CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER EIGHT

Melissa's wedding day was so unlike anything she had envisaged that she felt herself to be an actress taking part in a lavishly produced fairytale. But what a Prince Charming Louis made! Never had she seen him look more resplendent than he did in the white and gold uniform of Armed Services Commandant, medals glittering on his chest, hair shining gold and eyes gleaming blue as the Mediterranean.

Calvin Clement, together with several directors from the Benton Group, occupied one of the pews in the Cathedral. Their wedding gift—a gold tea set and tray—had received enormous acclaim in the Motavian press, as had all the other magnificent presents. Indeed the lavishness of them had made Melissa realise the importance of Motavia's geographical position in Europe. And not only the position it occupied but the mineral wealth that lay untapped beneath its surface. Why else should Prince Louis's marriage have commanded a Rembrandt from Holland, a gold dinner service from France and a world-renowned racehorse from Britain?

After the ceremony in the great stone Cathedral they drove through the streets of Rothnik in an open carriage drawn by four pairs of greys. Melissa's white and gold dress complemented her new husband's uniform, her only additional touch of colour being the circlet of rubies round her throat.

As she heard the tumultuous cheers of the crowds, she began to appreciate the meaning of her new position. These people were acclaiming her because she was Louis's wife; because they believed her to be his final love and the mother of future princes. She glanced at him, and seeing his mouth set tight, knew he too was moved by the cheers.

'The last time there were so many people in the capital was when my father died,' he murmured, the smile not leaving his face as he turned his head from side to side and waved his arm. 'I never thought they'd turn out like this for me!'

'You are obviously their favourite Prince.'

'Their only one!'

His answer made her remember the question she had wanted to ask several times before. 'Were you the sole heir?'

'I am an only child,' he agreed, 'but I have several cousins. You will be meeting them at the reception.'

'Your marriage must have disappointed them?'

'No doubt of it. They will be watching your waistline pretty closely in the future!'

His tone was dry, but he felt pleasurable malice as he saw that at last he had succeeded in embarrassing her. The flush that stained her cheeks made her look like a child, and reminded him how young she was. Seven years younger than Elise, in fact, though her cool self-possession frequently made him forget it.

'I could always surprise you,' she said suddenly. 'What would you do if I did?'

For a split second he was not sure what she meant. Then her expression told him and he swallowed hard, determined not to let her know how dangerous the question was. What redress did he have if she took a lover and became pregnant? To admit that their marriage was unconsummated would make him the laughing stock of the world. Apart from which it would cast doubts on his manhood. Equally bad, it would focus attention on the huge amounts of money which the Benton Group would by then have poured into the country. It could even precipitate the revolutionary interference he was trying so desperately hard to avoid. For this reason he had even been careful in his conversation with Elise. Although she knew his marriage had been born of expediency, he had not put into words his intention of never claiming Melissa physically. 'You wouldn't dare,' he muttered. 'If you play me for a fool I'll—I'll ‑'

'I'll only do so if you make a fool of me I' she retorted.

'How could I do that?'

'By flaunting your relationship with Countess Breen. The least you can do is to be discreet!'

Angrily he realised she was giving him an ultimatum, and angrily he realised he had no choice but to accept it. 'I have every intention of being discreet. Not for your sake, Melissa, but for the future of my country!'

The carriage turned into the palace courtyard and footmen stepped forward to help Melissa alight. With her hand on Louis's arm she entered the palace, knowing it was now her official and legal home.

Slowly they moved along the line of guests who waited to greet them; pausing to speak to each one of them, remembering who they were or which country they represented. Her hand was shaken so many times that it soon began to ache, but Louis appeared to be completely at ease, chatting to a Middle-East Sheik and gesticulating with his arm. With an inward sigh—but still resolutely smiling-— she lifted her hand and moved forward to greet yet one more guest.

It was several hours later before she had a chance to talk to Calvin Clement. The line of royals and diplomats had now dispersed and she was free to spend time with guests of her own choosing.

'I hope Sir Donald is pleased with me,' she muttered.

'He's delighted. He looked so proud of you when you walked into the Cathedral, I thought he was going to crow!'

'He'd better contain his enthusiasm for the next few months,' she retorted. 'They aren't going to be easy.'

'Surely the worst is over? Now you are married you can move out of the limelight. I'm sure Prince Louis will help you to ‑'

'He will help to make my life as difficult as possible! ' she interrupted. 'He hates me, Clemmie!'

