Her Royal Husband (5 page)

“I’m Princess Whitney,” the tyke decided.

“All right by me,” Owen said easily. “Princess Whitney, I think you should go with your mother.”

Jordan wondered uneasily if her daughter really was a princess since her father really appeared to be a prince.

She didn’t like how his gaze lingered on the child, and then a frown creased his forehead.

“Whitney—” she said.

A sudden light came on in his eyes, and with breathtaking swiftness he had crossed the distance between himself and Jordan. His fingers bit into her elbow and he looked straight into her eyes.

“My God, is she mine?” His tone was quiet, intense, loaded with that same princely authority that had made the young nanny quake.

Jordan felt both frightened and furious. “If you were that interested, you should have taken a miss on the melodrama with your middle-of-the-night departure all those years ago.”

How could it be, after all he had done to her, and all
he had put her through, his hand on her elbow made lightning bolts go off inside of her, made her nearly dizzy with wanting him.

She would not be the same weak, romantic ninny she had been before. She had an example to set!

He dropped her elbow. “We need to talk.”

“You know what? Maybe I don’t think so. And unlike that poor frightened girl who bowed out of here pulling on her forelock, I don’t have to do what you order.”

“Jordan, it wasn’t an order.” But at close quarters like this, she could see the changes in him. He was not the boy he had been. He carried himself with that I-own-the-earth quality of a man, one who expected to be obeyed, who commanded people with the ease of one who accepted it as his God-given right. But she also detected the loneliness of a man with that kind of power. There was an aloofness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“Whitney, we need to leave.” They needed to leave before she asked herself about that aloofness, before she
cared
about it.

Her daughter sent her a mutinous look, but thankfully got down off the chair and took a few reluctant steps toward her mother. Then, giggling she took off and ran the other way, through an open door.

She closed her eyes, and then took a deep breath. Deliberately not looking at the man who would be king, Jordan followed her daughter.

She stopped in the doorway.

It was his bedroom. It couldn’t have been more different than the monklike cell of the basement bedroom they had shared all those years ago.

The bed was huge, the four wooden posters reaching
nearly to the ceiling. All the furniture was dark, heavy, forbiddingly masculine.

It might have been intimidating, except for one thing.

His scent hung in the air, sweetly intoxicating, richly male.

Jordan spotted the little black heel of one of Whitney’s shoes protruding from under the bed. She went and grabbed it, but with surprising strength Whitney yanked it away from her and disappeared deeper underneath.

Jordan was humiliated. She was in a skirt, and not even an attractive one at that. She couldn’t very well get down on her hands and knees and pull her daughter out from there.

“I’ll get her,” Owen said with infuriating confidence.

Jordan folded her arms over her chest, tapped her foot, bowed slightly. “Be my guest.”

Owen went and sat by the bed. “Princess Whitney?”

“Yes, Pwince Owen?” she answered with amazing sweetness.

“I was wondering if you might do me the honor of having tea with me tomorrow?”

“Tea?” Whitney responded uncertainly. “I’m not old enough to dwink tea.”

“In Penwyck we call it having tea but it’s really like, um, snack time. You don’t have to have tea, though you might like the strawberry flavor with cream.”

“Stwawbewwy with cweam,” Whitney contemplated from under the bed.

“And, there are always treats. Scones are my favorites.”

“I don’t like those,” Whitney decided, though Jordan knew for a fact her daughter wouldn’t know what a scone was if it bit her on the nose.

“Sometimes the palace chef—we call her Cookie—makes cupcakes shaped like clowns when we have small guests for tea.”

“Does she put flowews in her cupcakes?” Whitney asked.

“Flour? I think so.”

“No, flowers,” Jordan told him testily.

“Who would put flowers in their cupcakes?” he asked, incredulous.

“The caterer of your big returned-home-safely celebration.”

“Oh.” He looked dark. “I didn’t really want a celebration. My father’s ill and my brother’s away, and it just seems like the timing is off. On the other hand, is that what brought you here?”

She nodded.

“Ah, something to celebrate after all.” He bent over and lifted the bed skirt. “Princess Whitney?”

“Yes, Pwince Owen?” This said ever-so-sweetly.

“If you come out from under the bed you and your mother can have tea with me tomorrow in the garden with clown cupcakes.”

Silence.

