His to Princess

by Theodora Taylor

  She neatly fans four sheets of paper listing blood and hormone levels across Aldrich’s desk.

  Bernard leans in, concern writ plain on his face. “What does this mean…? His father—”

  “No, no…it’s nothing like that.” Dr. Vel puts up a reassuring hand. “This has nothing to do with what happened to His Royal Majesty, God rest his soul. But these results do indicate a…different abnormality, no doubt inherited from His Majesty’s father.”

  Aldrich leans forward, frowning. “I did not know he had any other problems.”

  “Nor did we. It’s called Child’s Syndrome, and it is a chromosomal imbalance with no overt symptoms. Those who suffer from it generally become infertile at a young age.”

  “Can you be more specific? How young an age are we talking about here?”

  The woman swallows nervously and drops her eyes back down to the documents on his desk. “Generally speaking, infertility hits by age thirty.”

  Aldrich, who turned thirty only a few months ago, sits back heavily in his chair, letting the new information sink in. Even as Bernard says, “But you must be mistaken! His Royal Majesty, King Georges-Luc, was obviously not sterile.” He slants a hand toward Aldrich as proof of his argument.

  “As I said, the loss of fertility takes place around age thirty,” the physician explains gently to Bernard. Her eyes switch back to Aldrich and her face takes on a sympathetic look. “Your father was twenty-eight when you were born, Sir. According to my predecessor’s notes, your parents hoped for more children but were unable conceive again. It’s one of the many reasons I suggested, from the start of my tenure, that you marry someone with fewer direct connections to your familial lines. Though I understand Duchess Philomena is your uncle’s niece by marriage, I was still worried you might experience the same problems conceiving as your parents did. And that was before I ran these tests.” She pauses thoughtfully. “Child’s Syndrome was unknown when your father underwent his medical exam prior to his marriage to your mother. But what was not known then is glaringly obvious now. And based on these lab reports combined with what we know of your father’s documented fertility history, this genetic mutation was passed down from father to son. Though you’ve only just turned thirty, the results from the semen sample you submitted provide even more proof of your condition. You are almost, if not completely, sterile.”

  “So let me get this straight, Doctor. You’ve waited until it’s too late to reveal that Prince Aldrich will not be able to father an heir?” Bernard sputters, his face looking visibly upset. Which is highly unusual for the typically unflappable Bernard.

  The doctor shakes her head regretfully. “I understand and share your frustration, sir. But there was no reason for us to do a chromosomal workup at all until Lady Philomena’s family insisted on a complete physical exam.”

  Bernard is now leaning so far forward, it looks like he might fall off his chair. “Doctor, you are to keep this information confidential,” he says, his tone at threat level.

  She shakes her head regretfully again. “I’m sorry, sir, but that is not possible. Please recall, I was asked to sign the agreement to share Prince Aldrich’s medical information with Lady Philomena’s medical team, just as her medical team was asked to share her medical data with us. This is one of the reasons why I took such care to fully verify the results before sending them—”

  Bernard jumps to his feet, shouting, “You’ve already sent them?!?!”

  The doctor takes a step back, eyes wide in alarm. “Of course! It’s protocol…the protocol we all agreed to.”

  Bernard begins to pace the room like an angry heron denied a fish. “Mais, c’est pas vrai, c’est pas vrai…” he mutters to himself. “This cannot be true. Without an heir, without the possibility of an heir, our economic and political union with Diamant will no doubt be rescinded. The real estate project on Terre d’Or depends on this marriage, and…” He stops, running his hands through his hair. “But this is a nightmare!” He turns to Aldrich, his brow pinched in obvious distress. “Prince Aldrich…I—I don’t know what to say. You must be devastated!”

  Truthfully, Aldrich is experiencing many feelings, but devastation isn’t one of them.

  There is a part of him, the businessman with an MBA from the Ecole d’Economie de Paris, who isn’t at all pleased with this obvious threat to his plan for Terre d’Or.

