The Princess is Pregnant! (12 page)

“No.”

“Me, either.” He glared at the swinging door as another cadre of medical people went through. “Wait here.”

He went into the quarantined area, determined to find Waltham and demand to know what was wrong.

“Sir, you’re not allowed in here! This is the isolation ward,” a young male nurse told him and pointed back toward the doors. “Please leave at once.”

Jean-Paul took a fighting stance. “Not until I get some answers. Where’s the damn doctor?”

“Here,” Dr. Waltham spoke up, coming out of a room and closing the door behind him.

Jean-Paul noted it was numbered with a one on the door. He glanced across the corridor to the door marked with a two. Were there two patients in the ward?

“The queen is in your office,” he told the man. “We want to know about Megan.”

Again Jean-Paul caught the look that passed between the doctor and the other medical person.

“I’ll be back shortly,” Waltham said to the nurse, then led the way to his office. “Your Majesty,” he murmured to the queen, and gave a slight bow.

She nodded regally, looking every inch a queen. “What’s wrong with my daughter?”

“Please, be seated,” the doctor offered, glancing from one to the other.

Jean-Paul seated the queen, then took the other chair.

“The princess has a fever, also aches and chills similar to the influenza,” Waltham told them.

“Is it the flu?” Jean-Paul demanded.

“I…uh, no, I don’t think so.”

“Then what?” Queen Marissa asked.

The doctor sighed wearily. “Frankly, I’m not sure. We’re running lab tests. As soon as we get the results, I’ll let you know.”

This last was said to the queen, clearly leaving Jean-Paul out of the loop. He realized he couldn’t claim a husband’s privileges and demand to be kept informed.

The queen stood. “All right. I want to be informed if there’s any change, for better or worse. Is that clear?”

The doctor, leaping to his feet, nodded formally. “Yes, Majesty, of course.”

“The earl and the princess are engaged. He should also be informed.”

Jean-Paul, also standing, relaxed a bit. “I intend to stay here.”

The queen studied him, then nodded, giving her permission for him to stay close to Megan. “I have duties,” she murmured, annoyance showing through her anxiety for her daughter. “Selywyn will know how to reach me.”

“I’ll call you when we know something,” Jean-Paul promised.

After the queen left, the doctor frowned his way. “You may use the sofa in here if you wish to sleep. However, there’s no need for you to stay. Give the nurse your number and I’ll call if there’s a change.”

“May I see Megan?”

“No.”

This was said so quickly, so firmly, that his suspicions were at once awakened. Knowing he would get nothing more from the medical personnel, Jean-
Paul nodded and settled on the leather sofa, making his intentions plain.

Frowning, the doctor walked out and returned to the isolation wing. Jean-Paul stood and paced.

Megan was very ill. The doctor thought she might have something contagious, but he’d not been worried about the illness of the child from the children’s hospital, so what could it be?

Perhaps the question he should have asked was, who was the person in room one and what did he or she have?

He had a feeling the royal physician wouldn’t have been forthcoming with the information.

At midnight, he settled on the sofa with a blanket thoughtfully provided by a young nurse.

“This is unbelievable.” Admiral Monteque glared at the royal physician.

The doctor shrugged and rubbed his eyes as if too weary to worry about what the admiral thought.

Selywyn studied the men in the king’s council chamber with a sense of déjà vu. He and Logan were again in a meeting with the admiral, the doctor and Duke Pierceson Prescott. Again it concerned a strange malady affecting a member of the royal family.

“The queen has informed me there is a child,” he now said to Dr. Waltham.

When the doctor hesitated, Monteque spoke out.
“It’s in all the tabloids. Silvershire is reputedly the father.”

Waltham nodded. “The earl is sleeping in my office as we speak. The queen says they are betrothed.”

“Not officially,” Selywyn said. “A contract must be worked out. The king has asked me to serve Penwyck in the matter. I will speak by telephone to Prince Bernier tomorrow. He takes a personal interest in the case, it seems, and holds his nephew in high esteem.”

Monteque leaned forward. “Bernier has no male heir and his daughter is said to be flighty. Could he be thinking of his nephew as the next leader of Drogheda? That would be a new wrinkle.”

“It’s something to think about,” Logan agreed. “But now we must worry about the entire royal family coming down with a disease for which the doctors have no explanation.”

Waltham shook his head. “It’s a mystery. Neither the king nor the princess evidenced signs of being bitten, so how could they get a viral disease in which the only known vector is a mosquito?”

“A needle?” Logan suggested. “AIDS can be spread by a needle used by an infected person.”

“That’s true,” Waltham said, “but how could that happen in these two cases? One can hardly stick a royal without its being noticed.” He glanced askance at the royal bodyguard, as if it might be his fault.

