The Princess is Pregnant! (2 page)

“I’ve wanted to do this all evening,” he continued, and stroked across her back, along the edge of the silk, until his arm was around her. His fingers caressed slowly up and down her arm, causing chills, which he then smoothed away.

Disappointment swamped her when he withdrew his arm and set the vessel on a different tack across the wind. She watched the shoreline as they raced parallel to it. At last he spilled the wind from the sail and engaged the engine again to push into a small cove similar to the one at Penwyck where she’d learned to swim and sail years ago.

“You seem to know these waters well,” she said.

“Yes.”

Sudden, intense jealousy flamed in her, then died as she further retreated from emotion. She was nothing to him; he was nothing to her. There was no need for this reaction.

“I love the sea,” she said to distract herself from his allure. “At home, we have a private place, a cove behind the palace where we played and learned to swim. The bay there is small, but it was a world to us, a place of freedom…”

She let the thought trail off, aware that she gave too much of herself away to this worldly man. What did he care about her need for freedom, to secret herself away from the rest of civilization and live her own fantasy?

He watched her, a slight puzzlement in his eyes. “Who are you?” he asked in a quiet tone.

A current ran along her nerves at the question that was as whimsical as his desire to sail off into the moonlight. The bond grew stronger…more urgent.

“Megan,” she finally answered, a hitch in her breath as possibilities opened to her. She wanted…she wanted…oh, stars and moonlight and rapture.

Foolish, foolish Megan, the Ice Princess scolded.

“Not your name,” he corrected. “The real you. Ah, yes, the Quiet One.”

She tensed at the nickname, but he said nothing more, only watched her from eyes hooded by thick lashes, the lean planes of his face harsh and forbidding. She shivered.

He stood, then quickly threw out the anchor and furled the sail. He went into the hold. In another minute, soft music swelled into the darkness. He returned and held out his arms in invitation to dance.

The first time they’d danced had been at Meredith’s birthday ball. Jean-Paul had politely danced with all the royals, starting with the birthday girl,
then the queen and finally her. Anastasia had attended the dinner, then been sent to bed, but Megan had been allowed to stay. Those moments in his arms had seemed filled with magic.

This evening was to be a seduction, she realized. That was what he had decided she wanted. He, with his vast knowledge of many women, knew nothing of her. Looking at the challenge in his eyes, she was tempted, so very tempted.

But this night wasn’t for her. She shook her head.

“No?” he mocked.

“I want to be alone,” she said, turning his earlier statement on him and allowing no emotion to show on her face. Rising, she made her way to the bow and stood watching the luminous rush of shallow waves to the beach.

Disappointment raged through her, although she wasn’t shocked. She didn’t know what she’d expected from her impulsive action, but it hadn’t been this blatant invitation to pleasure, given without words or tender feelings, an intimate meeting of strangers, as it were.

The engine throbbed to life under her feet. Slowly he turned the ketch until they were safely away from the rocky shore. He was returning her to the marina.

She wasn’t surprised, she wasn’t even hurt, but she did regret her rashness in following him.

With the sail up, they tacked against the wind
once more, sailing westward rather than eastward toward the port.

Turning, she studied him at the helm, his touch sure and experienced as he guided them out to sea. She wondered if he headed for Gibraltar and the vast ocean beyond. They would sail to the new world…or perhaps all the way home. His or hers?

The island principality of Drogheda was twenty-six miles from her father’s kingdom of Penwyck. Jean-Paul’s uncle was the ruling prince, his father a powerful duke. Jean-Paul, as heir apparent, had been named Earl of Silvershire at twenty-one, much as the future king of England was vested as Prince of Wales when he came of age.

An earl was a suitable husband for a royal princess.

The idea shocked and excited and saddened her. If they married, it would be an official marriage, a merger between two ancient enemies who had tried to conquer each other since the time of Arthur Pendragon and his knights.

She faced the wind and let it blow the silvery webs of longing from her heart. She would never marry. It wasn’t in the cards.

“The sea is getting rough,” Jean-Paul called to her. “Come astern now. Grab a life preserver from the locker.”

She reluctantly did as told and rejoined him at the helm. He had removed his tuxedo jacket, shoes
and socks, she saw. His shirt was open to the waist. He’d rolled the cuffs up and out of his way.

He motioned for her to sit, then dropped a rain slicker over her head and arranged its folds to cover her evening gown. His glance at her feet reminded her of the silver sandals she wore. She kicked them off and tossed them down the hatch into the hold.

