The Prince’s Outback Bride

CHAPTER NINE

MAX felt ridiculous.

He’d thought the uniform he’d worn the night they arrived was stunning. This one though was even more so. Deep blue and brilliant crimson, it was so startling that when he saw himself in the mirror he started to laugh.

‘Sir, it’s wonderful,’ Blake said with reproach. ‘You look so much more handsome than the old prince.’

‘I’m only Regent,’ he said, staring at the rows of honours on his chest. ‘This is crazy.’

‘You’re our sovereign,’ Blake said reproachfully. ‘At least until the little prince comes of age.’

Damn the man. He’d had it with the reproach.

‘Well, as long as Pippa has something to match,’ he growled, thinking of Pippa as he’d last seen her, a waif with tear-filled eyes and an ancient dog. She was as far away from this as it was possible to be.

‘Beatrice tells me Pippa’s dress is just the solution,’ Blake said reassuringly. ‘She says it will make us all smile.’

As she’d said, Pippa didn’t appear for dinner. He ate in solitary splendour in the grand dining room. Levout was absent as well-which made Max nervous, but he’d rather eat without him than with him. The duck was magnificent. He said all the right things, even though he was having trouble tasting.

He kept thinking of Pippa.

And Dolores. Dammit, he was worrying about a dog.

‘Ask Miss Pippa if she’d like us to call a veterinarian,’ He told Blake, and Blake looked at him with even more reproach.

‘Sir, we asked her that ourselves. She says no, there’s nothing wrong with the dog but old age.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘There’s nothing a veterinarian can do about that.’

‘I guess not.’ He half rose.

‘Chocolate meringues, sir,’ the butler said reproachfully. ‘And then coffee and liqueur.’

Reproach, reproach, reproach.

So there was no time to return to Pippa’s room before the shoot. He made his way to the ballroom as requested at eight.

Beatrice was there, with the three children all rigged out as royal children had been rigged throughout the ages.

‘Wow,’ he said, astonished. ‘You look like something out of Hans Christian Andersen.’

‘We look beeyootiful,’ Claire said, pirouetting to prove it.

‘You’ve got a sword,’ Marc said with deep envy. ‘How old do I have to be to have a sword?’

‘Twenty-one.’

‘But aren’t I a Crown Prince?’

‘Yes, but I get to carry the sword.’

‘’ Cos Max is the boss of us,’ Sophie said, pirouetting with her sister. ‘Max fights the baddies.’

‘There aren’t any baddies,’ Beatrice said. ‘Let me fix your hair ribbon, Claire.’

‘Where’s Pippa?’ he asked. This was to be the official royal portrait. The photographer-a woman in her seventies-and her two spritely-only sixty if a day-assistants were set up and ready. One of the assistants was approaching him with a palette and brushes.

‘What’s this?’

‘Make-up,’ she said. ‘So you don’t shine.’

‘No,’ he growled. ‘I like shine. Where the hell is Pippa?’

The door swung open.

Pippa.

What the hell…?This was a transformed Pippa. She was a sugar-plum confection in pink and white and silver. She was a gorgeous apparition that made him blink in disbelief.

Her dress was a floor-length ballgown, with hoops underneath to make it spread wide. Her scalloped neckline was scooped to show a hint of her beautiful breasts. The pink and silver brocade curved in and clung to her waistline, as if the dress had been made for her.

She smiled at them all and twirled in much the same manner as the twins.

She had gossamer wings attached to her shoulder blades.

She was carrying a silver wand.

‘Who needs a wish?’ she said, and she giggled.

‘You’re a fairy godmother,’ Sophie said, awed, and Pippa chuckled.

‘You have it in one. I spent today trying to figure what my role tonight could be. I was feeling a little like Cinderella but then I thought, no, my role is already decided. I’m your godmother. I agreed to bring you guys here-with or without pumpkins-so that’s obviously who I am. We have two Prince Charmings and two Sleeping Beauties-’ she grinned at the twins ‘-only you’re not asleep any more. So here we are.’

