Heirs Book Two: American Lady (6 page)

Maixent’s voice brought her back to the
present. “The beauty of this throne should be enjoyed by everyone.
It has been judged as one of the most unique thrones in the world
and one of the oldest still existing. That is why we open this room
for public viewing, even though the rest of the palace is off
limits.”

“Do you find it difficult living up to such
historic expectations? It’s so hard to imagine that anyone actually
lives in a palace in the twentieth century. It just blows me
away.”

She had worked to pare her own life to a
simplistic, down-to-earth existence, refusing to cash in on her
days in the White House. The tour had been an eye-opening
experience, and with Maixent’s next words she was sure that that
had been his intention.

“Aurelie and I are heirs to a rich heritage,
and we have a responsibility to our future heirs to ensure we pass
that heritage on intact.” Then he coughed self-consciously,
obviously embarrassed to have sounded so pompous.

“Isn’t there some sort of legend about the
throne?” Charley took pity on him and changed the subject.

“Yes there is,” he smiled with relief. “It
is actually written up in
The Golden Legend
, pretty much a
medieval bestseller in its day.

“The legend states there was a dragon
threatening St Benezet, devouring the finest flower of young
manhood to appease its hunger and prevent it from spreading
pestilence amongst the crops. This so appalled the young knight,
Geatane-Auguste, that he spent a night praying to God for an answer
to the villagers’ problem. An apparition of St George appeared to
him and gave him an answer.

“When the dragon next appeared,
Geatane-Auguste flattered the vain dragon into spreading its wings
and slipped a sword into the dragon to drain three drops of blood.
The enraged dragon spouted forth fire and the knight threw in the
drops of blood which turned into three horsemen from the Apocalypse
with Geatane-Auguste on his red horse completing the set.

“They galloped so fast around the dragon
that their wind threw up a cloud of dust so great that it turned
the dragon’s fire against itself until it began burning. In
repentance for what it had done, the dragon cried a single tear
which Geatane-August caught in his chalice. He threw it towards the
clouds and such an outburst of rain fell that it washed the
dragon’s singed scales back into the earth. As the dragon died the
three horsemen faded as well, leaving only the three drops of blood
and a single tear on the ground.

“Because of his bravery in vanquishing the
dragon, the villagers asked him to become their king and he
accepted. On the spot where the dragon died is where
Geatane-Auguste raised the Cathédral St Georges and then he built
the throne, embedding three glowing rubies as a symbol of the
dragon’s blood so the Marchessinis would always remember that fear
can be overcome by virtue.”

Throwing him a querying glance in case she
was overstepping the boundaries, Charley reverently approached the
throne and gingerly reached out a hand. The wood felt smooth and
worn under her fingertips as she traced the intricacies of the
second dragon’s head. The three teardrop shaped rubies were
cabochon, with beautifully smooth, rounded surfaces. Set deeply in
the intense, crimson color were sharply defined stars,
well-centered in the middle of each ruby.

“These rubies are incredible. Where did
Geatane-Auguste get them?”

“Ah, that is a mystery. History has it that
he entered a monastery because of a broken heart when he was
refused the hand of Beatrice of Provence. He then travelled with
Friar Giovanni da Pian del Carpini in the first Papal embassy to
Mongolia in 1245. But there is no documentation that he returned
with the friar. In fact there really is no record of him at all
until the Dragonblood Legend puts him in St Benezet. But the legend
is just a story to embellish the truth that he, with a small
cavalry of horsemen, ousted the warring Italian rulers from
Altobello, and established his kingdom by signing a treaty with
France for which he paid by marrying Isabeau, the sole heiress of
Toulouse, to remove her as a thorn in the side of the French King
and leave Toulouse to be absorbed by the kingdom of France.”

No other item in the palace had so captured
her imagination with its mystique and antiquity. She rubbed her
hand over the gleaming gems, overwhelmed by their history, knowing
that centuries before she was born Geatane-Auguste’s hand had no
doubt lovingly caressed these very rubies. How could Maixent not
feel overwhelmed by the history bearing down on him?