He grinned and secured the hatch against the squall that was coming up. “I know a place,” he said, as if to reassure her he knew what he was doing.

She nodded.

Just as rain and the first rough wave broke over the bow, he turned the sailing yacht toward a long sea wall, scooted around its end and into a protected cove.

In the sudden stillness, Megan felt her heart pound. Her mouth went dry. They would most likely have to spend the remainder of the night here. She couldn’t decide how she felt about that.

Did she want to be seduced? Was the unconscious wish for fulfillment the driving force behind this strange adventure? Ever honest, she tried to answer, but soon gave it up as hopeless.

After he secured the ship, he opened the hatch and gestured for her to precede him. She went down the steps and stopped. He lifted the poncho over her head and hung it on a hook, then did the same with his shirt. From a cabinet, he removed two tow
els and tossed one to her. When he dried his hair, she did the same to hers.

The narrow space of the galley was much too restrictive for two people. His elbow bumped hers. His hip touched hers when he tossed the towel on the hook over his shirt, then moved past her to the galley stove.

“Coffee?” he asked, already starting the preparation.

She nodded, then said yes. “Please,” she added.

He paused in measuring water into the pot and stared at her for a breath-catching ten seconds. His smile warmed her as he bent to his task once more. “I love to hear a woman beg,” he murmured with wicked amusement.

“Don’t,” she requested. “I don’t play games.”

He set the pot to brewing, then leaned a hip against the counter and perused her. She smoothed her hair as much as possible.

“Sometimes I don’t, either. Turn around,” he said, and took a brush from a drawer.

He turned her with hands on her shoulders, then proceeded to brush the tangles until her hair hung smooth around her shoulders. He brushed his own dark locks in a few impatient strokes and tossed the brush back into the drawer.

“Beautiful,” he said as if he spoke to himself.

He ran his hand down her hair from the crown of her head to the ends, then he let his hand glide down her back. Goose bumps sprang into being all
along her arms. When he guided her so that she faced him once more, she let him.

Their eyes met and held, his intensely blue, confident, arrogant even, hers green and unsure because that was the way she felt. Her heart questioned what was happening, but she shied from the answer. She really didn’t know.

He gave his head a little shake, and she realized the questions were in him, too. Neither of them quite knew why they were together, why they were alone on a ship in a storm, why the night seemed different.

Slowly she became aware of his heat. His chest was only inches from hers. His thumbs caressed the hollows of her shoulders with gentle strokes that were fiery and wonderful at the same time.

Inhaling was an effort. So was lifting her hands and laying them on his chest. Muscles tensed under her fingers as she moved them restlessly over his hard flesh.

He wasn’t a brawny man, but his masculine strength was evident in the lithe definition of his torso, the ropy musculature of his shoulders and arms. He was a man who worked and played hard.

And for keeps?

She tossed her head at the foolish question. She wasn’t expecting forever. So what, exactly, was she asking for?

“What?” he questioned, his eyes narrowing as if he witnessed the confusion inside her.

“Nothing.”

“I’m going to kiss you,” he warned a second before he did. His lips were intensely warm on hers.

She opened her mouth, but no protest came out. He took the kiss deeper, his tongue sweeping over her lips in long moments of sweet sampling before seeking more.

Fire erupted within her. Weakened by the heat, she leaned into him, experiencing him fully as their chests, bellies and thighs pressed hotly into one flesh.

Her breasts beaded and swelled, pushing against the confines of the support built into the silk.

His hands shifted so that his thumbs caressed just above the material. Then, so suddenly she couldn’t have anticipated it, he dipped one hand inside and lifted her breast into his palm, its tip wantonly seeking his touch.

When he lifted his head, he muttered something not quite audible, but she didn’t need the words. She knew in her soul what they were. She, too, felt the wonder.

They kissed again, more urgently this time. He stepped forward, his thigh making a space between hers so that their caresses became more enticing. She found herself reacting instinctively, knowing without words or past experience all that she needed to do.

After exploring the length of his back, she stretched up on tiptoe and ran her hands over his
powerful shoulders, then up his neck and into his hair. He wore it somewhat longer than the current style. She gathered a handful and held on while their kiss rocketed through her again.

At last he caught her hands in both of his and held them behind her back, bending her slightly so he could reach the tingling flesh of her breasts above her gown.

Then he slid one hand to the zipper. And stopped.

When she opened her eyes, he said, “No games, right?”

She nodded.