Logan gave him a grim stare. “The Black Knights could be in on it. Intelligence sources indicate they are opposed to the military alliance between Penwyck and Majorco. They would do anything to sabotage the agreement.”

The Black Knights were a group of conspirators whose purpose was uncertain. Intelligence sources could gather little on them, except indications that such a group existed and they were intimately involved with Penwyck and all that happened on the island.

“It’s too late for sabotage,” Monteque said. “The agreement was ratified by the Privy Council. The public signing is scheduled for next month.”

“But until then, the Majorcan king could possibly change his mind,” Prescott said. “However, the alliance is to their advantage as much as ours.”

“Let’s reconsider,” Selywyn said after a moment’s silence. “Would anyone gain by either the king’s or the princess’s deaths?”

The men of the Royal Elite Team, including himself, could come up with no suggestions. Prince Owen, the probable heir, not only was out of the country, but all agreed he wasn’t remotely a suspect. The royal children were honorable to the core.

“But there was one royal who was not,” Monteque reminded them. “The king’s twin.”

Logan shook his head. “Prince Broderick has been in exile for twenty-five years. He has no pri
vate access to the royals. We watch him too closely.”

“Besides, a tropical fever is no guarantee of death,” Waltham added. “The king is far from dead. The princess is holding her own. So what is the point?”

“That is what we must determine,” Prescott said. “Is this some kind of red herring to distract us from the real issue?” He frowned mightily. “Again, what is the point? None that I can see.”

“Then we are stymied,” the admiral said. He looked at the doctor. “Keep us informed of any change.”

“I will have a proclamation issued so that all may hear and know,” he said sarcastically and rose.

Selywyn walked the man to the door. “Thank you for your input. I know you’re doing all you can.”

Waltham smiled slightly. “We’ve caught the princess in the early stages of the disease. As soon as we have confirmation, we’ll start the treatment.”

“And the child?”

“That I can’t tell you. It’s in the hands of God.”

Selywyn returned to the others. “Life is in the hands of God, but the perpetrator shall be in ours,” he murmured.

“Amen,” Logan echoed.

The meeting broke up shortly after midnight.

M
onday morning, Megan woke feeling irritable. The nurses surrounding her had refused to answer a single question. She ascertained for herself that her fever was down and the headache had receded to the back of her skull, where it was more manageable.

“I’m leaving,” she declared after her restless night in the infirmary.

“Your Highness, you can’t,” the young nurse attending her morning ablutions objected.

“Huh. Watch me,” Megan said with uncharacteristic belligerence.

The nurse hurried from the room. Dr. Waltham appeared in less than a minute.

“That was quick,” Megan remarked.

“Where do you think you’re going?” the doctor asked.

“To my quarters. I can be annoyed there just as well as here. I have things to do, such as the seminar you wanted.”

“Forget the seminar. I’ll handle it by phone.” He gave her a severe frown although his kindly brown eyes twinkled. “Perhaps you need some company. There’s a young man who spent the night on my office sofa and is demanding to see you.”

“Jean-Paul?” she asked, sounding breathless and foolish beyond measure.

“One and the same,” the doctor said wryly. “As for leaving, I’d like to keep you under observation for another day or two. For the baby’s sake.”

She laid a hand over her abdomen. “Is there danger to the child? I’ve read the flu virus can cause some harm.”

“The placenta is usually a reliable barrier,” he assured her. “You seem to be recovering without help, so I shouldn’t worry about it.”

Megan wondered if he was as confident as he sounded. But she had no reason to distrust the man who had helped bring her into the world. “Thank you, Dr. Waltham. I really am feeling much better. The headache is almost gone, just a dull throb now. My temperature was nearly normal this morning when the nurse took it.”

He studied her as if curious about something, but
merely nodded his head. “Good. That’s good. I’ll send your young man in.”

She flew out of bed when the doctor was gone and checked her hair and face in the bathroom mirror. She hadn’t a smidgen of makeup, but maybe he would think she looked interestingly pale. She could practice being languid….

A giggle escaped her.

“You did that yesterday,” a masculine voice said.

Jean-Paul strode into the room, looking like a young buccaneer in black jeans and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms. His smile was so bright and lovely it stole her breath right away.

I love him,
she thought.
I really do love this man.
Her heart had known for ages, and she’d had a glimmer of it at the lodge—and perhaps on his yacht that magical night—but nothing like this.

The emotion wasn’t anything as she’d dreamed it would be. She experienced the quiet certainty of it, as she would that of the sun rising or the weather changing or any one of a hundred day-to-day things she took for granted. And yet…and yet it was the wildest, most wondrous thing.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, stopping by her side. “Why are you out of bed?”

For a second, she couldn’t answer. “I’m much better,” she finally told him. She climbed into bed and modestly tightened the belt on her robe.

