Читать книгу The Princess Is Pregnant! - Laurie Paige - Страница 8

The princess is pregnant! The princess is pregnant!

Princess Megan Penelope Penwyck felt everyone in the palace was thinking those very words as she walked up the polished marble steps and crossed the reception chamber where guards, maids, diplomats and dignitaries watched, dusted or conferred in small clusters, each intent on his or her own task and paying absolutely no heed to anyone else.

Except she knew the latter wasn’t true.

Everything that went on in the island kingdom of Penwyck, located in the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Britain, was noted and commented upon by the denizens of the country, by the press and by heads of state of other countries.

She recalled a saying appropriate to the moment: These are the times that try men’s souls. Women’s souls were vulnerable, too. In her own mind, she’d been tried, convicted and sentenced to the firing squad.

Don’t be melodramatic, she chided her quivering spirits. When the news did get out, as it invariably must, everyone in the kingdom would be shocked that Megan, the quiet princess, the introspective one, was expecting a child…out of wedlock.

A wry, uncertain smile curved her lips as Megan approached the door to the king’s official chambers.

Her father, King Morgan, had been pleased with her written report on the world trade conference. Her appointment with him was to discuss the results of the talks and decide the tiny island kingdom’s next course of action.

She tried to ignore the tremor that ran through every nerve in her body as she recalled the conference held in Monaco eight weeks ago. The second week of April, to be exact. It was now Monday of the second week in June.

And she was two months pregnant. Two pregnancy tests, bought and used in great secrecy on her part, had confirmed the shocking news.

She’d had no word from Jean-Paul Augustuve—Earl of Silvershire, heir to a dukedom in the neighboring island country of Drogheda and father of her child—in answer to the note she’d dispatched to him two weeks ago.

Another tremor rushed through her as she paused outside the door leading to the king’s busy public quarters. The doorman smiled and bowed her into the Royal Secretary’s office. The room was empty.

“Your Royal Highness,” a familiar voice greeted her.

Sir Selywyn Estabon, the royal secretary, entered from the king’s audience chamber and bowed graciously, his dark eyes mesmerizing, his skin pale from long hours spent inside each day. At thirty-five, six feet tall and muscular looking, Selywyn was a handsome, intriguing man, seemingly devoted to his job.

As teenagers, she and her sisters had spun endless daydreams about him and had speculated on his eligibility as a royal spouse. He’d paid absolutely no heed to their girlish flirting, thus their fantasies had withered and died a natural death as the three girls matured.

Selywyn was intensely loyal to their father and protective of the royal family. Megan knew him to be totally trustworthy with secrets of state or of the heart. All the royal offspring had confided in him over the years.

She swallowed with difficulty. She’d shared her latest secret with no one yet. “Good morning, Sir Selywyn,” she responded. “I have an appointment, I believe?” she added when the secretary made no move to usher her into the king’s presence. Her father wasn’t one to be kept waiting.

“The king sends his regrets, but he will be unable to meet with you this morning.”

Selywyn could have no idea how relieved Megan felt. She nearly flung herself into his arms and showered him with kisses of gratitude. The imaginary firing squad lowered their guns and she was able to breathe deeply once more.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” the man added.

She managed a nod. “Shall I reschedule?”

In the pause that followed, she detected uncertainty in his eyes, then it was gone. Apprehensive again, she studied the king’s secretary, knowing that he was privy to all that went on in the kingdom, and expected bad news, but nothing more was forthcoming.

“I will call you if the king has further questions.” The secretary smiled slightly. “Your report was very comprehensive. King Morgan was pleased.”

At twenty-seven, Megan had long ago learned to contain her emotions, but she felt a tiny glow at the secondhand praise. The royal siblings had always vied for their father’s limited time, and it was a special reward to receive recognition for one’s work on behalf of the kingdom.

“Please convey my thanks,” she said modestly, and left the office as Selywyn held the door. She was clearly but kindly dismissed.

Which was fine by her. The king would not be pleased at her personal news. Unless it aided the affairs of state, she added, frowning. She would not be used as a treaty between two nations the way royal family members had been used in days of old. Even her parents’ marriage had been arranged.

Thinking of the coming months, she trembled like a leaf caught in a gale while worry laced through her composure.

Instead of using the public entry-exit as one was supposed to when seeking or leaving a royal audience, she quickly escaped the huge reception chamber through a side door. A dash through the formal gardens, open to all, and through a gate with a coded lock brought her to the palace’s private gardens where the royals—the three girls and the twins, Owen and Dylan—had played under the watchful eyes of nannies and guards and their mother, Queen Marissa.

