by Laurie Paige
“About an hour ago.” The girl was obviously worried out of her wits about something.
“What ails you?” he asked on a kinder note.
Candy caught her lower lip between her teeth. She glanced over her shoulder. Following her gaze, Jean-Paul went to the writing desk. A tabloid was placed there, its pages folded to a headline.
“Royal Princess Pregnant by Playboy Earl,” he read. He cursed softly. A picture of him and Megan coming out of the conference room in Monte Carlo—they happened to be leaving at the same moment, but not together—was prominently displayed under the inch-high letters.
The tabloid seemed to have all the details, except the reporters hadn’t known about Megan being on his ship.
However, they did have the dates and length of her pregnancy correct. Putting two and two together with his being in Penwyck and staying in the royal residence, they had concluded that he was the father and that an official wedding would soon be announced. There was the usual speculation on their being in love and whether their parents approved of the match.
He groaned and cursed again.
Megan would be mortified and even more reluctant to wed under the circumstances. At that moment, she appeared in the bedroom doorway, looking lovely and flushed and heavy eyed, as if they’d just made love.
His blood warmed at the sight, and he went to her, drawn as surely as the proverbial moth to flame.
As soon as he touched her, though, he went from hunger to worry. “You’re hot,” he said, puzzled.
She giggled. “We used to play ‘find the thimble’ when we were little. We gave each other clues—you’re hot or you’re cold, according to whether we were close to the hiding place or not.”
He ignored her rambling talk and laid a hand on her forehead. She was burning up, her skin dry and hot with fever. Fear darted through him.
“Come on,” he told her, taking her hand.
She followed him willingly. “Where are we going?”
“To the infirmary.”
“I’ve already seen Dr. Waltham. He confirmed our news.” She glanced at her maid, who watched with wide eyes, then covered her mouth as if to hold in their secret.
“All the world knows,” he said, leading her down the corridor to the stairs.
“What?”
“That you’re pregnant and I’m the father.”
“Oh.” A sorrowful expression turned her mouth down. “I’m terribly sorry, Jean-Paul, for getting you into this.”
“Just shut up,” he ordered, rushing her down the stone steps to the underground passageways.
She sniffed like a child trying not to cry.
His concern grew. “Where’s Dr. Waltham?” he asked the nurse at the infirmary desk.
The woman glanced toward an office. Jean-Paul didn’t wait, but went at once to the room. An older man with white, wiry hair and eyebrows glanced up at him, surprise on his lined face. The doctor laid aside the paper he was reading.
“Megan’s ill,” Jean-Paul announced.
Alarm flashed through the doctor’s dark eyes. “In here,” he ordered, and led the way to a medical examination room. “When did she take sick?”
“After lunch, I think,” Jean-Paul reported. “She was sleeping. I needed to see her. She felt hot.”
The doctor nodded, as if the succinct explanation made sense, and had Megan sit on the table. He stuck a thermometer in her ear, then let out a hissing breath.
“You’re right. She’s burning up.” He went to the door. “Nurse Dora, I need your help.”
The nurse came at once. “Yes, Doctor?”
Jean-Paul noted the exchange of glances between the two. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. “What is it? What does she have?” he demanded.
“I don’t know. We’ll have to check. The works,” the doctor said to the nurse. “Full blood tests. Tell the lab I want the results today. Make that clear.”
“Yes, sir.” The nurse bustled around in an efficient, nonhurried manner that got things done.
“I’m giving her a fever reducer,” Dr. Waltham told Jean-Paul as he stuck a needle into Megan’s arm.
“Ouch,” she said, and frowned at them. After covering a yawn, she told them she wanted to go back to bed.
“Good idea,” Waltham agreed. “The isolation ward,” he told the nurse. “Room two.”
“Right. I’ll get a wheelchair.”
“I can walk,” Megan said indignantly.
“Hush,” Jean-Paul ordered. “You’ll do as told.”
Worry gnawed at him like a pack of wharf rats. He sensed the seriousness of the situation and all that the doctor didn’t say. “Why isolation?” he asked, helping Megan into the wheelchair the nurse brought.
The doctor hesitated, then shrugged. “She may have something contagious.”
“She volunteers at the children’s hospital in town,” Jean-Paul told him. “Last week a child died in her arms.”
“Hmm,” was all the doctor said.
The doctor didn’t seem concerned about the connection to the child at all. Jean-Paul set his teeth together to keep from cursing the medical team as they took Megan to another wing of the infirmary and, telling him to wait, disappeared from view.
He paced the floor, a thing he’d never done in his life. An hour passed before the nurse returned to the nursing station.
“Well?” he asked impatiently. “How is she?”
“Resting.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“You’ll have to ask the doctor.”
He took a deep breath. “All right. Where is he?”
“Dr. Waltham is busy. He can’t see you now.”
“When will he be available?”
“I don’t know.”
Jean-Paul considered leaping over the counter and strangling the woman. With superhuman effort, he refrained. “Fine,” he said, his jaw so tight he could hardly speak. “I’ll wait in his office.”
That got her attention. “You can’t do that!”
