by Laurie Paige
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—”
“Is there a best one?” Selywyn interrupted.
The two men locked gazes, then the admiral shrugged ruefully. “I suppose not. I think we shall have to proceed to Plan B, as we discussed last night.”
“You were serious?” Logan questioned while Preston looked even grimmer.
“Dead serious. I don’t see another choice, and it would be the king’s wishes. Look at the situation. We’re in critical negotiations with the United States on a trade agreement, in talks with Majorco on a military alliance and still have to convince the Ministers of the Exchequer of the wisdom of ratifying the international trade accord reached two months ago in Monaco. We must at least give the appearance of making progress on those fronts.”
Preston spoke up. “The law says if the king becomes incapacitated, the queen takes over as regent until a royal son is crowned. What of her?”
“The queen has never shown much interest in political affairs. The King of Majorco’s contempt for women entering a man’s world is well-known. I suggest we stall, at least until we know what is to become of the king,” Selywyn told them. “Or until one of the royal princes returns to the country and is made king.”
Selywyn was aware of his own fatigue as Monteque rubbed a hand over his face in an unconscious gesture of weariness. None of them had slept for more than a couple of hours at a time since the king’s mysterious ailment had befallen him last Sunday. It was now Thursday, and the military alliance treaty was to be signed in a public ceremony next month.
“It’s a hell of a time for both Owen and Dylan to be out of the country and unavailable,” Monteque continued. “I don’t think we should allow that in the future.”
“They’re young men with minds of their own,” Logan reminded the RET leader. He yawned and stretched. “They won’t be shackled.”
“Aye, the royals are different today than when the king and I were growing up,” Monteque said, referring to the five royal children of King Morgan and Queen Marissa.
“But not, I think, in their hearts,” Selywyn murmured. “I suppose we must get on with the business at hand. When should we put the emergency plan into effect, Admiral?”
Monteque rose. “At once.”
The admiral, along with Preston, left the private chamber. Selywyn turned to his friend, Logan, who was as close to the king as he was. “I wonder if we are about to admit the Trojan horse into the kingdom.”
But Logan’s eyes were closed and his head nodded to one side. Selywyn touched the man’s shoulder.
“Go to your bed, my friend,” he told the king’s bodyguard, who awoke with a start. “We’ll all need our wits about us to see this through to the end.”
Jean-Paul stood on the cliff that overlooked the private lagoon adjoining the grounds of the palace. His request for Megan to meet him had gone unanswered the previous day. Now he was taking matters into his own hands.
He felt certain she would slip down to her favorite place as soon as she had a spare moment, so he’d taken the liberty of going the long way to the shore, approaching the hidden cove along the strand from the northwest and staying well out of sight of the palace walls where he might be spotted by the ever-present surveillance cameras.
Glancing at his watch, he saw it was nearly noon. An early morning fog lingered over the bay. He’d been on the beach since seven, and his disposition was not improving as each minute ticked by.
A lone figure appeared out of the mist.
Ah. A smile tipped the corners of his mouth as he recognized the graceful form of Megan, Royal Princess of Penwyck, making her way down the rocky path along the cliffs. Patience was at last rewarded.
She walked with surefooted skill, a slight woman, no more than five feet, four inches, weighing hardly more than a hundred pounds. Her dark hair curled damply around her shoulders in the mist, its auburn highlights dimmed by the fog. She held a long shawl snugly around her to ward off the chill breeze from the ocean.
He decided not to call out to her until she was on the beach so as not to startle her. A thrum of anticipation beat through him like jungle drums from a distant place. He remembered vividly how she had whispered his name in wonder as he’d caressed her.
During those moments, while the storm surged around them, the wildness of the selky had returned to her eyes. She’d been incredibly passionate, responsive to his every touch, until he, too, had felt the call of the sea in his blood, until his heart had pounded with the fierceness of the storm surge, until he’d thought it would burst from his chest…
The next moment he exclaimed in annoyance as the princess skipped lightly over the rocks in the opposite direction from him rather than walking around the cove as he’d thought she would do. Some instinct cautioned him to silence as she approached the water’s edge.
