Princess in the Iron Mask

chapter FOURTEEN



‘PROMISE ME YOU will let go of the past.’

A cacophony of voices floated through the open window. Bristles stroked her scalp and diamond pins slid through lofty curls, yet through it all Claudia stared unseeingly into the gilt-edged dressing table mirror before her. Remembering the dark haunted look on Lucas’s face as nine simple words tossed him further into purgatory.

So strong was his need to do his duty and get her to the palace, he’d given her his oath to try, however much it pained him. For, truly, what was the point of hurting, of living with such pain, when the past couldn’t be changed.

‘Claudine.’ Her mother’s serene face popped into view beside her. ‘Where are you, I wonder?’

Thinking about my lover. Claudia winced inwardly as her cheeks rouged in the mirror and feathers of unease dusted her nape. ‘Oh, nowhere in particular.’

Her mother arched one perfectly plucked brow, wholly unconvinced, and Claudia almost smiled. She could read her mother now, especially when they were alone, making her realise that Queen Marysse wore a mask of her very own.

‘Pass me another pin, then, dear.’

Claudia reached for another pin, chose a pearl, and passed it over her shoulder. ‘Don’t you have staff to do this? Surely you don’t have time.’

‘Nonsense. I will make time. How many days and nights of my life have I spent wishing I could be there for you?’

Claudia closed her eyes, knowing it was time she listened to her own advice and let go of the past.

‘I didn’t know you felt that way, Mother.’

Perhaps Lucas was right. On that fateful day her mother had been unthinking, not uncaring. And maybe her parents had handled her illness the only way they knew how. By acting. Not by becoming overwrought with emotion—like her mother had during the accident. Her safety and health had been paramount to them. She’d never felt loved, but her parents must have cared. She only had to think of what Lucas had gone through and every memory seemed to fade. Diminish, somehow.

‘Let us start over—could we, Claudine?’ Her mother’s warm fingers curled over her shoulder, squeezed through her cotton wrap. ‘I am opening the new children’s wing next week and I was hoping you would come.’

Claudia looked up...saw warmth and hope in her mother’s gaze. She could do her duty while she was here, couldn’t she? There was really no need for the frisson of panic that they might expect more. ‘I’d like that.’

‘Good. I have asked Lucas to arrange the security.’

Oh, honestly, even the mention of his name gave her palpitations. ‘You saw Lucas this morning?’

‘Briefly. Your father was in talks with Philippe Carone, but Lucas seemed anxious to meet with him. Henri saw him, of course, before he flew to—’

‘Barcelona,’ Claudia murmured through the clattering in her head.

Why had Lucas gone to see her father so suddenly? And why did her stomach scream at the thought? And why was her mother watching her so closely? They’d done nothing wrong. Everyone had sex. Right?

‘Yes,’ her mother said slowly, as she slid alongside Claudia to choose another pin from the gold tray. ‘His headquarters are there.’

Some sixth sense told Claudia she should quit while she was ahead, but now she’d started talking her tongue didn’t want to stop. ‘Headquarters for what?’

Her mother’s brow creased, amber eyes snapping up to Claudia’s. ‘LGAS, of course.’

Suddenly grateful she was sitting down, Claudia’s mouth worked. ‘The LGAS? Lucas owns LGAS? How on earth did I miss that?’ She slumped back into the chair. ‘High-end security, renowned, the best in the world.’ Always protecting, she mused with a secret smile...which then slid off her face. ‘Wait a minute—doesn’t LGAS have an aerodynamic wing? I travelled in one of his jets!’ The word wealth didn’t even begin to describe his inordinate success. God, she was so proud of him her heart ached.

‘Of course you did, darling. Everyone important does.’ Her mother heaved a theatrical sigh. ‘Shoulders straight, Claudine. A hump is most unattractive.’

Claudia bolted upright. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t see it.’ For heaven’s sake—did she go around with her eyes shut? What else had she missed?

‘Lucas is a very private man,’ her mother continued, her tone taut, her eyes narrowed on Claudia’s face. ‘Something I’m acutely grateful for. You are entitled to a private life, Claudine, I stress private.’