'Not at all.' The lawyer put his hand on hers and patted it. 'You are talking like this because you are overtired and nervous. The Prince is intelligent enough to appreciate what you are doing for him.'

'But he doesn't. That's the trouble. If I could tell him the truth—that I married him because Sir Donald asked me to do so—then he wouldn't be so bitter towards me. But as long as he thinks I married him to become a princess....'

'You mustn't tell him about Sir Donald.' Calvin Clement was emphatic. 'If the Prince were to discover that the British Government is behind your company it would be fatal.'

'He wouldn't tell Krassky.'

'You cannot be certain of that.'

Remembering her discussions with Louis, she could not argue. 'If only it were all over!' she sighed.

'You cannot be more anxious to end it than I. But meanwhile you are faced with the problem of making the best of your position.' The lawyer hesitated. 'You have always been able to charm any man you wanted, and I am sure the Prince is ‑'

'The Prince is in love with another woman!'

Calvin Clement's eyes moved left, though his head did not turn. 'You speak of the silver-blonde?'

'How clever of you to guess!'

'Sir Donald mentioned it to me.'

Melissa gasped. 'And you dared suggest I try to make Louis fall in love with me? How can you be so deceitful!'

'I meant what I said. I consider you to be beautiful and clever—and certainly a match for the Countess.'

'I would never compete with another woman. Never.' She glanced over her shoulder. 'Louis is crazy about her. He doesn't see her for what she is!'

'Pro-Slovenian, I believe,' the lawyer said. 'What else do you know about her?'

'Only that she has a strong influence over Louis. That is why Princess Helene is so delighted he married me.'

Calvin Clement looked grave. 'Do not quarrel with the Countess, Melissa. We are interested in knowing as much as we can about her.'

'Surely she can't do any harm now?'

'One can never be certain. The Opposition Party here could still try to enlist Krassky's aid and overthrow the Prince.'

'But the people love him!'

'They also hate their poverty.'

'They'll be rich once the minerals and the oil. ...' She lowered her voice. 'Has the work begun yet?'

'By the time you return from your honeymoon,' the lawyer said, 'more than five thousand men will be working in the mountains.'

Melissa remembered this when she and Louis climbed into a waiting helicopter on the palace lawn, and set off for their honeymoon in the secluded hunting lodge where Princess Helene had begun her own married life fifty years before.

Now that he was no longer watched by curious eyes, the smile which Louis had worn all day left his face, and for the entire length of the three-hour journey he stared morosely out of the window at the mountainous landscape below.

The further they flew from the capital the more nervous Melissa became, and the sight of the diamond wedding ring on her finger in no way lessened her fear. She was alone with a man whom, a few hours earlier, she had agreed to love and cherish for life. But he was a stranger who had no idea of her feelings and who did not even want to know them. As she did not want to know his. She glanced at him, seeing the golden sweep of his hair and the firm line of his tanned cheek and chin. His mouth was tightly set, as though he was afraid to let it relax, and she wondered what thoughts lay behind those heavy-lidded blue eyes. The years ahead of her seemed long and she was filled with foreboding.

'You are tired?'

With a start she looked up and saw Louis watching her. 'You sighed,' he explained.

'I'm not tired. I was just thinking.'

'Of your triumph, no doubt.'

'Why should I be triumphant?'

'Because you have got what you want. Princess Melissa of Motavia. It has good alliteration. Did your uncle have a hand in choosing your name?'

'I doubt if he thought in terms of my marriage to you when I was born,' she said crisply. 'I am sure the agreement he made with your grandfather was done on the spur of the moment. Uncle Henry had an impish sense of humour.'

'You call it humour?' Louis said harshly. 'Then the joke is on me! '

The helicopter began to descend and the increased noise of the engines precluded further conversation. Peering out, Melissa saw a large plateau, like a vast sheet of green, set out below her. All around it were gently rising hills with pockets of dense forest, and half way up the steepest hill—on a jutting ledge of land—stood a great stone house.

'Is that the hunting lodge?' she asked and, turning her head, was discomfited to find Louis so close behind her that she could see the smooth texture of his skin and the faint, unmistakable shadow of stubble on his chin. Even first thing in the morning he would look handsome. Quickly she banished the thought and watched as the land came up to meet them, the deep green dissolving into earth shades of brown and red, and the variegated greens of thick foliage.

