Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love

by Beverly Barton

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Guimond.”

  Her eyes were an unusual shade of violet blue, like the hyacinths—a gift from the Netherlands—that bloomed in the spring in the royal gardens of Ducharme.

  The fate of two countries and the resolution of a three-hundred-year-old feud hung in the balance of his union with this woman. Three hundred years earlier Charlotte Aurora’s ancestors had purchased land from a bankrupt member of his family and had formed the country of Estaire. That land had previously been under Falkenberg rule for four centuries.

  Laurent’s father and Charlotte Aurora’s father had hoped that the marriage treaty would put an end to the feud between their two countries and improve economic and diplomatic relations. But now that Prince Olivier had confided to Laurent that his passion for mountain biking had rendered him sterile, the treaty would change Estaire’s history. The tiny principality would one day return to Falkenberg rule under the reign of Laurent’s firstborn son.

  With rumors of Prince Olivier’s infertility circulating in the tabloids, Laurent feared that Princess Charlotte Aurora’s timely reappearance and the announcement of their engagement would be greeted with suspicion and resistance.

  Laurent and Olivier were both agreed that they had to protect Charlotte Aurora from possible threats against her life and prepare her for the future that lay ahead of her.

  Laurent remembered his role and cleared his throat, disconcerted by the vulnerability gleaming in Princess Charlotte Aurora’s blue eyes. She wore very little makeup, applied inexpertly, not that she needed much with her flawless skin. “Permit me to say you look lovely, madame.”

  While he’d hoped to put her at ease, his compliment appeared to make her more nervous.

  “Thank you.” Ducking her head, she lifted her skirt with one hand, wrinkling the delicate fabric as she stepped timidly onto the cobbled front stoop, closing the door behind her. She dug her house key out of her evening bag with shaking hands, then promptly dropped it at her feet.

  “Allow me, madame.”

  Laurent gallantly pretended not to notice her clumsiness. When he bent to retrieve her keys, he noted that her toes were as erotically golden as the rest of her, and one of them was encircled with an inscribed gold band.

  He locked her door, then offered her his arm, first checking with Heinrich to ensure it was safe to proceed to the car. Heinrich signaled that all was clear. As they walked down the cobblestone path, Laurent felt the quivering of Charlotte Aurora’s fingers on the sleeve of his jacket. Fresh doubts overtook him as he tried to imagine sharing his life with this awkward creature. His stomach tensed at the thought of those amber curls tumbling across the cool linens of his bed. Curling around his fingers.

  She was not as polished nor as sophisticated as he had hoped. She moved unsteadily in her shoes as if walking on ice. He would have his work cut out for him training her to be a proper princess to her people, and his.

  Prince Olivier had informed him that the princess had been unaware of her title and her heritage until this morning. No doubt it had come as a shock, he thought with a large measure of sympathy. He could only imagine what her reaction to the news of their arranged marriage might be. He’d been spoon-fed the importance of their betrothal along with his morning porridge.

  “Who’s that?” the princess whispered timidly when she saw Heinrich. At six-three, Heinrich was solid imposing muscle. His head, which Heinrich kept razored in a brush cut, reminded Laurent of a boulder.

  “That’s Heinrich. One of the prince’s bodyguards,” he said simply. “Your brother wanted you to have protection.”

  Heinrich opened the rear door of the limo for them. Although Heinrich’s vigilant presence drew unnecessary attention, Laurent was not taking any chances with his princess’s safety. There was too much at stake. A second car containing four other bodyguards would follow them at a discreet distance.

  As Princess Charlotte Aurora endeavored to seat her royal person, an awkward movement to be sure in that tight-fitting gown, Prince Laurent heard the ominous tearing of fabric.

  “Shoot!” A deep flush spread from the princess’s face to her generous cleavage as she gazed in dismay at the damage to her gown. A slit the width of his hand revealed the delicate shape of her ankle. And there appeared to be a peculiar object dangling from the hem of her gown. Prince Laurent saw no need to embarrass her further by drawing her attention to it.