“Watch me,” he said in a snarl. He marched into the doctor’s office, straddled a chair and waited.
And waited.
The traffic in and out of the isolation ward increased steadily as medical technicians, nurses and some others whose function wasn’t clear to him came and went with great regularity. Dr. Waltham didn’t reappear.
At seven, the queen appeared. She rushed into the office looking as grim and worried as he felt.
“Where’s the doctor?” she demanded.
“Beats me,” Jean-Paul admitted. “He took Megan into the isolation ward and never returned. Did they tell you anything about her?”
“No.”
“Me, either.” He glared at the swinging door as another cadre of medical people went through. “Wait here.”
He went into the quarantined area, determined to find Waltham and demand to know what was wrong.
“Sir, you’re not allowed in here! This is the isolation ward,” a young male nurse told him and pointed back toward the doors. “Please leave at once.”
Jean-Paul took a fighting stance. “Not until I get some answers. Where’s the damn doctor?”
“Here,” Dr. Waltham spoke up, coming out of a room and closing the door behind him.
Jean-Paul noted it was numbered with a one on the door. He glanced across the corridor to the door marked with a two. Were there two patients in the ward?
“The queen is in your office,” he told the man. “We want to know about Megan.”
Again Jean-Paul caught the look that passed between the doctor and the other medical person.
“I’ll be back shortly,” Waltham said to the nurse, then led the way to his office. “Your Majesty,” he murmured to the queen, and gave a slight bow.
She nodded regally, looking every inch a queen. “What’s wrong with my daughter?”
“Please, be seated,” the doctor offered, glancing from one to the other.
Jean-Paul seated the queen, then took the
other chair.
“The princess has a fever, also aches and chills similar to the influenza,” Waltham told them.
“Is it the flu?” Jean-Paul demanded.
“I…uh, no, I don’t think so.”
“Then what?” Queen Marissa asked.
The doctor sighed wearily. “Frankly, I’m not sure. We’re running lab tests. As soon as we get the results, I’ll let you know.”
This last was said to the queen, clearly leaving Jean-Paul out of the loop. He realized he couldn’t claim a husband’s privileges and demand to be kept informed.
The queen stood. “All right. I want to be informed if there’s any change, for better or worse. Is that clear?”
The doctor, leaping to his feet, nodded formally. “Yes, Majesty, of course.”
“The earl and the princess are engaged. He should also be informed.”
Jean-Paul, also standing, relaxed a bit. “I intend to stay here.”
The queen studied him, then nodded, giving her permission for him to stay close to Megan. “I have duties,” she murmured, annoyance showing through her anxiety for her daughter. “Selywyn will know how to reach me.”
“I’ll call you when we know something,” Jean-Paul promised.
After the queen left, the doctor frowned his way. “You may use the sofa in here if you wish to sleep. However, there’s no need for you to stay. Give the nurse your number and I’ll call if there’s a change.”
“May I see Megan?”
“No.”
This was said so quickly, so firmly, that his suspicions were at once awakened. Knowing he would get nothing more from the medical personnel, Jean-Paul nodded and settled on the leather sofa, making his intentions plain.
Frowning, the doctor walked out and returned to the isolation wing. Jean-Paul stood and paced.
Megan was very ill. The doctor thought she might have something contagious, but he’d not been worried about the illness of the child from the children’s hospital, so what could it be?
Perhaps the question he should have asked was, who was the person in room one and what did he or she have?
He had a feeling the royal physician wouldn’t have been forthcoming with the information.
At midnight, he settled on the sofa with a blanket thoughtfully provided by a young nurse.
“This is unbelievable.” Admiral Monteque glared at the royal physician.
The doctor shrugged and rubbed his eyes as if too weary to worry about what the admiral thought.
Selywyn studied the men in the king’s council chamber with a sense of déjà vu. He and Logan were again in a meeting with the admiral, the doctor and Duke Pierceson Prescott. Again it concerned a strange malady affecting a member of the royal family.
“The queen has informed me there is a child,” he now said to Dr. Waltham.
When the doctor hesitated, Monteque spoke out. “It’s in all the tabloids. Silvershire is reputedly the father.”
Waltham nodded. “The earl is sleeping in my office as we speak. The queen says they are betrothed.”
“Not officially,” Selywyn said. “A contract must be worked out. The king has asked me to serve Penwyck in the matter. I will speak by telephone to Prince Bernier tomorrow. He takes a personal interest in the case, it seems, and holds his nephew in high esteem.”
Monteque leaned forward. “Bernier has no male heir and his daughter is said to be flighty. Could he be thinking of his nephew as the next leader of Drogheda? That would be a new wrinkle.”
“It’s something to think about,” Logan agreed. “But now we must worry about the entire royal family coming down with a disease for which the doctors have no explanation.”
Waltham shook his head. “It’s a mystery. Neither the king nor the princess evidenced signs of being bitten, so how could they get a viral disease in which the only known vector is a mosquito?”
“A needle?” Logan suggested. “AIDS can be spread by a needle used by an infected person.”
