Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love

by Beverly Barton

  “I’ve known my duty and my destiny from the time I was a toddler. My only desire has been to carry out my responsibilities to Estaire to the best of my abilities. Unfortunately, I have failed in one regard. Princess Penelope and I have been married three years. Recently we have learned that I am incapable of fathering children and that I can not provide Estaire with an heir to the throne.”

  Rory was at a true loss for words. She found her older brother intimidating, but she could see that his admission caused him great pain. She reached out and touched his arm, not caring if it broke some rigid protocol. “I’m so sorry.”

  He looked at her fingers, but instead of reprimanding her as she expected, he covered her fingers with his own. “Just as my destiny was predetermined for me, so was yours.” The gesture brought tears to her eyes. Olivier squeezed her fingers, then removed a folded sheet of paper from a pocket of his tuxedo jacket. “I don’t suppose you read French?”

  “Not well,” she admitted with a hiccup. “My mother and I traveled to France occasionally and she insisted I study French in college, but all I can do is find chicken on a menu and read street signs.”

  Olivier showed her the document. “This is a photocopy of a marriage treaty. Shortly after your birth, our father entered into negotiations with King Wilhelm of Ducharme, the ruling prince of the neighboring country. He promised your hand in marriage to Ducharme’s Crown Prince Laurent. It was a political move to encourage trade and cooperation between both countries. And it was hoped that the marriage would put to rest the ill feelings of a three-hundred-year feud over the purchase of land from a member of the Falkenberg family, which became the country of Estaire. The Falkenbergs are the royal family of Ducharme. They did not take kindly to having a sizable portion of their country sold beneath their noses.”

  Rory tried to make sense of the piece of paper and the story her brother was telling her. In a way it sounded like a fairy tale, but she didn’t think she was going to like the ending. In fact, her stomach felt queasy.

  “Your mother left your father when she found out about the treaty,” Olivier continued gently. “She brought you back to America with her. Our father allowed you to leave with her on the condition that you return to Estaire on your twenty-third birthday to assume your title and your responsibilities to your country and to marry Prince Laurent.”

  Rory stared at him, horrified. The father she’d fantasized about, made innumerable excuses for and dreamed she’d someday meet had bartered her away as if she were a piece of property. Her stomach dipped and rolled.

  “That’s sick!” she exclaimed, indignant. “It’s so medieval. No wonder my mother left him.” And no won der her mother had kept the secret to herself all these years. Her mother had been a shrewd businesswoman, and she’d bargained for her daughter’s life. Well, her childhood anyway.

  Rory didn’t know who to be more angry with. Her father or her mother. The elegantly papered walls of the suite seemed to close in on her; the candles burning on the table seemed suffocatingly warm. “I don’t want to be a princess. I can’t marry a prince. What if I refuse?”

  “Then you place the future of the Valcourt family’s rule of Estaire at great risk. You are the heir apparent. If you resign all rights to succession then the principality would revert back to France upon my death—unless you have a child who can be appointed as the heir. I would ask you to consider that decision carefully. Prince Laurent is an honorable man, who, like me, has been raised to assume the responsibilities of his position. He is as devoted to the well-being of Ducharme as I am to Estaire. Your firstborn son, or a daughter in the absence of a son, will one day rule both countries.”

  Rory gulped. Put that way it made her personal wishes seem childish and insignificant. Had her mother really expected her to go through with this wedding? Why, then, had she told Rory that she wanted her to marry for love?

  Rory was royally confused. “I don’t know anything about being a princess. Women more qualified than me have tried and were terribly unhappy—look at Princess Diana and Fergie!”

  “I have taken that into consideration, as has your fiancé.” Olivier lowered his gaze. “You’ve already met Sebastian Guimond. He is Prince Laurent’s deputy secretary. He will train you in royal protocol and etiquette. When we feel you are ready to embrace your duties, we will make a formal announcement of your impending nuptials.”

  Sebastian was her royal fiancé’s secretary?

  Rory lurched to her feet. She needed some air and a powder room. She was never, ever, ever going to make a wish on a birthday candle again. “S’cuse me.”