“Good. I was thinking about tearing the place apart if they didn’t tell me something soon.”

She stared at him. “Why?”

“I was worried.” He grinned at her, looking younger and more daredevil than he ever had.

Megan clasped her hands and stared at them until her heart stopped bouncing off her rib cage. “That was kind.”

A hand under her chin lifted her face to his. His eyes searched hers. “I’m not particularly kind,” he said, almost as if he warned her not to expect it of him, “but I care for what is mine.”

“What arrogance,” she chided, but she couldn’t help the smile that lingered on her lips.

“I know.” He wasn’t at all humble about it. “But I thought it best to let you know the facts straight away.”

“I’m a modern woman. I will not be owned.”

“Pledged, not owned,” he conceded. “As I am pledged to you. The queen has declared us betrothed.”

Megan was astounded. “She did? When?”

“Last night. To the doctor. The man is incredibly stubborn.”

She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at this observation from her betrothed.

Jean-Paul continued with his grievance. “He refused to let me stay with you during the night, but he says you are much improved this morning. The
fever is gone.” He laid a hand on her forehead and nodded as if satisfied.

His concern warmed her. The last feverish aches of the night vanished and she was comforted by his touch.

“Such magic,” she whispered, taking his hand and holding it clasped between hers against her breast.

“Magic, yes, sweet selky.” He kissed her lightly on the lips, his eyes growing darker as her breath caught with longing. “Ours will not be a cold marriage.”

“Have you known those that were?”

“We both have read of famous marriages that didn’t last. Ours might be doubly difficult because of duty to our countries. What will your father expect?”

“I have no idea,” she had to admit. “I’ve not spoken to him the past month for any length of time on private matters, other than the evening we told him of the child.”

“Nor have I.” Jean-Paul frowned in concentration. “I saw your parents in the garden yesterday, though. Both appeared to be in good spirits. The king flirted with the queen.”

“Father?”

Jean-Paul nodded and gave her a sexy look. “He was quite romantic. He plucked a rose, kissed it, then held it to her lips. I think he might have kissed her, given a bit more time. Too bad Duke Logan
chose that moment to interrupt with some message of national importance.”

Megan felt feverish again as she gazed into her lover’s eyes and saw the hunger.

“Were I with my queen,” he continued on a husky note, “I would leave orders that no one should disturb us for less than a national crisis or else he might lose his head.”

The head nurse entered the room. “Excuse me,” she said without being the least interested in whether they did.

“Or she, as the case may be,” Jean-Paul added under his breath.

Megan smothered a giggle as he flashed her a wicked grin and moved out of the way.

“More blood?” Megan asked as the woman drew a vial of it. “What, are we feeding a family of vampires?”

The nurse smiled at that. “The doctor wants the lab to check this morning’s results again. You seem to have a remarkable ability to recover.”

“From what?” Jean-Paul asked.

“The virus,” was all the closemouthed Dora would say.

“Do they know what kind of virus?” Megan held a cotton swab over the wound when the nurse indicated she should. “One of those twenty-four-hour things?”

“Something like that,” Nurse Dora agreed and left.

“What a motormouth,” Jean-Paul commented. “Hard to get her to stop yakking, isn’t it?”

Megan laughed as he made a wry face. “I really feel much, much better. The doctor thinks the baby isn’t harmed, especially since I threw the virus off so fast.”

“A selky isn’t very bothered by human things.”

Sobering, she thought of the moments he’d referred to her as the mythical creature. “Is there a storm?”

“No. The sun is shining.”

She nodded. “I wish we could go back…”

He took her hand and kissed the spot where she’d been punctured. “To the lodge? We will. I promise.”

Believing him, she snuggled against the pillow and fell into a restful sleep. Each time she awoke during the day, Jean-Paul was there, either reading a magazine or napping in an easy chair. It was very comforting. She would tell Owen that she was happy with the betrothal. Tomorrow. For now, the headache was returning to the front of her skull, but merely as a low throb that didn’t interfere with her dreams of a glorious future.

It was nearing midnight when Jean-Paul finally left Megan’s side to go to his room and get some sleep. First he wanted to talk to Dr. Waltham.

Odd, the man never seemed to sleep but was at
the infirmary constantly. Was Megan’s condition more serious than he had been led to believe?

The bossy head nurse had her back to him when he walked by her station and into the antechamber to the doctor’s office. He stopped upon hearing a familiar voice.

“What are you saying?” the man demanded.

“Just what I said,” the doctor replied, giving no ground to his irritable visitor.

“Then she couldn’t have the virus.”

Jean-Paul recognized the voice. Admiral Monteque, the elusive head of the Royal Navy, advisor to the king and Privy Council. He’d met with the man two more times in an effort to pin down the admiral’s thoughts on Drogheda joining the military alliance of the islands.