After the tour, Charley had joined Queen
Leigh, King Henri and Princess Aurelie for an informal family
dinner in their private suite. She had expected the meal to be
rigid with protocol, but in fact everyone joked, laughed and
talked. Aurelie had given her a shy hug and said she was glad to
see her. Leigh and Henri had been gracious and not nearly as stuffy
as she had anticipated, although she was terribly conscious of
being under their scrutiny and fielding some probing questions from
the king.

On Sunday the royal family had gone to Mass
at Cathédral St Georges. Rather than attract media attention,
Charley, escorted by Thiérry, had slipped into the church with the
other worshippers and mingled unobtrusively with the Altobesques in
the back pews.

The cathedral was exquisitely medieval, with
long narrow stained glass windows, ornate supporting columns and an
elevated domed ceiling that seemed to arch into the sky, and
Charley had itched to get her camera out. It was filled with
smoking candles and incense so intense she could hardly breath it
in. But she loved the joyous ceremony, which was very traditional,
with the Bishop in his purple robes and large gold pectoral cross
jeweled with a ruby.

Charley bowed her head listening to the
Bishop speaking of peace and brotherhood during these troubled
times, feeling the sense of tradition that seemed to permeate not
just the walls of the church but the very people sitting in the
pews.

On Monday morning, Maixent had taken her out
in his satiny dark green Audi for a tour around the bayfront,
through the St Benezet streets and to a lookout on the edge of the
city. Maixent pulled the Audi off the road and into a parking area.
The Swiss plainclothes bodyguards parked beside them.

Charley looked out the car window. It was a
beautiful day and the weather was mild enough to roll down the
glass. Down the side of the stony hill grew gnarled wild olive
trees with scatterings of white and pink wildflowers where the
barren rock was covered by a thin layer of soil.

Maixent had brought her to visit the statue
of St Benezet, after whom the city was named. In the parking lot a
young tourist couple were packing up their motorbikes, putting away
picnic gear in one of the large panniers on the side of the bike.
They glanced curiously at the new arrivals, but then hopped on
their bikes and roared away.

“Let’s go and visit St Benezet,” Maixent
said.

He held the car door open and Charley swung
her jean-clad legs out, flicking her long, thick plait of hair free
as she stepped outside. Maixent was standing close enough that the
white scarf she had tied around the crown of the plait fluttered
against his cheek. He was so close that if she rocked back on her
heels her back would brush his chest. Instead she turned her head
and raised a hand to restrain the scarf, but he closed his fingers
around hers, stilling the action.

“Leave it. I like being tickled,” he smiled
down into her eyes because she was wearing her low-heeled white
high tops instead of the Manolo Blahniks that Janie had insisted
she wear on every occasion to elongate her legs. “Please note for
future reference.”

“Duly noted,” she responded, her heart
thumping in anticipation of a future that included her running her
hands wildly over Maixent.

Followed at a cautious distance by the Swiss
guards they walked towards a pale stone rotunda that housed a
kneeling stone figure. Climbing up the rotunda pillars were thick
jasmine vines and spilling over the ground were masses of
wildflowers.

“St Benezet is famous for building the
bridge in Avignon and forming the first bridge brotherhood. One of
these bridge brotherhoods came to Altobello, establishing
Christianity in this part of the world.” Maixent gently took her
arm and guided her closer to the carved figure. “There’s no
historical record of whether it was Geatane-Auguste who named the
town after the saint or the brotherhood itself. But I like to think
that St Benezet is a symbol of Altobello reaching out to the world,
building bridges globally.”

They stood side by side and Charley was
hyper-conscious of the faint smell of Monogram cologne that he
exuded and the way the sun shone on the pale gold hairs of his
tanned arms rather than the significance of the statue. She
wondered what it would be like to bury her head in his neck and
breath in his heavenly scent.

Maixent was wearing cream linen trousers
clinched at the waist with a brown YSL leather belt and a pale
green shirt of fine cotton stretched across the broadest of
shoulders. The breeze tousled his thick blond hair and she felt a
jealous desire to ruffle it with her own fingers. God, he looked
appetizing enough to slather in whipped cream and devour. Wisps of
desire unfurled a throbbing yearning deep inside her, yet so far
they had not even kissed. What was he waiting for?

