Читать книгу Of Royal Blood - Carolyn Zane, Carolyn Zane - Страница 12

Princess Marie-Claire de Bergeron—third daughter of Philippe de Bergeron, king of St. Michel, a small nation just north of France—squeezed between her two older sisters in order to better view the amazing physique of Sebastian LeMarc: playboy, aristocrat, successful import/export trade businessman. Clutching her sisters’ arms to keep from falling too far back in the crowd, she watched with rapt fascination as he paused in his approach to the seventeenth hole to sign an autograph for a giggly young fan.

In St. Michel, Sebastian was a local celebrity. A good-natured philanthropist, a sex symbol and an all around hotty.

“Hotty, hot-hot,” Marie-Claire murmured, loving faddish American slang nearly as much as she loved American movies, TV and cheeseburgers.

“Get away, Marie-Claire.” Her oldest sister, the newly married Lise batted at her. “You are breathing down my neck.”

Obligingly, Marie-Claire popped up over her middle sister, Ariane’s, shoulder and allowed her gaze to follow the handsome Sebastian as he signaled his caddie.

In homes all over the globe, golf enthusiasts followed this action on a cable sports channel. Color and comment announcers strained toward a bank of television monitors and murmured, “He’s approaching the tee…uh-oh.” Muffled laughter.

“We seem to have a bit of a problem on the course. Sebastian LeMarc’s caddie has taken a spill.”

“That’s right, Frank. Looks like it’ll be a minute.”

“From what we are able to gather here in the press box, LeMarc’s regular caddie was under the weather…”

“Too much celebration after yesterday’s rounds?”

More male laughter. Papers rustled.

“Rob, the caddie pinch-hitting for LeMarc today is, believe it or not, the son of the de Bergeron palace gardener, eighteen-year-old Eduardo Van Groober from St. Michel. Eduardo was on his high school’s golf team last year and hopes one day to be the next Tiger Woods.”

“Let’s see if he can stay on his feet.”

More chuckling.

“I think he was distracted.”

“The king’s daughters would do that to the most seasoned caddie, I’m afraid.”

On television, cutaways of Marie-Claire and her attractive sisters filled the screen.

Marie-Claire watched as the flame-faced Eduardo fumbled with the golf bag, rushing to insert the clubs and frantically searching for one to offer Sebastian.

Sebastian found a club lying on the ground and, stepping over the still-flailing Eduardo, moved to the tee.

“Frank, Sebastian LeMarc looks to be using a seven iron, an excellent choice. With his powerful swing and ability to focus, this next shot could put his team in the lead.”

Marie-Claire wriggled with excitement, but when a thoughtless member of the press obscured her view, she dropped down and poked her head under Lise’s elbow, only to receive a glare of exasperation for her effort.

“Stop skulking around beneath us, Marie-Claire,” Lise admonished in low tones. “Your hair is so filled with static, you look as if you’ve been electrocuted.”

I feel that way, Marie-Claire thought, catching an exhilarating glimpse of her hero from between the reporter’s lanky legs as Sebastian took a few practice swings.

“Ouch! What in heaven’s name are you doing?” Ariane demanded as Marie-Claire’s knees found the tips of her toes.

“Trying to see…him.”

Ariane guffawed. “He’s got to be what, twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Mon Dieu! You’re too young for him.”

“I am not.”

“Are too. Just look at you now.”

“He’s noticed me before.”

Lise and Ariane exchanged droll glances. “When?”

Marie-Claire considered silence but their expressions spurred her to divulge. “It began five years ago. When I was sixteen, and we had a…moment.”

“A…moment?” Lise asked.

“Sixteen? You are hallucinating.” Ariane smirked.

“No. He remembers me, I know it.”

“What kind of moment? Did you run over him in driver’s training?” Pretty heads together, Lise and Ariane hooted. Marie-Claire pulled herself to her feet and, eyes blazing, attempted to tame her flyaway hair.

“He knows who I am, I tell you.”

“He knows all of Papa’s offspring.”

“That’s not what I mean. This is a special connection. You wouldn’t understand.”

Ariane snorted. “Marie-Claire, you are such a dreamer.”