‘We could bring Dolores in and she could be the horse,’ Marc said, entranced, and a touch of a shadow flitted across Pippa’s face. It was so fleeting that Max almost missed it. But he was sure.

‘How’s-?’

‘Dolores really is Sleeping Beauty,’ she said, cutting across Max’s question. ‘You wake her and you’ll be the Wicked Witch of the West. Okay, you guys, let’s get ourselves photographed.’ She twirled again. ‘Don’t you think this is just the right outfit?’

‘No,’ Max said, frowning. He was out of his depth here, he thought. But surely Pippa shouldn’t be the godmother. What the hell should she be?

Not Cinderella, that was for sure. No maid in tatters, this.

‘You look really, really pretty,’ Marc said stoutly, casting Max a look of…reproach. Et tu, Brute? He dived forward to grab her hand. ‘We have to stand right here, Pippa.’

‘You look wonderful,’ the photographer said, smiling with real appreciation. ‘The tabloids will love you to bits.’

‘You’ll win hearts,’ Beatrice said.

Everyone was smiling. Except him.

It felt wrong. Gossamer or not, she didn’t feel like a fairy godmother.

She felt…She felt…

She felt like Pippa.

The shoot lasted over an hour. By then the children were drooping again. Pippa looked exhausted too, Max thought, but she wasn’t letting on.

‘Enough,’ He decreed at last, and the photographer sighed and straightened from her tripod.

‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘You’re all so photogenic I could keep on for hours. But this will keep the press happy. I’ll let the media have whatever they want.’

‘Great.’ That was why they’d done it. To keep the pressure off. Now they were free of pressure until Friday week.

Then, if Pippa agreed, he’d be free of media pressure for ever.

It should feel good. But now he looked at Pippa’s strained face and he thought she’d found this harder than he had. She’d worked at making it cheerful-she was still bouncing, swiping kids with her wand and threatening them with fairy dust if they didn’t head straight to bed-but there was something akin to desolation behind the façade.

He’d hauled her out of poverty, he thought, but she knew that riches and glitter weren’t enough.

He knew that, too. Could he walk away from this mess? Pick her up and carry her to Paris?

With three kids and a dog?

His mother would adore them.

‘Can I help put the kids to bed?’ he asked.

‘Not tonight.’ She carefully didn’t look at him. ‘And, Beatrice, we don’t need you either. We’ll be fine. We’ll see you in the morning.’ She prodded the closest princess with her wand. The princess gave a sleepy giggle and headed bravely to the stairs, fairy godmother in pursuit.

‘Goodnight, sir,’ Beatrice said, with all the deference in the world. And then she paused.

‘You know, Pippa loves you,’ she whispered. ‘That has to count for a lot.’

Max stared at her.

How did Beatrice know?

But maybe…maybe…

He wanted to sleep himself, but first he had to front Levout. The official had disappeared for days. He appeared now, standing in the entrance hall, waiting for him, smiling urbanely.

‘I believe there was some problem in the village earlier in the evening.’

Max nodded curtly. ‘Your friend Daniella.’

‘And the players in the town hall.’

‘There was no problem with the players.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Levout said smoothly and he smiled. His smile made Max uneasy. ‘There’s always been conflict between the people and the palace. I just came to let you know it’s sorted.’

‘What’s sorted?’

‘Daniella came to see me, and we’ve looked into it straight away. We don’t like those type of people intimidating our trades-men and women. These gatherings are clearly inappropriate for our village. So…The hall they’ve been using is dilapidated. All those tatty costumes in the back are home for vermin. It’s surely a safety risk. We’ve boarded it closed, and in the morning we’ll send in bulldozers.’

Max stilled. ‘You have no right.’

‘We have every right,’ He said urbanely. His smile was surface only-behind his eyes was pure venom. ‘You might, as Prince Regent, be able to institute changes at parliamentary level, but according to the constitution only a ruling Crown Prince can interfere with daily minutiae. As there will be no ruling Crown Prince for thirteen years we have no problem.’