Claudia’s stomach plunged. Was she so obvious? Or was the fact she’d been his guest enough to arouse suspicion? She’d never thought of that, had she? No, she’d just been desperate to stay with him. Only him. Because he made her feel safe. But how had it looked from the outside looking in? He worked for her father. He—

‘Nothing is going on, Mother.’ Well, apart from sex, and she wasn’t telling her that.

‘I am glad to hear it. The stakes are high. Think of your reputation. His work.’

She couldn’t give two stuffs about her reputation. Despite every loaded inference to the contrary, she was going back to London! And Lucas was staying here.

Heart crashing against her ribs, she flinched at a brisk rap upon the door and the strutting in of her mother’s PA, carrying a crushed velvet gift box.

Her mother passed the box to Claudia with a warning look. ‘I will leave you now. Your father will be here on the hour.’

Waiting for the door to close, she felt a heady concoction of panic and excitement surge through her veins. At the click of the door she fumbled with the lid, tossed it to the floor and tore through layer upon layer of black tissue paper. Then time stood still as her eyes devoured the contents, her heart leaping up her throat.

‘Oh, Lucas.’

Hand trembling, she picked up the thick cream-coloured card, ran her thumb over the strong, black masculine scroll. Laying the card upon the mirrored plate, just so, she returned to the box and lifted a pair of long pale gold gloves—exactly the same satin as the dress he’d known she was desperate to wear. The sheath, thank heavens, hung on the rack in front of her: a temptation she’d been unable to shake.

Twisting her hand this way and that, she saw small diamond studs wink at her from where they trailed up the full length of the cuff in a perfect row.

Tears glistened behind her eyes.

This from the man who professed he didn’t feel. Oh, but she knew he could feel—every emotion, ten-fold. The power of which scared him to death.

Lucas cared for her. He must. Was he lending her his strength? God, how she ached for his touch. A touch she couldn’t allow herself to hope for, because she was beginning to realise she’d put his position at risk. The honourable duty he lived for.

Dressing, she imagined him sprawled across the sofa, watching her, dark hunger glittering in his sapphire eyes as she smoothed sheer ivory silk stockings up her legs. Legs he’d kissed every inch of. Tying the ribbons on her corset, it was as if his fingers curled around the supple silk, pulling her, cinching her tight.

This from the man whose written words echoed in her head as she stood at the top of the opulent sweeping staircase holding onto her father’s arm, her heart a thump, thump, thumping beat.

Hold your head high, Princesa.

Claudia lifted her chin. Opened her eyes on a monstrously titanic room where every sinister eye looked upon her.

Be proud of the woman you have become.

She took one step, then another, begging her feet not to fail her now. Down, down, down she went, gliding into the palatial, softly lit ballroom. The crowd hushed, her mind locked on Lucas...the satin caressed her wrists like a lover’s healing kiss.

This from the man whose eyes sought hers as soon as her feet hit the polished floor with a look of such intense pride she had to grip her father’s arm not to fall.

Her heart filled, gushed, overflowed.

This from the man she’d fallen deeply and irrevocably in love with.

This from the man she now had to protect.

* * *

Lucas stood in the midst of inane chatter, searching for the satisfaction of a mission accomplished. It was like digging for mines in the dark.

Statuesque, sanguine, Princess Claudine Verbault had finally taken her rightful place. The sight of which Lucas knew was his cue to leave. Yet his designer-clad feet were as if suctioned to the silver-toned marble as he hauled air into his tight lungs, clenched every hard muscle in his body until his bones ached.

That he’d lasted one hour and thirty-three minutes without manhandling her out of the room was a miracle in itself. And what the hell was Henri doing, throwing Philippe Carone at her every chance he got? The business magnate just happened to be one of the most eligible bachelors in Europe. And if the sleaze-bag danced with Claudia one more time—if he looked at Claudia one more time, stripping the tight sheath from her body with his marauding eyes—Lucas would launch the man across the room.

Thrusting his fingers to his throat, he yanked at the stiff collar.

Madre de Dios, surely Henri was not contemplating such a match? After everything she’d been through? Hadn’t she paid enough of a price to Arunthia? To lose her parents, her home, while so tender and vulnerable.