“Be that as it may, he carries a tiny place in his heart just for me.” Marie-Claire turned her back on her skeptical sisters and focused on Sebastian, who in that moment, turned, caught her eye, and shot her a sexy wink. “See? Did you see that?” Her voice a tinny squeak, she yanked on her sisters’ arms. “He winked at me!”

Lise lifted her nose. “He was not winking at you. The sun was merely in his eyes.”

“The sun is behind his head!”

Ariane had to give her that. “Then he winks at all the pesky little kids in the kingdom. See? He just winked at Eduardo.”

“And,” Lise pointed out, “if I’m not mistaken, Eduardo just winked at you, Marie-Claire.”

“He wants you, Marie-Claire.” Ariane laughed.

“Shut up.”

“Marie-Claire Van Groober. That’s very pretty, don’t you think?” Lise and Ariane made slobbery smooching sounds and then snickered into their hands.

Marie-Claire decided to ignore them.

Sebastian…LeMarc.

Marie-Claire LeMarc. Mentally, she traced the letters of his surname in her mind. For five long years he’d starred in her fantasy life, playing the part of her future husband and the father of their four yet-to-be-conceived children, three sons and a beautiful daughter.

Oh, that he would only notice her again, the way he had that night. She flushed, as those memories came flooding back. She knew he remembered. He must. How could he forget?

As he surveyed the fairway, she studied the confident curl of amusement that seemed so permanently etched in his upper lip. She took in the slightly cynical, yet thoroughly charming creases that bracketed the corners of his mouth. The thick, dark-brown hair with the tiniest smattering of silver at the temples. The squarish, masculine chin that sported an angel’s thumbprint. The velvety midnight-blue eyes and the come-hither look he seemed completely unaware he exuded from beneath the thick fringe of his lashes. Somehow, he looked more like George Clooney than George Clooney.

All around her, women were salivating, posing to attract his attention, applying lipstick and nudging each other. Marie-Claire’s shoulders flagged. Her sisters were right. He had no time for her. Sebastian was an experienced, sophisticated man. And she? Well, at twenty-one, she was surely an overly sheltered case of arrested development. It was hard to become an independent, worldly wise woman with bodyguards and security cameras monitoring her every move.

Wildflowers need air. Light.

Hunkering low, Sebastian peered down his club, a thoughtful expression on his boyish mug. With a nod and a last murmured confab with Marie-Claire’s father, King Philippe, he stood, pressed his tee into the grass and set his ball atop. Carefully, he positioned his feet and squinted once again down the fairway.

Oh, this was so exciting. Even the back of his head was enthralling. Sebastian was about to bring her father’s team to certain victory.

Marie-Claire strained forward, knocking Ariane off-balance.

A hush descended over the crowd.

Sebastian laced his fingers over the handle of the club and, having lined up his shot, drew back.

On the down swing the words “Go, Sebastian!” pierced the hush and too late, Marie-Claire realized that the giddy shriek had come from the depths of her own throat. She wanted to die.

People turned to stare.

King Philippe rolled his eyes.

Buck teeth poking through his smile, Eduardo shot her the thumbs-up.

Her sisters’ strangled giggles revealed their horror. Lise hissed, “You’re not supposed to yell at a golf tournament, you silly twit, have you lost your mind?”

Ears still ringing, Ariane gawped at her. “It’s no wonder he’s noticed you. You’re a loon.”

Much to his credit, Sebastian managed to execute a perfect shot, straight down the fairway, ending up a mere yard from the flag. The crowd went wild. Grins broad, King Philippe and Sebastian locked their hands overhead in a victory high-five and the paparazzi went nuts, scribbling on their pads, cameras flashing.

Through the throng, Marie-Claire felt Sebastian’s eyes search her out as he turned and, once again, winked at her. Hands to face, her cheeks scalded the cool tips of her fingers and, in spite of her mortification, she smiled.

Their gazes met and clung, as they had, from time to time, over the years.

Around them, noises and colors swirled. Reality fell away. Marie-Claire’s heart skipped several important beats and planet Earth seemed suddenly to be rotating backwards, so slowly was everything moving.

