The Princess Predicament (8 page)

“They were not hired to protect me and Gabby,” Charlotte said as she joined them in the king’s den. The guard at the door would have not dared to deny her admittance—even if it wasn’t now common knowledge that she, too, was royalty, she could have easily overpowered the man.

She was that good. And Aaron was so proud that she was his.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Aaron reminded her. For six months he had been so worried about her, but finding her hadn’t changed his concern for her. If anything, given what she had endured and the baby she was carrying, he worried more.

She shook her head. “I spent nearly six months in bed. That’s more rest than I can handle and retain my sanity.”

The king rose from his chair, all concern now. “But you’ve been through a horrible ordeal—”

“That was not Aaron and Whit’s fault,” she said. “They were hired to protect
you
. I was supposed to protect Gabby and myself.” Her voice cracked with fear and regret. “I am the one who failed.”

Aaron reached for her, sliding his arm around her shoulders. She was the strongest woman he’d ever met—physically and emotionally. But she was hurting now—for her sister.

“What’s not good?” she asked him.

And, just as they had all thought of him, Aaron couldn’t lie. “Somehow King St. Pierre learned that Gabriella’s pregnant.”

She shook her head. “That’s not possible. I didn’t learn that until after I talked to Aunt Lydia, and I haven’t told anyone but you.”

“And I only told Whit,” he assured her. “But the man who was shooting at her—he would have realized she was pregnant...”

The king slammed his fist into his desk again. “Are you saying that members of my own security team are trying to kill my daughter?”

Charlotte cursed with the vulgarity of a sailor rather than a princess. But then she had only just been identified as royalty. “This is why I wanted you to hire Whit and Aaron,” she said. “Because all of your other security staff were mercenaries.”

The king shrugged. “What is wrong with that? They are ex-soldiers, like Aaron and Whit.”

“Mercenaries are not ex-soldiers,” Aaron said. Because no one was ever really an ex-soldier. “They are still fighting but only now instead of fighting for their country or their honor, they fight for money.”

“So they are easily bought,” Charlotte explained. “And they are only loyal to the person who’s paying them the most.”

The king cursed now and dropped back into his chair as if he weighed far more than he did. His burden of concern and guilt was back—maybe even heavier than before.

“We need to call Whit,” Charlotte said, “and warn him.”

Aaron shook his head and lifted the phone he’d had clamped in his hand. “I’ve been trying. I can’t get a call through to him.”

“Call Lydia at the orphanage,” Charlotte said. “Maybe they’re still there.”

“She won’t pick up, either,” Aaron said.

Both of the royals sucked in little gasps of air and fear.

“But remember the reception is bad down there,” Aaron said, trying to offer them both comfort and hope even as his own heart continued to beat slowly and heavily with dread. “It doesn’t mean that anything has happened.”

Yet.

Would Whit realize before it was too late that the men who’d been sent as his backup were actually his greatest threat?

Chapter Eight

Gabby’s heart pounded fast with fear—faster than it had even when Whit had been playing chicken with that other vehicle.

He was playing chicken again—resisting the armed men as they tried directing them through the airport toward the waiting plane. They pushed at him—with the gun barrel, and their hands, shoving him forward. He flinched as one of them slammed his palm into his shoulder.

Gabby bit her lip, so she wouldn’t cry out with pain for him. He had already been hurting from earlier, and these men were using that weakness—exploiting his pain. She was too familiar with that cruel treatment—from the queen and her father.

“You kept us waiting long enough,” Bruno remarked bitterly. “We have to go.”

Gabby needed to leave now, too. With the men focused on Whit, she might have been able to escape. She could try to run back to the Jeep. And take it where? Leaving Whit behind?

Before she could make the decision, she was grabbed. A strong hand wrapped tightly around her arm, the pudgy fingers pinching her flesh. This time she cried out loud, more in surprise and protest than fear, though.

“Let her go!” Whit yelled, his voice so loud it went hoarse. He began to fight. Forgetting or ignoring his injury, he swung his fist into one man’s jaw—knocking him out as easily as he had the one she’d shot earlier that day.

He had saved her then. But there were too many of them for him to be able to save her now. A gun barrel was pressed tight to his back, between his shoulder blades.

It was almost as if Gabby could feel it, too. The bite of steel, the fear of taking a breath since it might be her last. Or Whit’s last. She didn’t want him to move, but he continued to struggle.

“Don’t,” she whispered, imploring him with her eyes to stop fighting. These men had claimed they no longer took orders from Whit. Had her father fired him? Or were they actually working for someone else?

“I will shoot you,” Cosmo warned him.

“Is that one of your orders?” Whit asked. “Did the king tell you to shoot me?”

Gabby took that breath now—in a gasp of shock. She had long ago realized that her father was not the nicest man. He was selfish and manipulative. But was he a killer? Would he have Whit murdered?

She wouldn’t put it past him—if he’d learned that his bodyguard had impregnated his daughter and potentially foiled his plans for a royal merger. He would never approve of her being with a man who offered
him
nothing—no money or political influence.