Lucas closed his eyes, took a deep breath, infusing his brain with some sense. No, he was wrong, Henri wouldn’t ask such a thing of her.

But Dios—Carone? The man wasn’t much taller than she was. How could he possibly protect her? Lucas could do a better job with his eyes shut! What the hell had ever made him think otherwise? No longer was he fourteen years old. No longer did he doubt his own strength. Claudia had trusted him with her life—curled her naked body into his. Even after he’d told her the truth of his past she’d cared not. Still she’d trusted implicitly. Still she had wanted to be held. And he’d walked away. Focused on duty. Rammed her responsibilities down her pretty throat. And if Henri were serious about Carone she would be strangled by duty until the day she died. Lucas had never considered happiness important. Until her. Until now.

On the far side of the room he saw Carone set his sights and begin walking towards her.

Excusing himself from the cluster of foreign dignitaries, Lucas swerved through the crowd, eyes locked on Claudia, his arms begging to pick her up, take her away. If he didn’t feel so damn sick he would laugh at the irony.

She turned, as if sensing him, eyes filling with an instant of warmth before veiling, cooling—a look he did not care for.

‘Good evening, Your Royal Highness,’ he said, with a formal nod. ‘You look exquisite.’

‘Thank you, Lucas, you don’t look too bad yourself.’ She forced a smile and his stomach hollowed...then shot to the floor when Carone sidled up beside her and Claudia offered the other man a sincere warm slide of her lips.

‘This dance is mine, Carone,’ he growled. ‘Excuse us.’

Lucas slid a protective hand over the base of Claudia’s spine, curled his fingers up around her waist and felt her muscles stiffen beneath his touch. He thrust away the sliver of panic; he’d wanted professional and now he was getting it.

‘I have a better idea,’ he said, tightening his fingers as they walked towards the dance floor—and took a swift unheeded side-step through the double doors leading on to the terrace beyond and the privacy of a star-studded sky. The chilly nip of the air did a miserable job of lowering his temperature.

‘Are you sure this is such a good idea?’ she asked, quickly sliding from his hold.

The loss of contact did abominable things to his mind-set. Lucas closed the doors, drowning out the noise with a satisfying click, and swivelled back to face her, taking a good swift kick to the guts as he drank her in.

All glamorous sophistication, she stood by the wrought-iron railings, pearly teeth gnawing at her rouged lip, top-to-toe in gold satin which hugged and caressed every voluptuous curve. His palms itched to indulge. Stroke. Cosset. Dios, would the craving ever cease?

He balled his hands. ‘Claudia...’ he managed, before wondering what the hell to say.

The lines of strain eased from her brow as her mouth tilted knowingly. ‘Thank you for the gift.’

‘You’re very welcome,’ he said, still loath to admit, even to himself, why he’d sent it. So she would feel his possessive touch around her beautiful wrists. A touch she’d discarded within minutes. ‘You didn’t seem to need them for too long.’ Which was a good thing, he assured himself, ignoring the twinge in his chest.

‘Ah, well,’ she said, her cheeks pinkening to rose-gold, ‘I’d quite forgotten how slippery satin was.’

Lucas swallowed hard. Dios, he was dying here.

Dying? No, it was worse than that. He felt as if he was about to lose the most important thing in his world. Again.

‘So slippery,’ she continued, probably in an effort to keep things light, oblivious to the dark storm raging inside of him, ‘that after thirty minutes the caterers were three champagne flutes down and in all conscience I thought I better take them off.’

The tension in his midsection evaporated on a laugh. One side of her lush mouth curved and his arms ached to pick her up, carry her away.

Chin dipping, she peeked up at him through dense sooty lashes. ‘I found out something else tonight. Or should I say realised something else. You gave me the money. The funding. My parents would never have offered. How it must have pained you to coerce me.’

He shrugged. Made it lazy. He would have given her one hundred million. ‘I do not regret it.’ How could he when he never would have tasted heaven otherwise? ‘So do not forgive me,’ he bit out.