Sunlight glinted off the back of Sebastian’s head, highlighting his dark hair in a glorious crown of burnished gold. He dipped his regal chin, his deep bedroom eyes never leaving hers and he arched a brow so loaded with questions that Marie-Claire knew.

He remembered.

Now that the tournament had ended, people were headed home to get ready for the victory celebration being held at the de Bergeron Palace that evening. A great ocean of humanity flowed past the clubhouse to the parking lot and gridlock was immediate. Impatient horns sounded and threatening shouts only added to the festive feel of victory.

Sebastian LeMarc watched his caddie as the lanky, flamehaired Van Groober lad stood staring after Marie-Claire. His freckled face wore the twitter-pated look of unrequited love. Sebastian knew the feeling. He’d been watching the stunning Marie-Claire de Bergeron from afar for half a decade now. Along with most of the male population of St. Michel.

But that was going to change.

Tonight.

She was twenty-one. Fully grown and fair game. And he had a good feeling that his interest was reciprocated. At least he hoped so. She was an amazing young woman. Full of vitality and as beautiful on the inside as she was on the outside.

Apparently, Eduardo thought so, too.

“She’s something, huh, man?” Sebastian clapped the gangly lad on the back.

“Yes, sir. I mean no, sir! I’m not…I could never…” He tore his gaze from Marie-Claire’s retreating form and stared up at Sebastian. “Have you ever been in love, Mr. Le-Marc?”

Sebastian took his golf bag from the skinny Van Groober and shouldered it with an easy move. “Yes.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” He squinted off into the throng. “Yet.”

From where she stood in her suite behind the king’s state apartment, Marie-Claire could hear the muted strains of a victory party gearing up from the grand Crystal Ballroom below. She pressed her nose to a balcony window to better see the headlights swinging around the circular drive at the front of the castle to the valet parking area.

For the umpteenth time, she wondered when he would arrive. She strained to make out his sleek Peugeot through the gloaming and almost thought she saw it parked in the family’s private guest area. No doubt he was already downstairs, mingling. Though there were slated to be somewhere between twelve- and fifteen-hundred guests, for Marie-Claire, there was only one.

Sebastian LeMarc.

Light-headed with anticipation, Marie-Claire pushed the window ajar and music wafted in on the evening breeze. Every window in the palace blazed, and the gardens that unfurled from its rock walls were strategically lit to invite the fairy Queen Mab’s dreamers, or young lovers in clandestine escape.

It was unusually warm for the first week in September, sultry, deceptively lazy, for the humidity lent an electric quality to the air, almost as if the thunderclouds looming in the distance might roll by and let loose with a wild abandon that would rival the emotional storm brewing beneath her breast.

Palms to the ornately carved window casing, she levered herself from her fascination with the arriving guests and moved to her vanity to give her gown a tentative twirl and to check her makeup one last time for flaws. After a breathless inspection, she deemed herself to be as ready as she’d ever be, and set off to find her sisters.

“How do I look?” Marie-Claire burst into Ariane’s suite to find her helping Lise fasten a dazzling choker of platinum, gold and diamond baguettes about her neck. No doubt a gift from Wilhelm Rodin, Lise’s husband of less than a month. Appearances were important to Wilhelm.

They both spared Marie-Claire a casual glance.

“You look quite grown up this evening,” Ariane allowed. “Hoping to catch Sebastian in a weak moment and club him over the head and drag him by the hair to your cave?”

Fingers to lips, Lise pinched back her amusement.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.” With a grin, Marie-Claire waved off the sisterly jibe. “Any advice?”

Lise sobered. “Yes. Stay away from men.”

“This from a newlywed?” Marie-Claire’s own smile faded and she exchanged a concerned glance with Ariane.

“Wilhelm and I were never a love match, you know that.”

“Yes, but we thought you were at the least very good friends.”

Lise shrugged. “They say that even for lovers, the first year is the hardest. For friends, I imagine it to be…less appealing.”

Marie-Claire ached for her sister. She could never imagine agreeing to a marriage of convenience. It was lucky Papa hadn’t chosen her to create a political alliance between St. Michel and Rhineland because, though Wilhelm was handsome and charming, there was no warmth in the depths of his velvety brown eyes.