“Come with me.”

It was a request. She laid her hand in his. They went to the stern, where a bed filled almost all the available space. The bed wasn’t prepared for instant seduction, she saw and was glad.

She helped him spread sheets and tuck them in. The air had grown chill, so he added a comforter. Then he turned to her, placed his hands on the fastening at his waistband and waited for her consent.

In that instant she knew she could never say he gave her no choice. The decision was hers. She turned her back to him and lifted her hair out of the way.

He slid the zipper of her dress down, then helped her step out of the gown. He slipped out of his tux pants and laid the items neatly over the only chair.

In a moment they were undressed. He held the comforter up and let her climb in the bed. He
clicked on a soft light and closed the door to the galley, then joined her, his arms enclosing her after he pulled the comforter over them. It was like being in a cocoon of warmth and safety.

The storm reached the cove and rocked the boat, sometimes gently, sometimes vigorously. The rain lashed the sea and all that floated upon it. But nothing penetrated the sweet wonder of their lovemaking.

Before they slept, he rose to turn off the light. For a few seconds, he stared down at her, his gaze fathoms deep, his thoughts unreadable as some emotion moved within his eyes and was gone.

Words rose to her lips, but she didn’t say them. She wasn’t sure what was allowed between lovers.

“Rest,” he said gently, and kissed her eyes closed.

She let sleep take her as she rested secure in his arms. He’d been gentle, this sweet lover. For the moment, the yearning that had plagued her soul was quiet.

J
ean-Paul Augustuve, nineteenth Earl of Silvershire, zipped the final closure on the backpack.

“That’s it,” he said to his friend, Arnie Stanhope, who was also the expedition leader.

He and Arnie had been students together at Oxford and later at the University of Montana, where they’d studied archaeology. They were searching for remains of an ancient civilization here in the mountains of Silvershire.

Last month, a local shepherd had unearthed a burial chamber thought to be over fifteen thousand years old. Inside the mass grave site had been evidence of a ceremonial burial with food, weapons and other artifacts to aid the deceased in their af
terlife. The discovery had tantalized scientists with the possibilities of finding a whole village and gaining insights into early man’s way of life.

“When do you think you’ll be back?” Arnie asked, running a hand through his hair, which was receding rapidly, giving him an oddly cherubic look with his round, smooth face and innocent expression.

Arnie, Jean-Paul had concluded long ago, was not of this world. Intensely involved in his exploration and research, he never noticed petty things about people, never lied or tried to impress anyone, was never impressed by a title or wealth. Arnie was just Arnie. Which was why Jean-Paul considered the scientist one of his best friends.

“I have no idea. When duty calls, I merely answer,” he said with a rueful grin and shrug. He hoisted the backpack. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Are you sure you don’t want a couple of men with you? It’s a long trek out of the mountains.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jean-Paul assured his friend. “Good luck with the dig.”

They shook hands, and Jean-Paul left the campsite. Heading down the steep trail, he thought of the curious note tucked safely into his wallet. A ripple of some emotion he couldn’t define ran over him.

Megan. Princess Megan Penelope Penwyck. The Quiet One. The sweet lover who had delighted him with her innocent passion. She’d been a virgin. That
discovery had surprised him as much as the excited report of the shepherd on the ancient burial mound.

Her responsiveness had set him on fire, so much so he’d made love to her three times before morning came. They had both been silent on the voyage back to Monte Carlo.

For the first time in his life, he hadn’t been able to summon glib conversation to ease the transition from the intimacy of the night to the casualness and eventual parting that came with the sunrise.

After the return to the hotel, he hadn’t seen her again. She’d left for Penwyck the same day, slipping from the hotel without a word. He’d sent flowers to her home, but no note had answered the gift. He’d assumed the lady hadn’t wanted a repeat of the night before.

His mood introspective, he paused on a summit that opened on a view of the castle and grounds several miles away from where he’d grown to manhood. He’d been caught up in state affairs, then the scheduled archaeological dig, for the past two months. There’d been no time to pursue the matter between him and the elusive princess from Penwyck.

The note he’d received yesterday had reminded him of her—concise and to the point. She’d requested a meeting with him at his earliest convenience.

That was it. No explanation, no references to the
past, no accusations, just the polite note penned in her own clear, precise handwriting.

However, it didn’t take a genius to realize her request was dated eight weeks and one day after their night together.

