Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love

by Beverly Barton

  His enchantress.

  Rory felt enchanted. Enchanted by the iron-hard feel of Sebastian’s body, by the sexy spikes of damp black hair that curled toward his aristocratic forehead, and by the fierce smoldering heat in his inky eyes that suggested he wasn’t nearly as composed as he pretended.

  She pressed her pliant breasts into his chest, let him feel the sensitive nubs that craved his touch. His kiss.

  He hitched in a breath. “Do you realize what you’re saying? I work for—”

  She yanked his head down with a sharp tug on his tie and closed her eyes. A sigh of pent-up satisfaction swelled in her throat as her mouth made bold, hungry contact with his. Desire tumbled through her in a kaleidoscope of colors. Red for passion. Black for intrigue. Yellow for the golden prisms that sparkled behind her eyelids like droplets of sun-kissed water. Dazzling blue for the depths of things to be explored. Green for the sense of coming home. And purple, purple for royalty.

  His kiss was incredibly masculine, sensual and far too restrained. His hands hovered inches from her waist, his fingers splayed as if he desired to touch her but an invisible barrier prohibited it. She sensed him holding back, warring an ethical battle with his conscience even while his arousal pressed against her belly.

  Though she was sopping wet, Rory felt moist heat slicken the most intimate part of her. She felt more powerful than she’d ever felt in her life. Unlike the men she’d dated in college, Sebastian wasn’t a premed student or an accounting major looking for an easy score. He was a principled, well-educated man. And so incredibly sexy she wanted to rip the buttons off his exquisitely tailored shirt and shock his socks off.

  She held on to his muscled shoulders for dear life, catapulted through the kiss as if she was surfing through the barrel of a wave, waiting to see if she’d emerge exhilarated and still standing, or be crushed.

  Inexpertly she nibbled at the crease of his lips, imploring him to deepen the kiss, open the gate to the depths of Sebastian that she yearned to explore.

  “Nein,” he groaned, ruthlessly prying her from his body as if she were a barnacle glued to a ship’s hull. “That did not just happen.” His breath feathered hotly on her cheek, proving him a liar. She wanted to point out that he was breathing as raggedly as she.

  His gaze avoided hers as he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, an action that bordered on the ridiculous because she could hear the dripping of their clothes onto her red oak floors. She wished she’d torn his silly, officious buttons off. She’d like to hear him explain how that didn’t happen!

  The darkness cloaking the room like black chiffon veiled his expression. “You are distraught, madame.”

  His rejection crushed her. Wounded her in the same way that her mother’s death had. Rory stood there in the shadows, hugging herself, wishing she was a Lorelei and a wave would come and sweep her away.

  With heart-wrenching clarity she realized that it didn’t matter if Sebastian cared about her, desired her. He was just like her father and her brother. He would always put his duty to his country above his personal feelings.

  She’d embarrassed him and humiliated herself by acting upon what should never have been acknowledged. She hadn’t taken into account his unwavering loyalty to his prince. Or the fact that he only cared about her because she would be his country’s future queen.

  Now she’d placed them both in an uncomfortable situation and proved herself unworthy of Prince Laurent in his eyes.

  She struggled to find words to repair what couldn’t be undone. To retain a strand of her dignity. “You’re right, Sebastian. Someone just tried to kill me, and I don’t know what I’m saying or doing.”

  Whirling away from him, she marched into the bathroom and slammed the door, locking it behind her. She leaned against the door, her heart aching with love and loss.

  “Rory?” Sebastian knocked on the door, his voice impatient. “Please, let me in.”

  “No.” Rory squeezed her eyes tight to hold back tears she was not going to let fall. She couldn’t ever let Sebastian in, not where she wanted him to be.

  “Go away. No more lessons, no more people.” No more kisses. “I order you to go away.”

  Her teeth were chattering. She stepped inside the glass shower enclosure and turned the hot water on full blast. Then she peeled the wet dress from her body and kicked it from her. She’d never wear it again.