Not at all like the sexy twinkle that sparked in Sebastian’s eyes when he caught her gaze and held it across a crowded room. Marie-Claire gave her head a slight shake. She would ponder Lise’s marriage another time. Tonight, she had a date with destiny.

To Ariane, “What from you, dear sister? Any words to impart, to aid me in my mission?”

Ariane sighed. “Quite simply? Stay off the floor, try to keep your hair pinned neatly to your head, and check your teeth for spinach, if you must eat. Speak when spoken to, and don’t, under any circumstances, let on that you care. Play it cool. Men like that.”

Marie-Claire frowned. They did?

Always the practical one, Ariane had little time for whimsy.

But Marie-Claire was a much freer spirit. “I’m off.”

“But we’re not ready.”

“So?”

“You’re surely not thinking of descending the stair by yourself?”

“Oh, pish, Lise. This is the new millennium. You don’t have to do everything you are told to do, you know.” Marie-Claire moved to the heavy double doors and swished through to the hall. “Don’t dally, or you’ll miss all the fun.”

As Sebastian LeMarc watched Marie-Claire descend the grand staircase into the spectacular Crystal Ballroom—named for the priceless one-of-a-kind set of Austrian crystal chandeliers that shimmered fire the full length of the ceiling—he was transported back five years, to a night not unlike this.

His eyes caught hers and held and the age-old tightening kindled within his gut. Just as it had every time he’d caught her eye for the last five years.

Yes, it had been a night very much like this indeed. The second of September, to be exact. The air had been heavy that day, too. Muggy. Thunderclouds threatened harmlessly on the horizon, omitting an occasional distant rumble. The trees were only just beginning to turn into what would soon be a kaleidoscope of lemon-yellows, burnished golds, rusty oranges, and blood-reds.

It was that hour of the day just before the sun fell off its tentative perch on yonder hilltops and cast an ethereal glow over the land, turning raindrops to diamonds and ordinary leaves into a vibrant, translucent mass of color that would rival any pirate’s treasure trove. Against the charcoal gray of the dramatic sky these colors came to life in a way that only the most talented old masters had been able to replicate on canvas.

Sebastian had been out riding with friends when he reined in his mount in order to bask in the glory of this magic view. His friends—royal consorts and visiting dignitaries deep in a political discussion—hadn’t bothered to look up and rode on ahead for the palace stables.

The air held anticipation.

But of what? Sebastian couldn’t pinpoint the source of the restlessness he felt burning deep in his gut. Perhaps it was the changing of the seasons. Or, the melancholia of saying goodbye to another warm sunny time of year and heading inside to spend months beside the fire.

Then again, perhaps it was the feeling that in three short years he’d be thirty. An age when people began to look toward producing a legacy of some sort. A marriage. An heir. To contribute to society in ways other than hunting with the boys and making the aristocratic social scene that had been handed him at birth.

For a long moment, Sebastian sat on his mount and pondered his universe as the sun began its nightly descent behind distant hills and the shadows grew long.

And then, just as he was about to turn homeward for the night, a blinding streak shot out of one of the royal stables farthest from the main compound. With a gleeful war whoop, this shrieking banshee took off across the meadow on a horse—or a bolt of lightning, Sebastian couldn’t be sure—and headed toward the woods nearly a kilometer away from the rear of the stables.

Sebastian squinted into the setting sun. Where would a stable boy be charging off to at this hour? Unless he was up to no good.

Reining his horse around, Sebastian set off after the boy, knowing that King Philippe would never have sanctioned such after-hours escapades. The quickest way to ruin prime horseflesh was to ride at breakneck speeds in the dusk.

The wind whistled in his ears as he hunched low and followed the boy over the rolling hills of St. Michel to the edge of a great forest that was rumored still to harbor a fire-breathing dragon and a band of magical fairies. Well, Sebastian didn’t know about that, but when he caught up with this kid, be might just breathe a little fire himself.

