CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER SEVEN
R OSIE MANAGED TO avoid him for the better part of the day, so by the time they were reunited in the kitchen that evening, her equilibrium had returned, and she was once again content that she could be married to someone like Sebastian, make love to him as necessary, but still not lose sight of all the reasons she had for avoiding any real reliance on him.
‘You cook?’ she asked with obvious surprise, as he placed a couple of steaks into a pan.
He eyed her with a look that set her pulse racing far faster than was safe. She ducked her hands beneath the kitchen bench, in case the heartrate monitor on her watch gave her away.
‘You’re surprised?’
She lifted one shoulder. ‘I suppose I am.’
‘Why?’
She gestured towards him with a flick of her wrist. ‘You just don’t seem like the type?’
His expression was faintly mocking, reminding her of the tension that had characterised so much of their marriage. She sat a little straighter.
‘I wasn’t raised royal,’ he reminded her.
‘No, but you’re still...you.’
He lifted one thick, dark brow. ‘Which means I’m incapable of cooking?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘You’re just so...’
‘Yes?’ he drawled, turning away from her so he could turn the steaks over, a sizzle and spark demarcating the action, before he turned back to her and braced his palms on the counter, regarding her with an expression that further sped up her pulse.
‘You’re just not really the domestic type.’
‘Cooking is just a part of life. Or rather, it was.’
‘You don’t cook now?’
‘Only occasionally.’
She pressed one elbow into the counter and rested her chin in the palm of her hand, watching as he neatly chopped a potato into cubes. ‘Do you enjoy it?’
He pulled another potato out and began to slice it. ‘I never thought about it like that. When I was growing up, it was part of what was expected of me.’
‘By whom?’
‘Mark.’ A grin tugged at his lips. ‘My mother was most definitely raised royal, and besides a few traditional recipes she’d been taught in theory, she couldn’t so much as peel this potato.’
Rosie found herself smiling at the recollection.
‘So most of the domestic things fell to Mark, when we moved to the States. I was still young, just a kid, but even then, he’d get me a stool so I could reach the counter, hand me a small paring knife and show me how to use it safely. I learned to cook at his side.’
‘American meals?’
‘Actually, he was obsessed with making Cavalonian food. He knew how much my mother missed it and wanted to please her. He felt a great burden of responsibility, I think, all his life, for having been instrumental in ruining her marriage.’
Rosie considered that. ‘It doesn’t sound to me as though he ruined her marriage, but rather just offered her a life raft.’
Sebastian’s eyes flicked to hers, his expression inscrutable. ‘Could it be that you’re beginning to see things my way?’
‘I see things through the lens of history, and from an outsider’s perspective. But you and King Renee have both said she was unhappy, that her husband was considerably older. Plus, he had the temerity to turn his back on his own son, so I’m inclined to think him a pretty cold-hearted person. It’s easy to believe their marriage was miserable, and that the fault for that was not your mother’s.’ She leaned forward a little, as Sebastian tipped the cubed potatoes into a pot of boiling, salted water, then turned back to her. ‘If it hadn’t been for Mark, she either would have lived a miserable life—and you would have been doomed to share that fate—or she might have left him anyway.’
‘Do you think your precious king shares your opinion?’
She compressed her lips, his irritation raising her defensive hackles even when she knew he had every right to feel as he did.
‘What sorts of dishes would he make?’ she asked, wilfully refusing to be drawn into an argument about the king’s thoughts. She was actually enjoying talking to him and didn’t want the mood to tank over something that had happened twenty-five years earlier.
Sebastian returned to the chopping board and now turned his hand to spinach, which he’d rinsed earlier. He chopped it roughly, then did the same to several cloves of garlic.
‘Stuffed courgettes, rolled eggplants, spiced mince, pita bread and dips, charcoal octopus, all of the desserts—my mother has a phenomenal sweet tooth. As a child, in the palace, she often ate only chocolate crepes for breakfast.’
Rosie laughed, trying to reconcile a little girl who would be able to sweet-talk her way into never-ending desserts with the quiet, slim woman she’d been introduced to at their wedding.
‘You’ve only met her once, haven’t you?’ Sebastian said, as if reading her mind.
She nodded. ‘On our wedding day.’
