The Greek's Forbidden Princess

‘I know, but...it’s more than that.’ She paused as a chill of remembrance feathered her spine. No one had expected the King and Queen of St Galla, both in their mid-twenties and full of life, to die in a freak accident. Everyone had been numbed by it. Even now Amelie still woke every morning to that awful reality slamming into her seconds, sometimes whole minutes after she woke.

Amelie held Lambis’s gaze. ‘Seb saw it happen. He was going to get in the boat too.’ She paused and swallowed, the movement scratching a throat suddenly lined with sandpaper. ‘But Irini didn’t want him too excited before his nap. She handed him to me.’ One more deep breath and she went on. ‘Michel promised he’d take him for a ride the next day.’

Except there’d been no next day for Michel and his wife.

‘I know.’ Lambis’s deep voice resonated around her, tugging at something sharp and raw inside.

Of course he knew. She’d told him when he’d flown across for the funeral. Why was she going over it again?

Amelie blinked and looked at the fire. It was easier staring at the golden flames than holding his sombre gaze.

‘The point is, Seb’s reaction to their deaths is...worrying.’ She slanted a look at that chiselled face. Still no hint of understanding. ‘He hasn’t cried. He hasn’t spoken. Not since the accident.’

That had Lambis’s attention. He stiffened, his brows furrowing down in a V of concentration, or could it be concern?

‘Hasn’t spoken at all?’

‘Not a word. Not to anyone.’

It had been uncanny, the way little Seb had stayed silent through those first days. It had worried her then but there’d been so much to attend to, so many legal matters and royal duties, meetings and consultations, she’d let herself hope she was wrong and it would resolve itself.

‘He doesn’t talk or smile or cry. He doesn’t react.’ Just saying it sent a quiver through her. She’d never felt so helpless.

‘You’ve sought advice?’

‘Of course. The consensus is that he needs time, though no one knows how much. Time and to feel safe and loved.’ Her voice caught on the last word but she refused to look away. She wasn’t ashamed of her feelings for Seb.

It was only what she’d once felt for Lambis that embarrassed her.

‘Then give him time. Give him love. Be patient.’

It was what the experts had said, each of them studiously ignoring the flaw in that simple approach.

‘I can’t.’

* * *

‘What do you mean, you can’t?’ Lambis had never thought to hear such words from Amelie. They shocked him more than if she’d begun unbuttoning that slinky shirt and invited him to make free with that delectable body.

He scowled furiously.

He didn’t want her here.

He didn’t want to get involved.

The fact his mind couldn’t stop conjuring images of a sexy, pouting princess, eager for his touch, was flame to the last shreds of his patience.

‘Of course you can. It’s what you do!’

Despite her regal posture and renowned diplomatic skills, the woman was a walking advertisement for all those soft, feminine emotions. She’d raised her younger sibling after her mother’s death, since their father, more concerned with power and his own pleasure, had no interest in family life. She’d been the stable, loving centre of their family.

She’d warmly welcomed Irini, married at twenty and feeling out of her depth in royal red tape and a new country.

Lambis still had the letters full of Irini’s eager confidences. About how caring Amelie was. How easy to talk to. When others counselled against a royal marriage simply for the sake of an unborn child, Amelie had taken the young lovers’ cause and won the day.

For that alone he owed Amelie a debt.

He watched her stiffen, her spine so straight you could use it as a ruler. ‘It may be what I do, as you so dismissively put it, but I can’t this time.’

Lambis opened his mouth to explain he wasn’t being dismissive, then caught himself. Never explain. Never discuss emotions. From a safe distance he might admire Amelie’s loving nature and the way she shared herself with her family as well as her nation, but it wasn’t his way.

Not any more.

Now her hackles were up. He watched, fascinated and, yes, relieved, as colour tinted her too-pale face. Princess Amelie of St Galla was a stunning woman. The warmth of her personality had a way of insidiously wrapping itself around your insides till you could almost believe...

‘You can’t? Why not?’ His voice sounded as if it scraped over ground glass. Not surprising when his throat felt coated with shards.