“I assure you she does.”

“But she’s recovering?” Monteque’s disbelief was palpable. “You must be mistaken.”

“We’ve checked and rechecked. The princess appears to be overcoming the virus on her own. I see no need to start any other treatment, not at her present rate of recovery.”

“Does this mean she is producing antibodies against the virus?” another man asked.

Sir Selywyn, the royal secretary, was with the other two men. Interesting.

“Yes, that would have to be the case,” said the doctor.

Sir Selywyn spoke again. “Can you extract the antibodies from her blood?”

“First we would have to isolate and culture them. A person’s blood carries antibodies to every microbe encountered during a lifetime. It isn’t easy to find the right one.”

Jean-Paul eavesdropped shamelessly on the trio as they discussed Megan’s progress. He breathed a sigh of relief that she was on the road to health.

“The king—”

“Enough,” snapped Monteque before the doctor could finish his thought.

“The king will be pleased at his daughter’s progress,” Sir Selywyn commented. He appeared at the doorway. “His lordship, the Earl of Silvershire,” he murmured in an amused tone. “Join us. We were just discussing the princess’s case. You know she is recovering?”

Jean-Paul entered the doctor’s office. “Yes. I’m relieved. Have you told the queen?”

This little dig was aimed at the doctor, who had promised to keep them informed. The man looked a bit guilty but not at all repentant.

“I shall speak to her,” Selywyn said. “I’m on my way for an audience now.”

Jean-Paul made no comment, but he noted the man had access to the royal presence at…fifteen minutes before midnight, he saw by the clock on the doctor’s desk. Why were so many astir in the palace at such an hour?

“Will you walk with me to the family quarters?” Selywyn asked him.

Jean-Paul nodded and went with the secretary after they bade the other two men good-night.

“You were good to stay with the princess,” Selywyn told him as they climbed the stairs rather than taking the elevator from the underground infirmary. “The queen commented upon it. She was pleased.”

“I was concerned for Megan. We are to be wed.”

“So I understand. Congratulations. I have known Her Royal Highness since childhood and have watched her grow into a fine young woman.”

“How long have you been secretary to the king?”

“Ten years, lacking three months.”

Jean-Paul thought it was indicative of the man’s nature to quote the precise time rather than rounding it off as most people would.

“How did you attain the position?”

Selywyn cast him an assessing perusal, then smiled dryly. “My father, before he retired, was a member of the Privy Council, elected by the township of Sterling. I had always intended to go into the king’s service, either in the diplomatic corps or in the royal household. I became an aide on the king’s staff. When the old secretary retired, he recommended me to the king.”

“You serve very well, from all reports,” Jean-
Paul said and meant it. The man was known for his loyalty to the royal family and to Penwyck.

Selywyn merely inclined his head. “I’m glad you and the princess have decided on the marriage.”

“You approve?”

“Indeed. She has chosen you, and I have never doubted her judgment.”

Jean-Paul smiled. “It’s good to have a friend close to the king. I fear he considers the union questionable.”

They arrived outside the queen’s private quarters. “Take care that the princess knows your heart,” the secretary advised. “It would ease her mind over the future, I think. She is the Quiet One, but her feelings are no less deep for not expressing them as openly as others.”

“I know.” Jean-Paul bade the man good-night and went to his own rooms. It was a long time before he fell asleep as he mulled over all the nuances in the conversations he’d heard that day. His last thought was of Megan and the relief he’d felt upon knowing she was getting well.

That put him in a much better frame of mind, and so he slept, his dreams of open seas filled with mythical creatures such as mermaids and sad-eyed selkies who wouldn’t hold still for his touch…

Jean-Paul was awakened early on Tuesday morning by the shrill ringing of the coded cell phone.

“What is going on?” his uncle, Prince Bernier of Drogheda, demanded.

“Good morning, Uncle,” Jean-Paul said, sitting up and glancing at the clock. Seven-thirty. He hit the alarm before it could go off just as a soft knock sounded on the door. “Come in,” he called.

A footman entered, bringing a tray with coffee and the breakfast as he’d requested the previous night. He dismissed the servant.

“I’m sorry. What was your question?” he asked the prince.

“The papers are full of the great romance between you and Megan of Penwyck. Your father confirms that marriage is in the works. A Sir Selywyn contacted our foreign minister about the contract yesterday. Why am I the last to know?”

Jean-Paul poured a cup of coffee while he apologized. He took a sip and gazed at the cover over his breakfast plate. He was famished this morning. “The tabloids deal in speculation. We’ve only recently decided on marriage.”

“Why was I not informed the minute it became a possibility?” the prince demanded imperiously. “We must consider the implications and decide what we shall demand in the marriage contract.”