Be My Prince (21 page)

She was not proud of those angry and degenerate thoughts.

For that reason, they would follow her to her grave.

*   *   *

“Look out the window,” Randolph said as the coach approached the palace gates. “This was the birthplace of your father, Alexandra, and it will be your home from this day forward.”

As the coach and its team of gray thoroughbreds clattered across the cobblestones, Alex leaned closer to the window to see an extraordinary white Baroque palace beyond a flat tree-lined expanse of grass and a rectangular reflecting pool. The building spanned a number of acres and boasted ornamental statues and brass-topped domes. She’d once heard it rivaled the Palace of Versailles in France, and she was inclined to agree.

The coach drove up to the steps, and a flood of liveried servants poured out the front doors.

Rand and Nick exited first and spoke in low tones to the man who came to greet them. A moment later, Rand leaned into the coach and offered his hand. “Come. They say Father has rallied. He is well today.”

“Oh, thank heavens for that,” Rose replied as she stepped out of the coach.

A few minutes later they entered the great marble hall with four lavish crystal chandeliers overhead. Gilded statues of dancing cupids lined the walls.

With great haste they climbed the grand staircase and began the long trek down a red-carpeted corridor with double-oak doors at the end, safeguarded by two uniformed guards with swords. The instant the guards spotted Randolph, they opened the door for him and bowed with a theatrical flourish.

Alexandra barely had time to prepare herself for this momentous entry into the king’s apartments before the doors swung shut behind them and she found herself standing in the reception hall that had once belonged to her parents.

A chill ran down her spine, and she halted on the thick Persian carpet. “I do beg your pardon,” she said. “I am not prepared.”

Her eyes lifted to the frescoed ceiling above her head—a colorful depiction of Phaëthon and the horses of the Sun, which made her feel small and insignificant and filled her with an unexpected wave of contempt.

She was about to meet the man who had raised an army to invade this palace and seize her father’s crown. That man was now lying in her father’s bed while her own father was cold and dead in his grave. How in the world could she walk into that room and bow to him?

Randolph turned to her. “You must wait here then,” he said. “I will go in first with Rose and Nicholas. We will speak of our visit to England and explain the situation. I must prepare him for the truth in my own way.”

“You fear he may not approve?” she asked, fighting against the umbrage she felt deep in her core at the idea that she must seek his approval for something that was hers by hereditary right.

“We’ll know soon enough.”

“I will wait for you here then,” she replied, willing herself to gain the upper hand over her emotions.

Randolph turned to a footman standing in the corner of the reception hall. She had not noticed him there.

“Take Princess Alexandra to the library and send for a light tea.” With that, he turned and led his brother and sister to a separate corridor.

The footman approached her and bowed. She regarded him carefully, for he had crafty eyes.

“Your Royal Highness, if you will follow me this way.”

She nodded, and he took her in the opposite direction.

*   *   *

“I don’t know what to expect,” Rose said as they reached their father’s bedchamber door. “Father was fine when we left here not so long ago.”

“He was not completely fine,” Nicholas reminded them. “He was complaining of headaches and fatigue for weeks. It’s why he was so anxious for Rand to take a wife and produce an heir. I believe he may have known that he would not be long for this world.”

Rose shot Nicholas a look. “But we were just told he was rallying.”

Nicholas glanced uneasily at Rand.

“Let us go in,” Rand said, “and see for ourselves.”

He opened the door, and they entered the darkened chamber. The window curtains were drawn and the velvet bed curtains were pulled closed. Three tall floor candelabras blazed at each corner of the room, and a priest in heavy black robes sat beside the bed.

He looked up from the Bible on his lap when he heard them enter and immediately rose to his feet and bowed. “Your Royal Highness. Welcome home.”

Rand’s heart turned over in his chest, for he had expected to see the palace physician, not the priest.

“Good afternoon, Father Cornwell,” he said. “How is he?”

“Better today. His Majesty was lucid for a full hour.”

