CLARA OPENED HER EYES the next morning, disorientated after only a couple of hours’ sleep. She glanced around her bedroom in the staff quarters at the palace, her first thought of Andreas.
Last night, it had been obvious that her suspicions were correct: he was unaware of Prince Henrik’s diagnosis and terminal prognosis. She’d witnessed the moment he’d figured out something serious was going on. She’d had to look away from the pain and confusion dulling his stare, her loyalties so horribly torn between father and son.
Only now, off-duty at the palace, could she be there for Andreas. She reached for her phone and sent him a text, asking after both men. On her way to the shower, she opened the curtains. The snow drift outside the window reached halfway up the pane. There was no way her little car would make it to the main roads. It looked as if she was snowed in. She made the call to Nordic Care, informing them she wouldn’t make her late shift.
Under the spray of hot water, Clara tried to process everything that had happened since the Jubilee Banquet. After they’d agreed to have a secret fling that night in the Blue Room, she’d vowed to hold herself emotionally distant, and she’d tried her best.
But the blizzard had brought about exceptional and unforeseen circumstances. Her professional reliance on him was only natural—Andreas was a geriatrician. But now, faced with the evidence that Clara knew more about the prince’s medical condition than his own son, a doctor, the thrilling affair they’d negotiated seemed almost trivial.
Don’t turn on me now...when I need an ally...
His heartfelt plea from the night of the banquet twisted her stomach. He had so much weight on his shoulders: the imminent loss of his father; the enforced end of his medical career; the transition to the most important role of his life, as ruler. How would he deal with all of that? How could she help him adjust?
Her phone was stubbornly silent as she dressed in her everyday clothes—jeans and a beautiful jumper hand-knitted by Alma. She’d just applied moisturiser, mascara and lip gloss and fitted her nose stud when there was a tap at the door. Expecting another of the nurses, or the staffing manager with an update on the conditions on the roads, she pulled open the door.
Andreas stood on the threshold, his eyes haunted and fatigued. He’d come to her of all people. Did he have no one else he trusted to talk to?
Clara’s heart cracked open for him. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘You know his prognosis, of course,’ he said, shock etched into his haggard expression.
Even grieving, he was unbearably beautiful, dressed in a forest-green sweater and dark jeans, his hair carelessly pushed back from his face. She wanted to hold him, her protective urges on high alert. Instead, she glanced along the deserted corridor and then, when she saw that they were alone, reached for his hand.
‘I’m sorry. He’s my patient,’ she whispered.
Andreas of all people would understand that she had a professional duty of confidentiality, but she hated that he seemed to have been the last to know.
‘I’m not blaming you,’ he said, flatly, ‘But he’s my father. Someone should have told me. He should have told me.’
She nodded, stunned speechless by his understandable pain and confusion.
‘He trusts me to rule Varborg because he has no choice,’ he continued, his voice gruff with bitterness. ‘But he doesn’t trust me, his heir, his son, a doctor, with his confidences, even when I’m the person this impacts the most.’
Of course he would hate to stop practising medicine. Sick to her stomach with wretchedness, Clara inched closer and took his other hand. ‘It’s a shock.’
‘I should have seen the signs,’ he said, briefly closing his eyes.
She wanted to be there for Andreas, but she was trapped in an impossible position of torn loyalties, already too close to this family to be totally objective.
‘You can’t blame yourself. And maybe because you’re his son,’ she continued cautiously, ‘Because he loves you, he’s tried to spare you the distressing news.’
Andreas frowned, unconvinced.
His relationship with his father was none of her business. They weren’t friends. They weren’t even properly lovers. But she understood exactly what he was going through. Clara’s mother had tried to spare her daughters from worry in the beginning, before she’d faced surgery and had no longer been able to hide the symptoms.
A door slammed somewhere overhead. Clara forced herself to step back. Someone might see them or overhear their conversation. They’d agreed to be discreet about their relationship.
‘How is the prince this morning?’ she asked, to cover up her caution.
‘He’s feeling much better, enough to refuse me the minute details of his medical records.’ His voice was bitter, his expression disbelieving. ‘It’s as if he doesn’t understand me at all. I’m a doctor; maybe I could...help.’
Clara winced in empathy. She understood his feelings of futility, but beyond supporting his father there was nothing else he could do. And she couldn’t blame Prince Henrik for not wanting to rake over it all again.
‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ she asked. Maybe sharing her own experiences would make him feel less alone.