  The sheen of tears dampened her eyes. He touched her arm in the lightest of caresses and attempted to salvage her pride, remembering the many occasions in his life when he’d felt suffocated by his title and his duties and wished he were anyone but a crown prince. “Take me at my word, madame. You look so radiant in that gown, no one will be paying attention to the hem.”

  “Really?” A tremulous smile budded on her lips. A smile so filled with naiveté that he feared the machinations and the frustrations of life in the royal court would destroy her fragile confidence in a week’s time, if not sooner. Her mother hadn’t lasted more than two years in Estaire.

  “Indeed,” he assured her, catching the tropical scent of her hair—coconut, mangoes and pineapple. “You will be dining privately with your half brother in his suite.”

  “Well, in that case…” To his amazement she leaned over and removed what appeared to be some form of shiny adhesive tape from the hem of her skirt. Then she grasped the torn edges of her skirt and ripped it up to a point just below her knee. She peered up at him through her lashes. “Now I’ll be able to walk without breaking my leg.”

  Prince Laurent should have been appalled by her lack of decorum—a princess tearing off her clothing in the back seat of an automobile…and in full view of the hired chauffeur whose integrity could no doubt be sold to the highest bidder. This was exactly the kind of situation that made salacious headlines in the press. But oddly, he felt like laughing. She was such a study in contrasts. Her forthright ingenuousness and the provocative glimpse of her tanned calf were a fascinating combination.

  His princess possessed lovely legs.

  As he walked around the limo he visualized her golden legs twined tightly around his hips. Her belly swelling with his heir and their children playing in the palace garden. He deliberately set his jaw as his body betrayed him by reacting against his wishes to the images filling his mind. Images that both tempted and tortured him.

  His mouth pressed into a thin line. He would do his duty to his country and marry Charlotte Aurora. He would produce an heir. But he would never love her.

  Not the way he’d loved Marielle. Or his mother had foolishly loved his father.

  He of all people knew love had no place in a royal marriage.

  Chapter Two

  Rory’s heart was locked in her throat by the time they arrived at the Hotel Del Coronado. The San Diego hotel on North Island had a long history of receiving royalty, including King Edward VIII who’d met Wallis Warfield Simpson here, the divorceée whom he’d loved so much that he’d abdicated the throne of England to marry her.

  From the curve of the Coronado Bridge, Rory saw the majestic hotel lit up for the evening. Its distinctive turrets traced in white lights resembled diamond-studded crowns. A shiver worked over her skin.

  Overwhelmed by Sebastian Guimond’s commanding presence and the prospect of meeting her brother—a prince!—for the first time, she nervously soaked up every word as the handsome deputy secretary instructed her how to properly address the prince.

  “Okay, I curtsy and call him Your Serene Highness. After that I address him as sir or monsieur—unless we’re alone. Then I can call him by his first name. But I never call him Olivier in public,” she repeated.

  “Excellent.”

  Her knees trembled as the limo pulled up at a rear entrance to the hotel. The steely strength of Sebastian’s fingers was the only thing holding her up as they stepped out of the limo and were instantly surrounded by several dark-suited men.

  Rory felt as if she were in the middle of a cloak-and-
dagger movie.

  “More bodyguards?” she murmured to Sebastian.

  He gave her an enigmatic smile. “Protection against the paparazzi and other undesirables. You will become accustomed to it. Keep moving inside the building. You are at your most vulnerable in those few exposed seconds whenever you are arriving or departing from a vehicle.”

  Vulnerable to what? Rory wanted to ask. Not to mention, what were other undesirables? But they were quickly ushered into an elevator and she felt too self-conscious to say anything that could be overheard by the bodyguards. Anxiety and anticipation multiplied inside her. She was about to meet her brother!

  The elevator doors finally slid open with a soft ping, and she and Sebastian were whisked down a corridor.

  “Smile, madame,” Sebastian commanded as he escorted her into a luxuriously appointed suite. The sensual charm of his German-accented British English raised goose bumps on her arms. “You are Princess Charlotte Aurora of Estaire, and that is a great deal to smile about.”

