She gasped, choked and went into a fit of uncontrollable coughing.
She only realized she was in his arms when the gentle, surging heel-of-palm pats to her back soothed the choking, and his lips kissed away the tears streaming down her face. “Yeah, I said you’re my woman,” he growled in her ear, “smart mouth, sheep poop and all.”
He tipped up her face to his. “Believe, Laila,” he whispered as he bent to kiss her—long, deep, exquisitely, indescribably tender, filled with love. Laila, dazed and happy, could only kiss him back with all the love she’d tried to lock inside her heart for so long.
When he finally moved back an inch, she swayed into him, her head falling to his chest. She listened to his heart beating, solid, steady—here. Unbelievably here.
Believe, Laila.
She put a hand over his chest, feeling him breathe.
“I’m here, Laila—and I’m not going anywhere again without you. Well, maybe to the occasional stock sale or muster,” he amended with a smile in his voice, “but not till this little guy’s at least crawling around safely, and you’ve finished your degree.” He kissed her again, and caressed her belly. “You look tired, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I hear you haven’t been sleeping much lately. You haven’t been crying, have you? I told you I was coming back for you.”
Aching with hope, she looked up at him. “Jake, I—”
He put a tender finger to her mouth. “You need the words? Believe, Laila. Believe in how amazing and lovable you are, just as you always believed you could heal me. I wasted so much time being afraid I’d lose you, I almost did—but I’m not afraid anymore,” he said, very softly, smiling at her with all the tenderness she’d ever dreamed of. “I think I loved you all along, just like you love me. You’re a very smart woman, you know that? You sent me back to Burrabilla to face my ghosts—but they were all in my mind. Everyone had forgiven me, but me. I needed to go home to see what you already knew—that giving up on life and love was only dishonoring her memory.” He kissed her again. “Will you marry me, Laila? Will you marry the dumb goof who was too blind to see the priceless treasure right in front of him?”
His eyes were luminous with love, making her heart turn over in her chest. “Oh, Jake…”
Smiling, he pushed his finger down over her mouth. “Keep that sassy mouth for kissing. It’s finally my turn to talk. I got your family to fly to town for a meal. I figure we have about—” he checked his watch “—another two hours before your dad can’t take the wait anymore, and comes back to see what’s going on.”
With a twitching smile, she nodded against his finger.
“Good. I’ll draw you a bubble bath. Marcie’s made a meal fit for a princess. While I set it up, you go and soak out, wash your hair, get dressed in your prettiest maternity dress and come back down. I refuse to be accepted by a woman covered in mud and sheep’s dags.”
And, as if to prove how offended he really was, he kissed her again…
EPILOGUE
Bathurst, three years later
“LAILA SUTHERLAND.”
Thunderous applause came from the back rows as, gowned and capped, and grinning fit to burst a blood vessel, Laila walked up the stairs to accept her degree.
Laila Sutherland, Bachelor of Veterinary Science.
She’d made it at last. They’d spent the past year here in Bathurst as she finished her degree, and made it with honors. Tomorrow, they were heading back to Burrabilla for good.
They were going home.
Once she’d taken her degree from the dean, she turned and held it up with a triumphant grin. Her gaze locked in on her people. Dar and Marcie, bouncing in their seats; Mai, smiling and waving at her; Drew and Glenn, Aaron and Sandy all hooting, clapping and whistling in pride.
Jimmy was there, too, hooting and stamping his feet. His latest girlfriend sat beside him—Chelle, or Shana, or something like that. She couldn’t keep a list of the country girls who threw themselves at him on a regular basis. Handsome, single country vets were in short supply…
Danni and Jodie were there, waving and hollering, “Laila! Laila!”
Even Dave Randall had made the trek from home, and was grinning in pride. He’d kept her on track during the six months they’d stayed at Wallaby before and after Ally’s birth, keeping up her reading—and using her skills on a regular basis. She hadn’t wanted to at first, but Jake insisted that he was Ally’s daddy and he was perfectly capable of caring for their daughter while she got her career on track.
And he’d done exactly that the past year, being the full-time daddy, cooking and cleaning and caring for the family while Laila concentrated on her final year.
Her gaze came to the front row where her beloved Jake sat, with dark-haired, blue-eyed, adorable Ally Jennifer Sutherland on his lap, in her prettiest blue dress and the pink patent shoes she insisted on wearing everywhere, waving at her mummy.
When, after sixteen hours of labor, Dr. Broughton had said the timeless words, “It’s a girl,” she’d been too exhausted for shock—and too happy to have her beautiful little girl to care. Jake had been over the moon, and totally wrapped around Ally’s finger from the moment of her birth—but that didn’t stop him teasing Laila unmercifully about her woeful mother’s instinct.
He asked her constantly to predict the sex of the baby she carried now; but she’d learned her lesson. A prophetess she was not. One very happy wife to her adoring husband, and mother to the most beautiful child in the world—not to mention Burrabilla’s new qualified vet—would do her, any day.