  Olivier tried to stop her, “I know this must come as a surprise, but you have a duty to your country…”

  She tuned him out as she ran toward a door she hoped would lead to a powder room. A bodyguard was hot on her trail. Her stomach had coiled into a monstrous cobra that was rearing its ugly head. She yanked open the door and ran full tilt into Sebastian Guimond.

  She had the fleeting sensation of being captured and held against his solid chest by arms that were strong and unexpectedly comforting. He smelled wonderful—an erotic combination of wool, linen, sandalwood and warm male flesh.

  She lifted her eyes to his face. She hoped that he would tell her that this was all a sick joke. Her parents would never force her to marry a stranger.

  Sebastian’s eyes, she finally noted, were black as ink on a page and as bluntly revealing. His gaze summed her up and found her lacking.

  Something rebellious rose in Rory. All those years of feeling that if she were only prettier or smarter, her father would have wanted to love her. To be with her. Her silent entreaty turned to a mutinous glare. Then, she clutched her stomach and threw up on Sebastian’s shoes.

  THE PRINCESS’S HOUSE was silent and dark, the incessant pounding of the surf outside the only pulse of life.

  The hit man toured the vast shadowed rooms, seeking to redeem himself for failing to kill her and earn the rest of his reward. There was a security alarm system, but the princess had not activated it before she’d left. He nearly jumped out of his skin when a black cat with yellow-green eyes wove around his ankles, meowing raucously.

  He kicked the annoying creature away from him, hard enough that it struck the wall with a howl and slunk into the shadows. He only had a few hours to accomplish his task before Princess Charlotte Aurora returned. A few precious hours to arrange her death.

  Chapter Three

  Rory splashed cold water on her face and groaned at her reflection in the powder room mirror. Her non-smear mascara had smeared, and her hair resembled a clump of snarled wool.

  She’d never been so embarrassed in her life. She’d ruined Sebastian’s expensive leather shoes. He’d behaved like a perfect gentleman, whisking a pristine handkerchief from his pocket to offer her, one arm curling around her waist as he ushered her to a powder room. He’d dispatched a maid to her aid who’d provided her with a robe, a toothbrush and toothpaste. Rory accepted the maid’s offerings, then sent her away. She wanted to wallow in her misery alone.

  Some birthday. The dress she’d bought to give herself confidence was as ruined as her pride. She’d completely humiliated herself. Olivier was no doubt shaking his head, regretting that she’d ever been born. She couldn’t imagine what Sebastian Guimond was thinking. Yes, she could.

  Well, she thought mutinously, rubbing at the mascara smears on her cheek with a facecloth. She hadn’t asked to be a princess. Mom, why didn’t you tell me? Why did I have to find out like this? Why couldn’t you have let me meet my father at least once?

  A discreet knock sounded on the door. Probably the maid again. Rory gave an exasperated sigh. “Please leave me alone. I told you I’m fine.”

  She just needed a few minutes to work up the courage to face the carefully disguised censure in her brother’s and Sebastian Guimond’s expressions.

  A knock sounded on the door again. This one imperious in manner. “It’s Sebastian. You will open the door, Your Serene
Highness.”

  Something in his tone warned her she could not refuse. Rory took one look at the pink splotches on her face from her vigorous rubbing and threw the facecloth into the sink. What was the use? No amount of scrubbing would turn her into an elegant, composed princess. Not when she was wearing a bathrobe over a phony water-filled bra.

  She yanked the bathroom door open. “Yes?”

  He looked so arrestingly debonair, perfectly groomed without a hair out of place, his feet shod in a pair of glistening black leather shoes that seemed identical to the pair she had ruined.

  Her heart thudded with uncertainty. His inky-black eyes raked over her, as if taking in every curve beneath the robe’s soft material and counting every pink splotch on her face. “We will begin our lessons now, madame.”

  Before she could protest, he entered the powder room, closing the door behind him. She instinctively took a step back as his imposing presence filled the small room.