‘Oh, I will—and I do,’ she said softly, her eyes now full—the first signs of a thaw?—brimming with a warmth that made his skin prickle, his heart thud. ‘I’m in awe of you, Lucas. To come so far against all the odds.’ She reached up, trailed one finger down his jaw. ‘I’m so proud of the man you have become.’

Dios, he’d had it with this senseless woman.

Snap went his resolve, his strength. One step forward and he reached out...and every muscle in his arms, every vein in his body, froze as her lashes fluttered closed and she shook her head.

‘I should go back inside,’ she murmured. ‘Thank you for everything.’

His head jerked. Thank you? For what...? The sex? Was that why she’d wanted him to come to London...for more sex? Something told him he’d slipped into the irrationality danger zone here, but Madre de Dios—thank you? As if she could just walk away and forget.

Like hell she would.

Ignoring the pop of her eyes, Lucas dug his hand into the hair at her nape, yanked her head back and flung his mouth against hers. He muffled her shock with his lips and kissed her irrational mouth while a noxious tangle of emotions knotted his guts. Plundering her mouth with his tongue, he curved his hands around the delicate span of her waist and crushed her against him.

A fist of anxiety clenched his heart when she stiffened...but then she wrapped her arms about his shoulders, thrust her fingers in his hair and tugged, giving as good as she got. The flush of relief turned to liquid fire as she blazed in his arms.

The crackle and hum of static energy surged between their bodies, bouncing from one point of contact to the other. Dios, they created enough electricity to power the eastern grid. He couldn’t let her go. He needed...

A flash lit the sky. Then another. A slam. A door? Fireworks?

A gasp rent the air. Not his. Not hers.

Lips froze, still close, and Lucas could taste her panting breath as it whispered across his tongue.

Thuds hit his temples as reality cracked through his skull, his entire body vibrating with the force of it.

Hands falling from her pale, horrified face, Lucas took a step back, closed his eyes. No, no, no! Dios, her reputation would be in tatters.

Plink. Plink. One light after another lit the sky. Cameras. Dios, she hated cameras. She would run, he knew. Hide.

Hands fisting into a violent clench, his eyes flew open. And locked onto her amber fire.

Still here. Still standing tall. Regal. Brave. Courageous. After everything she’d been through he could not, would not walk away from her now.

* * *

Dark waves of fury poured from his rigid shoulders while an earthquake shook the paving beneath her feet.

Oh, God, why had she kissed him back? She was supposed to be staying away from him!

Her mother’s voice came to her. Think of your reputation...his work. And the cold night began to seep through her skin, burrow into her stomach.

‘Tell me this isn’t happening,’ she whispered.

‘Consequences,’ he said, his voice dark, fierce, harder than ever before. ‘Now we face them.’

‘Oh, Lucas, I’m so sorry.’

His words screamed in her head. Your selfishness is astounding. In all the years she’d loathed her own reflection she’d never envisaged disliking the person she was inside. Had she once given thought to the impact on Lucas should they ever be found out? No. She’d just wanted him. So desperately. Unseeing of the consequences.

Swarms of black locusts poured onto the patio—one brawny security man for every ravenous tabloid fiend.

‘Tell me now,’ he said, his eyes swirling with a turbulent storm. ‘What do you want, Claudia?’

She wanted to fix it. Put everything right. Make good on the destruction she’d caused. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about. But she did think about it. Because her brain wouldn’t switch off. Would Lucas the Honourable propose? Be trapped by her for eternity? Or, worse still, would her father discharge him? Strip him of his honour?

Never.

Claudia could fix this. Make sure he kept his job. His life. Everything that made him the man he was. The man she loved. And she knew exactly how to do it.

‘I will fight for you,’ he avowed. ‘Tell me what you want.’

Her throat stung. Still he would fight for her. Her brave knight. But even knights answered to their king.

‘To be free. To go home. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.’ Until you. Only you. God, her heart was breaking.

His jaw hard, the shutters slammed down over his face. ‘Very well.’

He took a step back and beckoned to Armande with a flick of his fingers, told him to corral all the reporters out front for Lucas to deal with.

Claudia inhaled his scent one last time as she snuck around him, raised her chin and strode towards her father.

She ignored the disappointment weighing heavy in his eyes. She’d make him happy soon enough.

‘Can I speak with you, Father?’