For a moment, Megan sat on a stone bench and inhaled the scent of June roses washed clean by the early morning fog. The worry subsided in the tranquillity of the garden.

Finally, drawn irresistibly by the sea, she rose, slipped through another locked gate and walked along the shore path. The trail dropped from a height of forty feet at the knoll, where the original palace had been built nearly four hundred years ago, to the shore in gently rolling swells as if the ocean had etched its restless nature on the land aeons ago. Here, a secluded cove embraced a beach of sand and shells and scattered rocks. Farther out, huge boulders formed a curving breakwater shielding a tiny island in the middle of the bay.

Megan stood on the shore and watched the waves rush in ripples from the Atlantic to break on the shores of Penwyck and its neighbors, Drogheda and Majorco. To the east lay England, Ireland and Wales. Fed by currents that arose in the Caribbean, the ocean brought both cooling breezes and the warmth of the equator to temper their climate. In some sheltered coves, palm trees grew.

Pressing her hands against her heart, she tried to still the great restless longing that rose there. She’d held her worries at bay by dint of will, but her defenses crumbled all at once like a cliff face that could bear the pounding of the waves no longer.

She remembered another night, another sea…

The evening reception was dull. Elegantly dressed dignitaries and their wives, or husbands, as the case may be, moved about the ballroom of the hotel in an ever-changing kaleidoscope of faces, the topics of conversation as varied as the countries represented at the International Trade Conference in Monte Carlo. She was there representing Penwyck in lieu of her older sister—Meredith, the Intelligent One, as the eldest Penwyck princess was known affectionately by their countrymen—who’d been called to other, more urgent, duties at the last minute.

Megan was bored, tired after a week of endless speeches and diatribes, not to mention lunches, dinners and cocktail parties every night. She really preferred her own silent company to all this noise.

Grimacing at how terribly vain that sounded, she glanced around as if looking for an escape route.

At the back corner of the room, she spied a tall masculine figure slipping into the shadows of the terrace. Another soul who needed to escape. She knew who he was.

On impulse, she followed.

Bolted was more like it, she admitted with a carefree laugh as she ducked through the door, which was slightly ajar, and into the star-glazed Mediterranean night. The casinos of Monte Carlo were brightly lit and doing a bustling business. The moon was huge. Its light silvered everything in its glow.

She spotted the lithe frame of Jean-Paul Augustuve as he strolled purposefully toward the marina. She knew he kept a sailboat there, an oceangoing ketch that he could sail alone. She’d never been invited on it, although she’d seen photos of other royal offspring or world-famous models smiling from its teak decks in newspapers from time to time.

Beautiful, competent women who knew their place in the world. Or forged one for themselves.

Megan hesitated, for those traits didn’t describe her at all, then hurried to keep up with his long strides. They arrived at the boat slip, with her not more than ten feet behind him.

“What do you want?” he asked, swinging around to face her after he stepped aboard.

She started in surprise, sure he hadn’t known she was near. “I wondered if you were going for a sail.”

Hearing the uncertainty in her voice, she groaned internally. He would never mistake her for one of those confident women he favored.

His eyes, dark now but a brilliant blue in daylight, studied her for a long, nerve-racking moment, then his teeth flashed in a smile. “Yes.”

She gripped the material at each side of her silk gown. “I want to go with you.”

“No.”

The refusal didn’t surprise her—she’d never expected him to notice her—but it did hurt a bit. The hot press of tears stung her eyes. She was suddenly angry, with herself for the weakness of weeping and with him for his cruel indifference to her feelings.

“Why?” she demanded, surprising both of them.

“I want to be alone.”

“So do I.”

“Then find your own boat.”

“I won’t get in your way,” she promised. “I know how to sail. You might need my help.”

Again the white flash that appeared almost ghostly in the silvery light. He unfastened one of the mooring lines.

“She’s a true lady,” he said of his ship. “She responds to only one hand—mine.”

The sure arrogance along with a second rebuff dissolved the unusual anger. The odd pain flowed over her again.

Megan thought of cold things, of icy fjords and glaciers, of herself as the Ice Princess, remote, cold, untouchable. It was a device she’d used since she was a child—to simply remove her emotions from the situation and lock them in ice. It worked this time, too.

She took one step back on the dock, away from the sailboat and the handsome, arrogant Earl of Silvershire and his wish to be alone.