  Philomena’s family is old-fashioned to the extreme, and they prefer to form alliances in the traditional way: through marriage and heirs. In that sense, Bernard is absolutely correct. This new information about Aldrich’s medical status will certainly change everything, since it’s highly unlikely the young and fertile Philomena will agree to marry an infertile man. In fact, this is clearly stipulated in their prenuptial contract: an heir must be produced by the couple within the next five years. However, if there is no possibility of an heir, then the contract will be considered null and void. So yes, the complete breakdown of his plans is disappointing, to say the least.

  Yet another part of him is already rising from his chair with only one thought in his head: Talia.

  She hasn’t left yet…

  Bernard looks up in alarm when Aldrich rushes around his desk and toward the door.

  “Sir? Are you all right?” he calls after him. “I know this is grave news.”

  Yes, it is. The gravest.

  But truthfully, Aldrich is fine. Better than fine. Because for the first time in weeks. Months. A lifetime…he’s free! No longer bound to Philomena—or the Victoire throne, for that matter, since he can’t produce an heir …

  He hears the rapid footsteps of Bernard behind him as he throws open the door. Poor man, he must be rather confused by his sire’s odd response to the doctor’s news.

  Nonetheless… “Matthis,” he says to his personal guard, standing silently at attention on the other side of the door. “Ready the helicopter. We’re leaving now!”

  Chapter 11

  Prince Aldrich pilots the helicopter with his most senior men on board: Matthis, his personal bodyguard; Tyson, his second; and, of course, the ever-present Bernard.

  These men have been at his side since he was in his early twenties. They’ve traveled the world with him, silently witnessing each and every one of his stunts. They’ve met every starlet, every celebutante, every model he’s ever been with. Thanks to Aldrich, his team is impeccably well-trained in high-jinks. So if they’re at all surprised he’s rushing to their poorest island territory to stop an American law student from leaving the country, they’re hiding it very well.

  At least Matthis and Tyson are. Bernard, not so much.

  “Sir, if I may be so bold, are you sure this is a good idea?” He asks from his seat next to Aldrich, practically yelling the question even though they’re both wearing headsets. “I know you feel strongly about this young woman, but what precisely do you hope to accomplish with this stunt? And there is your affianced to consider…”

  “Bernard, you and I both know the duchess will never marry a sterile prince. The contract forbids it,” Aldrich says through his headset.

  “But perhaps she can be reasoned with,” Bernard says, eyeing the tropical vegetation of Terre d’Or warily as Aldrich guides the helicopter towards an empty field. “Adoption has been looked upon more favorably in recent years.”

  Aldrich ignores him in order to carefully maneuver the EC 155 so as not to destroy the nearby vegetation. He’s read extensively about the island’s main trade while putting together his resort project. Terre d’Or is known for its very particular and rather demanding vanilla orchid. The blossoms must be pollinated by hand within twelve hours of blooming or they will not survive. And that’s only the first step in a tedious, months-long harvesting process. Hoping the wind from his rotors is adequately buffered by the wall of nearby palm trees, he sets the chopper down and rolls off the throttle.

  Bernard, who seems oddly familiar with the whereabouts of Gaétan de Samuel’s home, leads the foursome down a narrow dirt r
oad, through a small village. The road is lined with brightly colored wooden houses, and as more and more residents begin to take notice of the unusual visitors, word spreads fast. Soon, locals start spilling out of their homes and fields to watch their prince regent and his men walk down main street, as if out for an afternoon stroll.

  “In which of these lovely homes does Miss Jeffries reside?” Aldrich asks, genuinely cheered by the colorful architecture. Many of the modest, one-story houses have blue or green walls, with red or dark blue painted roofs.

  “Actually Sir,” Bernard says as they near the end of the road. “While these colorful homes are quite lovely and typical of the island—I grew up in a similar one myself—Monsieur de Samuel lives in a more…traditional residence.”

  They stop in front of a metal structure made of tin panels and a copper plated roof. Rust stains ooze from the disorderly bolts and rivets that hold the walls together, and a green patina grows on the roof. Bernard makes a face like he’s swallowed a fly.

