she went to sleep in a sunbeam, by the fire, and you carried her up to my bed. When her breathing got weaker I thought…I thought, for her this day has been perfect. I’m not going to ask her to go on.’
‘But you didn’t tell the children?’
‘The children knew she only had a limited time,’ she whispered. ‘When they woke for the photo shoot I told them to pop in and say goodnight to her. They all did. I packed her with hot water bottles and tucked her under the duvet. Then, just as I was thinking I couldn’t leave her to go to the photo shoot, she just…died.’
‘Beatrice knew,’ Blake said heavily. ‘But Pippa wouldn’t let us tell anyone.’
‘I didn’t want the children to see her dead,’ she said fiercely. ‘They don’t need to. If I thought it would help then, yes, but Marc’s had enough death and talk of death. He’s old for his years as it is. Tomorrow I want to tell them Dolores died in the night and we buried her here, under her beloved sunbeams. We’ll decorate her grave. It’ll be sad, but it won’t be…’
‘It won’t be gut-wrenching like burying her is.’ Max thought back to Thierry’s funeral. ‘No, Pippa,’ he said gently. ‘You’re right. But for you there’s no choice but to do the gut-wrenching. How you managed to do the photo shoot…’
‘It was the bravest thing we’ve ever seen,’ Blake said, and sniffed. ‘She wouldn’t let Beatrice tell you…’
‘She’s my dog,’ Pippa said, almost fiercely. ‘It’s my grief.’
‘It’s a shared grief,’ Max said, and enough, enough. He took the spade from fingers that were suddenly lifeless, and he let it fall as he took her in his arms. He held her close, hard against him, kissing the top of her hair but just holding her. Just holding…
And at last, here they came. The searing sobs that had been so long coming.
Had she cried when her mother died? he wondered. Or Alice? Or Gina and Donald? Somehow he doubted it. All that time she’d been alone, or supporting others.
She’d never be alone again. He made himself that promise, then and there. Never.
There was an ancient stone seat nearby. When the worst of the sobs subsided he lifted her and set her down, beckoning Beatrice and Blake to sit beside her.
‘Hold her,’ he said to the elderly servants. ‘Just sit there, Pippa, and wait. I’m starting what I should have started five weeks ago.’
‘Five weeks ago, Your Highness?’ Blake queried.
‘That’s when my mother told me.’
‘I wondered,’ Blake said softly.
‘But you knew?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Blake said simply. ‘The old prince depended on me absolutely. He wouldn’t sack me, so I was the only one who was safe. So I was the one she said was your father.’ He smiled, misty-eyed in the moonlight. ‘May I say, Your Highness, that it would have been an honour. For Beatrice and I, it still is an honour.’
He thought about it while he dug the grave, swiftly and cleanly, using the muscles he’d gained in another life. Then he put such thoughts aside. While Blake and Beatrice cut more roses, he went with Pippa to bring her dog down for burial. He held her hand as they walked upstairs, and she clung as if she needed him.
The big dog lay where she’d died. She looked at peace, Max thought, an old dog at the end of a life well lived, but even so he found himself swallowing hard.
‘I don’t know what to wrap her in,’ Pippa said helplessly, but Max knew.
‘Your sweater,’ he told her. ‘Maybe two of your sweaters, or anything else of yours that you can spare. That’s what she’d want to be buried in.’ He cupped Pippa’s tear-stained face and smiled tenderly into her eyes. ‘But she’s not a chihuahua. Maybe we’d better add in one of mine for good measure. Dolores was never a one-sweater dog.’
So Dolores was buried, at four in the morning, with all the dignity and reverence they could muster. There were four of them there to say goodbye. Pippa, Max, Blake and Beatrice. Blake and Beatrice took the burial as seriously as Pippa did.
As did Max. It was right. It was a strange little funeral, but lovely for all that. The night was serene and beautiful. The scent of the roses was rich and sweet, and there was an owl calling from the woods nearby.
It was as good a goodbye as was possible, Max thought, and even though Pippa didn’t speak he knew she felt the same.
‘Come back to bed, sweetheart,’ he told her as they finished laying roses over the tumbled earth. ‘We’ll decorate it properly in the morning.’
‘I…’ She shook her head, as if trying to shake a dream. ‘I don’t know…’
‘Well, I do,’ He said softly and he swept her into his arms and held her tight. ‘You’re spent, my love. Don’t object. Just do what you’re told.’ And Beatrice and Blake smiled mistily as he carried her inside, up the sweeping staircase, back to her bed.
When they reached the bed the bedclothes were still tousled from Dolores and the fire was still crackling in the grate. He lay her gently on the pillows but her arms were around his neck and she drew him down with her.
‘Don’t leave,’ she whispered.
Leave was the last thing he intended to do. She was cradled against him, soft and warm and lovely. She smelled of the roses she’d held. She tasted of tears. He felt his heart shift within him as he’d never known it could, and, as he stroked her hair, as he kissed her sweet mouth, as he held her close against him, her breasts moulding to his chest, her body curved and suppliant in his arms, he knew that he could never leave.
‘Pippa,’ he whispered and she held his face in her hands, kissing him, passive grief slowly fading as passion stirred to take its place.
He kissed her back, the kisses becoming hot and demanding as he felt her response. She wanted him.
Beatrice’s words came back to him. ‘You know, Pippa loves you.’
Could that be true? Could such a miracle have happened?
Maybe. Maybe.
She was possessive now, her lips claiming his mouth as fiercely as his claimed hers. Her hands were holding his body against hers. Her fingers were feeling the contours of his back, his hips, his thighs.
His fingers slipped under the soft fabric of her T-shirt. She had no bra. Like Max, she’d shed her finery with speed this night, and she’d felt no need to dress in more than a cursory manner.
Her breasts were moulded to his hands. Her nipples were taut under his fingers. He breathed out, a soft sigh of sensory pleasure, of acceptance that this miracle could somehow be happening, that this woman could possibly be his.
Maybe she did love him, he thought exultantly. She loves me before I’ve promised her a thing. She loves me despite what I’ve been trying to make her do.
And somehow it made the world right. His world, which had been torn apart when Thierry was killed, or even earlier, when his mother had lied, when his parents’ marriage had fractured, was somehow settling back on its rightful axis. Love conquered all. It does, he thought exultantly. Damn the critics, the cynical. He had his Pippa. He’d found love.
‘Pippa.’
The word was an echo of his thoughts. For a moment he didn’t react, thinking it was just a part of this night.
But he felt Pippa still in his arms. She put her hands up to his hair and let her fingers run through, as if somehow imparting a message that this had to be interrupted. Her name wasn’t part of the night. She was being called.
The outside world was slipping in.
Reluctantly he loosened his hold and she twisted in his arms. He could barely see her in the firelight, but the night-light was on in the sitting room and the slight figure in the doorway was unmistakable. It was a little boy in too-big pyjamas, his voice wavering toward panic. ‘Pippa?’
‘Marc.’ Pippa was out from his arms, rolling off the bed, crossing to fold the little boy into her arms. ‘Marc, what is it?’
‘Who…who’s there?’
‘I’m here,’ Max said gruffly, trying to make his voice sound normal. ‘I was just…’
‘Max was giving me a cuddle,’ Pippa said. ‘Did you hear us? Did we scare you?’
‘No.’ He faltered, looking towards the bed. Max flicked on the bedside lamp, thanking his lucky stars that Marc