Since their lovemaking had been totally unplanned, he hadn’t had protection with him. However, he couldn’t say he’d never thought of the possibility of a child. He had…and had ignored the precautions he always took when it came to involvement. Or entrapment.

As one touted by the tabloids as a Top Ten eligible bachelor, he was very careful about whom he dated and how involved their relationship became. Women with their own highly successful careers were sophisticated and just as leery of tying themselves down as he was.

A royal princess like Megan would have been taught from the cradle to be wary of the unexpected or impulsive. So how did either of them explain that one foolish but magical night they’d shared?

Unexpected and undefined emotion rushed over him. He studied it for a moment, then shrugged. Whatever would be, would be.
C’est la vie.

The trip down the mountain took all of Tuesday and half of Wednesday. He had time to do a lot of soul-searching. Impending fatherhood didn’t dismay him, he found.

It came to him that he was already thinking of it as a sure thing. If so, his parents would be pleased.
He had recently turned thirty, and they had given him several broad hints that it was time he, an only child, settled down and produced the required heir to Silvershire.

Perhaps he would surprise them with news of coming nuptials, he thought sardonically, entering the manse that served as the seat of his father’s dukedom and which he would inherit one day. But not soon, he hoped.

He loved and admired his parents. Once he’d even assumed a passionate love would come to him as it had to them. Their marriage had been impulsive and had enraged his grandfather, the old duke. But it had worked out well.

Running up the stairs to his quarters, he knew word of his arrival—and his plans for immediate departure—would soon spread from the staff to the present duke. Hmm, what would he say about where he was going?

Tell the truth? He could be wrong about the child. Maybe the princess wanted to continue where they’d left off.

His body stirred to rigid life at the thought. He grimaced as he stripped, showered and changed into more formal clothing for the expected meeting with the duke and duchess. If he told his parents what he suspected, they would most likely have a marriage arranged for him before he could sail across the twenty-six miles to Penwyck and consult with the princess.

Heading down the steps, he decided it was better to keep his thoughts to himself, at least for now.

“Jean-Paul,” his mother said, pausing in the hall and smiling up at him.

She was French and spoke English with an enchanting accent. Her hair and eyes were dark, her form petite. Daughter of a vintner with more family pride than money, she and his father had met in Monte Carlo, taken one look at each other and run off to Africa for a month before returning home to face the music.

Quickly descending the stairs, he suppressed thoughts of the strange but rapturous night when he’d also fled civilization and found his own magic land…

“Mother,” he said, bending to kiss her on each cheek when he reached the marble entry hall. His heart gave a hitch of emotion as he smiled down at her.

“And what are you doing home? You found what you sought?” she demanded in her feisty-as-a-sparrow way.

For a second he considered confessing all, but realized he didn’t really know anything.

“Something came up.” He dropped an arm around her shoulders. “You look marvelous. Is that a new outfit?”

She slapped him on the arm. “You are not to distract me with fashion, which I, of course, adore.
What is this something that has come up? Or should a mother not ask?”

He grinned. “Don’t ask.”

“Then go greet your father in the library while I have another place set for lunch.”

She waltzed away, looking much younger than her years, and again his insides were tugged by unexpected emotion. He hurried toward the room his father used as an office and a family gathering place before meals.

He thought about asking his sire how he’d felt upon meeting the dainty Frenchwoman who had so taken his fancy and apparently his heart at their first glance.

But that might lead to other questions, and he had no answers, none at all….

“The king isn’t available,” the king’s secretary said.

Jean-Paul suppressed a frown of irritation. “Prince Bernier was assured King Morgan would see his emissary without delay.”

The secretary’s pale, ascetic countenance didn’t alter a fraction as he apologized again but offered no explanation for the postponement.

“When may I expect an audience?” Jean-Paul demanded.

This time a flicker of emotion narrowed the cool gaze. Sir Selywyn spread his hands in an artful gesture that indicated his helplessness to set a date. “I
will contact you,” he promised. “Are your quarters satisfactory?”

Jean-Paul considered the royal secretary about as helpless as a viper on a hot rock, but there was no point in pressing further. He’d been given quite adequate guest quarters in the royal palace, so he nodded, then left the office when Selywyn escorted him to the door, an obvious invitation to depart.

Standing in the great hall, used as a reception chamber and sometimes as a ballroom, Jean-Paul contemplated his next move. He’d done his duty for his liege, Prince Bernier of Drogheda, who’d asked him to fill in for the ambassador to Penwyck who’d taken ill. Now he’d have to wait on the whim of King Morgan for an appointment. Such were the affairs of state.