  She shot him an uneasy glance. “Easy for you to say. You’re not trapped in strappy sandals.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Never mind.” She forced an obedient smile and prayed her brother would like her. The presence of the grim-faced security guards was unnerving. Two of them took up posts outside the door of the suite. But Heinrich and two other merry men accompanied them inside. She didn’t think she’d ever become accustomed to being surrounded by guards.

  Sebastian bowed to her. “I will leave you now. The prince will be joining you momentarily. Bonne soirée.”

  Rory wanted to plead with him not to leave, but there was something buried in the recesses of his intelligent eyes—a level of expectation—that made her draw a deep breath and square her shoulders. She glanced pointedly at the bodyguards. “Are you taking Heinrich and his merry men with you? I don’t want an audience for my first meeting with my brother. There aren’t any ‘undesirables’ here.”

  Sebastian hesitated, then he said something in French to the bodyguards. They followed him down a hallway, but Rory had a feeling they wouldn’t be far away. She shuddered. Being surrounded by bodyguards didn’t look like a fun way to live.

  “Charlotte Aurora.”

  Rory whirled around, joy and uncertainty bubbling into her heart as she came face-to-face with her brother. He looked older than his thirty-two years. She could immediately see the resemblance to their father’s picture in the angular shape of his jaw, the slight flare to his nostrils and his thinning blond hair. His eyes were a paler blue than hers. In his finely cut black tux, he was a model of decorum and perfection—the antithesis of her.

  She curtsied inexpertly. “Your Serene Highness.”

  “Olivier,” he corrected her kindly, his accent distinctively French. “We are alone, ma petite soeur.”

  Rory understood his French, little sister.

  A faint smile curved the serious line of his mouth as he took her hand and kissed her on both cheeks. “I was nine years old when you were born. Your hair is much as I remembered it.”

  She resisted the urge to hug him, not knowing whether it would be considered a breach of protocol. “I’m so happy to meet you! I’ve always wanted a brother or a sister—I just assumed I’d be younger when I got one.” Rory knew she was gushing, but she couldn’t stop. She had a big brother, and he wasn’t acting as if he disliked her on sight.

  Her brother bowed slightly, formally. “I agree, it has been too long. I understand your dear mother passed quite recently. I am sorry for your loss. I remember her well.”

  Rory’s grief surged within her like a wave about to crest. She closed her eyes, blocking the picture that wanted to form in her mind and replacing it with a pleasanter image of her mother strolling along the beach at sunset, the foam-tipped arcs of the waves lapping upon the shore and erasing her footsteps.

  She hugged herself. “What happened between them?” she bluntly asked Olivier. “Why didn’t they stay together?”

  He waved his hand in a regal dismissive gesture.

  “I will endeavor to answer your questions while we dine, ma petite soeur. But first, some champagne. It is your birthday—a reason to celebrate.”

  She hadn’t noticed the bottle of champagne on ice in a silver bucket. Easing herself onto the sofa in the ridiculous dress, she hid her evening bag behind a pillow and watched in a haze of happiness and awe as her newfound brother popped the cork from the bottle, then pressed a crystal flute bubbling with champagne into her hand.

  He raised his own glass to hers. “Bonne fête, Charlotte Aurora. And welcome to the Valcourt family.”

  Rory awkwardly clinked glasses with him. She was so happy she forgot to tell him she preferred being called Rory. She took a sip of the golden liquid and felt the bubbles dance over her tongue and swirl in her belly.

  Olivier set aside his glass and produced a box covered in royal-blue velvet from the breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket. An insignia in gold and red thread—identical to the crest she’d seen on the portfolio—was stitched into the velvet. “This is for you. A gift from our father. It originally belonged to his great-grandmother, Princess Anne of Greece, who wore it on her wedding day. He had it redesigned especially for you for your twenty-third birthday.”