‘And she was not herself then,’ he admitted a little uneasily.
‘She didn’t approve of the marriage?’
‘It was more the pressure of being on television, of being back, it was a difficult day for her.’
‘Does she know about us?’ Rosie asked, wondering why that suddenly mattered so much to her.
‘You mean that her father bullied us both into this marriage?’
‘I find it hard to imagine anyone bullying you with any success.’
‘ Manipulated is a better word, you’re right.’
She sighed softly.
‘Yes. She knows our marriage was a requirement of her return. I tried to hide it from her, but she knows her father all too well. She guessed. I didn’t want to lie to her.’
‘And I suppose she would hardly have believed it to be anything other than an arranged marriage, given how soon after the funeral we were engaged.’
‘She knows her father,’ he repeated. ‘She remembers her own marriage arrangements, and the feeling that she’d climbed onto a juggernaut.’
‘Did she try to talk you out of it?’ She sat very still, not betraying the strange emotions coursing through her.
‘Yes.’ He turned his back on her then, so he could add the spinach and garlic to a frying pan on the stove, to which he added white wine and cream then lowered the heat. ‘She begged me not to go through with it. With Mark, she’d found true love. She wanted that for me.’
Rosie’s heart fell to her feet. ‘But you didn’t?’
‘There are many types of love. I love her—she loves this country. I wanted her to be able to come home.’
‘But she loves you too. She probably didn’t welcome your sacrifice.’
‘It’s not exactly a sacrifice,’ he said, and her heart began to race in a way she hated. She sucked in a breath, trying to calm her rioting feelings. He wasn’t talking about her, and she didn’t want him to be. ‘I got to come home too, to become crown prince, and one day king. I have dated more women than I can remember, and not once have I been tempted to describe it as “love”. If I was going to meet some mystical soulmate, I would have done so by now. My life is fine without that.’
Rosie was conscious of every single cell in her body. Every rush of blood, every breath in and out, every flicker of expression on her face. She felt as though he must be too, as though he must be able to read her self-consciousness, even when she couldn’t explain what was at the root of it. She wasn’t sure she bought his easy dismissal of the idea of love. He’d dated a lot, that was true, but it seemed unlikely that none of those relationships had led to something more serious. Most people were wired to seek connection; Rosie was not—she’d made herself this way. And Sebastian?
‘I suspect,’ he drawled, ‘the sacrifice has all been on your part.’
She moved her hand from her chin and placed it in her lap, bringing her attention back to their conversation. ‘The trade-off was worth it.’
‘In what way?’ he asked, the question relaxed. But Rosie could hear something in his voice, the persistent question he couldn’t make out. Why had she gone along with this? That really bothered him. Well, they were here to get to know one another, and she had no issue with explaining this part of her history to him.
‘I always remember a story my father told me, a long time ago, about my mother.’
Sebastian flicked the heat off the steak, then came back to the bench, still and watchful.
‘On their second date, when they still barely knew one another, they went to a pizza bar near the university, and sat at a small table on the sidewalk. My father described it as one of the most perfect nights—the stars were shining brightly, a busker down the street sang beautifully, the pizza was delicious, and my mother smelled of sweet almonds. He told me he knew he loved her, even then.’
Sebastian’s expression didn’t change.
‘But towards the end of the night, a tear rolled down my mother’s cheek. My father put a hand on hers, and asked her what was wrong? Why was she crying, on such a perfect night?’
Rosie reached for her glass of wine and took a sip.
‘She looked across the street and spoke softly. “No one in Cavalonia should have to live like that, Grieg.” My father followed her gaze and saw a young woman with a little boy, perhaps three or four. Before he could think of what to say, my mother had stood and gone to the pizza bar, where she ordered a large pizza and bought a bottle of water and some cakes too. He watched as she carried the bag of food from the counter, and across the street to where the homeless family was sitting against the wall. On their next date, he found out that she’d gone back to them every day since, taking food, clothes, books for the little boy. She didn’t have much money, but she had a heart that was bigger than all of Cavalonia.’
Silence stretched between them, but Rosie didn’t feel it. She was in the past, thinking of her mother.