‘It means, much as I want to, I won’t have a chance. Time’s running out for Sébastien and we can’t afford to wait for time to heal him. Besides—’ she averted her eyes to stare into the fire ‘—the palace is no place for him to recuperate. Everywhere he turns there are memories of his parents. He only has to look from his window to see the bay where they died.’

He heard it now, the faintest tremor in her voice. Behind the faultless display of calm, Amelie was hurting.

Once Lambis would have gone to her and—

What? Put his hand on her shoulder? Cuddled her close? Assured her everything would be okay?

He couldn’t do it. Not least because he knew touching this woman would be the biggest mistake of the decade. There was no knowing where he’d stop once he started.

More importantly, Lambis no longer believed in happy endings.

He couldn’t lie to her. He’d never been able to do that, though for a while he’d been tempted. When, years before, she’d looked at him with those beautiful, luminous eyes and suggested he might spend more time in St Galla, not for Irini’s sake, but for hers. He’d been tempted to let her believe he could be the man she wanted, just to bask in her adoration.

‘Then take him somewhere quiet. Somewhere he can rest.’

Her eyes met his and fire flashed in his blood. ‘Easier said than done. Everywhere we go are reporters.’

‘Yet I didn’t see the paparazzi outside my gates.’ The more he thought about it, the more remarkable it was. He, with his experience as a bodyguard and later, running the best of the best in close personal protection, knew how difficult it was for non-professionals to evade a determined press. Yet Amelie had brought her nephew from St Galla, an island near the coast of France and Italy, all the way to Greece without being followed.

How had she managed it? He wouldn’t have thought it possible for a woman who’d led a sheltered life behind palace walls.

‘For now.’ Her tone, like her face, was stony. ‘You know I can’t evade them long-term. We need somewhere safe and secure.’

Somewhere like this.

‘This is my home, not a safe haven.’ Not for anyone but himself.

‘You promised to protect Seb. I heard you tell Irini when she asked you to be his godfather.’

The mention of Irini was a lead weight dragging at his guilty conscience. Another life he’d failed to protect.

‘I’ll find you both a place you can hide away from the press till you return to St Galla. Somewhere suitable.’

Somewhere not here.

Amelie regarded him coolly. She didn’t raise an eyebrow or twitch a muscle, yet she made it clear his answer wasn’t enough. For the first time in their personal interactions she turned into Princess Amelie. A woman who held her own with heads of state and tough negotiators. A woman with generations of blue blood in her veins. A woman prepared to take him on in his own territory.

No one did that. For years now Lambis had given orders and they’d been obeyed. His advice was highly sought, his presence ditto.

Yet Amelie’s cool regard told him she expected more.

‘So you’ll find your godson a bolt-hole then wash your hands of him?’

Her words pierced his conscience. Or maybe it was what remained of his heart.

‘It’s for the best.’

She shook her head. ‘I truly believed you cared. I thought you a man of honour.’

She rose. His trained eye noticed the slight wobble in her legs. She fought emotion or exhaustion or both, determined not to let him see.

She was so valiant his respect for her soared. Even as he wished her and her demands to the very devil. For she was wrong. He wasn’t the man to help. He wasn’t the man she believed.

She spun on one heel, walking away.

It was what he wanted. Yet his gut hollowed.

‘You said time’s running out.’ The words jerked out before he was conscious of forming them. ‘What did you mean?’

‘Why ask when clearly you don’t care?’ She didn’t even turn to face him. Only the rigidity of her slim frame and the hands clenched at her sides revealed her tension.

Lambis didn’t answer. To say he cared would be tantamount to inviting them to stay, and that he couldn’t do. Yet nor could he see her tension and not respond.

Damn the woman! She’d got under his skin once. He couldn’t let her do it again.

Suddenly she spun round and the change in her was a punch to the solar plexus. Gone was the touch-me-not Princess, the haughty aristocrat. Everything about Amelie spoke of heat and passion. From her flashing eyes to the heightened colour accentuating those high cheekbones and the sweet bow of her mouth, deliciously plump as if she’d been biting it.

The effect was instant and incendiary—a symphony of want turned his body to hot, brazen metal. He’d wanted her before, too many times to count, but not like this—as if he’d incinerate if he didn’t reach out and touch her, taste those kissable lips and possess that poised, perfect body.