That left him free to pursue his prime reason for coming to Penwyck.

Megan.

He’d seen her as a young girl just entering the flower of womanhood in this very chamber at her sister’s birthday ball. Ten years ago. Megan had been seventeen. He’d been twenty and much more worldly than the young girl he’d waltzed about the room.

His parents had insisted he attend the ball. They’d had an eye toward an alliance even then and had hoped he and Princess Meredith might form a tendresse for each other. He’d seen through their
obvious ploy and kept his distance from the birthday princess.

There’d been no harm in flirting with the younger sister, though. Megan with the sun-kissed face and intriguing tan line on her throat that disappeared between her breasts, he recalled, then frowned at the heat that ran through his loins.

She’d admitted that she preferred walking along the shore to being here in the ballroom. Whirling her to the open terrace door, he’d then taken her hand and run with her through the formal gardens to a side gate. “Can you open it?” he’d asked.

“Of course.”

She’d done so and led him through the family gardens to another gate, then down a sloping path along a cliff and thus to the sea. Kicking off their shoes, they’d walked along the strand for more than an hour, speaking only to indicate points of interest—seals sleeping on the breakwater rocks, the beam of a lighthouse keeping watch over the ships that plied the sea at night, palm trees growing along the secluded shore.

“The Gulf current brings warmth to the islands,” he’d said, showing off his knowledge, “else we’d have a climate similar to Canada’s, cold and snowy.”

“I love the cove,” she’d confided. “This was our private place to play and pretend and dream out of sight of the public, especially the news media.”

She’d stopped as if embarrassed at complaining.

“It’s hard having your every move watched, isn’t
it?” he’d said to put her at ease. “Sometimes I want to escape, too.” He’d surprised himself at the confession.

“But we can’t. And we shouldn’t dwell on it. Our lives are really very privileged.”

He’d frowned at her prim tone…until he’d looked at her. Her pose belied her words. She faced the sea, her eyes filled with longing so intense it had stunned him, as if something out there beyond his sight beckoned her.

“A selky,” he’d murmured, stroking her hair. “Trapped on shore in a human body. Do you long to return to the sea?”

“Yes,” she’d said, her voice as sad as the call of a lonely gull.

At that moment, he’d wanted to pull her to him, to calm the urge that tugged her toward the sea, but he hadn’t.

Washed in moonlight, her dress white and virginal, her eyes wild with grief for something that could never be, she’d seemed another being, ethereal and dangerous but mesmerizing the way the seal-folk were supposed to be. He’d been afraid to touch her more intimately.

But he’d wanted to, he admitted now with raw candor.

“How serious is it?” Carson Logan, the king’s personal bodyguard, demanded. “When will he come out of it?”

The chief medical officer shook his head. “I can’t predict the future. The king is in a coma. The question may not be
when
he’ll come out of it but
if.
”

Admiral Harrison Monteque cursed under his breath. “You
think
it’s encephalitis? Don’t you know?”

Head of one of the most highly trained intelligence organizations of modern times, the admiral was sharp, cunning and focused, well used to taking command.

The Royal Intelligence Institute, organized by the king to include the best minds in the fields of military, science, medicine, economics and such disciplines, was the envy of other leaders throughout the world. Operating inside this unique structure was the Royal Elite Team—men authorized to act in any emergency that threatened the kingdom or the Royal Family.

Admiral Monteque of the Royal Navy directed the RET. Duke Carson Logan was a member as was Sir Selywyn Estabon, the royal secretary, and Duke Pierceson Prescott. All four glared at the medical chief as if the king’s condition was his fault.

The doctor glared back. “We’re checking the diagnosis with the Center for Disease Control in the United States. This appears to be a rare strain of virus, found only in a limited area of Africa.”

“How would the king contract such a disease?” Duke Prescott demanded.

“How the hell would I know?” the doctor snapped.

Sir Selywyn poured oil on troubled waters. “Please keep us informed the instant there’s any change.”

“Of course,” the doctor replied stiffly. He hesitated, then added, “The body is a miraculous machine. The king could awaken and be right as rain at any moment. I will advise you of any improvement at once.”

Selywyn escorted the doctor to the door of the king’s council chamber, a room constructed so that no sound or electronic signal could escape or penetrate the barriers in its walls.

“We must proceed with all caution,” Logan said after the secretary securely closed the door. “Until we know what is to happen with the king.”

Monteque frowned. “It’s the worst time—”