NATASHA OAKLEY
Crowned: An Ordinary Girl
By Royal Appointment
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
A few words from Natasha
on her latest story…
Someone told me there are currently forty-one eligible princes in the world. Right or wrong, that set me off thinking. Maybe it’s because I’m British, and I know that if one of our royal family sneezes it’ll be reported somewhere the next day, but I’m not sure I’d like to marry a prince. Not really. But what if you fell in love with him without knowing he was a prince? And what if he was your first love, the man you’ve never quite recovered from? That’s what happens to Marianne. Of course, Prince Sebastian is quite wonderful….
Natasha
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
‘YOU’RE reading Chekhov. Have you read any Tolstoy?’
Dr Marianne Chambers hesitated midway through the second paragraph of the paper she was proofreading. A small frown pulled at the centre of her forehead as she recognised the uncanny echo of a long-ago conversation.
It had to be impossible. Why would he be at the Cowper Hotel during an academic conference? She was being completely ridiculous.
But…
The memory of that sunny afternoon tugged at her and her frown deepened. It was the same upper-class English accent, with the same hint of something indefinably ‘foreign’ about it.
And exactly the same words.
Marianne remembered them verbatim. In fact, she remembered every single blasted thing Seb Rodier had ever said to her—from the first moment he’d seen her reading Chekhov on the steps of Amiens Cathedral.
A shadow fell across her page and the voice behind her continued. ‘Or Thomas Hardy? Now, he can be really depressing, but if you like that kind of thing…’
Dear God, no.
Marianne’s head whipped round to look dir
ectly up into a calmly smiling face. Older, more determined maybe, but still the face of the man who’d completely derailed her life.
Back then he’d worn old jeans and a comfortable T-shirt, seemingly an exchange student like herself. Now he stood there in a designer suit and smelt of seriously old money.
There was no surprise in that. She must have seen several hundred newspaper photographs of Prince Sebastian II over the years, but not one of them had prepared her for the overwhelming sense of…yearning she felt as she met his dark eyes.
‘Hello, Marianne,’ he said softly.
Seb!
His name imploded in her head, while every single moment she’d spent with him all those summers before came whizzing back into high-definition clarity.
Every dream.
Every heartbreak.
In the space of a millisecond she felt as though she’d been sucked back in time. Just eighteen years old. A long way from home and living with a family she barely knew. She’d been so scared, so very scared. Waiting for him. Hoping for a telephone call…
Anything.
Wanting to understand what was happening. Wanting him. Desperately wanting him.
She’d wondered how this moment might feel. Not that she’d ever anticipated she’d find out. He’d left…and their paths had never crossed again.
And why would they? Lowly paid academics didn’t often run into members of the aristocracy, let alone an honest-to-goodness blue blooded royal.
‘Seb?’ It was difficult to force the words past the blockage in her throat. ‘Sh-should I call you that? Or is it Your Highness? Or…Your Royal Highness? I don’t know what I—’ Marianne reached up a hand to brush at the sharp pain stabbing in her forehead.
He moved closer and spoke quietly. ‘Your Serene Highness, but Seb will do. It’s good to see you. How have you been?’
Somewhere in the background Marianne could hear the sound of laughter and the clink of teaspoons on china. Incongruous sounds of normality as everything around her started to spin.
‘Fine. I’ve been fine,’ she lied. ‘And you?’
‘Fine.’ Seb moved round to stand in front of her. ‘It’s been a very long time.’
‘Yes.’
He paused, his brown eyes seeming to melt her body from the toes up. ‘You look amazing. Really amazing.’
‘Th-thank you. So do you.’ Damn! ‘I mean…you look…’ She trailed off, uncertain of anything—except that she really couldn’t do this. Whatever this was.
‘May I sit beside you?’
No!
What was he doing? They weren’t merely friends who’d happened to bump into each other. Far from it. She might not have much experience of meeting ‘old’ lovers, but surely you didn’t sit there making conversation as though you didn’t know exactly what the other looked like naked?
Marianne shuffled the typed sheets back into her file. ‘Can I stop you?’ Her eyes flicked to the two grey-suited men standing a respectful distance away in the otherwise deserted foyer. Bodyguards, she supposed. ‘I imagine Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee make it their business to see you get what you want.’
‘Georg and Karl.’
‘You give them names?’
His mouth quirked into a smile. ‘Actually, no. In Andovaria we still consider the naming of children to be entirely the prerogative of the respective parents.’
He sat beside her as blithely as if the last ten years hadn’t happened. ‘Unlike Denmark, where the queen needs to give permission for the use of any name not on the approved list.’
‘How forward-thinking of you.’
‘We like to think so.’
Marianne gave her head a little shake as though it would somehow bring the planets back into alignment. He said the name of his country as easily as if he’d never lied to her. He seemed to take it for granted she’d know it now and there was nothing to be gained by pretending she didn’t.
His photograph was beamed all over the world. Every hairdresser in the country probably had a magazine with his picture in it. She’d seen him skiing, mountain walking, standing on the steps of Poltenbrunn Castle, at assorted royal weddings…including his own.