  “The townspeople have offered to build Monsieur de Samuel a new home many times in gratitude for his various contributions to the community, but it seems he prefers this pile of—”

  “Bernard,” Aldrich warns in a low voice as they walk up to the old man’s porch.

  “Apologies, Sir.” Bernard bows his head, and steps back to let the larger men pass.

  A polite knock on the door results in no response, so Aldrich is forced to pound. When Gaétan finally opens the door, he appears neither surprised nor impressed to see the future king of Victoire standing on his humble doorstep. Nor is he intimidated by the brick wall of body guards who flank the younger man.

  “Wah ywan, boy king,” Gaetan says, peering beyond the men and up the dirt road to Aldrich’s helicopter parked in a nearby field.

  “Monsieur de Samuel, I would be ever so grateful if you would allow me to speak with your granddaughter, Madame Jeffries,” he answers, getting right to the point.

  “What kinda question you ask me? She gone boy! Tink ‘bout it. She forget you boy king. Now you forget her,” Gaetan says, stepping back to close the door.

  But Aldrich leans in. “Sir, I’m afraid I must insist. I know Talia is leaving today but her flight isn’t for hours. And I would never accuse you of lying, but I am positive a loving grandfather like yourself would prefer to wait with her at the airport, so I can only assume she is still here. Please let me in, I need to speak with her.”

  Gaétan’s answer is to try to slam the door closed, but Aldrich blocks it with his foot. As they struggle, Aldrich takes in the room behind Gaétan. He can see an old couch, a gas lantern, the shuttered windows on the far side…he notes details and calculates potential danger, just as he learned to do during his self-defense training with Matthis. His parents had insisted he receive the training before they’d even consider allowing him to travel off the island without a full security detail. As it turns out, those four weeks of classes have come in surprisingly handy over the years. Even now, he knows it’s because of his training that he spots a faint shadow moving on the wall of an additional room not visible from the street.

  “I know she’s in there,” he says, pushing on the door.

  “Gwan now, down de road I can’t bother with you! Gwan! I can’t bother!” Gaétan pushes back with all his might, but as strong as he is for his age, he’s not strong enough to budge the foot of a very determined prince.

  “Shall we break it down, Sir?” Matthis asks behind him.

  “Wha kinda people you is? Don’t break me house!”

  “No, there’s no need to damage this man’s property,” Aldrich agrees. “But perhaps Monsieur de Samuels would be more comfortable waiting outside with you,” he adds.

  He leans out of the way, and Matthis and Tyson push through the door like it’s a curtain to extract the old man.

  “Nah nah nah nah nah! No hands! Gwan now! Y’unnerstan? Gwan with you! Me can’t bother!”

  “Gently, please,” Aldrich says, stepping inside so they can carefully remove Gaétan from his house.

  “Papy!” Talia runs into the main room, presumably from the back room where Aldrich saw her shadow.

  But she stops dead when she sees Aldrich.

  As does the prince.

  Aldrich’s joy, hope, and new found freedom….

  They’re all flattened when he sees Talia for the first time in months.

  Because her belly is now full and very, very round.

  Chapter 12

  It’s Al.

  She knows it’s him, but he’s so…different. The bushy red beard has been replaced by a rakish stubble. His desert island do has been cut off, and his hair is now fashionably disheveled, the copper waves curling around the bottoms of his ears. His borderline ridiculous Jordache cut-offs have been replaced by a light beige suit of fine linen, and an open-neck dress shirt. To put it bluntly, the crazy-look homeless guy she met at the beginning of autumn, has morphed into a ridiculously hot prince.

  Papy’s voice breaks into their stunned stare down. Bernard must be out there with her grandfather, too, because she can hear him shouting, “Eh! Look ’pon dat! What you dwan heyah slick boy Bernard? Git yo hands off me, brutus, dat me house!”

  Talia’s shoulders set, and she glares at the man she knew as Al, which she now knows is short for Aldrich. As in Prince Aldrich.

  But she doesn’t care who he is now, because… “What kind of entitled asshole thinks it’s okay to kick an old man out of his own house? That’s a violation of his rights!”