Her chin tilted as if she read his lust and was disgusted by it. Yet when she spoke Lambis realised she’d noticed nothing but the worries tormenting her.

‘Because he’s underage, Seb can’t be crowned King. Instead he’ll be officially proclaimed heir and a regent will be confirmed. The date for the proclamation ceremony has been set for his fifth birthday next month. Since he’s no longer an infant, on that day he must personally accept his new status.’

‘And?’

‘And he’s required to speak. To accept his future role and swear an oath. If he doesn’t—’ Amelie paused and the colour faded from her cheeks ‘—if he can’t say the words, another heir will be found.’

‘But in the circumstances—?’

Amelie’s mouth thinned. ‘The law of succession is specific. He must make the oath himself or be barred from the throne for ever.’

Lambis felt his brow furrow. ‘But he’s Michel and Irini’s only son.’

‘And the throne is his birthright. But that doesn’t matter. What matters under St Gallan law is establishing the next ruler as soon as possible. If it’s not Seb then I’m informed it will be a distant cousin, a man currently being investigated for fraud.’

Her words fell like blows. Irini’s son disinherited? It didn’t seem possible.

‘Couldn’t the law be changed?’

‘Not quickly enough for Seb.’

‘What about you?’ When she simply stared he continued. ‘Why not make you Queen if the next legitimate heir is so distant?’ After all, she’d carried much of the royal burden, both for her father, then later for her younger brother as he’d adapted to the role of King.

‘Women don’t inherit the St Gallan throne. That’s a male privilege.’ Her tone was dispassionate, but Lambis wondered what it was like, eldest child of a monarch, forced to make a career out of diplomacy and public service, knowing you were barred from taking the throne for ever.

‘I need to help Seb find his voice again, because that will mean he’s recovering. And because without it he’ll be denied what should rightfully be his.’ She wrapped her arms around herself and something clenched in Lambis’s chest. It was so rare for Amelie to reveal vulnerability. ‘I couldn’t live with myself knowing I’d failed Michel and Irini’s trust in me.’

Lambis reached for the brandy he’d nursed before she arrived. One swallow and it shot a heated trail through his chest and down to his belly.

Amelie’s talk of trust evoked the harsh remembrance of his responsibility to Irini. Lambis had failed his friend once, with dire consequences. If he failed her son...

‘Why bring him here? I’m not a psychologist or speech therapist.’

Her face changed at his words. The grimness turning down her mouth at the corners eased, as if she sensed him weakening.

‘He’s fascinated by you. You know how he followed you around every time you came to visit. He thinks the world of you.’

Her shoulders lifted in the smallest of shrugs as if she couldn’t fathom her nephew’s taste. Nor could Lambis.

‘I couldn’t think of anyone else he cared about so much that they might help him through this.’

Lambis shook his head so vehemently he felt the tickle of his hair on his neck and jaw.

‘I wouldn’t have the first idea how to help him.’

But that wasn’t what made Lambis’s chest ice over. It was the idea of anyone, especially that small boy, depending on him to save them.

What a fraud he was! Every day he managed arrangements to protect strangers, some of them in the most fraught environments, but he couldn’t protect those closest to him.

It was a cosmic joke. And the tragedy of it was it was no joke. It was all too real.

The consequences haunted him every day.

He looked back to find her eyes fixed on him as if trying to see into his soul. He wished her luck with that. He was pretty sure he no longer possessed one.

Carefully he put the empty glass on the mantelpiece. ‘I can’t do what you want.’

‘You won’t try?’ Her fine features paled, pared back by tension and disappointment.

‘I’m not the man to help Seb. I’m sorry.’

He thought her mouth would crumple, and pain, swift and sharp as a javelin, lanced his chest.

‘Then God help him.’ She swung around and strode away, heels clicking on the polished floor.

‘I’ll find a retreat for you both. Somewhere the press can’t bother you.’ It was the best he could do. His pride and his conscience howled that it was far too little. But he refused to raise false hope. He was no miracle worker. Better for Seb to spend quiet time with his aunt. Surely that was all the miracle he needed. ‘It will be sorted by tomorrow.’

Amelie didn’t even pause on her way out of the door.

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