“That’s true,” Waltham said, “but how could that happen in these two cases? One can hardly stick a royal without its being noticed.” He glanced askance at the royal bodyguard, as if it might be his fault.
Logan gave him a grim stare. “The Black Knights could be in on it. Intelligence sources indicate they are opposed to the military alliance between Penwyck and Majorco. They would do anything to sabotage the agreement.”
The Black Knights were a group of conspirators whose purpose was uncertain. Intelligence sources could gather little on them, except indications that such a group existed and they were intimately involved with Penwyck and all that happened on the island.
“It’s too late for sabotage,” Monteque said. “The agreement was ratified by the Privy Council. The public signing is scheduled for next month.”
“But until then, the Majorcan king could possibly change his mind,” Prescott said. “However, the alliance is to their advantage as much as ours.”
“Let’s reconsider,” Selywyn said after a moment’s silence. “Would anyone gain by either the king’s or the princess’s deaths?”
The men of the Royal Elite Team, including himself, could come up with no suggestions. Prince Owen, the probable heir, not only was out of the country, but all agreed he wasn’t remotely a suspect. The royal children were honorable to the core.
“But there was one royal who was not,” Monteque reminded them. “The king’s twin.”
Logan shook his head. “Prince Broderick has been in exile for twenty-five years. He has no private access to the royals. We watch him too closely.”
“Besides, a tropical fever is no guarantee of death,” Waltham added. “The king is far from dead. The princess is holding her own. So what is the point?”
“That is what we must determine,” Prescott said. “Is this some kind of red herring to distract us from the real issue?” He frowned mightily. “Again, what is the point? None that I can see.”
“Then we are stymied,” the admiral said. He looked at the doctor. “Keep us informed of any change.”
“I will have a proclamation issued so that all may hear and know,” he said sarcastically and rose.
Selywyn walked the man to the door. “Thank you for your input. I know you’re doing all you can.”
Waltham smiled slightly. “We’ve caught the princess in the early stages of the disease. As soon as we have confirmation, we’ll start the treatment.”
“And the child?”
“That I can’t tell you. It’s in the hands of God.”
Selywyn returned to the others. “Life is in the hands of God, but the perpetrator shall be in ours,” he murmured.
“Amen,” Logan echoed.
The meeting broke up shortly after midnight.
Chapter Twelve
Monday morning, Megan woke feeling irritable. The nurses surrounding her had refused to answer a single question. She ascertained for herself that her fever was down and the headache had receded to the back of her skull, where it was more manageable.
“I’m leaving,” she declared after her restless night in the infirmary.
“Your Highness, you can’t,” the young nurse attending her morning ablutions objected.
“Huh. Watch me,” Megan said with uncharacteristic belligerence.
The nurse hurried from the room. Dr. Waltham appeared in less than a minute.
“That was quick,” Megan remarked.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the doctor asked.
“To my quarters. I can be annoyed there just as well as here. I have things to do, such as the seminar you wanted.”
“Forget the seminar. I’ll handle it by phone.” He gave her a severe frown although his kindly brown eyes twinkled. “Perhaps you need some company. There’s a young man who spent the night on my office sofa and is demanding to see you.”
“Jean-Paul?” she asked, sounding breathless and foolish beyond measure.
“One and the same,” the doctor said wryly. “As for
leaving, I’d like to keep you under observation for another day or two. For the baby’s sake.”
She laid a hand over her abdomen. “Is there danger to the child? I’ve read the flu virus can cause some harm.”
“The placenta is usually a reliable barrier,” he assured her. “You seem to be recovering without help, so I shouldn’t worry about it.”
Megan wondered if he was as confident as he sounded. But she had no reason to distrust the man who had helped bring her into the world. “Thank you, Dr. Waltham. I really am feeling much better. The headache is almost gone, just a dull throb now. My temperature was nearly normal this morning when the nurse took it.”
He studied her as if curious about something, but merely nodded his head. “Good. That’s good. I’ll send your young man in.”
She flew out of bed when the doctor was gone and checked her hair and face in the bathroom mirror. She hadn’t a smidgen of makeup, but maybe he would think she looked interestingly pale. She could practice being languid….
A giggle escaped her.
“You did that yesterday,” a masculine voice said.
Jean-Paul strode into the room, looking like a young buccaneer in black jeans and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms. His smile was so bright and lovely it stole her breath right away.
I love him, she thought. I really do love this man. Her heart had known for ages, and she’d had a glimmer of it at the lodge—and perhaps on his yacht that magical night—but nothing like this.
The emotion wasn’t anything as she’d dreamed it would be. She experienced the quiet certainty of it, as she would that of the sun rising or the weather changing or any one of a hundred day-to-day things she took for granted. And yet…and yet it was the wildest, most wondrous thing.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, stopping by her side. “Why are you out of bed?”
For a second, she couldn’t answer. “I’m much better,” she finally told him. She climbed into bed and modestly tightened the belt on her robe.
“Good. I was thinking about tearing the place apart if they didn’t tell me something soon.”
She stared at him. “Why?”
“I was worried.” He grinned at her, looking younger and more daredevil than he ever had.