He moved about the deck effortlessly, fluidly, seemingly one with the night, a fairy prince spawned of something as insubstantial as sea foam and moondust. Nourished by sea and moonlight, he needed nothing from one as mortal as she. Lifting her chin, she turned away.

“Cast off the other line,” he ordered softly and stepped toward the tiller.

Surprised, she spun and caught a flash of silver from his eyes as he glanced her way. She slipped the line from the mooring, took two running steps as the ship swung away from the dock and leaped to the deck.

The action would have been a small step for Jean-Paul Augustuve; it was a giant leap for Megan Penelope Penwyck. Would she land in a safe harbor? Or in a foreign port amidst the gravest danger?

An engine throbbed to life and the ship eased from the slip and into the black-and-pewter waters of the sea. Once away from the marina and the crowded shoreline, Jean-Paul cut the engine and hoisted the sail. They sailed silently on the silver path where the moon met the sea.

“Out here like this,” he said in a voice that murmured over her like the sound of the sea and the night wind, “I sometimes imagine that I’ll sail right off the end of the earth.”

“What will you find?” she asked, intensely curious about his fantasy.

“Never-never land, perhaps. I always wanted to be Peter Pan and sail the heavens on great adventures.”

His soft laughter, aimed at himself and a boy’s foolish dreams, broke through the ice dam and touched her heart.

Jean-Paul was known as something of a rebel and one of the world’s most sought after bachelors, but here was another side to him that was usually hidden, one that was whimsical and tender with dreams that could never be realized.

She’d sometimes felt like that.

A bond, she realized, and wondered if he felt it, too, and if that had prompted his confidence. His next words dispelled that notion.

“Sit down before you fall overboard,” he ordered, his tone sardonic, as if it wouldn’t bother him at all if that should happen.

She ducked as the wind grabbed the sail and the boom shifted. Jean-Paul swung them around so that they ran with the wind. He motioned for her to sit on the bench with him.

The wind snatched her hair from the circle of flowers that secured it to the back of her head, and blew tendrils around her face. Her breath nearly stopped when he reached over to her and began pulling the long pins loose and tossing them over the side.

When she glanced at him, no smile lit his lean face. Instead he appeared thoughtful, almost angry as he frowned at some conflict that showed briefly in his eyes then was hidden from her.

Confused, she watched as he lifted the circlet of flowers, studied it for a long moment, then brought it to his lips the way a lover might who mourned his lost love and tossed it into the night.

Her heart clenched so tightly she thought it would explode from the pressure as she watched the wreath land in the dark water, catch a moonbeam and float out of sight. She pushed the hair from her eyes and held it back with hands that trembled ever so slightly.

With another glance she didn’t understand, Jean-Paul turned the ship once more and sailed on a tack into the wind. Tendrils of hair blew back from her temples.

“Let it go,” he commanded.

She slowly dropped her hands to her lap. He lifted one hand and slid his fingers into the tangles.

“Like silk,” he said in a low tone that stirred turmoil within her.

When his hand dropped to her bare shoulder, she started, then retreated behind the icy facade.

“I’ve wanted to do this all evening,” he continued, and stroked across her back, along the edge of the silk, until his arm was around her. His fingers caressed slowly up and down her arm, causing chills, which he then smoothed away.

Disappointment swamped her when he withdrew his arm and set the vessel on a different tack across the wind. She watched the shoreline as they raced parallel to it. At last he spilled the wind from the sail and engaged the engine again to push into a small cove similar to the one at Penwyck where she’d learned to swim and sail years ago.

“You seem to know these waters well,” she said.

“Yes.”

Sudden, intense jealousy flamed in her, then died as she further retreated from emotion. She was nothing to him; he was nothing to her. There was no need for this reaction.

“I love the sea,” she said to distract herself from his allure. “At home, we have a private place, a cove behind the palace where we played and learned to swim. The bay there is small, but it was a world to us, a place of freedom…”

She let the thought trail off, aware that she gave too much of herself away to this worldly man. What did he care about her need for freedom, to secret herself away from the rest of civilization and live her own fantasy?

He watched her, a slight puzzlement in his eyes. “Who are you?” he asked in a quiet tone.

A current ran along her nerves at the question that was as whimsical as his desire to sail off into the moonlight. The bond grew stronger…more urgent.

“Megan,” she finally answered, a hitch in her breath as possibilities opened to her. She wanted…she wanted…oh, stars and moonlight and rapture.