‘She was studying to become a human rights lawyer when they met. Her purpose was the improvements of others’ lives. I’ve always wanted to be like her, to make her proud.’
She jerked her gaze back to Sebastian’s face, and when she spoke her voice was thickened by emotion. ‘Working for the king gave me a chance to help, in some way. I could influence policy and get to know key players in the government. But as princess, I have so much more reach, more power. Some of the things I’m working on will make a huge difference for our people. For many of them, I hope.’
‘And that was your trade-off?’ he asked, turning away from her and removing the steaks from the pan before using a slotted spoon to lift the potatoes from the water and place them in the same oil. They splattered and he turned the heat back up on high. She watched, mesmerised by his confidence and economy of movement.
‘I’m not interested in relationships,’ she said. ‘So much like you, I didn’t find the idea of a pragmatic marriage to be much of a sacrifice at all.’
‘You’re younger than I am,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘Yes, and?’
‘I’ve spent more than ten years having relationships, getting to know women—more than enough time to know that I do not want a love match. You, however, are inexperienced.’
Her brows lifted. ‘Gee, thanks.’
‘It’s a statement of fact. You’ve said as much yourself, many times.’
‘I’ve been engaged,’ she pointed out. ‘If I wanted a normal marriage, I could have had it.’ Though she never intended that marriage to be normal either.
‘You were engaged?’ he repeated, eyes locking on hers with an intensity that made her blood throb. ‘To whom?’
‘A man named Robert.’
He scanned her face, frowning a little. ‘How come I don’t know this?’
She laughed softly. ‘Isn’t that the point of this week? We know nothing about one another, besides the bare minimum. Why should you have known about Robert?’
‘Why didn’t you marry him?’
‘It turns out, we had different ideas about what our marriage would look like.’
‘In what way?’
‘He wanted me to quit my job,’ she murmured.
Sebastian’s expression showed clear surprise.
‘He had a huge role in an international bank, and thought I’d be an excellent asset to him. In the same ways I helped the king, I think he wanted me to help him. I wasn’t interested in dovetailing my professional life to suit his. We broke up.’
‘Did you love him?’
‘I thought we would be happy together. And I thought he loved me, enough to never hurt me.’
Sebastian’s eyes narrowed, and Rosie winced. The statement was too telling, revealed too much. ‘You’ve been hurt before?’
She glanced down at the counter, studying the flecks of white in the marble surface. ‘No.’
‘Then why should you think he’d hurt you?’
She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
He reached across the bench, his finger pressing lightly to her chin, in that way he had that made it impossible for her to hide. ‘You want me to get to know you, but only the parts of you you’re happy to share.’
‘So?’
‘It doesn’t work like that.’
‘It can work however we want it to.’
‘I want you to answer my questions. All of them.’
Imperious. Commanding. Demanding. Effortlessly regal.
Her insides slicked with heat at the tone of his voice, but more than that, at the fact he was willing to fight for this. That he really wanted to understand her and wasn’t just paying lip-service to her condition that they really get to know one another.
‘And I suppose you’ll do the same? You’ll answer any question I might have?’
‘That would be fair,’ he said with a nod of his head.
‘Which isn’t exactly an agreement.’
‘Your penchant for precision is fascinating.’
‘Perhaps it’s that I don’t really trust you?’
‘And why is that?’ he asked, moving around the counter, suddenly standing right beside her, so big and huge, his presence as well as his physicality. ‘Could it be that my dear grandfather has tainted your opinion of me?’
‘Don’t forget, I’ve spent five months married to you and the only interactions we’ve had have been openly hostile. Neither of us has made the effort to be civilised with the other, until now.’
‘Is that what we’re being?’ he asked, a wry smile on his handsome face. ‘I don’t feel civilised, if I’m honest. Right now, I feel about as uncivilised as ever before.’ His hands dropped to her thighs, and she gasped. ‘Does that bother you?’
She stared up at him, her pulse a torrent, and gave in to the instincts that were running rampant inside of her. Slowly, she shook her head. ‘I think you’re feeling exactly as I am.’
‘Let’s see about that,’ he muttered, and a moment later, he’d scooped her up and lifted her over one shoulder, his legs moving with strong command to the bedroom they’d occupied earlier, and Rosie had never been so glad to see a bed in her life.