“Stop!” she said, shouting even though she barely raised her voice. Instead she used her father’s imperious tone—the one with which he issued commands that no one dared to disobey.

And the men actually stopped pushing them forward—toward that damn plane. It was a royal jet sitting on the primitive tarmac, but it wasn’t her father’s personal, far more luxurious jet. So he had not made the trip to retrieve her himself. Had he missed her at all the past six months?

“As Princess of St. Pierre, I am ordering you to release Mr. Howell,” she commanded. Relieved that she had kept her nerves and adrenaline from cracking her voice, she expelled a soft sigh.

Whit jerked free of Cosmo while two other men helped up the one he’d knocked to the ground. Bruno groaned, too disoriented to avenge himself on the man who’d struck him. Taking advantage of Bruno’s weakness, Whit reached for the man’s weapon.

But before he could grab it, a shot was fired—into the ceiling, like she had fired earlier. The bullet ricocheted off the metal and sent people running for safety, screaming.

Gabriella covered her stomach with her palms even though she knew her hands weren’t enough to protect her child. She had to use her brains instead.

“Stop!” she yelled again. This time her voice did crack—with a show of weakness and fear. And men like these, men like her father, always took advantage of fear and weakness to assume control.

But perhaps she was the only one who’d noticed her vulnerability because the men again paused in their scuffle. Even Whit this time...as if he was afraid she might be caught in the crossfire or the ricochet if more bullets were fired.

“I will not be using the royal jet today,” she imperiously told them, “so you need to take it back to St. Pierre.”

The other men turned toward Cosmo, as if to verify her claim. He shook his head. “We have orders that supersede yours, Your Majesty.”

Damn her father! The king was the only one whose orders would supersede the orders of the princess of St. Pierre. Was he so desperate to force her into marriage with a stranger that he would risk her safety? That he would authorize the violent treatment of Whit?

Her stomach lurched, and so did her baby, with the fear that her father had learned of her pregnancy. And his anger had overwhelmed whatever capacity he’d had for human kindness.

With a quick glance at his watch, Cosmo said, “We need to board the plane now.”

Her father must have been keeping them to a tight timetable. And if she kept them waiting any longer, they would get more impatient and probably violent.

For fear that Whit or someone else might be struck if more shots were fired in the airport, she allowed herself to be ushered outside to the waiting plane. Whit fell into step beside her, occasionally lurching ahead of her as one of the men pushed him.

She wanted to yell again, but he gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. He must have already decided not to fight her father’s orders. He had decided the same thing six months ago when he’d waved her off to meet with a designer for the gown in which she would marry another man. Even though she hadn’t really gone to meet that designer and she’d had no intention of buying a wedding gown, Whit had not known that. He just hadn’t cared...

She’d been foolish to think that he ever might be jealous of her. It didn’t matter to him that she was carrying his child. That had not changed the fact that he had no feelings for her—despite what he’d said back at the hut about her making him feel.

And that kiss...

Her lips still tingled with the sensation of his mouth pressed to hers. And that kiss brought back memories of how they’d made their baby—of how those kisses had led to caresses and making love.

No. She’d been the only one making love. She was beginning to think, as those who knew Whitaker Howell best had warned her, that he wasn’t capable of feeling anything. They had been referring to his seeming inability to feel fear no matter how dangerous the situation. But if a man couldn’t feel fear, then he probably couldn’t feel love, either. She should have realized that then, but she’d been so hopeful and naive.

What a difference six months had made in her life. Back then she’d been a silly girl building foolish fantasies around a man who would never be hers. Who would probably never be anybody’s...

And now she was a woman about to become a mother, being forced to return to a life she’d never wanted and over which she had no control. Her father was a difficult and selfish man, but was he really so intent on getting his own way that he would risk Whit’s life and hers?

At the bottom of the steps up into the plane, she hesitated. If she ran now, would they shoot her? Or just chase her down and force her onto the plane?

And what would become of Whit if he tried to help her? Would he even try?

* * *

W
HIT
’
S
GUTS
TWISTED
into a tight knot of anger and frustration as he stared down into Gabriella’s beautiful face. Her skin was pale, her eyes wide and dark with fear. She stared up at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to save her.

He had to help her. He shouldn’t have made those promises—to protect her and to not bring her back to St. Pierre, but he had. And he needed to figure out how to keep them.

But he was outgunned and outmanned. And if he struggled again, the men might leave him behind—alive or dead.

And then Gabriella would be alone with them.

He lifted his chin to break free of the hold of her gaze. And he turned away from her, heading up the stairs first. He wanted to be aboard—needed to get on that damn flight with her. He couldn’t let her go back to St. Pierre alone.

He glanced over his shoulder. A couple of the men flanked her, each grabbing an arm to guide her—hell, to nearly lift her—up the stairs to the plane. He clamped his arms to his sides, so that he wouldn’t reach back—so that he wouldn’t pull her from their grasp. They better not be squeezing her arms, better not be pinching or bruising her.