The helicopter slowly touched down, and as the blades ceased revolving, several uniformed men ran forward. The door was opened and a flight of steps placed in front of them. Louis had a smile on his face again, and glancing in her direction he stepped out ahead of her.

For an instant Melissa was annoyed, then she realised it was a question of protocol. Though she was Princess of Motavia, Louis was its ruler, and as such he came ahead of her. In private he might practise the normal deference that a man showed to a woman, but in public she would always have to take second place.

Involuntarily Elise came into her mind. Did the woman see Louis's marriage as the end of all her hopes or was she content to be his mistress? It was not a position she herself could have accepted, for she would always have lived with the fear that one day she might be discarded in favour of someone else.

Yet marriage did not bind a man—or a woman, for that matter. If a couple remained together in this day and age, it was because they wanted to do so, not because they were obligated to do so. Somehow she could not see Louis falling out of love with the beautiful and clever Countess. There was a woman who knew how to make full use of her charm; who could use a man's passion to make him her prisoner and then exert her cunning to keep him enslaved for ever. It was a cunning that she herself would never be able to compete against. The word compete shocked Melissa into an awareness of where her thoughts were leading her. There was no question of competing for Louis. She had married him for one reason only. Wanting to make him think her desirable did not come into it.

'Melissa?'

His voice, soft but impatient, reminded her that he was waiting on the top step, and she hurried out to join him.

'Smile,' he said beneath his breath, and she did as he asked and followed him down the steps.

Before them stretched a plateau of grassland and beyond it the mountains rose gently to the sky. As always it was a clear calm blue that gave no indication of the seething passions of the people who looked up to it.

The hunting lodge was not visible from here, but a short drive in an open car brought them to its massive, nail-studded door. A row of guards was lined up to greet them, but, unlike the ones at the palace, they wore the Prince's own uniform and she knew them to be members of his staff and not of the Army. It was a comforting thought and it helped her to relax. Louis was already half-way up the steps and as she reached the front door he caught her elbow and led her into a cool, dark hall.

Expecting stags' heads on the walls and animal skins on the floors, she was agreeably surprised to find that the lodge was furnished like an English country mansion, albeit the furniture was Motavian antique and the paintings on the walls would not have shamed the most illustrious museum.

'For a poor country you have a lot of wonderful things,' she commented.

'Unfortunately one cannot eat pictures,' Louis said dryly.

'You could sell them and eat the proceeds!'

'Eat our national heritage?' The blue eyes glinted. 'My people would rather starve!'

Feeling she had been put in her place—and rightfully so since her remark had been in poor taste—she followed him into a large room which occupied the entire south-west side of the ground floor. Here the furniture was considerably more rustic, with pine-panelled walls, chintz-covered settees and floor scattered with colourful Tibetan rugs. At the far end, half hidden by free-standing bookshelves, she saw a galley-type kitchen, small but perfectly equipped with refrigerator, cooker and rows of tinned delicacies.

'If I come here alone for a few days, I like to do my own cooking,' he said, intercepting her glance. 'It means I can be left alone.'

She had no need to ask him with whom; the anguish on his face told her.

'If you had been free to do as you wished,' she said suddenly, 'would you have married Countess Breen?'

'You are my wife,' he said harshly. 'It is useless to talk of what might have been.'

'I was thinking of the future. I mean, we won't be together for ever.'

'I do not wish to discuss my future. My emotions can be of little concern to you.'

'I'm not concerned,' she shrugged. 'But as we have to live together, it will be better if we can maintain some kind of relationship.'

'I fail to see why.' He went to stand by the massive log fire and kicked one of the logs viciously. The movement made her notice the suppleness of his body and the strong line of his thigh.

'Are you always going to be rude to me when we are alone?' she burst out, and stopped as he swung round to glare at her.

'It's as much as I can do to be civil to you in public,' he grated, 'without trying to be any more than that in private! I have already told you I regard you as a scheming social climber.'

'My social climb is going to benefit Motavia!'

'It's for the sake of Motavia that I married you. It does not say anywhere in our agreement that I must like you!'

'I wasn't suggesting you should. Merely that you should be polite.'

'If you wish for politeness,' he retorted, 'keep out of my way!'

Defeated, she went to the door.

'Where are you going?' he called.

'To my room. I will stay there for dinner.'

'As you wish.'