  Rory flushed red with acute embarrassment. He exuded a dangerous aura of power and savoir faire. She didn’t like the hard glint in his eyes as if he’d accepted an impossible challenge.

  She hiked her chin a notch and glared at him. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but no thanks. If you’ll just call me a taxi, I’ll see myself home.”

  “You will do no such thing.” His eyes softened with what might have been compassion. “You will be living in distinguished circles. You will meet presidents, kings, prime ministers and their representatives. Their staffs will do their utmost to see to your comfort and security. And the first lesson you must learn is how to conduct yourself when the unexpected happens and things go wrong. No matter how awkward the moment, you ignore the gaffe and continue as if nothing has occurred.”

  His voice hardened. “Princess Charlotte Aurora of Estaire does not leave a dinner half-clothed with her head down. The lady’s maid is well trained. I suggest you make wise use of her services. You will hand her your soiled gown to be properly cleaned and request her to have something in the same size sent up from the hotel’s boutique. You will allow her to offer you some cosmetics and assistance with your hair. When you are presentable, you will make a simple apology to Prince Olivier and inform him that you are not feeling well. Then I will escort you home. Is that understood?”

  Rory braced her hands on her hips. “No, I don’t understand any of this! Do you think I asked to be lied to my entire life? I didn’t even know my father was a prince until this morning—and I found that out from my mother’s lawyer.” Her chin wobbled. “Frankly, I don’t want to be told the proper way to act by a big intimidating male secretary who—” She stopped before she could say he made her insides tremble like the aftershocks of an earthquake. Oh, God, this was embarrassing!

  She yanked her gaze from Sebastian’s shocked expression. The diamonds around her throat winked back at her in the mirror.

  Grief prickled like needles in her throat. She touched the heart-shaped stone with a tentative finger. Was the necklace proof her father had missed her over the years?

  “Did my father really have this necklace made for me?” she demanded. “Or is it some trick that my brother and Prince Laurent dreamed up to get me to do what they want?”

  Sebastian frowned, the guarded fierceness of his dark eyes sending a warning rippling through her.

  Oh, God. Were her brother and Prince Laurent trying to manipulate her? Bitter disappointment seeded in her breast. Was it too much to expect her brother to want an honest, loving relationship with her?

  Sebastian stepped toward her, dwarfing her with his size, yet his eyes warmed with a protective compassionate air that made her want to seek the fortress of his arms again. “You are wise not to be so trusting, Princess. Palace life has its share of machinations to be sure. There are always factions who would seek out a royal’s vulnerabilities and use them for their own purposes. I can assure you that Prince Laurent has the highest of intentions for this marriage. While I owe my allegiance to him, you have my word that my only purpose is to assist you in fulfilling your destiny.”

  He touched the heart-shaped pendant with a long supple finger. The moisture in her mouth evaporated and her stomach twisted and clenched like clay being kneaded.

  She licked her dry lips as she noted the dusting of dark hair on his fingers. She’d never noticed that a man could have sexy, arrogant fingers. Sebastian wasn’t wearing a wedding band. Did that mean he wasn’t married?

  “As for the necklace,” Sebastian continued in his German-accented English, “I am not personally aware of its history, but there are ways to obtain information. Discreetly, of course.”

  Rory’s eyes widened. “You would do that for me?”

  Determination settled on his handsome features. “That, and more, madame. Prince Laurent would trust no other with your concerns. Can you not do the same?”

  Prince Laurent. Her fiancé.

  Rory’s face flamed at the reminder. Could she really trust Sebastian? Whether she was being played for a fool or not, the unanswered questions she had about her father lay in Estaire. As did the possibility of a relationship with her brother, Olivier. Could she completely turn her back on what they offered? Would she be a coward if she didn’t even try? What would her mother say?

  Knowing her mother’s aversion for confrontation, Rory suspected her mother had hoped to avoid the whole sticky situation until the last possible moment, then tell Rory she was capable of making her own choices. When Rory was twelve, she’d found a bag of feminine products on her bed along with a magazine article describing how to use them. There’d been no embarrassing mother-daughter talk.