He hated them touching her. Hated more that they might be hurting her.

He turned away to step through the door to the plane. As he was shoved down the aisle, he passed a man already sprawled in one of the seats. The guy’s shoulder was bandaged, and his arm was in a sling. A big bruise was turning from red to purple along his swollen jaw.

This was the man who had tried to abduct Gabby earlier—when she’d been alone. He must have arrived at the airport the same time Whit had. Hell, maybe he’d even beaten him there. Gabby had figured that the man being there was just a coincidence—that he had seen her alone and unprotected and decided to take advantage of the opportunity. Whit didn’t believe in coincidence. He’d figured the man might have followed him from Michigan.

But what if this man had already known where Whit was going? Where Gabby was?

The guy was obviously affiliated with the top guards from the previous royal security regime. As an independent security contractor or a mercenary? He could have been working for anyone. The person who’d left her the threatening note. Or Prince Linus’s father. Or whoever wanted to find Gabby’s new friend, JJ...

Behind him he heard Gabby’s gasp as she, too, recognized the man. Then her gasp turned to a moan. Whit whirled back just in time to see her crumple into a heap in the aisle. He tried to rush toward her, but the guys holding him pushed him down into a seat.

“Princess!” yelled one of the men, as if his shout would bring her back around.

But she wasn’t unconscious. Instead she was clutching her stomach. “I’m going to be sick,” she warned them. “I need to use the bathroom.”

Cosmo helped her to her feet. Then he guided her down the aisle toward the restroom in the back. As she passed Whit, he fisted his hand at his side, so that he wouldn’t reach for her. But he didn’t need to touch her to assure himself she was all right.

She shot him a pointed glance. She knew they were in danger, and she was working on a way to get herself and their child the hell out of it. The media couldn’t have been more wrong about her.

But no matter how smart she was, she was six months pregnant and as outnumbered and weaponless as he was. Whit had to help her and not just because it was his duty. And not just because it was his baby she carried...

“I need to call the king,” he said, slowly reaching for his phone. But his fingers no more than closed around it before one of the men knocked it from his hand. As soon as it hit the aisle, the man slammed his foot down onto it. “I need to tell him that the princess is too sick to travel.”

As if on cue—and maybe his words had been exactly that—retching sounds drifted down the aisle from the restroom. This wasn’t the king’s royal jet; this was another in the fleet, used more for cargo than for passengers. The seats were not as luxurious nor the bathroom as large. She had to be uncomfortable in the tiny space. Hopefully she wasn’t really sick; hopefully she was just faking in order to keep the plane on the ground.

“She is too far along in her pregnancy to fly,” Whit said, as he stood up. “We can’t take off.”

“We have orders,” Cosmo said. He moved away from the bathroom door—as if unable to tolerate the noises Gabriella was making inside the tiny room. He walked up to Whit, clasped his wounded shoulder and shoved him back down into the seat. “We’re taking off...”

Whit ignored the pain coursing down his arm and fisted his tingling fingers. “You can’t—”

They weren’t listening to him or Gabby. One of the men sealed the outside door shut and then knocked on the cockpit door.

“...now,” Cosmo finished with a triumphant grin. “We’re taking off
now
.”

“If the king knew she was sick,” Whit persisted, “he wouldn’t want her flying.”

The engines fired up, causing the plane to vibrate. Then it moved as it began to taxi down the runway. “You can’t take off now!” Whit shouted. “She’s not even buckled in.”

She would be tossed around in that tiny space—with no seat belt and nothing to protect her and her baby from getting hurt. It would be even worse than her ride in the Jeep because it would be thousands of feet in the air with the risk of turbulence.

He tried to rise up again, but another man shoved him into the seat. Whit couldn’t reach her—couldn’t help her.

Cosmo snorted. “If she’s going to get sick, better she be sick in there than out here.” He shuddered, and his throat moved, as if he were struggling with sickness of his own.

“She could be hurt,” Whit said. “The king will not approve of that.”

Emotionally hurting his daughter hadn’t bothered the king. But when the man had seen that trashed hotel suite in Paris and he’d thought she might be physically hurt, Rafael St. Pierre had been distraught. He hadn’t feigned his worry for her during the six months she’d been missing.

“So what’s he going to do?” Cosmo asked. “Fire us again?”

“He didn’t fire you,” Whit replied. “You were just reassigned.” But maybe he shouldn’t remind them that he was the one responsible for their demotion. Then again, maybe goading them would make them rethink their loyalty to the king. “You were assigned to the same job a trained guard dog can do.”

As a fist slammed into his jaw, he regretted his words. Bruno shook his hand and cursed. Then he grabbed at the seats around him as the plane’s tires lifted from the airstrip.

Whit’s back pressed against the seat they’d pushed him into, but he tried to stand up again. He had to get to Gabby—had to make sure she was all right. “If she gets hurt, the king might do more than fire you. He wouldn’t have ordered his own daughter harmed!”