‘A prince has no right to interfere…’

‘Exactly.’ Levout’s oily smile broadened, but underneath there was something akin to hate. ‘Which is what I dropped by to tell you. We-the current mayor and our associates-will keep on running the day-to-day affairs of this country as we see fit, regardless of what you do at a higher level. You can return to Paris as you plan and leave it safely to us. Oh, and we don’t despair of the future, either. The young prince is already eight years old. By the age of twelve we may be able to persuade him to let things run as generations of monarchs have done before him.’ His smile became a sneer. ‘What you do, he can be persuaded to undo.’

‘Pippa will never allow him-’

‘Teenagers revolt,’ Levout said softly and smiled. ‘Especially if they’re encouraged to do so. And Miss Donohue has no authority at all.’

Was Levout right? The lawyers he’d talked to before going to Australia had talked about changing the constitution from an overriding sovereignty to a democracy. They hadn’t gone into minutiae.

If Levout was right, it was a mess. For Pippa to cope with it…He couldn’t ask it of her. But to walk away…

He had to talk to the lawyers again, he thought. He had to figure out just what Levout and his cronies could really do.

But by next Friday? By the time decisions had to be irretrievably made?

He couldn’t leave Pippa.

That was the crux of the matter. The more he thought, the more his mind came back to Pippa. Pippa tonight in her crazy fairy godmother dress, acting as if she hadn’t a care in the world, making everyone here smile. Tomorrow she’d make the whole country smile as they woke to their morning newspapers.

His mind stilled, retaining that indelible image of Pippa smiling for the camera.

And the players tonight…

All our young have left to try and find work in Italy or France so we are left to do what we can.

Enough.

He didn’t need to contact lawyers.

He went inside to telephone his mother.

It was two in the morning. He should be asleep, but he’d lain in the moonlight and stared at the ceiling and thought he’d go nuts. Pippa would be asleep. It was crazy to go to her now. She needed to sleep and so did he.

He couldn’t.

At three he gave it up for a bad job. He rose and paced to the window. And paused.

There were people on the lawn in front of the castle. The scene was lit by the moonlight. Three figures. One was one long and lean and stooped. One was smaller. Digging? Another figure was a little apart, moving about in the rose bed.

Pippa. And Blake. And Beatrice.

He reached for his clothes and in less than a minute he was out there.

What the hell…?

No one reacted as he came catapulting out the entrance. They kept doing what they were doing. He strode across the lawn, past the fountain and the new decking. Yes, it was Beatrice, snipping roses in the moonlight. Pippa and Blake were digging by the side of the rose garden, just out from the windows of the sitting room.

By the time he reached them he had it figured, and he felt sick.

‘Pippa,’ he said as he reached them, but she kept right on digging. Blake, however, paused for a breather, resting gratefully on his spade. The ground was dry and hard, Max thought. Blake was too old to be digging.

‘Beatrice and I wanted to wake you,’ Blake said, sounding relieved. ‘But Pippa wouldn’t let us.’

‘Dolores?’ he asked, and Blake nodded.

‘She died earlier this evening. Before the photo shoot.’

‘Before the photo shoot?’ He stared at Pippa, and then muttered an expletive. ‘Before the shoot! What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘What does it look like we’re doing?’ Her voice was laced with tears. ‘We have to bury her.’

‘Tonight?’

‘I don’t want the children to see…’ She gulped, and wiped her face fiercely with her sleeve. ‘They said goodbye to her. When they woke to get dressed for the photographer she was still sleeping, almost normally. But I could feel her heart…It was missing. It was so weak. She could no longer stand, and she was barely conscious. Back home the vet said he’d expected this to happen. Maybe if I’d let you call the vet she could have had a little more time. But she spent today with the children. Beatrice said the children were all over her, exactly as she loves. Then tonight she went to sleep in a sunbeam, by the fire, and you carried her up to my bed. When her breathing got weaker I thought…I thought, for her this day has been perfect. I’m not going to ask her to go on.’