He bent to pick a handful of wildflowers and
presented them to her. “Les coquelicots de printemps.” His fingers
brushed her hand and she trembled. Their eyes locked and she felt
the weight of being his sole scrutiny, as if his whole world had
narrowed to include only her. Her own focus blurred as though
everything outside no longer existed. She had to force herself to
remember to breath as she lifted the flowers to her nose.

Again with his hand guiding her elbow, a
touch she found seductively intimate and yet deceptively casual, he
led her towards the railing which enclosed the mount. From there
they looked down into the Bai de Beausoleil and when she turned her
head she could see across to the Spring Palace. She had her camera
in the car but no desire to leave Maixent’s side to go and get
it.

“How would you like to go out for dinner
tomorrow night?” Maixent asked. “I know a very cozy restaurant in
the alps, near the Swiss border. If we take the Old Road it follows
the coast and you will get some spectacular views. And we can be
alone at last.”

* * *

Now Maixent was waiting for her in the small
sitting room with his family. Henri, Father Emile and Thiérry were
playing pinochle in one corner, Leigh was resting with her eyes
closed and her feet on a footstool after a hard day of handshaking
and small-talking at the local hospital, Aurelie was reading Anita
Brookner’s
Hôtel du Lac
, while Maixent paced nervously.

“Do sit down, Maix,” Leigh complained,
“before you wear a hole in my new carpet.”

Maixent perched uneasily on the arm of
Aurelie’s chair. She looked up from her novel.

“You look très BCBG,” she grinned. Maixent
gave her an imaginary punch on the arm. Then Charley shimmered into
the room and his eyes fastened on her.

The Bill Blass dress reached just above her
knees showing slender tanned legs in three inch knife-sharp heels.
From the open toes of her ribbed silk sandals peeped her coral red
toenails. She wore huge diamond and pearl earrings swinging to her
shoulders and a bracelet of entwined strings of pearls and diamonds
on her wrist. She had never felt so beautiful or desirable.

Charley caught her breath at the sight of
Maixent. Immaculate charcoal trousers. Pale gray Benetton knit
shirt. Dark moss green designer jacket with the sleeves pushed up.
Blond hair casually falling over his collar. Her real-life prince
charming.

Oblivious to everyone else in the room,
Maixent and Charley floated out of the palace on a cloud. It was
just before dusk as the prince pulled his Audi onto the winding Old
Road. Through her open window Charley could smell mimosas and
honeysuckle.

She heard a whistle as the first evening
train pulled out of the station for Nice. Electric lights began to
flicker on in the houses and tall condominiums.

She relaxed in the buttersoft leather seat.
Maixent put a tape on and classical guitar music filled the car.
She watched his tanned hands lightly controlling the steering wheel
as he swerved the car around bends in the road at high speed. He
had strong hands with wide palms and surprisingly long fingers. The
backs of his hands were covered in soft golden down.

“A new road has been built higher up the
mountain that’s straighter, but it doesn’t have the views that the
Old Road has. What I also like about the Old Road is that it winds
its way through the tiny villages that dot the mountain.” As they
drove Maixent continued with a brief commentary on each village.
But she was hardly listening.

The whole evening seemed to be unrolling in
front of her eyes like a slow motion film. She had an incredible
sense not of déjà vu, but rather that whatever she did or felt, she
would not be able to alter the course of events unfolding this
evening. Not that she wanted to. Through half-shut eyes she
memorized the lines of Maixent’s hands, feeling a lurch of desire
at the thought of those hands caressing her body.

Maixent zipped the Audi into a parking space
in front of a dollhouse-sized inn and restaurant perched on an
outcropping of rock. His ever faithful bodyguard Bruno parked
neatly beside it. Bruno escorted them inside.

“We’ll give Bruno a few minutes to secure
the place and then he’ll leave us alone. Tonight is just for you
and me.” Under the intensity of Maixent’s cerulean gaze Charley
felt her nipples harden. Thank God the bugle beads on the dress
disguised their twin points poking through the thin fabric!