He turned back to the fire and she went out and closed the door behind her. As she stood uncertainly in the hall, a woman servant hurried forward and curtsied. Since her marriage a few hours ago, over a thousand people had done so, but it was only as this woman—miles from the glitter and gaiety of the capital—made the same sign of obeisance that she was assailed by the significance of her position. To these innocent and unsuspecting people she was their new Princess: the chosen bride of their beloved Prince.

'I wish to go to my room,' she explained in halting Motavian.

The woman curtsied again and glided towards the stairs. They reached the first floor and walked along a timbered gallery to the east wing where Melissa was shown into a large corner room. It was furnished in similar style to the sitting room, with colourful rugs and rustic fourposter bed. There was something lived-in about this room; a feeling of happiness that seemed to emanate from the walls, making her aware of how unhappy she had felt until this moment. Now she seemed overtaken by calm, and could suddenly live for the moment without thinking of the bleakness of the future. She had just married one of the most sought-after bachelors in Europe; a man whom any girl would have been delighted to accept as a husband even had he not possessed a title. It would be as well for her to acknowledge this and look no further.

'I am Sarda,' the woman said in halting English. 'I am Your Highness's maid at the lodge.' There was a pause. 'Does Your Highness wish to bath and change immediately?'

'I will bath and go to bed. I feel very tired.' Melissa felt her cheeks grow warm, despite the impassive expression that remained on the woman's face. 'Please bring me a light snack in an hour.'

Melissa was not lying when she said she felt tired. The long, eventful day and the bitter scene with Louis had sapped her strength, so that it was an effort to peck at the delicious meal which Sarda set before her. At ten o'clock she heard Louis's step in the corridor, but he did not hesitate outside her room, and went immediately to his own suite next to hers.

That evening set the pattern for their first week together. Melissa both breakfasted and dined alone in her room, only seeing Louis for lunch in the dining room which overlooked a distant mountain, its top capped with snow so that it seemed like a half iced wedding cake.

Immediately after lunch he would leave her, though they met again for a drink at six. She did not know whether he dined downstairs nor did she know what the servants made of their behaviour towards one another. She longed to ask him whether he was worried by any gossip that might ensue, but was afraid to do so in case it caused another outburst of temper.

At the end of the first week boredom decided her to go further afield than the grounds surrounding the lodge, and she decided to set out on horseback and explore the countryside. On Saturday and Sunday she was accompanied by a groom, a taciturn man who spoke no English. It made conversation stilted and she found it so difficult to be at ease with him that she determined to ride alone.

On Monday when she went round to the stables, he was already waiting for her, and seemed surprised when she told him she wished to ride alone. Ignoring his obvious anxiety, she mounted her horse and rode away, sure that the moment she was out of sight he would run and tell someone what had happened. She knew that within moments someone would set out in pursuit of her, and an imp of mischief made her turn her horse in the opposite direction from the one she had taken and canter down a narrow lane bordered by tall, straggling hedgerows.

Soon she was deep into a wood she had never seen before and she reined in her horse and dismounted. In the distance she could hear the sound of hooves and voices and knew that her surmise that she would be followed had been correct. Pulling her horse further into the bracken, she waited quietly until there was no further sound to disturb her. Even then she did not move, and allowed a quarter of an hour to go by before she remounted and set off again.

It was the first time she had been truly alone for weeks. She did not count the times she had sat in the palace gardens, for though no one had been beside her, she had been aware of the guards. But here she was completely free. Only herself and this beautiful chestnut horse, its mane as shiny and brown as her own thick glossy hair. A sense of pleasure welled up in her and she felt herself to be once again Melissa Benton, free to go where she wanted. Digging in her heels, she urged the horse forward.

At noon she stopped again and dismounted. She did not know how far she had come, for she had ridden in a different direction from normal and could not recognise any of the landmarks. Tethering her horse to a bush, she sat on a large boulder and munched some of the biscuits which she had thoughtfully remembered to bring with her. It was a pity she had not also remembered to bring a drink, for her throat was parched and she longed for something cool. The sun beat down on her uncovered head and her silk blouse clung to her damp skin, outlining the graceful slope of her shoulders and the curve of her breasts. Pushing back her hair from her flushed face, she decided to go in search of a stream. With so many mountains she was certain to find some spring water somewhere.

Purposefully she set off, her feet making no sound on the springy turf. It was pleasant to walk and she enjoyed the peace of the scenery, especially when she emerged from behind some trees and saw the valley set out below. It made her realise the high altitude of the hunting lodge, and she wondered whether it was possible to ski here during the winter. She must remember to ask Louis. No, she thought at once, she would ask Sarda instead. The less conversation she had with Louis the better.

