The Prince’s Bride (31 page)

“No,
you
have proved him wrong,” she said. “I was only a witness to it.”

“But you saw me as something more, and for that I am grateful. All I want to do is
hold you forever and never let you go. If we leave here, we leave together.”

His lips found hers again, and the kiss was deep and soul-reaching—hot, wet, and possessive—as
if he were claiming her as his own once and for all, until the end of time.

She was his—there could be no doubt about it—and her senses reeled with passion and
delight. “Oh, Nicholas,” she sighed as he laid a fresh trail of kisses down the side
of her neck. She relaxed, jubilant, simply to be in his arms.

Before she could utter another word, he swept her off her feet and carried her to
the bed, where he laid her down on the soft feather mattress. In a foggy haze of yearning
and desire, she watched him slowly untie his cravat while he kept his eyes fixed ardently
upon hers.

“Did you really think I came in here to send you away?”

“I … I wasn’t sure…”

“I do love you,” he said with a smile, “and it is a love more profound than I ever
imagined I was capable of.” He began to unbutton his waistcoat. “I pray that I can
make you happy, wife, because I will never forget the promises you made to me today,
and how brave you were on that ridge. I will hold you to your promises, because I
do not ever intend to be without you.”

“You won’t be,” she assured him, watching with pleasure as he undressed and stood
naked before her.

He smiled that slow, lazy grin, and as always, she melted like butter as he came down
upon her in a tremendous rush of passion and the promise of a lifelong devotion.

Epilogue

D’Entremont Manor
Seven months later …

A soft, warm breeze blew the corner of the picnic blanket across Véronique’s face,
waking her from an afternoon slumber.

After flipping the blanket aside, she yawned and stretched her arms over her head,
then lay for a moment, relaxing in the shade of the giant oak tree. From her vantage
point, she could see the manor house in one direction, and the English Channel in
the other. The branches overhead swayed in the wind as it whispered softly through
the leaves.

An odd scraping sound caused her to sit up, which was no easy task, for her belly
was growing larger each day. Her happy condition was part of the reason she sometimes
fell asleep in the afternoons. She had never felt so fatigued in all her life, but
it was a welcome sort of fatigue to which she was more than willing to surrender.

“What are you doing, darling?” she asked, seeing only half her husband’s tall form
on the other side of the wide tree trunk, which boasted a circumference of at least
five feet.

He stepped into view to answer her question. “Carving our names,” he replied, “but
a chisel and hammer might have been a better option.”

He disappeared behind the tree again. The scraping resumed.

“You are using a knife?”

“Yes, and I am almost done. Would you like to come and see?”

Véronique smiled. “I would love to, but I may need help getting up. I feel as big
as a whale.”

Nicholas was quick to offer a hand. As she rose to her feet, she paused to breathe
in the fresh salty scent of the breezes blowing in off the Channel.

“It is so wonderful here,” she mentioned. “Everything is so beautiful.”

Her husband pressed his lips to hers, and she basked in the pleasure of his touch.
She was the luckiest woman on earth.

“But there’s more beauty to behold,” he said. “Wait until you see my fine workmanship.”

Nicholas escorted her around the wide tree trunk to the other side, where he had carved
the words in a heart:

Joy bubbled up within her, and her smile broadened in approval. “It is indeed a stunning
piece of work,” she said, then wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head
on his shoulder. “I am so happy, Nicholas. I never dreamed it could be like this.”

Seven months ago, when the scandals of Pierre’s death and Nicholas’s lost title as
a royal were at their heights, she and Nicholas had decided to travel to France and
take up residence at d’Entremont Manor.

To extend their honeymoon.

As soon as they arrived, they’d settled in as master and mistress of the house. Though
the tenants and neighbors knew of the scandal, there was little talk of it beyond
the first few days, for in the eyes of the locals, Nicholas was still the brother
of King Randolph of Petersbourg, and a wealthy duke as well. The people of France
were more than happy to welcome him and Véronique with open arms, and provide them
with sanctuary from the ruthless wagging tongues of a foreign country.

Incidentally, the locals continued to refer to him as “the prince.”

“Will we ever leave here?” she asked, for they had come simply with the intention
of riding out the scandals, always imagining they would return to Petersbourg one
day.

“Not anytime soon,” Nicholas replied, kissing her temple with loving affection, “for
you are in no condition to travel.”

She felt a warm glow move through her and laid a hand on her belly. “But I will be
eventually,” she replied. “And then we will have a child who will require his or her
proper presentation to a king and a queen.”