Upon reaching the forest, he had to slow dramatically to pick his way through the trees to avoid being clothes-lined by a low-lying branch. He could hear the horse and rider just ahead, crashing through the underbrush, and then the roar of falling water as a rushing river cascaded over a precipice at one end of the king’s well-stocked fishing pond.

A poacher, no doubt. There to catch a few illegal fish for his undoubtedly lazy, thieving family. Jaw grim with determination, Sebastian stayed just far enough behind to keep this unsavory character in view, while at the same time taking care to avoid being detected. Slowly now, he wove amongst the dense foliage. It was darker deep in the woods, growing more so as the sun’s rays began to fade.

Overhead, the sky rumbled an ominous growl, and Sebastian felt the first of several warm drops splat on his head and hands. Urging his mount forward, he peered through the branches and was instantly rewarded with a view that stole his breath away.

This was no boy, standing on an outcropping of rock, hastily shedding his clothes.

No.

This was a young woman!

Casually grazing, her horse was tethered to a tree near the water’s edge, about a dozen or so feet beneath the spot where she stood silhouetted against a fiery backdrop of fir trees. Lit from behind as she was by the sun, dusty rays fanned out in a long star pattern as she moved, giving her an almost wraithlike appearance.

Unable to tear his eyes away, he watched as she snatched open her buttons and pulled her blouse free of her jeans. Next, she yanked down the zipper of her pants and eased them over her slender hips. An impatient kick sent them into a haphazard pile with her blouse to the shore below.

Clad in only a pair of lacy wisps that left little to the imagination, she stood and surveyed the way the setting sun shimmered like gold coins bobbing on the surface of the gently lapping waves.

Sebastian’s breathing grew shallow. Who was this woman? She was no stable hand, this he knew, as females were never hired in such a capacity in this particular kingdom.

Her body was long and lithesome, yet curvy in all the right spots. Her thighs and calves were shapely, well muscled obviously from years spent riding, and her shoulder-length hair was wild, glowing gold with the slanting light of the setting sun.

Sebastian’s mouth went dry. He knew he probably had no business standing there, staring at her this way, when she thought she was by herself, but on the other hand, she had no business being out here alone. It wasn’t safe. Anything could happen to a young woman out swimming after dark.

Deciding to stay put, just in case she needed him for whatever reason, he watched as she moved to the edge of the outcropping of rock and surveyed the black water below. As if in slow motion, she balanced on her toes, crouched low, and then using the rock as a springboard, arched out over the water and executed a perfect, nearly splashless, dive.

Sebastian felt as if he’d swallowed a golf ball whole as he watched her disappear from view. When the water’s ripples had calmed, his guts began to churn. Where the devil was she? She should have been up already.

He stood in his stirrups and craned in her direction, mentally preparing to go in after her. He waited another three or four seconds.

That did it.

She was in trouble. Likely hit a rock, or maybe she was caught by the hair on some branch beneath the surface of the water.

Throwing a leg over his saddle, he dismounted and hit the ground running in one fluid move. Just as he reached the edge of the pond, she burst forth from the water’s surface, like a phoenix rising, her giddy laughter ringing out as she whipped her bra and panties in a circle over her head and flung them onto the beach.

Sebastian could only stand there and stare. His heart was beating ninety miles an hour and the battle he waged was whether to paddle this brat for scaring him so, or to kiss her because she was alive.

And beautiful.

In his life, the plastic, well-bred beauties that vied for his attention had jaded Sebastian. Aristocratic women could be so dull. Vain. In search of a trophy to call husband.

But this woman was different, he could tell. Her complete lack of affectation captivated him, and he found himself wanting to know more. Was she a commoner? If so, who was her father? What did he do?

Then reality struck.

Could she be taken? She certainly did not act the staid, married matron. Her body and her carefree personality betrayed her youth and he judged her to be no more than twenty. Twenty-two at the most.

A perfect complement to his twenty-seven.

Watching her, he felt his world-weary cares begin to seep away. There was something mysterious about this mermaid. She inspired ridiculous thoughts. Flights of fancy he’d given up entertaining long ago. Thoughts of the magic of finding one’s true love.