He looked away, clearly struggling with complex emotions. When he looked back, his stare was imploring. ‘I’m...overwhelmed by it all. Powerless. I can’t think straight. I need to get away from here, clear my head. Will you come?’
Clara swallowed her immediate ‘yes’. She’d promised to guard her feelings, but how could she deny him a single thing when she understood his current vulnerability? Someone he loved, his parent, had cancer. Whereas Clara’s mother had been given the all-clear, Prince Henrik had been told to put his affairs in order. And for Andreas the news carried another layer of devastation. His birth right meant he would soon have to choose: his career or the crown.
Except, he had no real choice.
‘I’ll go anywhere with you,’ Clara said, deciding she would double her efforts to protect herself while also being there for Andreas. ‘But have you seen the snow?’
‘Trust me,’ he said, his stare both pleading and hopeful.
‘I do.’ she said.
‘Grab your boots,’ he instructed, some of the tension leaving his body.
Clara hurried into her room to snatch them up, along with her phone.
He led her to a part of the palace she’d never visited before. There, in a large boot room, he shrugged on a fur-lined parka emblazoned with the palace crest from a selection of sizes hanging along the wall, and then passed one to Clara, along with some mittens and a hat.
Despite the sadness in the air, excitement fizzed in her veins. Would they be digging snow? Cross-country skiing? It didn’t matter. He’d come to her in his hour of need. She’d do anything to help him process the news he’d received last night, including escape with him.
Outside, the snow in the courtyard had been shovelled away and there at the top of the driveway sat a gleaming, royal-blue snow-mobile bearing the royal crest and the words House of Cronstedt.
‘Can you drive that?’ Clara asked, hesitating for a second as she pulled on the hat. She didn’t want the heir to the throne to be injured on her watch.
Andreas smiled broadly for the first time, his eyes bright with confidence and excitement. ‘Of course I can. You can’t get anywhere in winter up here without one.’ He took her gloved hand, leading her towards the machine. ‘Oscar and I used to have races.’
‘Of course you did.’ She laughed, picturing the scene. ‘That sounds terrifying.’
‘Jump on,’ he said with a sexy wink that snatched her breath away.
She hadn’t imagined exactly how they would implement their secret affair, but she’d guessed it would involve late-night texts and clandestine meetings in discreet hotels. This, on the other hand—spending time with the real Andreas, getting to know him better, understanding his passions and doubts—was way more dangerous to Clara.
She sat at the back. Andreas swung his leg over the seat in front and started the ignition.
‘Hold tight,’ he called over the hum of the engine.
Clara scooted forward to encircle his waist with her arms and his hips with her thighs so she felt the thud of his heart under her cheek. The engine revved beneath her, setting them in motion, and Clara squealed, gripping him tighter.
Then they were off, skimming the undisturbed snow which glittered in the sun like a sheet of diamonds, and headed for the native forest at the perimeter of the landscaped palace grounds. Andreas drove the snow-mobile with impressive skill, weaving them with ease over the bumpy landscape and between the tall pine trees.
The wind whipped at Clara’s cheeks and hair. Her smile was so wide, her teeth were cold. This reminded her of the night of the Jubilee Banquet, when she’d danced in his arms and felt as if she were flying. The wild sense of freedom was back—the heady abandon she’d experienced far too infrequently, thanks to Lars Lund’s irresponsible approach to caring for his family and raising his daughters. How many more experiences had she passed up during her teens and early twenties, time she would never get back?
She gripped Andreas’s waist tighter and rested her face against his shoulder, protected from the bitter wind by the imposing breadth of his chest. Other women might get carried away by the absurd romance of this situation but Clara was weighed down by reality, even as she sped along with the sun on her back and Andreas’s solid warmth seeping into her front.
Ever since they’d danced together, when she’d come alive in his arms both on the dance floor and later in the Blue Room, she’d told herself that their fling didn’t make him hers. He’d said they were equals that night, when he’d forced her to admit how badly she wanted him, but deep down world-weary Clara knew better. In all the areas that mattered—their upbringings, their expectations, their priorities—they were worlds apart.
And, even if she wanted him, he belonged to Varborg first and foremost and to his future princess second. That woman would be content to walk at his side, stand in his shadow, give Varborg and him an heir and never question the inherent power imbalance of their relationship. That didn’t stop Clara wanting the only thing she could allow herself—a temporary interlude in his bed, freshly stamped with an expiry date.
Finally, they emerged from the trees into a clearing. Andreas slowed the snow-mobile, bringing it to a halt and killed the engine. Clara raised her face from his shoulder and gasped with awe at the sight of a picture-perfect log cabin nestled among the fir trees with a backdrop of Varborg’s northern mountain range.