‘My office. Twenty minutes.’

* * *

Claudia spent the longest, most agonising twenty minutes of her life pacing the living room in the private quarters of the Palace. The silvery moon cast eerie shadows over the oppressive grandeur, making her shiver. But this way, sans artificial light, she could keep one eye on the grandfather clock and sneak a peek at Lucas out front, his huge body looming over a member of the paparazzi.

Thankfully they’d only had a small audience on the terrace but...God, the look on his face as they’d parted ways. She would never forget it. Fierce, yet strangely bleak. He must hate her for placing him in this position.

A loud gong echoed off the oak-panelled walls like a death-knell and she stiffened her backbone, swept through the room, down the cavernous hallway to her father’s office. Palm flat, she pushed through the door, turned, closed it with a soft click and spun around to face him—sitting behind his wide desk in a high-backed brown leather chair, focusing his flinty gaze on her face.

‘Claudine.’

‘Father.’ She strode towards his desk to stand opposite him and lifted her chin. ‘I have a proposition for you.’ Even as she hoped to reach a compromise—something she should have considered well before now—she realised that on the back of ruining the Anniversary Ball her timing sucked.

‘Let’s hear it,’ he said, barely suppressed temper firing his cheeks.

She kept her cool. Reached for her mask. Because she’d never needed it more.

‘I apologise for any embarrassment I’ve caused you tonight. Truly. But the fault is mine and I’m quite willing to make it up to you.’ Her voice almost cracked on the last, and she bit her inner cheek to stop from crying out, pleading with him.

‘Unless you are willing to come home for good, I do not want to hear it.’

She tried to swallow but it was impossible. So much for compromise.

How right Lucas had been. You cannot change who you are, Princesa. And hadn’t she suspected all along that the moment she stepped foot on Arunthian soil her freedom would be lost?

Brittle was surely the only word to describe her smile. ‘All right, Father. I’ll come home.’

His clipped grey brows hiked just a touch. ‘You will give up your work?’ he said, still disbelieving.

The lump in her chest caught fire and tore up her throat. Years of research...the children she’d left behind...Bailey. Forgive me. I’ll make it up to you. I swear it. ‘Yes.’

She would never have believed it possible of her autocratic father, but his head actually jerked. Strange how that small reaction pleased her—until she beheld the gleam in his eyes.

‘Will you marry Carone?’

Whack—the first crack in her armour ripped through her stomach and she stiffened to prevent the flinch. She should have known there was some reason he’d been throwing Carone at her. She couldn’t contemplate what such an allegiance would involve or she’d throw up on her father’s pristine desk. Didn’t royals marry for love these days? Then again, what did it matter when she couldn’t have the man she loved? And if she lived elsewhere she wouldn’t have to see him every day. She could forget. Impossible.

The effort to stand tall while her heart was bleeding made her legs throb. ‘Yes,’ she said, proud of the steel in her voice. ‘As long as you do something for me.’

That cool, flinty gaze narrowed imperceptibly. ‘I am intrigued to know what would make you give up so much, Claudine.’

‘Lucas gets to keep his job, his honour, and to do his duty for Arunthia. You need him, Father, I know you do. And he...he needs it too.’ She wondered then if the virtual stranger before her could hear the love in her voice. So she licked her dry lips and focused on the aspect that would carry more weight with this ruler of a nation. ‘The people love him. He’s their hero.’ And mine too.

Her father nodded slowly, his bushy brows low over his eyes. ‘I see.’

The stern lines of his face softened, to make him appear younger somehow. She blinked hard, wondering if the transformation was a mirage.

‘Does Lucas know how you feel about him?’

A breath she’d had no idea she was holding whooshed out of her and her head bowed—her mask slipping to shatter upon the floor. ‘God, I hope not.’

‘Too. Late.’

Slam went her hand to her heart as those two little words delivered in that deadly fierce voice echoed around the room.

Slowly she turned. Oh, no. ‘Lucas.’

Sprawling insolently, he encompassed one huge black wing chair, the tie of his tux loose around his neck, one devilish dark brow raised. And she’d swear she could hear his molars crack.

‘Big mistake, querida.’