Alexandra’s letters had been frequent and lengthy. She reminded Véronique constantly
of how eager she was for their son—the heir to the throne—to meet his new cousin.
“What wonderful playmates they will be,” Alexandra had written in the letter Véronique
received just the other day.

According to Randolph, there had been more than a few social scandals to overshadow
Nicholas’s in the past few months, and the king felt it would soon be time for Nicholas
to return and prove everyone wrong about their unfair judgments—with clear evidence
of a happy marriage, and Nicholas’s absolute devotion to his beautiful wife.

“Perhaps we could spend half the year
here,
” Nicholas said, “and the other half
there.
”

“That would be quite an enjoyable way to live,” she replied, lifting her face to look
up at him in the dappled shade of the oak tree.

As always, she was spellbound by his dark, arresting features, his strong chiseled
jawline, and his tempting full lips.

He must have sensed her arousal, for he backed her up against the tree. “I don’t care
how, or where, we live. As long as we are together…”

Then he kissed her tenderly—almost teasingly—which ignited her passions to a feverish
pitch. They clung to each other like lovers who had been torn apart and only just
reunited on that very day.

Every moment must be treasured
, Véronique thought,
as if it were the last
.…

His kiss ventured lower to her neck and the tops of her breasts, sending an endless
ripple of desire straight down to her toes. Then he sank to his knees and slowly kissed
her belly. “You are my angel,” he whispered.

Just when she thought they might retire to the blanket and explore their passions
more thoroughly, the sound of a carriage interrupted their reverie and Nicholas rose
to his feet.

Peering around the side of the oak tree, he said, “It’s Gabrielle and Robert, and
it looks like your parents are with them.”

Véronique turned and looked for herself. Indeed, her family was approaching in an
open barouche. Gabrielle held baby Sarah in her arms. Véronique waved to them as she
left the shade of the oak tree and approached the lane.

“Good afternoon!” Gabrielle called out. “We came to invite you both to dinner this
evening. Perhaps we could play a few hands of cards.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Véronique replied while Nicholas opened the carriage door
for her family.

When Gabrielle stepped out with her baby, Nicholas held out his arms. “May I?” he
asked.

“Of course you may.” Gabrielle grinned at Véronique as she placed little Sarah into
his strong and capable hands.

He rocked Sarah gently for a moment, then turned toward the oak tree and said, “Come
with me, little angel. I want to show you some very fine workmanship, just over this
way.”

He started off across the grass, while Véronique watched him with pounding, breathless
love.

“He is so good with her,” Gabrielle said.

Véronique was on the verge of tears. This pregnancy made her so emotional sometimes.

“He is an excellent uncle,” Robert agreed as they all stood next to the barouche,
watching Nicholas show Sarah the words and heart he had carved. She was just a newborn
babe and probably couldn’t see much farther than the length of her uncle’s arm, but
if she was like most women, she was probably floating on air, blissfully captivated
by the mere sound of his voice.

“He is a fine husband,” Véronique’s mother said.

“Most definitely,” her father added. “I couldn’t imagine a better son-in-law. You
chose well, dearest.”

Véronique sighed happily and linked her arm through her father’s. “Yes, I did.”

As she continued to watch Nicholas pace by the tree, bouncing gently at the knees
to rock Sarah in his arms, she laid a hand on her belly and anticipated the day when
he would hold their own child in his arms. It wouldn’t be long, now. A few more weeks,
perhaps.

In that moment on the lane, like so many others since the day she’d married Nicholas,
she was overcome by gratitude for all the gifts she had received in her life.

I am the luckiest woman on earth,
she thought as she smiled appreciatively at her family. Then she walked back to the
oak tree—to be with the man she loved.

Titles by Julianne MacLean

The Royal Trilogy

Be My Prince

Princess in Love

The Prince’s Bride

The Highlander Trilogy

Captured by the Highlander

Claimed by the Highlander

Seduced by the Highlander

About the Author

Julianne MacLean
is a
USA Today
bestselling author with degrees in English Literature and Business Administration.
She is a three-time RITA finalist, and has won numerous awards, including the Booksellers’
Best Award, the Book Buyer’s Best Award, and a Reviewers’ Choice Award from
Romantic Times
for Best Regency Historical of 2005. She lives in Nova Scotia with her husband and
daughter, and she is a dedicated member of Romance Writers of Atlantic Canada.

Visit her website at
www.juliannemaclean.com
.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed
in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

THE PRINCE’S BRIDE

Copyright © 2013 by Julianne MacLean.

All rights reserved.

For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.