  Anger and confusion battered Rory’s emotions. She had no intention of rushing into a marriage to a stranger. She retreated two steps from Sebastian’s disturbing presence to regain her equilibrium. Her fingers curled into her damp palms. “I would appreciate it if you could find out about the necklace, but let’s get one thing straight. You can teach me how to be a princess, but you can tell your prince that I won’t be marrying him unless he meets my standards.”

  Sebastian’s nostrils flared. “Indeed,” he said, a trace of wry amusement curving his lips. “I will convey the message. And I look forward to discovering what standards those might be.” With a slight bow, he left her.

  Rory sagged against the sink. She’d insulted his prince and made him angry. Well, that was too damn bad.

  “HOW IS SHE?” Prince Olivier inquired, tapping his fingers worriedly on the arm of a gold brocade wing chair as Prince Laurent strode into the suite’s sitting room.

  Laurent flashed his future brother-in-law a confident smile. “Nothing a good night’s sleep and some aspirin won’t cure. She’ll be joining us shortly.”

  But inwardly he was concerned about Charlotte Aurora. Turning her into a proper princess would not be what Americans termed a walk in the park.

  The princess could barely walk in the shoes she was wearing. And he found her refusal to marry him unless he measured up to her standards preposterous. Americans placed far too much emphasis on the romance and completely ignored the more practical issues of sharing a life together.

  Charlotte Aurora’s mother had disgraced herself and made a public fool of her husband when she’d ended their marriage. Laurent’s commitment to Charlotte Aurora would be built on honor and mutual trust and the devotion of duty to both their countries. Members of the Falkenberg royal family did not divorce, nor did they attract scandal.

  Laurent routinely used his influence and contacts in the media to maintain a low profile in the press. He exercised discretion in his intimate relationships. But evading the paparazzi and overzealous fans was no easy feat.

  Last year a fashion designer he’d dated had stopped seeing him after she was attacked in the ladies’ room of a bar by an obsessed woman wielding a knife. Fortunately Nathalie suffered only a mild cut to her arm and Laurent had managed to whisk her to a hospital without making headlines. But he hadn’t been so fortunate after Marielle’s
death. His name and his heart had been trampled in the press after she’d died at a party on her family’s yacht.

  While the authorities had concluded that her drug overdose was accidental, the gossip rags had pumped out rumors that Marielle had committed suicide after a violent argument with him. There were rumors she’d been pregnant with his child. Other articles had claimed he’d given her the drugs. The facts feeding the articles supposedly originated from an unnamed source inside the palace, but neither Laurent nor the palace press office had been able to identify this mysterious source.

  Tension tightened Laurent’s body. Losing Marielle and coping with her death had been the most devastating experience of his life. He’d loved Marielle the way his mother had loved his father. As if she were a rare treasure that had been entrusted to him. But Laurent had taken to heart the last conversation he’d had with his mother before her death from renal cancer when he was sixteen. His mother had tearfully confided that her deepest regret was falling in love with her husband. She would have spared herself much suffering over King Wilhelm’s lifelong affair with his mistress if she had kept her heart intact.

  Laurent had known about his father’s mistress. In fact, upon his entry to puberty, his father had detailed what was expected of him, including the advisability of keeping affairs private.

  Laurent had always known that Marielle could never be his wife. Nor would she have been happy relegated to the role of his mistress. The heiress to a shipping fortune, she could have had any man in the world. As soon as he’d realized she was assuming he would propose, he’d told her about the marriage treaty and explained his duty to his country.

  Laurent took a chair opposite Olivier.

  Olivier sighed, frowning. “I’m not sure what I expected, mon ami, but she is so young.”

  Laurent understood Olivier’s sigh. He knew well the mantle of responsibility that rested on his shoulders to ensure his country had a suitable heir. Despite the rivalry between their countries, he considered Olivier to be an honorable man and a strong ally. Although Olivier had been two years ahead of Laurent at Oxford, they’d traveled in the same royal Euro brat pack, partying on yachts, in castles and in ski chalets across the continent.