And she was surely used to hard work. The bricks were hard to clean but they were flying through her hands. At the thought of what she’d been facing for the last four years his gut clenched.
So he’d solved that problem. He’d brought her here.
But she’d never be seen on the same pegging as the children, he thought. Levout was making that perfectly clear. She was a provincial, no blood relative of the heir to the throne, and with no delineated role as his was.
Maybe she’d leave.
No. She’d never leave the children.
But what would her position be?
They stopped for half an hour at lunch time and Max used his cell-phone to check the children.
‘Our visitors are staying for lunch,’ Beatrice said happily. ‘And then they’ll all need a nap. Tell Pippa to come home if she wants to, but there’s no need.’
Max relayed the message and saw confusion wash across her face.
‘They still need you,’ he said gently.
‘Of course.’
‘Have a sandwich.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, and took a huge cheese sandwich from the pile, biting into it like a man.
He grinned.
‘What?’ she demanded.
‘Nothing.’
‘Yeah, and I wipe my mouth on my sleeve too,’ she said darkly. ‘Butt out, Your Highness.’
‘Of course.’
The men had brought beer. ‘We’ll send to the house to get something more suitable,’ Blake told him. He seemed distressed that Max and Pippa were sharing their plain luncheon. Pippa shook her head and lifted a bottle.
‘Hey, we’re not proper royalty,’ she said. ‘We’re just hangers on. This is wet and it’s cold and if anyone tries taking this from me I’ll spray them with it.’
‘You are royalty,’ Blake said, eyeing Max with reproof, but Max ignored him. Finally the men chuckled and relaxed. Gentle banter continued as they sat under a huge oak and surveyed their hard work.
Max hardly participated in the banter. He leaned back and listened to Pippa laughing with the men, joking with them, teasing with them.
Her jeans and her T-shirt were coated in brick-dust. There was dust in her curls and a streak down her cheek where dust had mixed with sweat. She’d scraped her arm and there was a trickle of dried blood to her wrist. She was laughing at something one of the men was saying, and she was drinking beer straight from the bottle.
She was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen.
Yeah, right, and where was that going to get him? Into disaster?
He couldn’t go there even if he wanted to, he thought. How the hell would his mother react? I’ve fallen in love with the guardian of the new Crown Prince. I have to stay in Alp d’Estella.
She’d break her heart. After all that had been done to her…After all she’d done to herself…How could he ask it of her?
He looked up and saw Pippa watching him.
‘It looks grim,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘What you’re thinking.’
‘I was thinking about slates.’
‘Really?’ she said and hiked her eyebrows.
Their telepathy wasn’t a one-way thing, he thought, and he turned away, ostensibly to pack up the lunch gear but in reality so she couldn’t see his face any more. He had to get this under control.
It was bad enough that he was here now, and his mother knew he was here. After the official photo shoot she’d see him in every glossy magazine in Europe.
He grabbed a handful of slates and carted them up onto the roof. No one saw him go-even Jean, his ladder holder, was chuckling over something Pippa had just said, hanging onto every word. Good, he thought. It was good that they were falling in love with her. It was great for the people. It was great for the country.
But what would her position be?
It had to be made formal, he thought, or she’d be shunted into the background for ever. Which meant that he had to drag her into this photo shoot, whether she liked it or not.
‘Pippa, we’re giving a press conference this evening,’ he called from the safety of his roof, and she stared up at him.
‘How did you get up there?’
‘I climbed.’
‘No one held your ladder. Those slates are heavy.’
‘I’m fine. Jean has better things to do than hold my ladder. But about this shoot.’
‘Shoot?’
‘Photo shoot. Introduction to your new royal family.’
‘I’ll dress the kids up.’
‘Beatrice is sorting something for them,’ he called. ‘There’s actually traditional costume for royal children.’
‘It’s very splendid,’ Jean, the footman, told her gravely. ‘And colourful. The girls’ dresses have fourteen petticoats.’
‘And the boy’s costume is just as colourful,’ Blake added. ‘It had petticoats too, but the last prince put his foot down aged all of four so we converted it to trousers. It has what looks like a small apron over the front but it’s unexceptional and most children are envious when they see it. Beatrice measured the children the first night you were here and the costumes are ready.’
‘Well, that’s sorted,’ Pippa said, and went back to brick-cleaning. She looked perturbed, though, Max thought. Worrying that things were being taken from her control. As indeed they could be if she wasn’t included.
‘We’d like you to dress up too,’ he called, and Pippa paused mid-brick.
‘Me.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not royal.’ She made a recovery and waved a brick in his direction. ‘Do I look royal?’
‘Yes, miss,’ Blake said severely, answering before Max could get a word in. ‘We believe you look extremely royal. Don’t we, Jean? Don’t we, Pascal-Marie? Almost as royal as His Highness, Prince Maxsim.’
‘Yes,’ his companions agreed gravely.
‘Then I’ll come to the shoot wearing what I’ve got on,’ she said and grinned and started chipping again.
‘You can’t,’ Max called. ‘This is important, Pippa. These photographs will be in every major glossy worldwide.’
She paused, mid-chop. ‘Even in Tanbarook?’
‘I’m guessing even in Tanbarook. Aussie girl becomes a European princess…’
‘I’m guardian of a prince. That doesn’t make me a princess.’
No. It didn’t. That was the problem, he thought. There was only one way she could become a princess-and there was no way he was going down that route.
But she had to have a formal role. She was the children’s guardian. She had to be in the shoot if she was to retain any sort of authority when he left.
‘Miss, the castle can’t be left with just three royal children,’ Blake told her, echoing Max’s thoughts.
‘Levout will take charge again,’ Pascal-Marie-the butler-added. ‘Levout’s like a bear with a sore head now that Prince Maxsim is here. But Prince Maxsim intends to leave at the end of one month.’
‘We might too,’ Pippa said and the old men’s faces fell.
‘No.’
‘Possibly not,’ she whispered.
‘Then you need to have a role here,’ Max called. ‘My deputy or something similar. The people have to know you. You need to be part of the press conference.’
‘In my twin-set? I still haven’t found the button.’