“I understand there might be a pony there, as well.”

Jordan’s charming daughter shot out from under the bed, and into the prince’s arms. She kissed him messily on the cheek, and danced over to her mother, caught her hand.

“See you tommowow, Pwince Owen.”

Jordan refused to look into his face, not sure she could have prevented herself from smacking him if a smug, superior look was there. There were probably penalties for smacking a prince. There was probably a dungeon here!

So, she took her daughter’s proffered hand and marched from the room with her dignity barely intact. He might very well be lord and master of everything on this island, but he could not force her to have tea with him!

“W
ith all due respect, Your Royal Highness, you don’t seem to be with us today.”

Owen, who had been trying to decide if he liked Jordan’s hair bobbed just below her ears, the way it was now, or long, the way it had been back then, came back to the here and now abruptly.

They were in the Royal Elite Team’s briefing office. It had the look of a military staging area, walls covered in maps and bulletins and photos. Men, some in uniforms, some in white shirts rolled up at the cuffs, all armed, were gathered around an oval table, taking notes, asking questions, consulting files.

These people, to a man—Gage Weston, Cole Everson, Harrison Monteque—had that way about them that inspired confidence. They were men who radiated strength, and calm, a certain steely resolve. They carried themselves with the innate confidence and grace of men whose strength had been tried, and tested, whose strength had won.

Owen looked at Admiral Monteque who had addressed him. “My apologies, Harrison. Really, I can’t remember anything else. We’ve gone over this a dozen times. I only saw the one man’s face, and that unusual tattoo on his forearm. I’ve described it as much as I can.”

“And due to that description we’ve confirmed who at least one of the major players is,” the Admiral said. “Gunther Westbury.”

Yesterday, Owen thought, he would have cared, and might have tried to pry more information out of these men, though if they had decided not to tell him, no amount of pulling rank would ever persuade them otherwise.

“Tell us once more, please, about the reference to diamonds.”

Owen found he had more important things on his mind. A tea party. Clown cupcakes. A suitable pony. Blond hair.

“I only spoke to Westbury for moments.” He stole a look at his watch. “As I’ve said, he seemed to think he had plenty of time to interrogate me later, and that I was going to tell him about diamonds. I wonder if he’s like the children of Penwyck, who grow up believing there might be diamonds in the old abandoned coal mines near their homes.”

The Admiral got up from his chair, came over and clapped Owen on the shoulder, a gesture of familiarity that few people would have had the confidence to pull off.

But one of the things Owen admired about the Admiral and all of these men, was that they were respectful, but never subservient. In their company, he felt he was with equals.

The admiral said, “Your memory is remarkable, Prince Owen. I guess that’s why I keep prying, hoping there might be one more detail in there that would help us find these criminals. I want you to know if you were ever in court, I’d want you on my side as a witness.”

“And,” Gage added, “if we’re ever in a fight, I’d want you on my side. Busted the bastard’s nose. Good for you, though rather a wasted skill in a bloody monarch, no disrespect intended.”

“None taken,” Owen said. “In fact, if my life wasn’t already mapped out for me, I think I’d rather enjoy being a part of the Royal Elite Team.”

Gage regarded him thoughtfully. “If you ever find yourself in need of a job, come see me first.”

The other men laughed at that, because it was ludicrous, of course, that a crown prince would ever need employment, but Owen registered the message underlying the seemingly light statement. The older man respected him, and given Gage’s history, his reputation for toughness and professionalism, he appreciated it.

“So are you heading up into the hills today, sir?” Everson asked.

Since his return to Penwyck, Owen had been trying to soothe his restless spirit, to come to terms with the discoveries he had made while imprisoned, by exploring the rugged forests of the Penleigh Hills and the jagged peaks of the Aronleigh Mountains. Because the kidnappers had not yet been brought to justice, it was necessary to have security teams with him. He took a certain delight in outdistancing them—in going higher and faster than others could go.

“No, I’m staying here. I’ll be at the palace all day.”

“My men will be relieved to hear that. You’ve been
wearing them out by the dozen since you returned,” Everson said with a grin.

“Sorry.”

“Are you kidding? They’re all becoming quite fit, not to mention qualified in mountain and deep-woods training at no cost to the government.”

Owen thought, again, how comfortable he was in these kinds of rooms with these kinds of men.