Dejected by the thought of him, she continued to walk, but after going fifty yards in one direction and the same in the other, she gave up all hope of finding a spring. She was not much of a country girl, she mused, certainly not enough to know where to look for water. Her thirst—which had been slight until now—was beginning to bother her and she thought longingly of pitchers of lemonade.

The image it conjured up set her walking faster, and in her eagerness to find her horse and return to the lodge, she took a wrong turning and came back to a different clearing; green and tranquil as the original one, but without her horse.

She retraced her steps, looking for another clearing, but there was none to be seen and after half an hour she found herself back at the first one. Carefully she looked around her. It was not a different clearing—as she had assumed when she had not found her horse—for looking closely, she recognised the boulder where she had sat, with its curious indent at the top where she had rested her elbow. This was definitely the same rock, and behind it was the bush where she had tethered the horse.

Anxiously she hurried over to examine the spot. Some of the leaves were torn and a branch was trailing to the floor, a clear indication that the horse had pulled free and bolted. Raising her voice, she called it by name. There was no answering whinny nor any sound except a fluttering of leaves as a bird flew out from a thicket above her head. The noise startled her, making her aware of how alone she was. It was a good thing it was only midday. Heaven knew how long it would take her to get back.

Annoyed with herself for not having tied the horse more securely, she set off to walk back to the lodge. At least she hoped it was the way back, for she could not recognise any of the paths or trees.

An hour later she was forced to admit she was lost. Fear was beginning to grip her, but she forcibly held it at bay, concentrating instead on her increasing thirst. She would have given a king's ransom for a glass of water. A princess's ransom, she amended, and laughed at the fanciful notion. But the idea helped to allay her fear. Because she was a princess her absence would be noticed and someone—possibly even the whole contingent of guards —would be set to look for her.

She stopped walking and listened. All was quiet: not a voice nor a step broke the silence. She could not help being amused to find herself in this predicament. As Melissa Benton she had never been able to escape the three-man bodyguard which her uncle had set up to watch over her from the day she was born. Yet here she was, Princess of Motavia, lost in the hills of the country her husband ruled.

Quickly she ran through a deep belt of trees, breathing a sigh of relief as she emerged on to another path. But this soon gave way to denser forest, where overhanging branches blotted out the light and damp leaves muffled her footsteps. There was such a slumbrous, brooding quality in the air that she would not have been surprised to have turned a corner and found the Sleeping Beauty in her cobweb-filled palace. Pushing away the imagery, she strode on, refusing to acknowledge her tiredness, knowing only that she dared not sit down and rest in case she could not find the strength to get up and walk again.

Her wristwatch showed three-thirty when she finally paused for breath. She had left the denseness of the forest long since, and was walking along a rutted path bordered by strange-looking bushes with ugly, spiky leaves. Unexpectedly, the ever-blue Motavian sky was hidden by dark clouds which seemed to descend lower and lower until they were like a grey blanket hovering above her head. Just my luck to be caught in a summer storm, she thought crossly, and barely had time to reach the shelter of a tree when the heavens opened and a deluge of water spilled out.

Nothing could stop her from being drenched, and though the storm only lasted a few moments, her clothes clung limply to her skin and her hair was plasted to her head like a gleaming seal-skin cover. Feet squelching in wet shoes, she plodded on. Surely she must be near the lodge by now? The path curved left and she ran the last few yards, stopping in dismay as she rounded it and came out on yet another endless lane. Tears of fright filled her eyes. This land had the strange, unlived-in look of earth untouched by human being or animal. She could wander here for ever and never be found by another living soul. Shivering, she walked on.

An hour went by; then another hour. It was impossible to keep her spirits up and tears spilled down her cheeks. What a fool she had been to dismiss the groom, and how stupid to have made him believe she had gone in one direction when she had gone in the other. Even if anyone came to look for her they would first set off the way they believed she had gone. That meant it could be hours before they started to search in the right direction. Her tears flowed faster and she rubbed them away with her hand. But her vision was still blurred and she stumbled on a rut and fell. Picking herself up she began to run, frightened by the thought that she might be here when night fell. It would be cold on the mountains then, and possibly animals would come to their lairs in search of food.

Ignoring the stitch in her side, she tried to run faster, her feet stumbling on the stones and sending up little spurts of mud.

'Help me,' she sobbed to an unknown saviour. 'Someone please help me!'

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