To his astonishment, she tossed off the long shawl and her sandals. Clad only in a swimsuit, she raced into the chill sea and proceeded to swim out into the bay on the morning tide.
Surprise was replaced by a surge of fear so strong he was rendered motionless for a split second. Then he was on his feet, tossing shoes and clothing aside, and diving into an oncoming wave, determined to haul her back to shore.
She was a surprisingly strong swimmer and she knew how to ride the outgoing tide to her advantage. She was almost abreast of a small rocky island centered in the bay when he caught up with her.
Her eyes opened wide in obvious shock upon discovering him when she glanced over her left shoulder. “Wha—” she began. “Who is it?” she demanded in true regal style.
He raised his head and looked at her.
Her eyes, as green as the sea could sometimes be, stared at him as if he were a strange creature she’d never seen before. Anger joined the hunger and fear and all other emotions that filled him.
“Jean-Paul Augustuve,” he informed her sardonically. “Good morning, Your Highness.” He executed a bow.
But Megan had already discerned who he was, had known it instinctively upon spying the dark hair and long, lean figure closing in on her as she neared the island.
“Hello,” she said in confusion.
Being that she was a virgin prior to her encounter with Jean-Paul, she’d never met an ex-lover face-to-face after the crime, so to speak. It was doubly awkward treading water while they spoke, like a couple of merfolk meeting accidentally. She had neither a mermaid’s nor a worldly woman’s wit and nonchalance.
“Hello, indeed.” He stretched out and in two strokes had arraigned himself beside her.
She swam to the rocky shore of the island, Jean-Paul beside her all the way.
“You didn’t answer my note yesterday,” he said when they stood side by side, water sluicing from their bodies.
A bolt like lightning hit her when she realized he wore only underclothes that clung, almost transparent, to him like a second skin. She hurriedly turned and selected a boulder to perch on so she could watch the restless ocean.
“I was busy,” she told him, groaning silently at how haughty she sounded.
“Which is why I waited for you here.”
She shot him an assessing look, not sure of his mood. His manner was calm, but she sensed the danger he could be if he chose.
“How nice to see you,” she said formally.
“Weren’t you expecting me?”
She shook her head.
His laughter was brief. “Did you think I was a callow youth who would flee in the face of fatherhood?”
A gasp tore from her throat, which suddenly seemed too hoarse to speak. She hadn’t had near enough time to prepare herself for this meeting, to find the words to ask what his intent might be, what his wish
es were. “I…why do you say that?”
“A cryptic note that you needed to see me, written eight weeks and a day from our night on the sea? I would think it’s fairly obvious what conclusion should be drawn.”
“Oh.”
His hands clenched at his sides. His eyes raked her in anger. She felt like cringing but managed not to.
“Are you expecting a child?”
His voice lashed at her, shocking her as much as the question. “If I am?” she asked to gain time.
“There is no need for panic.” He gestured toward her and the sea. “I will do my duty toward you and the babe.”
The words should have soothed her troubled heart, but she was only more confused. It came to her that he perhaps thought she was considering taking her life and that of the child. Resentment, anger and other emotions whirled through her. She lifted her chin as pride asserted itself. “I am hardly in a panic. I often come out to the island when I wish to be alone and think…about things.”
Her hesitation must have given her away. “Then there is a child,” he concluded.
“No,” she denied.
He was silent while his eyes swept over her figure. “No?”
Her two-piece swimsuit suddenly seemed much too revealing. She opened her mouth, but no lie flowed from her lips. “I haven’t seen a doctor yet,” she confessed.
With a quick move, he caught her shoulders. “You said you didn’t play games. Don’t start with me,” he warned.
She took a deep breath. “Then yes, I think I am…that there is…”
“I’ll go to your father at once.”
She stared into his clear blue eyes. He seemed to have no problem accepting this possibility at all. “Why?”
“To ask for your hand. We must follow protocol. After all, you are a royal princess.”
“Wait,” she said, laying a hand on his chest as if he might dash up the knoll and confront her father on the spot. “I must think.”