Had he been born differently, he wondered if he would have been drawn to this line of work, to jobs that offered danger and excitement, that challenged physical and mental strength, that made a man become his best. But maybe that lifestyle was no more conducive to “normal” than the one he had now.

Normal
had an almost seductive appeal since his time spent in captivity.

“About that other matter,” the Admiral said, and passed him a slip of paper, “here’s that information you requested.”

Owen unfolded the paper. Whitney Mary Ashbury. Born in Wintergreen, Connecticut, St. Paul’s Hospital, April 15, four years ago. Nine months from those July days when he had frolicked with Jordan.

He had a daughter. A beautiful little girl, with her mother’s blond hair, and his own blue eyes. And if he was a normal man, he would not have missed a second of the miracle of fatherhood. He would have seen Jordan grow round with his child, held her hand during the moment their love burst into the world in such an incredible form.

If he was a normal man, there would have been a little house that they would have picked furniture for together. They would have had a puppy and a barbecue in a backyard surrounded by a white picket fence. He would have
had to put the swing set together himself. They would have had a dog that chased a Frisbee and slept under the baby’s carriage when she was out in the yard.

He imagined that being normal—coming home to Jordan.

The thought was so appealing it caused him pain.

He had experienced what it was like to be normal for those few weeks in America. What it was not to be in the spotlight. What it was to hold hands with a girl, and even kiss her publicly, and no flashbulbs went off, no microphones were shoved in his face.

He had known then that a man could make himself insane wishing to be things he was not, wishing to have things he knew he could not have.

But now she was here. He had been given a second chance. He had lain awake last night, thinking how remarkable it was that he had reached the conclusion that giving up Jordan had been the worst mistake of his life, and then by some astonishing coincidence here she was, right on Penwyck, right in the castle.

Of course, as the night had progressed, he had realized it was no coincidence. He had probably been naive to think he was on his own that summer.

Some of these men in this very room might have tailed him through his first love. Watched dispassionately as he had stolen his first kiss, grown bolder, made love to her on a beach that he was sure had been empty. He wondered, now, how he could have been so naive as to think they had just let him go. But he felt angry, too. Invaded. The tender secret he had nurtured inside himself probably documented in a thick dossier somewhere.

Had any of them known about his daughter? Who had they reported to?

It came to him with crystal clarity. His mother.

“Gentlemen,” he said, suddenly not enjoying their company at all anymore, “I hope you’ll excuse me. I have an appointment.”

“Can we schedule another meeting?” the admiral asked.

“If we have to,” Owen agreed, resignedly, and left after setting a future date and promising to call if he remembered anything new, no matter how minute.

His next stop was the kitchen—not the banquet kitchen that was just opened and staffed for special occasions but the regular palace kitchen.

Cookie was in a sour mood, and she glowered at Owen when he came in. Like many cooks, she had a weakness for her own wares, which she packed around on a huge frame.

“They should have asked me to supervise your celebration,” she told him, waving a spoon at him, her curly, gray hair echoing her indignation by springing wildly out from under her hat. “I’m the one that knows all your favorites. That woman down there in the banquet kitchen is a disgrace. I went and had me a look at her operation and you’ve never seen such goings-on. I think she’s using bat wings and eye of newt in those concoctions. If you value your life, don’t eat anything on Saturday night. Not one thing!”

Owen regarded Cookie fondly. She was ancient and had been offered retirement many times. She refused with great hauteur, and ignored the young chefs who were hired to lighten her load. Asking her to cook for a huge crowd at her age would be unthinkable, and she knew it, but loved to protest, anyway.

“Ah, Cookie, the queen is trying to prevent word from getting out that my favorite food is hot dogs roasted to nearly black.”

She looked slightly mollified by that, so Owen continued, “I’ve come to ask a favor, something that’s far more important to me than the celebration on Saturday night.”

The sour expression receded slightly from her face.

“I’ve invited an old acquaintance and her young daughter for afternoon tea in the back garden.” Not a good time to mention Jordan was with the enemy camp. “Do you think you could do something that puts her in a frame of mind to, er, really enjoy herself?”

Cookie’s eyes nearly disappeared in the wrinkles caused by her smile. “Count on me, Your Royal Highness. I know just the thing.”

“I might have mentioned the clown cupcakes to the child,” Owen hinted.