  “Whose is it?” he asks, frowning, as if she hasn’t mentioned Papy at all.

  Talia frowns right back at him in angry confusion. Then remembers what she’d temporarily forgotten. Her huge baby bump.

  “We were together only three months ago, but you’re clearly much further along than that,” Aldrich says through gritted teeth.

  “Yes, clearly,” she answers, her voice weak as she glances down at her so, SO pregnant belly.

  “You never mentioned a boyfriend back in America,” he says.

  “And you never mentioned a fiancée,” she shoots back

  His eyes flash. “Oui, it seems I am not the only one capable of telling lies.”

  “You crazy man! I gwan back in me home you know, eh Brutus. I no let de boy king worry me Talia!”

  Talia’s neck snaps when she hears Papy outside.

  “Monsieur, monsieur, s'il vous plait, calmez-vous,” one of the guards says.

  “Talia, alright deyah, baby gran?!” Papy calls into the house.

  “I’m okay, Papy!” Talia calls back, her anger at Aldrich burning even brighter. This is unbelievable. How dare he show up demanding answers to questions he doesn’t deserve to ask?

  “Listen, I know you’re the prince or almost king or whatever, but I don’t have time for this. You need to get out of here so we can leave for the airport. I’m not even sure why you’re here in the first place.”

  He doesn’t answer. Just stands there, staring at her belly.

  And with a growl of frustration, she elbows past him. Let the stupid lying prince have the house. She can’t stand to be in the same room with that lying jerk anyway.

  Outside, she finds Papy and Bernard chest to chest, each waving a finger in the air.

  “Dis not yo ‘land, city boy, heyah? You lose dat when you gwan one with de boy king an dem!” Papy gesticulates at the two security guys and the helicopter in the field.

  “Honestly, Gaétan. You should start trusting people more. The land deal will be good for you, if you would just look at it with an open mind,” Bernard says.

  “Why you wanna ask I trust these people? Me Talia, she trust, and wah happen? Boy king happen, nah nah nah nah.” Gaétan sees Talia on the front step and breaks away. The security guys lunge after him, but a voice suddenly calls out from behind Talia.

  “C’est bon,” Aldrich says, and the men pull back. “Monsieur de Samuel may return to his home.”

  Talia’s not looking
at Al. She refuses to look at the bad boy prince. But she notes how weary his voice sounds before she can stop herself.

  “Come on, Papy. Let’s go,” Talia says wrapping an arm around her grandfather’s shoulder and walking him to the truck. Her suitcase is already loaded in back. They both climb into the cab and stare at the dusty windshield.

  “Putain de connard, gros bâtard…” Papy mutters as he starts the ignition. “Why de boy bother me and you baby gran? Me wan trankility, he too much bother.”

  “I’m so sorry he came here, Papy. I made such a huge mistake.”

  “Is okay, baby gran, we go now,” he says, before turning the ignition.

  They rumble onto the road—only to stop short with a loud metal screech of Papy’s overwrought brakes to avoid running over the prince.

  “Talia!” Aldrich calls, coming around the truck to her open window.

  But she keeps her gaze fixed on the open road ahead, refusing to meet his eyes.

  “Do you love him?” he asks.

  The question brings her head up, and she finally turns to look at him.

  “Do you love the father of your baby?” he asks again.

  His question snaps something inside her heart. The thread she’s sewn the hole up with in the hope of closing this chapter of her life forever.

  “I thought I did,” she finally says with a shaky breath. “But not anymore.”

  He nods, and looks down. After a moment, Papy shifts into gear, rolling onto the main thoroughfare now that there’s no prince-sized obstacle in his way. They maneuver around the clots of locals who have come out to watch the spectacle, and then they speed away, kicking up dust in their wake.

  But Talia can’t help looking back. Can’t resist getting in one more glimpse of the cleaned up Al.

  To her surprise, he’s still standing in the road. And when she sees the forlorn look in his eyes, what’s left of her heart contracts painfully. She looks away.