‘But you didn’t tell the children?’

‘The children knew she only had a limited time,’ she whispered. ‘When they woke for the photo shoot I told them to pop in and say goodnight to her. They all did. I packed her with hot water bottles and tucked her under the duvet. Then, just as I was thinking I couldn’t leave her to go to the photo shoot, she just…died.’

‘Beatrice knew,’ Blake said heavily. ‘But Pippa wouldn’t let us tell anyone.’

‘I didn’t want the children to see her dead,’ she said fiercely. ‘They don’t need to. If I thought it would help then, yes, but Marc’s had enough death and talk of death. He’s old for his years as it is. Tomorrow I want to tell them Dolores died in the night and we buried her here, under her beloved sunbeams. We’ll decorate her grave. It’ll be sad, but it won’t be…’

‘It won’t be gut-wrenching like burying her is.’ Max thought back to Thiérry’s funeral. ‘No, Pippa,’ he said gently. ‘You’re right. But for you there’s no choice but to do the gut-wrenching. How you managed to do the photo shoot…’

‘It was the bravest thing we’ve ever seen,’ Blake said, and sniffed. ‘She wouldn’t let Beatrice tell you…’

‘She’s my dog,’ Pippa said, almost fiercely. ‘It’s my grief.’

‘It’s a shared grief,’ Max said, and enough, enough. He took the spade from fingers that were suddenly lifeless, and he let it fall as he took her in his arms. He held her close, hard against him, kissing the top of her hair but just holding her. Just holding…

And at last, here they came. The searing sobs that had been so long coming.

Had she cried when her mother died? he wondered. Or Alice? Or Gina and Donald? Somehow he doubted it. All that time she’d been alone, or supporting others.

She’d never be alone again. He made himself that promise, then and there. Never.

There was an ancient stone seat nearby. When the worst of the sobs subsided he lifted her and set her down, beckoning Beatrice and Blake to sit beside her.

‘Hold her,’ he said to the elderly servants. ‘Just sit there, Pippa, and wait. I’m starting what I should have started five weeks ago.’

‘Five weeks ago, Your Highness?’ Blake queried.

‘That’s when my mother told me.’

‘I wondered,’ Blake said softly.

‘But you knew?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Blake said simply. ‘The old prince depended on me absolutely. He wouldn’t sack me, so I was the only one who was safe. So I was the one she said was your father.’ He smiled, misty-eyed in the moonlight. ‘May I say, Your Highness, that it would have been an honour. For Beatrice and I, it still is an honour.’

He thought about it while he dug the grave, swiftly and cleanly, using the muscles he’d gained in another life. Then he put such thoughts aside. While Blake and Beatrice cut more roses, he went with Pippa to bring her dog down for burial. He held her hand as they walked upstairs, and she clung as if she needed him.

The big dog lay where she’d died. She looked at peace, Max thought, an old dog at the end of a life well lived, but even so he found himself swallowing hard.

‘I don’t know what to wrap her in,’ Pippa said helplessly, but Max knew.

‘Your sweater,’ he told her. ‘Maybe two of your sweaters, or anything else of yours that you can spare. That’s what she’d want to be buried in.’ He cupped Pippa’s tear-stained face and smiled tenderly into her eyes. ‘But she’s not a chihuahua. Maybe we’d better add in one of mine for good measure. Dolores was never a one-sweater dog.’

So Dolores was buried, at four in the morning, with all the dignity and reverence they could muster. There were four of them there to say goodbye. Pippa, Max, Blake and Beatrice. Blake and Beatrice took the burial as seriously as Pippa did.

As did Max. It was right. It was a strange little funeral, but lovely for all that. The night was serene and beautiful. The scent of the roses was rich and sweet, and there was an owl calling from the woods nearby.

It was as good a goodbye as was possible, Max thought, and even though Pippa didn’t speak he knew she felt the same.

‘Come back to bed, sweetheart,’ he told her as they finished laying roses over the tumbled earth. ‘We’ll decorate it properly in the morning.’

