‘Oh, come on, honey,’ he chided her mockingly. ‘I’m as independent as you are.’
Yes, he was. Yet Bianca recognised that their independent natures had become modified through love. Their individual self-reliance had blended into something equally strong, yet mutually compatible.
And because it was their first evening as an engaged couple they went to bed early, their lazy kissing suddenly interrupted by Bianca’s abrupt gasp as she stared up at him with disbelief.
But Xanthos didn’t need to see her clutching her belly to know what was happening. He told himself he needed to stay calm—and on the outside he was—but never before had he experienced such a helpless sense of terror as he listened to the instructions she was stumbling out to him. No emergency crash-landing could be more scary than this.
‘It’s early!’ she wailed, when the midwife arrived and made it clear there wouldn’t be time to get to the hospital, even if the roads weren’t already choked with snow.
‘Only two weeks. That’s nothing,’ said the midwife reassuringly. ‘Now, can we ask dad to find some towels?’
Xanthos obeyed every command which came hurtling his way, acutely conscious of the pain and effort it took a woman to give birth. As the minutes passed, he wiped Bianca’s brow and caressed the small of her back and told her she was beautiful. And when, on the first stroke of midnight, their baby was delivered, it was to the jubilant chiming of the Christmas bells.
‘It’s a girl!’ said the midwife, cleaning the slippery infant with efficient hands before placing a tiny seeking mouth against Bianca’s breast. ‘You have a beautiful baby daughter.’
Unable to speak for the emotion which was building up inside him like a dam, Xanthos nodded as he bent to kiss first Bianca, and then their baby.
His baby.
His senses had never felt so raw. He was aware of the primitive tang of blood and sweat and tears. The sound of the Christmas bells, muffled by the falling snow. And here, in this room, his woman and his baby, surrounded by firelight and love.
It felt...
He swallowed.
It felt like home.
EPILOGUE
Three years later...
EVENFROMTHISHEIGHT, the illuminations of the palace’s giant Christmas tree could be seen. Rainbow light flooded in over the child’s bed, bathing it in soft, kaleidoscopic colours, but little Noelle was fast asleep.
Bianca stared down at the tousled black curls of her daughter before realising that Xanthos was watching her from the opposite side of the bed and, automatically, her heart turned over with love and longing as she looked at him. It had been an exciting day. He had been out riding with his brother early that morning, while Noelle had played with her young cousin—two-year-old Bartolo Corso, Rosie’s child and the heir to the throne of Monterosso. Not that you would have known he was a royal prince to see his older cousin bossing him around, thought Bianca fondly.
‘She’s so strong and so funny and so stubborn,’ she said softly, brushing an ebony curl away from a plump cheek.
‘Just like her mother,’ murmured Xanthos.
‘Or indeed, her father,’ she countered softly.
His smile was tender. ‘Let’s leave her to sleep,’ he said. ‘She’s got a big day ahead of her tomorrow.’
Bianca didn’t speak again until they were back in their own lavish suite next door, which commanded a magnificent view of the palace courtyard. She could see snow falling outside the huge windows as she went into her husband’s waiting arms, snuggling into the warmth of his chest and feeling the powerful beat of his heart. For all his doubts about his ability to be a good parent, he had turned out to be the best father in the world—endlessly kind and endlessly patient. What child could fail to thrive beneath the tide of love which flowed from him just as she herself had thrived? ‘I can hardly believe she’s going to be three tomorrow,’ she said, and gave a happy sigh. ‘That was certainly a Christmas Day to remember.’
‘It certainly was.’
‘You were brilliant that night, Xanthos.’
‘You were even more brilliant, honey. But right now I’m thinking of another anniversary which deserves celebration.’ His voice was silky as he captured her face in his palm so he could look at her properly, and even in this muted light she could see the passionate gleam in his eyes. ‘An occasion almost exactly four years ago, when we lay together in that bed in Vargmali and you blew my mind with your passion and your innocence.’
Bianca gave a sigh of contentment. So much had happened since that blissful night in Kopshtell. After Noelle’s dramatic Christmas Day birth on the floor of Bianca’s apartment, Xanthos had bought a large and quirky house overlooking Wimbledon Common, with a wonderful garden at the back. She had thought he might want them to split their time between London and New York, but he hadn’t wanted that at all. Because family and home had become just as important to him as they were to her. The nature of his business meant he could just as easily operate out of England, which meant that Bianca had been able to go back to work at her old firm, once Noelle was a year old.
Xanthos had told her he didn’t miss his life in New York and that all he wanted and needed was wherever she and his daughter were. So they had married in Wimbledon village, in a beautiful church of grey stone with clear, bright light flooding through the stained-glass windows. It had been a small wedding with just Corso and Rosie as witnesses, her sister holding a squirming Noelle. She and Xanthos had taken their baby to Vargmali for their honeymoon, fulfilling her promise to Ellen—and something told Bianca that they would never stop visiting the place where their love had begun.
The two brothers had made their peace and, as he acknowledged on one of their frequent visits, Xanthos had grown to love the Mediterranean kingdom with a quiet passion which had surprised him. It had been that love which had prompted him to make a charitable donation to the children’s hospital in Monterosso’s capital, for research into childhood disease. And although before that Corso had offered him the prestigious Dukedom of Esmelagu, Xanthos had refused. Mainly because his beloved wife had no desire to take part in the cloistered world of palaces and crowns. But he felt exactly the same. He didn’t need a title. He didn’t need any public acknowledgement of his royal connection to the King of Monterosso. Essentially, he had always been a private man and he intended to stay that way.
The only sadness in their lives had been the discovery that Xanthos’s mother had died in her native Greece, almost a decade previously. But a professional investigator had tracked down an aunt, and they were planning to visit her in the springtime—on their way to Zac and Emma’s villa in Santorini.