“Only an hour?” Rose stepped forward in shock. “No wonder he’s ill. It’s dreadfully dark in here. It’s like a tomb. Why are all the curtains drawn closed?”

“His Majesty prefers it that way,” Father Cornwell explained. “He says he cannot sleep with the light in his eyes, and all he wishes to do, I regret to say, is sleep.”

Rand and Nicholas remained at the foot of the bed while Rose hurried to pull open the heavy velvet bed curtains. “Father…” She sat down on the edge of the mattress and took his hand.

Rand could barely speak or move. Stains from frequent bloodletting marked their father’s nightshirt. His thin hair was damp with sweat. He looked gaunt and frail, as if he had already succumbed to the angels.

“Christ Almighty,” Nicholas whispered.

“Is there any hope?” Rand asked the priest.

“Very little, I’m afraid. Though you should speak to Sir William for the particulars.”

Sir William was the palace physician—a man of great learning and expertise, one of their father’s most trusted servants.

“Where is he? Why is he not here?”

“He has been at the king’s bedside for a fortnight, sir. This morning I implored him to go home to his family and rest.”

Rose turned her stricken eyes to Rand. “Is there nothing we can do?”

“I believe it is in God’s hands now,” he replied.

Just then, their father’s eyes flew open and he tried to sit up. “My son, is that you? Have you come home? Speak to me, Randolph.”

Rand moved to the edge of the bed. “Yes, I am here, Father. I have returned from England. I have commissioned the ships you wanted.”

The king lay back down on the pillows. “I dreamed you were dead.”

“No, I am very much alive, and I have good news. I have taken a wife.”

“A wife…” The king wet his dry lips. “Bring her to me. I wish to meet her.”

Rand glanced sharply at Nicholas, who nodded with encouragement.

“She wishes to meet you, too,” Rand replied, “and I will fetch her straightaway. But first I must tell you something about her.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed and wondered how in all the world he was going to explain this.

*   *   *

Two footmen—or perhaps they were guards—stood outside the library door chatting idly while Alexandra sat waiting to be summoned to the king’s bedside.

She had not been able to eat a single bite of the cakes that had been brought to her, though she did manage to sip a little tea.

She waited a full hour while Randolph attended to his father. She passed the time by examining the impressive collection of leather-bound books on the shelves and the brightly colored upholstery on the chairs—all the while planning what she would say to His Majesty when she finally confronted him. It was not difficult to work out, for she’d been imagining that particular conversation in her mind for six years.

When the door finally swung open and her husband strode into the room, she turned confidently to face him. “Will he see me now?”

Randolph’s eyes were stricken, however, and all thoughts of confrontation with that malicious usurping king flew out of her mind.

“Are you all right?” She moved closer. “Was he worse off than you expected?”

Rand glanced at the bookcases along the wall and loosened his neckcloth. “He won’t last long. I’ve never seen him look so frail.”

Rand moved to the nearest chair, sat down, rested his elbows on his knees, and buried his forehead into the heels of his hands. “Bloody hell, I always knew this day would come, but it’s never as you expect it will be. He’s my father, Alex. He was a great man. I never imagined I would see him like this.”

The floor seemed to shift beneath Alexandra’s feet. It was as if someone had whisked her back to that painful day six years ago when she sat at her adoptive father’s bedside and watched him take his last breath. She had not yet known about her true identity, and in her eyes he was still the greatest man who ever lived. She had loved him desperately, and the grief had been debilitating.

Slowly she knelt down before her husband. “I understand. Is there anything I can do?”

He lifted his weary eyes and sat back in the chair. “No.”

“Were you able to tell him about our marriage?” she carefully asked.

“Yes, I told him.”

“How did he respond?”

Randolph rested his temple on a finger. “He didn’t believe it at first. He felt certain you were an impostor, and that I had been tricked.”

Alex rose from her kneeling position and stood. “Did you also tell him that you had put on a great performance as well, and that you tricked me into falling in love with
you
?”

His dark eyes glimmered with what appeared, to her surprise, to be admiration. “Yes, Wife. I told him that very thing. Exactly.”