Foolish, foolish Megan, the Ice Princess scolded.

“Not your name,” he corrected. “The real you. Ah, yes, the Quiet One.”

She tensed at the nickname, but he said nothing more, only watched her from eyes hooded by thick lashes, the lean planes of his face harsh and forbidding. She shivered.

He stood, then quickly threw out the anchor and furled the sail. He went into the hold. In another minute, soft music swelled into the darkness. He returned and held out his arms in invitation to dance.

The first time they’d danced had been at Meredith’s birthday ball. Jean-Paul had politely danced with all the royals, starting with the birthday girl, then the queen and finally her. Anastasia had attended the dinner, then been sent to bed, but Megan had been allowed to stay. Those moments in his arms had seemed filled with magic.

This evening was to be a seduction, she realized. That was what he had decided she wanted. He, with his vast knowledge of many women, knew nothing of her. Looking at the challenge in his eyes, she was tempted, so very tempted.

But this night wasn’t for her. She shook her head.

“No?” he mocked.

“I want to be alone,” she said, turning his earlier statement on him and allowing no emotion to show on her face. Rising, she made her way to the bow and stood watching the luminous rush of shallow waves to the beach.

Disappointment raged through her, although she wasn’t shocked. She didn’t know what she’d expected from her impulsive action, but it hadn’t been this blatant invitation to pleasure, given without words or tender feelings, an intimate meeting of strangers, as it were.

The engine throbbed to life under her feet. Slowly he turned the ketch until they were safely away from the rocky shore. He was returning her to the marina.

She wasn’t surprised, she wasn’t even hurt, but she did regret her rashness in following him.

With the sail up, they tacked against the wind once more, sailing westward rather than eastward toward the port.

Turning, she studied him at the helm, his touch sure and experienced as he guided them out to sea. She wondered if he headed for Gibraltar and the vast ocean beyond. They would sail to the new world…or perhaps all the way home. His or hers?

The island principality of Drogheda was twenty-six miles from her father’s kingdom of Penwyck. Jean-Paul’s uncle was the ruling prince, his father a powerful duke. Jean-Paul, as heir apparent, had been named Earl of Silvershire at twenty-one, much as the future king of England was vested as Prince of Wales when he came of age.

An earl was a suitable husband for a royal princess.

The idea shocked and excited and saddened her. If they married, it would be an official marriage, a merger between two ancient enemies who had tried to conquer each other since the time of Arthur Pendragon and his knights.

She faced the wind and let it blow the silvery webs of longing from her heart. She would never marry. It wasn’t in the cards.

“The sea is getting rough,” Jean-Paul called to her. “Come astern now. Grab a life preserver from the locker.”

She reluctantly did as told and rejoined him at the helm. He had removed his tuxedo jacket, shoes and socks, she saw. His shirt was open to the waist. He’d rolled the cuffs up and out of his way.

He motioned for her to sit, then dropped a rain slicker over her head and arranged its folds to cover her evening gown. His glance at her feet reminded her of the silver sandals she wore. She kicked them off and tossed them down the hatch into the hold.

He grinned and secured the hatch against the squall that was coming up. “I know a place,” he said, as if to reassure her he knew what he was doing.

She nodded.

Just as rain and the first rough wave broke over the bow, he turned the sailing yacht toward a long sea wall, scooted around its end and into a protected cove.

In the sudden stillness, Megan felt her heart pound. Her mouth went dry. They would most likely have to spend the remainder of the night here. She couldn’t decide how she felt about that.

Did she want to be seduced? Was the unconscious wish for fulfillment the driving force behind this strange adventure? Ever honest, she tried to answer, but soon gave it up as hopeless.

After he secured the ship, he opened the hatch and gestured for her to precede him. She went down the steps and stopped. He lifted the poncho over her head and hung it on a hook, then did the same with his shirt. From a cabinet, he removed two towels and tossed one to her. When he dried his hair, she did the same to hers.

The narrow space of the galley was much too restrictive for two people. His elbow bumped hers. His hip touched hers when he tossed the towel on the hook over his shirt, then moved past her to the galley stove.

“Coffee?” he asked, already starting the preparation.

She nodded, then said yes. “Please,” she added.

He paused in measuring water into the pot and stared at her for a breath-catching ten seconds. His smile warmed her as he bent to his task once more. “I love to hear a woman beg,” he murmured with wicked amusement.

“Don’t,” she requested. “I don’t play games.”