‘I…’ She shook her head, as if trying to shake a dream. ‘I don’t know…’

‘Well, I do,’ He said softly and he swept her into his arms and held her tight. ‘You’re spent, my love. Don’t object. Just do what you’re told.’ And Beatrice and Blake smiled mistily as he carried her inside, up the sweeping staircase, back to her bed.

When they reached the bed the bedclothes were still tousled from Dolores and the fire was still crackling in the grate. He lay her gently on the pillows but her arms were around his neck and she drew him down with her.

‘Don’t leave,’ she whispered.

Leave was the last thing he intended to do. She was cradled against him, soft and warm and lovely. She smelled of the roses she’d held. She tasted of tears. He felt his heart shift within him as he’d never known it could, and, as he stroked her hair, as he kissed her sweet mouth, as he held her close against him, her breasts moulding to his chest, her body curved and suppliant in his arms, he knew that he could never leave.

‘Pippa,’ he whispered and she held his face in her hands, kissing him, passive grief slowly fading as passion stirred to take its place.

He kissed her back, the kisses becoming hot and demanding as he felt her response. She wanted him.

Beatrice’s words came back to him. ‘You know, Pippa loves you.’

Could that be true? Could such a miracle have happened?

Maybe. Maybe.

She was possessive now, her lips claiming his mouth as fiercely as his claimed hers. Her hands were holding his body against hers. Her fingers were feeling the contours of his back, his hips, his thighs.

His fingers slipped under the soft fabric of her T-shirt. She had no bra. Like Max, she’d shed her finery with speed this night, and she’d felt no need to dress in more than a cursory manner.

Her breasts were moulded to his hands. Her nipples were taut under his fingers. He breathed out, a soft sigh of sensory pleasure, of acceptance that this miracle could somehow be happening, that this woman could possibly be his.

Maybe she did love him, he thought exultantly. She loves me before I’ve promised her a thing. She loves me despite what I’ve been trying to make her do.

And somehow it made the world right. His world, which had been torn apart when Thiérry was killed, or even earlier, when his mother had lied, when his parents’ marriage had fractured, was somehow settling back on its rightful axis. Love conquered all. It does, he thought exultantly. Damn the critics, the cynical. He had his Pippa. He’d found love.

‘Pippa.’

The word was an echo of his thoughts. For a moment he didn’t react, thinking it was just a part of this night.

But he felt Pippa still in his arms. She put her hands up to his hair and let her fingers run through, as if somehow imparting a message that this had to be interrupted. Her name wasn’t part of the night. She was being called.

The outside world was slipping in.

Reluctantly he loosened his hold and she twisted in his arms. He could barely see her in the firelight, but the night-light was on in the sitting room and the slight figure in the doorway was unmistakable. It was a little boy in too-big pyjamas, his voice wavering toward panic. ‘Pippa?’

‘Marc.’ Pippa was out from his arms, rolling off the bed, crossing to fold the little boy into her arms. ‘Marc, what is it?’

‘Who…who’s there?’

‘I’m here,’ Max said gruffly, trying to make his voice sound normal. ‘I was just…’

‘Max was giving me a cuddle,’ Pippa said. ‘Did you hear us? Did we scare you?’

‘No.’ He faltered, looking towards the bed. Max flicked on the bedside lamp, thanking his lucky stars that Marc hadn’t waited for another five minutes. For if he had…

‘Where’s Dolores?’ Marc whispered and the night stilled. ‘I woke up and you weren’t with us. And I thought about Dolores. Where’s Dolores? I was just…scared.’

‘She’s dead, Marc,’ Pippa said, hugging him close. She was stooped to his level, hugging him against her, and the sight was enough to make Max feel…feel…Hell, he didn’t know what he felt. He’d spent his whole life avoiding relationships and now here he was, in the midst of so many relationships he didn’t know where to start.

