybe I could show you the palace games room while she has a nap? I play a mean game of air hockey.’ He glanced at Phoebe in silent query, and she gave a little nod. A nap sounded heavenly.

Outside the café they came across one of Njardvik’s little Christmas markets, a narrow street lined on both sides with stalls, each one strung with lights and offering various handicrafts, baked goods and Christmas ornaments.

‘Are these all Santa Clauses?’ Phoebe asked as she examined a row of carved wooden figures, each with a long white beard and red cap.

‘Santas, no. They’re nissen,’ Leo replied. ‘Sort of like Santa—but a nisse is a bit of a trickier fellow.’

‘Trickier?’

‘Yes, he was originally a protector of family farms. But he might steal the cows’ hay to give to the horses—that sort of thing. Now he’s become a bit more like Santa. On Christmas Eve someone dresses up as a nisse and brings presents, asking if there are any good children.’

‘Did someone do that for you as a child? In the palace?’ Phoebe asked suddenly. She pictured Anders and Leo at Christmas, waiting for the nisse. Knowing what she did, she could imagine Anders vying for all the attention while Leo stood in the shadows, watching.

‘Oh, yes.’ Leo’s expression was strangely shuttered. ‘Always.’

‘And what did you answer?’ Phoebe asked, keeping her voice light. ‘Were you a good child?’ She meant to sound light, teasing, but instead the question sounded serious. Leo’s mouth stretched in a smile and he put the nisse back on the shelf. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘of course I was.’

Yet Phoebe could only imagine what he wasn’t saying, what memories he was keeping to himself. Ignored, neglected, a virtual orphan. He might have been a good child, she thought, but she doubted he had been a happy one. She glanced back at the nisse; the look on the little statue’s face suddenly seemed closer to a sneer.

They left the Christmas market and began to walk back to the palace, Leo leading them down the city’s narrow cobbled streets, his hand easily linked with Christian’s. Phoebe trailed a few steps behind, watching them, thinking how much like a family—a father and son—they looked.

What if Leo had been Christian’s father, instead of Anders? What if all those years ago, she had met him first? What if they’d fallen in love?

Useless questions, Phoebe knew, and ones she couldn’t possibly answer. The past was the past; it had been written, finished. The present was intriguing enough.

And as for the future …

What could there possibly be between her and Leo, the heir to the country’s throne? She’d been considered an unsuitable candidate for queen six years ago, and she doubted anything had changed on that score.

Besides, wasn’t she getting a little ahead of herself? All Leo had done was kiss her, and such a little brush of a kiss it barely counted.

Except it hadn’t felt little.