He set the pot to brewing, then leaned a hip against the counter and perused her. She smoothed her hair as much as possible.

“Sometimes I don’t, either. Turn around,” he said, and took a brush from a drawer.

He turned her with hands on her shoulders, then proceeded to brush the tangles until her hair hung smooth around her shoulders. He brushed his own dark locks in a few impatient strokes and tossed the brush back into the drawer.

“Beautiful,” he said as if he spoke to himself.

He ran his hand down her hair from the crown of her head to the ends, then he let his hand glide down her back. Goose bumps sprang into being all along her arms. When he guided her so that she faced him once more, she let him.

Their eyes met and held, his intensely blue, confident, arrogant even, hers green and unsure because that was the way she felt. Her heart questioned what was happening, but she shied from the answer. She really didn’t know.

He gave his head a little shake, and she realized the questions were in him, too. Neither of them quite knew why they were together, why they were alone on a ship in a storm, why the night seemed different.

Slowly she became aware of his heat. His chest was only inches from hers. His thumbs caressed the hollows of her shoulders with gentle strokes that were fiery and wonderful at the same time.

Inhaling was an effort. So was lifting her hands and laying them on his chest. Muscles tensed under her fingers as she moved them restlessly over his hard flesh.

He wasn’t a brawny man, but his masculine strength was evident in the lithe definition of his torso, the ropy musculature of his shoulders and arms. He was a man who worked and played hard.

And for keeps?

She tossed her head at the foolish question. She wasn’t expecting forever. So what, exactly, was she asking for?

“What?” he questioned, his eyes narrowing as if he witnessed the confusion inside her.

“Nothing.”

“I’m going to kiss you,” he warned a second before he did. His lips were intensely warm on hers.

She opened her mouth, but no protest came out. He took the kiss deeper, his tongue sweeping over her lips in long moments of sweet sampling before seeking more.

Fire erupted within her. Weakened by the heat, she leaned into him, experiencing him fully as their chests, bellies and thighs pressed hotly into one flesh.

Her breasts beaded and swelled, pushing against the confines of the support built into the silk.

His hands shifted so that his thumbs caressed just above the material. Then, so suddenly she couldn’t have anticipated it, he dipped one hand inside and lifted her breast into his palm, its tip wantonly seeking his touch.

When he lifted his head, he muttered something not quite audible, but she didn’t need the words. She knew in her soul what they were. She, too, felt the wonder.

They kissed again, more urgently this time. He stepped forward, his thigh making a space between hers so that their caresses became more enticing. She found herself reacting instinctively, knowing without words or past experience all that she needed to do.

After exploring the length of his back, she stretched up on tiptoe and ran her hands over his powerful shoulders, then up his neck and into his hair. He wore it somewhat longer than the current style. She gathered a handful and held on while their kiss rocketed through her again.

At last he caught her hands in both of his and held them behind her back, bending her slightly so he could reach the tingling flesh of her breasts above her gown.

Then he slid one hand to the zipper. And stopped.

When she opened her eyes, he said, “No games, right?”

She nodded.

“Come with me.”

It was a request. She laid her hand in his. They went to the stern, where a bed filled almost all the available space. The bed wasn’t prepared for instant seduction, she saw and was glad.

She helped him spread sheets and tuck them in. The air had grown chill, so he added a comforter. Then he turned to her, placed his hands on the fastening at his waistband and waited for her consent.

In that instant she knew she could never say he gave her no choice. The decision was hers. She turned her back to him and lifted her hair out of the way.

He slid the zipper of her dress down, then helped her step out of the gown. He slipped out of his tux pants and laid the items neatly over the only chair.

In a moment they were undressed. He held the comforter up and let her climb in the bed. He clicked on a soft light and closed the door to the galley, then joined her, his arms enclosing her after he pulled the comforter over them. It was like being in a cocoon of warmth and safety.

The storm reached the cove and rocked the boat, sometimes gently, sometimes vigorously. The rain lashed the sea and all that floated upon it. But nothing penetrated the sweet wonder of their lovemaking.

Before they slept, he rose to turn off the light. For a few seconds, he stared down at her, his gaze fathoms deep, his thoughts unreadable as some emotion moved within his eyes and was gone.

Words rose to her lips, but she didn’t say them. She wasn’t sure what was allowed between lovers.

“Rest,” he said gently, and kissed her eyes closed.

She let sleep take her as she rested secure in his arms. He’d been gentle, this sweet lover. For the moment, the yearning that had plagued her soul was quiet.