His heart began to pound and his blood rushed powerfully through his body. He flexed his hands, and watched her move to stand waist-deep at the opposite shore, her back toward him, wet hair tickling her shoulder blades. Hands cupped, she used them as a scoop to douse stray tendrils away from her face.

Then, as if she suddenly sensed that she wasn’t alone, the woman slowly turned to face him, her arms snaking across her bare breasts just before she sank to her shoulders in the water.

“Who is there?” she demanded.

Sebastian stepped forward and their eyes locked for an infinite, supercharged moment before he spoke.

“Perhaps I should be asking you the same question, woman. This is the private property of His Royal Highness, King Philippe. You are breaking the law by stealing one of his horses and swimming in his pond after dark.”

The woman did not seem daunted, and instead smiled. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“Then perhaps you’d consider being afraid of me.”

“And who, pray tell, are you?”

“I am Sebastian LeMarc, a friend of the royal family and, when I have to be, the nude-beach police. Who are you?”

She tossed back her head and sent throaty laughter into the twilight. “You know, Sebastian LeMarc, you should probably join me. To cool that hot head of yours.”

Sebastian stared at this cheeky sprite. Who the devil did she think she was? “If I have to, I’ll come in there after you.”

“Suit yourself. Or not. This is a suit-optional pool.” She giggled, tickled with herself, and Sebastian couldn’t help but smile as she dove beneath the water’s surface, sending a spray of drops into the air.

What was he going to do with this woman? Dragging a slippery porpoise, one that had no intention of being caught no less, out of the water would be a challenge indeed.

She surfaced, this time nearer the waterfall and beckoned to him. “Come on in. The water’s fine.”

“Didn’t your parents ever tell you not to play naked with strangers?”

She laughed. “Yes. But you are not a stranger.”

“You know my name only.”

“I know that my father trusts you.”

“And who would your father be?”

“You really don’t know?”

“If I did, would I have to ask?”

“I am the third daughter of Philippe de Bergeron, King of St. Michel, and owner of this pond.”

Sebastian stared, mouth agape. That was impossible. Marie-Claire de Bergeron was a child! He wracked his brain, attempting to recall her age, but she was certainly no more than twelve or thirteen. He’d never given the king’s young daughters a second thought, as over the years they seemed more occupied with the affairs of dolls and roller skates than with affairs of state. On the odd social occasion that he’d come in contact with the king’s children, he’d been preoccupied. Concerned with the well-being of his date du jour, or the hour’s political topic.

Languidly, she swam toward the beach where he stood and finding purchase on a submerged rock with her toes, allowed her shoulders to protrude from the water.

His eyes dipped to the cleavage she cradled in her arms. Seems he’d lost track of her birthdays. Suddenly guilty at the lascivious direction his thoughts had taken, he took a giant step back.

“Does your father know you are here?”

“Papa is too busy to keep track of me.”

“Every father wants to know that his children are safe. Especially after dark.”

“I am no longer a child,” she argued hotly. “As of yesterday, I am sixteen years old. A royal debutante, of an age to begin dating.”

Sebastian snorted, even as a keen disappointment settled in his gut. Sixteen? She was a child. “You are a royal pain, of an age to be spanked and I’m tempted to be the one to do it. Get out of the water now.”

“Make me.”

Sebastian arched a brow. “You are a brat.”

“And you are a killjoy.”

She aroused myriad emotions within him, and his jaw flexed as he pondered his next move. It was rare that anyone, let alone a teenaged girl, challenged his authority. And strangely, it exhilarated him.

For the longest moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were those of the rushing waterfall and the soulful cadence of the cricket’s song. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted. The sun disappeared altogether, leaving the storm clouds on the horizon, silver-plated. The steady plipplop of raindrops turned into an all-out shower, but still neither of them moved. Nor spoke.

At least, not with words.

Even so, they knew that what was passing between them was life-changing, for them both. He waged a battle in his mind, but was far too ethical to take advantage of her foolishness.

You’re too young.

But I won’t always be.

I’ll wait.

Do.

With a nod, Sebastian turned and easily mounted his horse and set off through the trees.

“Get dressed,” he ordered over his shoulder. “I’ll wait for you at the edge of the woods and escort you safely home.”

This time, she did not argue.