‘Oh... It’s so beautiful,’ Clara said, mesmerised. ‘Who lives here?’
Like the surrounding forest, the cabin was dressed in a thick layer of snow, glittering in the sunshine like a scene from a winter wonderland.
‘No one.’ Andreas held out his hand, helping her from the back of the snow-mobile with a more carefree smile on his face. ‘It’s a hunting lodge built by one of my Cronstedt ancestors.’
Already he seemed less tense, as if he felt more at home here than among the grandeur and ceremony of the palace.
‘Oscar and I came here all the time as boys,’ he continued, confirming her suspicion. ‘It was the only place we could be free to play—build bonfires and tree houses and camp out in the summer. There’s a lake over that ridge where we’d go ice-fishing in winter.’
She could envision the young prince he must have been so clearly in her mind’s eye—scampering around after his big brother, away from the strict protocol and public gaze of his royal life. No wonder he chose to hide out here when he needed space.
The barest flicker of pain crossed his eyes as he tugged her close. ‘Now I’m the only person who spends time here.’
She blinked up at him, her heart beating wildly at the power of the cabin’s solitude and the positive change already evident in Andreas.
‘It’s idyllic,’ she said with wonder in her voice, touched that he’d brought her to this special place—a place clearly dear to him, a place linked to his fondest childhood memories of his brother.
Clara’s eyes burned, close to tears for his losses. But she never cried—not even when Alma Lund had haltingly confessed her cancer diagnosis to her daughters. Nor when, weeks later, nineteen-year-old Clara had swallowed her pride and called her father, begging him to come home and support his wife, the mother of his daughters, during her treatment. Of course, Lars hadn’t even done it for Clara and Freja. He’d made excuses and let them down once more. She should have known better than to rely on him.
‘Can we go inside?’ she asked, glancing at the charming cabin, the windows of which glowed with warm, orange light, hoping to escape the humiliating rejection of that final conversation with her father.
‘Of course. I asked the housekeeper to start the fires and stock the fridge.’ He took her hand and led her up the steps of the covered veranda, which housed outdoor seating carved from old tree trunks and covered with reindeer pelts.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asked when they were inside, taking her coat and hanging it next to his on wooden pegs beside the door.
Clara stilled, overwhelmed by the sumptuous interior. The fire was roaring, warming the entire living space which boasted high-vaulted ceilings crossed with wooden beams, massive picture windows framing the views and luxurious furniture. Breakfast was laid out, the dining table romantically set for two.
She shivered, in spite of the warmth and the cosy décor. Thinking about her father reminded her how out of her depth she was when it came to relationships. She wasn’t a sophisticated seductress. After her one intimate relationship with a man who’d never called her again—proof that she’d been wasting her time with men—it had been easier to avoid disappointment than to give anyone else the power to hurt her again. And she’d been preoccupied, too busy with studying, working and helping out with her mother to devote the time to the kind of relationship she wanted—one on equal terms.
But Andreas wasn’t just any man. She trusted him.
As if he could read the turmoil in her mind, Andreas stared down at her, his eyes dark with emotions, his expression turning serious.
‘I’ve never brought anyone here before.’ He brushed some hair from her cheek, the way he had the first night they’d kissed.
It made her feel precious. His words felt like a promise, an acknowledgement that he trusted her with his private life; that, despite his playboy past, Clara was different...for now. It sounded naïve, except she was different. She wasn’t planning to fall in love with him, so her heart was safe. She wanted nothing from him, beyond them being equals, and perhaps more of that reckless, carefree feeling he brought out in her.
‘In that case, thank you for bringing me here.’ With her heart galloping, she stood on tip toes and pressed her cold lips to his warm ones, sucking in the crisp scent of snow and pine forest that seemed to cling to his skin.
She pulled back and he cupped her cheek in his palm, his earnest stare searching hers. ‘No, thank you—for trusting me, for blindly following me, for escaping with me.’
Clara released a soft, shuddering sigh, his touch filling her body with enough heat to melt the snow outside. A part of her—a deep-seated part, home to her deepest fears—understood his need to flee reality. How many times had she experienced the same shameful urge in the middle of a long, dark night of worrying about her mother? She’d been too young to shoulder such responsibility alone, but with her father’s refusal to come home there had been no one else to care for Alma.
‘I wanted to tell you at the palace,’ she whispered, that lost and scared part of her exposed, ‘That I understand what you’re going through today. My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was nineteen.’