  He had? Rory was moved beyond words. The idea that her father had given any thought to her feelings or needs was alien to her. A child’s wish that never came true. Until now. Her heart tapped a nervous rhythm like a finger on a pane of glass as she fumbled to open the box.

  Oh, my word. The delicate necklace of diamonds with a heart-shaped diamond pendant was exquisite. Rory forgot how to breathe.

  Olivier lifted the necklace from its velvet bed. “The heart was part of the original necklace. The twenty-two diamonds on either side were added to signify each year he thought of you, waiting for you to turn twenty-three.”

  A painful lump formed in Rory’s chest. “Th-thank you,” she blubbered, self-consciously aware of how awful she looked when she cried. But she couldn’t help it. She was a princess and she had a brother, and the necklace was proof that her father hadn’t conveniently forgotten about her existence. She held still, lifting her wayward hair off her neck while Olivier fastened the necklace around her throat.

  He stood back and looked at her with a measuring gaze that gleamed with approval. “Magnifique! Now you look like a princess.”

  He held out his arm to her, “Come, ma petite soeur, your birthday feast awaits.”

  “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME,” Rory sang to herself, hiding a tiny hiccup behind her hand. After sipping two glasses of champagne and a glass of white wine, she was feeling completely pleased with herself and less conscious of the rigid formality of the wait staff and the bodyguards in her brother’s suite. Under Olivier’s questioning she had already confided that she had attained a bachelor of arts in the humanities from Sarah Lawrence College. She’d told him she was working in a bookstore to learn the business so she could achieve her lifelong dream of opening a children’s bookstore once she had found the perfect location and formed a business plan.

  “You promised you would tell me about my parents,” she reminded him as the appetizer course of panseared sea scallops was cleared from the table and the entrée served. “The newspaper articles my mother left me said that they met at a European trade convention.”

  “That is correct. I believe our father was fascinated by your mother’s business acumen, as well as her beauty. At the time, Estaire’s economy was struggling. During her first visit to the palace, your mother suggested we entice Hollywood producers to use Estaire’s fortress city of Auvergne and the surrounding countryside to film period pieces. The movie industry is now our second major industry after tourism.”

  Rory glowed with pride. “That sounds like my mother—she was always able to see possibilities no one else could see. She worked as a trendsetter for a department store, traveling the world for the latest fads in home decor.”

  “I’m not surpri
sed. I remember when she moved into the palace she was eager to redecorate.”

  “She hated antiques.”

  Her brother looked up from his plate of grilled pacific swordfish, amusement lighting his pale blue eyes. “I remember that, as well. She created a furor when she suggested commissioning a new set of china for the palace. The plates were to be an appalling shade of yellow stamped with a red crown. She did not succeed in her request.”

  Rory tucked some stray curls behind her ear, feeling slightly defensive and ill at ease. She suspected that the plates her mother had wanted to replace were dreadfully ugly and still in use. “My mother’s lawyer told me they were only married two years. What happened?”

  “Your mother left when you were eight months old, citing irreconcilable differences. She was perhaps too American. Too independent. She wasn’t accepting of our ways.”

  Rory flushed, not too giddy to hear the note of censure in his voice. She toyed with a spear of asparagus and wished Sebastian hadn’t abandoned her so quickly. She still hadn’t decided what color his eyes were. Could intelligence be considered a color? Maybe she shouldn’t have drunk so much. Or eaten so many scallops. “What ways?”

  “To marry into a royal family involves great personal sacrifice, a willingness to put the needs of one’s country above one’s own personal needs.”

  Rory stole another glance toward the bodyguards hovering in the hall. Her mother had been a creative and fiercely independent woman. She’d probably hated being hemmed in by guards and rigid rules. “So it was more than yellow china?”

  Olivier nodded. “Much more, Charlotte Aurora.” A haunting sadness touched his aristocratic features. He placed his fork on his plate. “A disagreement over the path of your future led to your parents’ separation and divorce.”

  “My future?” Rory frowned. Her brain was muddled from the effects of the alcohol. “I don’t understand.”