His Majesty's Child by Sharon Kendrick Page B

hateful arrogance—she could hear an awful kind of emptiness in his voice. And something in her heart went out tohim—made her want to offer him comfort even though he would probably just fling it back in her face. ‘But won’t you feel even more restricted if you have to get married just because you’ve got a baby?’ she whispered.
    His eyes became shuttered. ‘I have no choice in the matter.’
    â€˜No choice?’ she echoed, unsure of what he meant. ‘Surely everyone has a choice—even kings?’
    â€˜Oh, how naïve you are, Melissa!’ he mocked softly. ‘Zaffirinthian law dictates that no abdication can be made while there is a living direct heir. So, you see, your revelation about…Ben…means that I am no longer free to renounce my throne.’
    She realised instantly—as perhaps he had intended her to realise—that she had effectively trapped him as well. That the baby was yet another bar in the gilded cage he had spoken of. And as Ben’s mother, so was she.
    And trapping him was the last thing she had wanted, or wished for. Yes, he had been harsh and cruel in the wake of her revelation—but, in spite of the pain it had caused her, she could understand his reaction. Yes, he was arrogant and uncaring, but once she had adored him—and she had never set out to snare him. She felt the telltale prickle of tears to her eyes.
    â€˜I’m sorry, Casimiro,’ she whispered. ‘So very sorry.’
    It was the bright glimmer of tears which did it. Tears which made her eyes look as bright and as brilliant as emeralds. And their brilliant gleam—combined with the faint lilac of her scent—took him back to a place he’d thought he’d left forever. The memory which hadstubbornly stayed in the depths of his mind now rose to the surface, like a bubble of air set free.
    Emerald stars, he thought. He had once told her that her eyes were like emerald stars .
    He stared into her face. ‘I’ve remembered,’ he said coldly.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    T HROUGH the flickering gleam of candlelight, Melissa saw the dawning comprehension in Casimiro’s eyes.
    â€˜Remembered what?’ she questioned breathlessly.
    He rubbed his fingertip against the scar at his temple and for one brief moment he felt intense relief as his memory came flooding back, as if someone had just lifted a heavy weight from his shoulders. ‘You. Us.’ She had been telling the truth all along , he realised. She was not just some woman on the make. Not some kind of ‘crazy’ who was stalking him. She was a woman with whom he had enjoyed a brief and heady affair—but one which had never been meant to endure.
    And now? Now their destinies were entwined whether he liked it or not—but let them both be clear about the reality, lest she spin fairy-tale fantasies as women were so prone to do. ‘Except that there wasn’t really an “us”, was there, Melissa? We met at an after-show party and it happened very quickly after that. What was it, three days—or four? I hardly think our few hours of snatched sex would qualify as a grand romance, do you?’
    A few hours of snatched sex . It was as if her memory of that time had been a delicate and intricate glass structure she’d carefully pre served—and Casimiro hadsmashed it without thought or care. Melissa threw her napkin down over the fast-congealing fish and began to get up.
    â€˜Sit down!’ he ordered.
    â€˜No, I won’t sit down! I don’t care if I have to walk all the way home—I will not sit here and be insulted by you!’
    He could see that she meant it. He could also see the maître d’ hovering anxiously over in the doorway, but a faint shake of Casimiro’s head was enough to dispatch him. For a moment he was torn between fury at her outrageous insubordination—and a grudging respect for her spirit. ‘Sit down,