His lips flattened, his brows pinched together. ‘I’m so sorry, sötnos.’
Clara shook her head, rushing on. ‘She’s fine now, but at the time there was only me and my fifteen-year-old sister to care for her. I helped out at home, drove her to her chemotherapy appointments, sat awake on her worst nights, willing her to get better.’
Clara’s voice broke. Speaking about her beloved mother’s illness brought those painful memories back, along with resentment at Lars for heaping too much on his daughter’s shoulders. But Alma Lund had been one of the lucky ones.
‘It’s not the same as your situation,’ she said, ‘But you’re not alone, Andreas. Your confusion and hurt and anger are all normal reactions.’
He cupped her face with both hands. ‘Thank you for confiding that in me. That you understand, that I can talk to you, helps more than you’ll ever know. Your inner strength is truly inspiring, Clara.’
‘So is yours.’ She couldn’t seem to catch her breath, as if the air in her lungs were frozen. ‘You’ve been through so much.’
How was she expected to keep her distance when he trusted her, had opened up to her, of all the people he must have in his life? But maybe he had few people with whom he felt truly understood and seen for himself. Maybe he had few people who expected nothing from him. Maybe he too was weighed down by responsibility.
‘Right now, strong is the last thing I feel,’ he admitted, taking her hand and holding it to his chest over the wild thump of his heart while his hungry stare traced her mouth. ‘It’s taking every shred of restraint I possess not to kiss you and touch you and bury myself so deep inside you that I lose myself in you, just for a few moments.’
Clara dragged in a ragged breath, recognising the same urgent needs in herself. This craving for him was building out of control. It was as if their chemistry was being fanned hotter by the fact that time was running out. Reality was chasing their tails.
Soon, when Andreas was forced to give up his career, they would no longer work together at Nordic Care. Clara’s nursing position at the palace would end with Prince Henrik’s death. They would have no excuse to see each other. And, while she could sleep with a prince—especially when, to her, he was simply Andreas—she couldn’t sleep with Varborg’s ruler, an altogether more serious and intimidating man.
‘Then do it,’ she said boldly, her body an inferno from the fire he’d lit inside her with that first sexy smile, when he’d been resplendent in his bath like a marauding Viking. ‘It’s the only thing I want from you.’
For a moment he froze, frowned, as if her words were too good to be true.
‘Except,’ she said, before she threw herself into his arms, ‘We said we’d be equals in this. And, the thing is, I’m nowhere near as experienced as you. In fact, I’ve only done this once, with a guy I met at college. He pursued me, took me on romantic dates, bought me flowers, made me feel special...and then, the minute I slept with him, he lost interest. I found out he’d done that to lots of girls in my year, which was...humiliating. So I just gave up on men after that. It was easier to avoid disappointment than to risk being hurt and let down. Not to mention that it wasn’t even very good and...’
His fingers landed on her lips, his eyes blazing into hers. ‘I don’t care about your inexperience. It doesn’t matter. That guy is an idiot.’
‘It matters to me. I vowed that the next time I was intimate with someone it would be on equal terms and with honest expectations. That I’d be in control.’
He nodded, taking her seriously.
‘The way you made me feel the night of the banquet,’ she ploughed on, ‘Alive, joyous, powerful. I’ve never experienced that with anyone else. I want to make you feel the same way.’
This complex, hurting man standing before her was everything; the sight, scent and feel of him filled her senses, making her feel alive again. She wanted to rock his world. She wanted to help him lose himself. They could escape the sometimes cold, harsh and cruel reality of life together.
‘So, will you show me what you like?’ she finished.
His pupils dilated, his jaw flexing as he took a pained-looking swallow. With a growl that Clara felt resonate throughout every inch of her body, Andreas hauled her close, crushing her mouth to his.
For a few moments, she lost herself in the fiery passion of their kiss. Andreas made it easy, holding her so tight her feet barely touched the floor; kissing her with such domination she forgot to breathe and turned dizzy; pressing her so close, she wasn’t sure where her body ended and his began.
‘You might kill me...’ He groaned against her lips, pulling back to stare hard into her eyes. ‘Just when I thought you couldn’t be more perfect.’
Clara snorted, almost euphoric with desire. ‘I’m very far from that. And I’m certain killing the heir to the throne is a punishable offence.’
‘Then,’ he said, cupping her face and kissing her once more, ‘It’s a good thing that right now, with you, I’m just Andreas.’
Then he took her hand and led her through the lodge to the master bedroom.