  The hot water pummeled her chilled flesh, but even the driving heat couldn’t erase the yearning for the forbidden touch of her prince’s deputy secretary.

  WHEN SHE EMERGED from the bathroom over an hour later, Rory was wrapped in a sky-blue fleece robe with cloud-shaped pockets. Her room was dark, and Sebastian was gone.

  She tiptoed to her bedroom door and locked it. Then she quietly slid a chair beneath the knob for good measure. One of Heinrich’s merry men could probably break the chair into matchsticks with one kick at the door, but it was the principle of the thing. She wanted a barricade from the chaos that had erupted in her life.

  Since she didn’t know if it was safe to turn on the lights, Rory collected pillows from her bed, a thick blue candle studded with seashells, a lighter and the portfolio containing her mother’s letters and carried them into her closet. She made a cozy nest on the floor with pillows and set the candle in a safe spot where she couldn’t possibly knock it over. Then she lit the candle and curled up with the letters. Brontë snuggled beside her, lending moral support.

  The warm smell of candle wax and the coziness of the closet was comforting, intimate. Rory trembled as she started to read the first letter. Would her mother’s letters give her a clue to her parents’ relationship?

  Cher August,

  I have grown tired of living in hotels. I have bought a beach house with the vast Pacific Ocean at our back door. The ever-changing song of the surf drowns out the grief in my heart. But I am resolute in my decision. As intractable as you are in yours.

  Charlotte Aurora—I call her Rory now—loves the beach. She took her first steps in the sand. She is fascinated by the shells and the kelp that wash up along the shore. And she squeals with joy when the waves tickle her toes. She is growing so fast—without her father.

  Is this really what you want?

  Sophia

  Rory studied three photographs that were paper clipped to the letter. In one she was toddling across the sand in a ruffled pink bathing suit, a yellow plastic sand pail clutched in her fingers. In the second her mother stood ankle deep in water, lifting Rory by the hands as a wave washed over her toes.

  The third photograph hit Rory straight in her heart. It was a close-up of her and her mother taken beside the magenta blooms of a bougainvillea. Rory’s head was nestled beneath her mother’s chin. Sunlight highlighted Sophia’s short cap of curls with red fire as she stared directly into the camera as if staring into her ex-husband’s eyes, her somber eyes silently asking why.

  Tears traced Rory’s cheek and splashed onto the sheet of blue stationery. She saw the strength in the sorrowful, stubborn tilt to her mother’s chin. In the resolute firmness in her gaze. Yes, her mother had lied to her. But she’d also taken a position based on her belief in what was best for her child, and she was not going to back down.

  Rory read the next letter. It included a description of her second birthday and a picture of her taken on Santa’s lap at Christmas. At the bottom of the letter her mother had added a postscript:

  It has been two years now—two irreplaceable years. How do you think your daughter will feel when she learns the truth? Will you expect her to love you? Will your people appreciate the sacrifice you have made?

  The sacrifice. Was that how her father had viewed the treaty—as a personal sacrifice for the good of his country?

  “I am keeping to the terms of the agreement,” her mother added. “But I warn you, I am teaching your daughter to think for herself.”

  Rory discovered in the next letter that her father’s response to her mother’s last letter had been to initiate
the birthday adventures. Her mother had included a photograph of Rory eating pancakes shaped like mouse ears and had thanked him for the birthday trip to Disneyworld.

  After that, there were no further references to the bargain her parents had made. Rory sensed that her mother had given up hope of her father ever changing his mind about the treaty. The rest of Sophia’s letters were no more than a curt account of Rory’s activities.

  There were sixteen letters in all. Just as her brother Olivier had told her, Sophia had stopped sending the yearly updates after her father’s death.

  Rory thumbed back through the letters and reread the postscript added to the second letter:

  It has been two years now—two irreplaceable years. How do you think your daughter will feel when she learns the truth? Will you expect her to love you? Will your people appreciate the sacrifice you have made?

  I am keeping to the terms of the agreement. But I warn you, I am teaching your daughter to think for herself.