But Pippa seemed too choked up to talk. The responsibility was suddenly his. ‘Dolores died peacefully in her sleep,’ he told Marc, and Marc looked over Pippa’s shoulder and met his gaze head-on. ‘That’s why I’m here hugging Pippa.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Where is she?’ He gazed fearfully around the room, and Max thought, yes, Pippa had been right to speed the burial. Sometimes children needed to be involved in all things, but not this time. Not when Marc’s grief for his parents was still raw.

‘Pippa and I buried her,’ Max said.

‘Where?’

‘Just below these windows. Near the rose garden.’

‘In the moonlight,’ Pippa whispered. ‘And where the sun shines all day.’

Marc swallowed. ‘I should…I should have helped,’ He said and damn, Max was as close to crying as he’d been for years. This waif of a child was squaring his shoulders like a man. He was under no illusion that Marc would have used the spade if he’d had to.

‘You know, you can’t see the grave from here,’ he said, crossing to the windows and looking out. ‘It’s too dark. Would you like to come down and see what we’ve done?’

Marc considered. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘Please.’

‘You should be asleep,’ Pippa said ruefully, but Max shook his head.

‘No. He needs to see the grave. Will you come with me?’ He held out his hand to Marc.

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll come, too,’ Pippa said, but Max caught her shoulders and forced her to turn to him.

‘No,’ he said softly and he kissed her, softly, tenderly, as she needed to be kissed. ‘You’re dead tired, my love. You’ve cared for Dolores. You’ve cared for all of us. Now it’s time for the men of the family to take care of you. Marc, Dolores was Pippa’s dog for a long time, much longer than you or I have known her. She’s feeling very sad. And she’s tired. Will you tuck Pippa into bed while I fill hot water bottles?’

‘Okay,’ Marc said, cautious but game. ‘Pippa, you have to get into bed.’

‘But I-’

‘Don’t argue with us,’ Max said firmly. ‘We’re in charge. You know, Marc and I have some serious talking to do, too, and it’s a good time for us to do it now, when all the womenfolk are asleep. So, Pippa. Bed.’

‘Bed,’ said Marc.

She stared at them for a long moment. Prince Regent. Crown Prince. Her men, giving orders.

She smiled wearily at them both and she went to bed.

She didn’t sleep, but, safe under the covers, warmed by the fire and by the hot-water bottles Max had filled, she felt as at peace as she’d ever felt in her life.

Dolores’ death was a grief but not an overwhelming one. She’d known this was coming, and for it to happen in this way was a blessing. She knew it. And now…She’d thought she’d be bereft, but she wasn’t.

For things had changed. Max was no longer looking at her as if she was some sort of trap.

She was no longer alone.

She wasn’t sure of the whys or wherefores, but she let her thoughts drift where they willed, content to let tomorrow take care of itself. Somewhere downstairs Max was having a heart-to-heart talk with Marc. What about? Maybe she should be in on the conversation, but she trusted Max.

She trusted him with her life.

She rolled over and one of her hot-water bottles slid out on the floor. No matter. She didn’t need it.

But Max had given it to her. For some dumb reason it seemed important to retrieve.

She slid out from under the covers and groped in the darkness until she found it. She went to climb back into bed, but, almost as an afterthought, she crossed to the window.

And saw…

Max and Marc were on the seat she’d so recently vacated. They were talking steadily. Max’s arm was around Marc’s shoulders. She blinked.

And then she looked at the grave.

For she could see the grave now. No longer a darkened mound in a darkened garden, it was an oasis of light.

The boys-the men, she corrected herself-had brought out candles. They’d found tea-light candles, many candles.

There was a perimeter of candles around the grave. And then, among the roses, the candles spelled out letters.

DOLORES.

Where had they found so many candles?

No matter. She could see the colours of the roses, illuminated by the candles. She could almost imagine she could smell them. The grave looked wonderful

Beside the grave, Max and Marc spoke earnestly on.

She blinked and blinked again but she didn’t cry. The time for crying was over.

She hugged her hot-water bottle to her. Max wouldn’t come back to her this night, she knew. She didn’t need him to.

Tomorrow was just…tomorrow.