She even remembered the name of the girl he’d married—and divorced, although they’d called it an annulment. Amelie. Amelie of Saxe-Broden. Everything about that wedding seemed to have attracted the attention of the world’s media and she’d not been able to shut it out.
If she’d needed any other impetus to get on with her life, that had been it.
Marianne drew a deep breath. ‘So, what brings you to England? Is there some royal event I missed hearing about?’
He shook his head. ‘No, this is an entirely private visit.’
‘How lovely.’ The sarcastic edge to her voice shocked her. What was happening? She felt like a piece of fabric that had started to fray. Marianne bent to put her file into her briefcase as sudden hot tears—part anger, part sadness—stung the back of her eyes.
She mustn’t cry. Damn it! She’d done more than enough of that. It was as though seeing him again had pierced a hole in the dam she’d built to protect her from all the emotions of that time.
Marianne pulled her briefcase onto her knee and concentrated on fastening the clasp. ‘Are you travelling incognito this time?’ She spared him a glance. ‘I suppose the men in grey,’ she said, looking at Georg and Karl, ‘might curb the possibilities a bit.’
Seb’s already dark eyes took on a deeper hue. ‘You’re still angry with me.’
Something inside her snapped. ‘Just what exactly did you think I’d be?’
‘I suppose…’ Seb twisted the ring on his right hand and glanced over his shoulder as though to make sure the foyer was still empty of anyone who might be listening. ‘I suppose I hoped—’
‘You hoped. What? That I’d somehow have forgotten you walked off into the night and didn’t bother to contact me? Th-that you lied to me? Funnily enough, Seb, that kind of thing tends to stay with you.’
‘I—’
She cut him off. ‘Lovely though this has been, I’m afraid I’ve got to go. I’ve got an incredibly busy morning and—’ she stood up and Seb stood with her ‘—I need to gather my thoughts.’
‘Marianne, I—’
‘Don’t!’ She adjusted her grip on the handle of her briefcase. ‘D-don’t you dare. It’s a full decade since I’ve been remotely interested in anything you have to say.’
‘I didn’t lie to you.’
About to walk away, Marianne froze. How dared he? How dared he stand there and say that—to her? For a moment she was too dumbfounded to answer.
Then, on a burst of anger, ‘Really? Somehow I must have misheard you telling me you were Andovarian royalty. How can I have got it that muddled? Stupid, stupid me!’
His face reacted as though she’d slapped him. Strangely that didn’t feel as fantastic as she’d thought it would, but she continued relentlessly, ‘And to think I’ve just spent years of my life thinking what a complete waster you are.’
Seb stood a little straighter. ‘I admit I didn’t tell you I was the crown prince—’
‘No, you didn’t!’
‘—but there were reasons for that.’
Marianne almost snorted with contempt. It hadn’t taken much introspection, even at eighteen, for her to work that out for herself. Faced with the discovery her Seb Rodier was about to be enthroned as his country’s ruler, she’d made a good guess at what those reasons might be.
Only she didn’t share his belief they were justifiable. Ever. No one had the right to treat someone as he had her. Crown prince or not.
‘Rodier is my family name. I didn’t lie to you about that and I—’
‘Of course, that makes all the difference,’ she said silkily, still keeping her voice low. ‘You knew I’d no idea who you were and you deliberately omitted telling me. I didn’t even know you weren’t Austrian. I’d never even heard of Andovaria. You certainly never mentioned it and I dare say you made
sure Nick didn’t either.’
‘I never told you I was Austrian.’
‘You said you lived a short drive from Vienna.’
‘Which is true. I…’
Marianne closed her eyes. This was a childish and pointless conversation—and she’d reached the end of what she could cope with. She held up her free hand as though it had the power to ward off anything else he might say. ‘Honestly, I don’t care any more if your real name is Ambrose Bucket and you live in the vicinity of Saturn. It wouldn’t change anything. You did lie to me—and I don’t forgive you.’ She would never forgive him as long as she had breath in her body.
‘Marianne—’
‘No!’ No more. Her one coherent thought was that she needed to escape. Anywhere—as long as it put enough distance between herself and His Serene bloody Highness.
She kept her back straight and one foot moving in front of the other. She needed air and she needed it now. Marianne headed straight for the wide double doors and practically ran down the shallow steps.
Seb. Seb Rodier. Even though she knew he was the ruling prince of a wealthy alpine principality she couldn’t think of him that way. To her this Seb was merely an older version of the nineteen-year-old language student she’d met in Amiens. The one she’d eaten crêpes with, walked beside the River Seine with and, damn it, loved.
Marianne bit down so hard on her bottom lip she drew blood. Oh, God. Not swearing, praying. She just wanted the memories to stop flooding through her.
Her feet slowed because they had no choice. London traffic blocked her way and the coffee shop she wanted was on the other side of the road.
And why was she running anyway? Experience had taught her that there was nowhere to go that would stop the pain from jogging alongside. More slowly she crossed the road, dodging between the stationary taxis that were banked up at the junction.
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