  Rory felt the tightly packed wad of emotions in her chest loosen. She was still angry with her parents. Still hurt and troubled that her mother had left her in the vulnerable position of learning of her father and the treaty from a lawyer rather than from her mother’s lips.

  But Rory saw from her mother’s own hand how much she had loved her. Her mother had protected her to the best of her ability against the inevitable. That message was clear in her mother’s words. “I am keeping to the terms of the agreement. But I warn you, I am teaching your daughter to think for herself.”

  “You sure did, Mom,” she whispered softly. Odd...she realized that Sebastian—in his own way—had told her the same thing when he’d coached her about her wardrobe.

  Sebastian. Pain pierced her heart as if pricked by a needle.

  Rory blew out the candle and hugged the letters to her chest in the dark. She knew what she had to do.

  Chapter Nine

  Prince Olivier barged past Odette into Prince Laurent’s suite as the hotel’s doctor was departing.

  “Prince Laurent is indispos—” Odette objected, trailing at Olivier’s heels as if she were a Corgi sniffing an intruder.

  She had summoned the hotel’s doctor to ensure that Prince Laurent’s unexpected plunge into the pool tonight had not caused further damage or harmed his stitches. The doctor had cleaned and rebandaged his wounds and cautioned him to be on the lookout for any signs of infection.

  Prince Olivier dismissed Odette with a flick of his wrist. “He will see me. Leave us.”

  Odette curtsied in acquiescence, but her gray-green eyes met Laurent’s gaze through her darkened lashes. “You will call me if you require anything further?”

  Laurent found her uncharacteristic fussing touching, if unnecessary. “Ja.” He eased a white terry bathrobe up over his shoulders and turned to face Prince Olivier, who was pacing in front of the drawn curtains, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Prince Olivier was still dressed for dinner in a black tuxedo with a white silk scarf draped around his neck. His blond hair was ruffled and portended his mood.

  “I just spoke to Heinrich. He informs me the assassin managed to escape. He’s contacted the authorities to report the incident—discreetly, of course.”

  Laurent closed his eyes, hearing once again the popping sounds of the shots and the whine of bullets skimming past his ear. He saw the horror and awareness that had exploded in Rory’s eyes as he’d pulled her into the pool. “It’s a miracle she wasn’t hit.”

  It was his duty to respect her, care for her and keep her safe. And he’d nearly failed. Not only that, but he realized, to his shame, that keeping his feelings for his bride-to-be in the proper perspective was proving more difficult than he had first imagined.

  His heart still thundered in his chest like the deep resonant chimes of the grandfather clock in the Schloss. Rory had begged him to remove her dress and had savaged his mouth with fervent inexpert kisses.

  He’d wanted to strip the damp knit from her body and fill his palms with the soft full warmth of her breasts.

  He’d wanted to whisper poetic words to her as he slid inside her. He wanted to hear her scream his name when she shattered and found her fulfillment at his touch. He wanted to hear her beg him for it again.

  She had been promised to a prince, and yet she desired him, Sebastian, the deputy secretary. The wonder of her innocent passion rattled every disciplined bone in his body and warned him that the box in which he caged his emotions had glass sides.

  But he could not dishonor Rory by making love to her without first revealing his identity. There would be many nights after they were married when they could delight in hot consuming sex. His primary responsibility now was to prepare her for the role that awaited her. She had no idea of the pressure that would descend upon her sun-kissed shoulders once the paparazzi learned of her existence.

  Laurent viewed the hours they were allowed to spend together without being hounded by flashbulbs and telephoto lenses as a precious gift.

  Prince Olivier halted in midstride. “Heinrich wants a police forensics team to search the grounds for evidence. I asked him to hold off until Charlotte Aurora has left for work. I don’t wish to frighten her further.” He lifted his head, his blue eyes stark. “There have been three attempts on her life including the unfortunate tragedy that killed her mother. My sister is clearly not safe here. We should return to Estaire immediately. She’ll be safer in the palace. We have more guards. More resources to ensure her security.”