“You did, did you? You haven’t had those since you were nine years old.”

“They made a lasting impression.”

Cookie’s smile deepened. “Clown cupcakes it is. And you leave the rest to me. She’ll enjoy herself. A little aphrodisiac in the tea, perhaps?”

“Cookie!” he said, not letting on exactly how appealing it would be if he could use a potion to overcome Jordan’s prickliness, instead of his own charm, which she had seemed immune to yesterday.

The old cook cackled with fiendish delight, and shooed him out of her kitchen. “The back garden at two, Prince Owen.”

His next stop was his sister, Anastasia’s quarters.

“A tiara? Good grief, Owen, what for?”

“A very small one. For a little girl I’m having tea with this afternoon. She wants to be a princess.”

“Oh, I’ve seen her! Rambunctious little thing, skipping all over the palace, running her nanny ragged. She
belongs to that odd catering crew who are doing your banquet, right?”

He tried not to wince at his daughter being described like a member of a gypsy tribe.

“I’ve loved hearing her laughter,” Anastasia said. “This stuffy old place is ready for children, don’t you think?”

“I do think that.”

This earned him a thoughtful look. “You say that as if you’ve actually given it a thought, which I find amazing. Owen, is there something you want to tell me about?”

“I was just thinking of Megan and Jean-Paul,” he said, naming his sister and her new husband, though the truth was he had not been thinking of them at all. “I was thinking how there will be children here again soon.”
But even sooner than Megan’s due date, if things went according to his plan.

He realized then, that he wanted to do more than clear the air between himself and Jordan. He wanted to win her over. He wanted the love to reblossom between them. He wanted her to stay. He wanted his child raised here.

But the look on Jordan’s face yesterday when she had marched out of his quarters really didn’t bode well for what he wanted at all. The only time the look on her face had softened was when her eyes came to rest on her daughter.

Maybe if he could win Whitney first…

“A tiara it is. I’ll be back in a minute.” His sister disappeared into her bedroom and came back out momentarily. “Here take this. It’s so lovely and it’s the smallest one I have.”

He looked at the tiara his sister held out to him. It
was tiny and beautiful, studded with what looked to be real diamonds.

“Is it valuable?” he asked, suddenly uncertain about what was an appropriate gift for a young girl. Then he reminded himself, it wasn’t any little girl. It was his daughter.

“Well, you don’t want her to flush it down the loo,” his sister smiled, “but really it only has value if it brings joy.”

Next, Owen visited the stables. He was happy to find a fat pony named Tubby was alive and well. Tubby stood only three and a half feet high at the wither. He was nearly as wide as he was high. He had a deep gold coat and a long blond mane that very nearly swept the ground, and a tail that did sweep the ground. Owen took great pleasure in brushing the pony himself, selecting the tack for it, putting on the bridle and saddle.

He had missed so much. Whitney’s birth, choosing a name for her, her first words and her first steps. But he got to give his daughter her first pony ride.

As he became more engrossed in his arrangements for the tea party, Owen was not sure he could remember ever feeling anything like the deep delight that was swelling in him as he planned, as he imagined the look on Whitney’s face, and the look on her mother’s as she saw him demonstrating his caring for his daughter.

It occurred to him that he was happy.

And that he had not been truly happy since he had been escorted home from California five years ago. He had been busy. And productive. He had smiled in all the right places. He had cared about all the right causes. He had done exactly as he was expected to do.

And it had not brought him one moment of feeling
like this: quietly glowing, his heart breaking out of the ice that had formed around it.

He went to the back garden next. A wrought iron table and chairs were being set out in the old cobblestone courtyard. He chose a plaid tablecloth and matching pads for the chairs, an arrangement of fall squash in a basket as a centerpiece.

He noticed a young gardener working enthusiastically, and went over and introduced himself as he always did when he came across staff at the castle he did not know.

“Most of the flowers are done for the year, Your Royal Highness,” Ralph explained, shy at Owen’s personal interest. “We had a dreadful early frost. But I’ve brought some buckets of chrysanthemums for fall color, and I’ve been robbing marigolds from all over the grounds and replanting them here. Also, I swiped the fall blooming crocuses from the front beds. I seem to be competing with some nut in the banquet kitchen, but I told her I had priority. I do, don’t I, sir?”