She was softer than silk, sweeter than molasses. He kissed her until he could hardly breathe, until his body and senses were filled with her. Knowing she was showering just down the hall, while he started dinner, and not joining her, not touching her, had required monumental discipline.
This trip was about convincing her that she could trust him, that having a baby together would work. He needed this pregnancy to ensure his place on the throne. Without it, he knew he was vulnerable to civil unrest, that his grandfather could pull the rug out from under him at any point, and pass the throne to a distant cousin, just as he’d threatened when Sebastian had questioned the need for marriage to Rosalind.
This trip was supposed to be about him seducing her, and instead, alone with his wife on this serene island, his need for her was robbing him of all common sense. All he could think about was her beautiful body, and how desperate he was to bury himself inside of her whenever he could.
And? You’ve been celibate almost six months. No wonder you’re as horny as a schoolboy , his brain pointed out, reassuring him when he needed it most.
Sebastian had been single a long time, but never really alone. His life in New York had been filled with beautiful, glamorous women, his bed never empty unless he chose that. This had been the longest stint of celibacy since he’d lost his virginity. He’d have probably wanted to sleep with whichever woman ended up alone with him, given the circumstances.
He reassured himself with that as he entered his wife, grabbing hold of the certainty that this was nothing special. She was nothing special to him. This was still just an inconveniently arranged marriage, and the baby he intended for them to conceive, if she agreed to it, had one purpose, and one purpose only: to cement his place on the throne.
But pleasure was wrapping around him, and every cry she uttered, every time she sighed his name, drove all other women from his mind, and made it hard for him to think of anyone he’d ever slept with before. It was as if they’d all just been rehearsals for this.
He groaned as he buried his head in the curve of her neck and thought only of the physical perfection of this, only of the act of two hungry bodies coming together once more. All the rest was immaterial: they’d made their deal, they knew the terms. They were both safe from any complications—because this was a marriage born of negotiation, not need, and when this week was over, he would go back to the comfortable distance he’d enjoyed from his wife, and these wild, overwhelming moments of desire would seem almost like a dream.
Rosie thought she was dreaming. Or flying. Or falling. She couldn’t tell. She was floating though, nowhere near earth, the rushing of her pulse echoed by the pounding of waves against the shore, beyond the open windows of Sebastian’s bedroom. Pleasure washed through her, all the way to her toes and fingertips.
She stretched languidly beneath him, feeling his body shift, and smiled to herself at the silver lining of their marriage. To think, she’d initially wanted to avoid sleeping with him altogether. What she would have missed out on, if she’d stuck to her guns! For Rosie had held no conception that sex could be like this; she’d simply had no idea.
The swirling contentment wrapping around her meant that at first, she didn’t hear it. It was Sebastian pulling away from her at speed, stepping off the bed, that had her sitting up and recognising the high-pitched wail of something.
A smoke alarm!
Dinner!
She grimaced as she reached for a sheet and wrapped it around herself toga style and walked as quickly as she could back to the kitchen, to see plumes of smoke emanating from the stovetop. Sebastian, naked and spectacular, stood with one frying pan tilted over the rubbish bin and coughed a little.
‘The good news is the steaks are fine.’ He glanced at her with a slightly sheepish expression then indicated the charred pan. ‘The bad news is, we’ll be eating them on their own.’
She waved a hand through the air. ‘Vegetables are overrated,’ she lied, thinking with remorse of the perfectly crispy golden potatoes he’d been frying. ‘Let’s have sandwiches instead.’
While he cleaned up the wasteland of pots and pans and opened all of the windows to let the smoky air escape, Rosie removed lettuce, tomato, onion, cheese and mayonnaise from the fridge and began to prepare two steak sandwiches on ciabatta.
‘Come on,’ he said, when she sliced through both sandwiches. ‘Let’s eat on the terrace. The house stinks.’
She grinned as she placed the sandwiches on two plates.
‘Something funny?’
‘I was just thinking, that yeah, it does stink. But it was kind of worth it.’
He arched a brow. ‘Just kind of?’
‘Okay, really worth it,’ she said on a laugh.
‘Better.’ And then, he surprised her by brushing his lips over her brow. ‘And I completely agree.’