  Laurent hesitated. “Did you discuss that with her?”

  “No. I’m told she has retired for the night.”

  Laurent thought of Rory battened down in her bathroom, keeping him and the world at bay. She had thrown him out after his rejection. Guilt festered in his stomach.

  She was so vulnerable. All the more reason these lessons in protocol were so vital to her happiness and her survival.

  “I agree she would be safer under your immediate protection,” Laurent said. “But do you feel she is prepared for that step? It has only been a few days. If she is caged like a thrush her only focus will be to seek freedom. Far better to prop the door open and allow her to come and go and feather her nest of her own free will. Then she will sing.”

  Laurent told himself that was how he envisioned their marriage. Each of them able to come and go at their choosing, finding their strengths, rearing a family.

  Prince Olivier resumed his pacing, the tails of his silk scarf fluttering. “What do you propose, then? The assassin has changed his tactics. This time he came within gunshot range.”

  “Perhaps. Or it was a different assailant.” Laurent thought of the deranged woman who had stabbed his date in the ladies’ room. He had no way of knowing if that incident was related to Marielle’s overdose. “And how does that differ from what we face every day, mon ami? Weren’t you assaulted by a pensioner’s cane last year? And didn’t Princess Penelope have a frightening encounter in a palace corridor with a footman who was armed with a knife?

  “We place our trust in the experience of the good people who risk their lives for our safety. Charlotte Aurora needs to view that level of protection as something to be desired, not resented.”

  Prince Olivier pursed his lips thoughtfully. “You possess an annoying ability to be right.”

  Prince Laurent winced. He only hoped Rory would agree that he had made the right decision tonight when he’d prevented her kisses from getting out of hand.

  AN ELECTRONIC RENDITION of “Taps” woke the hit man. He had been out on the job conducting surveillance. Gaining access into the princess’s house again would be a challenge, considering all the firepower staked out on her property.

  A challenge but not impossible. He was still confident his backup plan would succeed, but if not, he was already considering several new options. He wanted the second half of the hundred Gs. He fumbled around on the bedside table for his cell phone and hit the talk button. “Yeah?”

  “What do you think you’
re doing? You nearly shot Prince Laurent last night!”

  He sat up in bed, shaking the cobwebs from his sleep-fogged brain. “Shot? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s supposed to look like an accident, not an assassination!”

  He was wide awake now. “What happened?”

  He listened to the details of the shooting. That explained the firepower crawling around the shrubbery like ants swarming a picnic. “It wasn’t me. I don’t do guns. They leave too much evidence that can get you locked up. But I don’t like the idea of another party invading my turf.”

  “If you had completed the job as contracted, we would not be having this conversation,” his client reminded him.

  “You wanted an accident. No evidence. Sometimes you have to be patient. It should be any day now.”

  “I don’t care how she dies. I just want her buried.”

  “I’m on it.” He turned the phone off and glanced at the clock. It was barely 5:00 a.m.

  What the hell. Time for plan C. He climbed out of bed. The princess loved to surf. That had to be an accident waiting to happen.

  THE COAST WAS CLEAR.

  Sebastian would be furious, but Rory didn’t care. Dressed in a purple rash guard and matching board shorts, she eased her teal, orchid-painted surfboard from the rack along the side of the house just before 6:00 a.m. and walked swiftly down the drive in her bare feet, stifling a cry of pain as a sharp stone bit into her tender insole.

  She reached the end of the driveway and ducked down behind the stone wall bordering her yard when she heard one of the bodyguards exit her front door. He carried a stainless steel coffee mug.

  She waited several long minutes until he continued his patrol of the grounds, then she ran down the sand-swept sidewalk toward the Windansea beach access. Cars jammed the tiny parking area.

  After the search that had ensued last night for the shooter, she doubted anyone would be hanging out in her shrubbery, waiting for another opportunity to kill her. If the shooter had been caught, she hadn’t been told. But then, she’d made it clear to Sebastian last night that she didn’t want to be disturbed.