“And what did he say to that?”

Rand stood up, and her body grew tense with anxiety.

“He asked to see you with his own eyes, and to speak to you. Alone.”

“How very convenient, for that is exactly what I wish for as well.” Yet her heart was racing with fear.

“Then let us go now while he is still lucid enough to understand who you are.”

Chapter Twenty-four

The door to the king’s bedchamber swung shut behind Alexandra before she had a chance to glance over her shoulder at her husband, and all at once she found herself standing in an enormous candlelit room that smelled of spices and incense. Colorful tapestries lined the walls, rich velvet curtains covered the windows, and a massive canopied bed stood elevated upon a dais against the far wall.

Her gaze fell instantly upon the man in that bed, frail and sickly. He was sitting up against the thick feather pillows, though it looked as if someone had propped him up that way. A magnificent fur cape had been draped around his shoulders.

Inexplicably overcome by an inherent sense of duty, she dipped into a deep curtsy, then rose again to meet the king’s frowning expression.

“Your Majesty,” she said while her heart pounded heavily with trepidation.

He continued to frown at her in the flickering candlelight, then waved her over with a shaky gnarled hand. “Come closer so I can get a look at you.”

Taking a few deep breaths, she walked to the foot of the bed and held her head high.

“I did not believe it at first,” he said, his eyes sparkling with wetness. “I thought it was another Royalist plot, but you are an exact likeness of your mother, Queen Isabelle. It is quite something to behold.”

Alexandra wasn’t sure what to make of this response. “Unfortunately, I never had the pleasure of meeting her,” she said.

His shoulders beneath the fur cape rose and fell with a deep sigh that appeared to cause him some discomfort in his abdomen. “She was a kind woman who enjoyed dancing and always seemed to be smiling. She was an exceptionally beautiful woman as well. You have her eyes, and your hair color is the same. I cannot get over it.”

Taking note of the painful grimace on his face, Alex moved slowly to the side of the bed. “I see that you are suffering, Your Majesty. Is there anything that can be done for you? Should I send for your physician?”

Discreetly she glanced around the room, surprised by the fact that they were completely alone. There were no servants here, no one to bear witness to their conversation. Was there something he wished to say that he did not want others to hear? Not even his own son?

“There is nothing anyone can do for me now,” he told her. “I am filled with a cancer, they tell me. It won’t be long.”

She had come here expecting to confront a tyrant, to demand to know the truth about what had happened to her family twenty years ago. She’d expected to feel hatred and a measure of satisfaction after she spoke her mind. But somehow pity was nudging its way in, especially when she looked at this man and saw something of his son in him—the son who had bewitched her with his charm and convinced her that his heart was true.

“Please, sir, I wish to know what happened to my parents.”

The king wet his lips and spoke hoarsely. “Randolph told me you heard rumors that your father was murdered. A moment ago, he asked me if those rumors were true.” He paused and winced with pain. “It was the first time he had ever dared to ask such a thing.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“The truth, of course. That I did not order your father’s death. I may be a military man, and I may have killed more than a few of my enemies in times of war, but I am not an executioner, nor would I ever kill a king. I sent him into exile with a staff of guards and servants.”

“Then how did my father die?” she asked. “Why is it so impossible to learn the facts? All I ever hear is conjecture. A brief illness. A fall from a horse. Which was it?”

The king tried to answer but began to cough. “Ack, my mouth tastes like metal. A drink of water, if you would be so kind.”

She reached for the goblet on the side table and poured water from a heavy pewter jug. Realizing the king was too weak to hold the goblet, she sat beside him and held it to his lips.

A heavy ache settled into the pit of her stomach as she remembered Randolph’s expression when he first entered the library.

This was her husband’s father—and he was dying.

At last, he found the strength to continue. “The circumstances of your father’s death were kept secret because it was not something I felt the world should know.”

“Why?”

He paused again. “I regret to say this, Alexandra, but your father took his own life.”

For a moment she was too taken aback to speak. Then she stood abruptly. “Surely that cannot be true. Do you have proof of this?”