The Princess Is Pregnant!

by Laurie Paige

  But all thoughts of confession evaporated when he entered the library where the family gathered. Megan was there, looking as frosty and composed as a snow princess.

  Beginning with the queen, he lightly held each lady’s hand and called her by name, “Your Majesty, Lady Gwendolyn, Princess Meredith, Princess Megan, Princess Anastasia,” he intoned, going to Megan, then Anastasia last, as protocol demanded.

  Megan’s green gaze mocked him when he finished his duties. He met her gaze levelly and determined not to let the fair selky disappear into the sea.

  Megan was intensely aware of Jean-Paul hovering at her side like a persistent bumblebee among the dahlias as he chatted with the queen. She cast a searching glance at her mother when the queen asked him to sit at her right and Megan to sit beside him. The queen smiled blandly at her.

  Once more Megan questioned her reasoning the night she had followed him aboard his sailing yacht….

  “What?” she blurted, realizing everyone was looking at her.

  “Lady Gwendolyn expressed an interest in the international trade conference,” the queen said. “Perhaps, since both Jean-Paul and you attended, you could enlighten us on the proceedings there.”

  Megan’s mind went totally blank.

  “Accord was reached in several areas,” Jean-Paul said smoothly, distracting attention from her. “The princess and I discussed an open-trade agreement between Drogheda and Penwyck during the week.”

  Megan stared at him, unable to recall such a conversation at all.

  “Did you now?” the queen asked with a certain sardonic twist to the words.

  Megan thought her mother sounded amused. She caught a smiling glance between Queen Marissa and Lady Gwendolyn. A horrible thought occurred to her: perhaps her mother had shared her news with her friend. But no, the queen was very good with confidences.

  “But only in the most general terms,” Jean-Paul added diplomatically. “It would be up to the ministers of each country to set the policies and present them to King Morgan and Prince Bernier.”

  “But of course,” the queen agreed. “I’m sorry Amira couldn’t join us. I believe she showed you the gardens this morning?”

  “Yes,” he said. “We walked out on the moors, too. The heather reminds me of Silvershire.”

  “Prince Bernier has sent you on several missions of late. Do you miss your home while you are gone?”

  Jean-Paul smiled, his teeth brilliant against the tan of his skin. “The people more than the land,” he said softly. “My parents and I are close. My uncle, the prince, visits our home frequently.”

  “Family is important to you then,” the queen concluded.

  “Yes.”

  Megan nearly jumped when his hand touched her arm and followed it to her hand. He took her hand in his under cover of the table and held it as if to reassure her of his honorable intentions toward her and the child.

  A riot of emotion dashed around inside her like a robin chasing a butterfly. Flames licked her insides, whether from remembered passion or embarrassment, she couldn’t decide.

  Jean-Paul held her hand until the next course was served, then released it so she could lift her fork. She ate without tasting a morsel of the meat pie and tender summer vegetables. By the time fruit and cheese were served, she thought of nothing but escape. Her sister, Meredith, watched her from across the table with a perplexed expression in her eyes. Megan looked at her plate as much as possible.

  “Jean-Paul, will you join me for tea in my sitting room?” Queen Marissa asked when the meal was finished.

  Megan stared at her mother in alarm, but the queen only smiled gently and slightly shook her head, indicating Megan’s presence was not required. Swallowing her fears, Megan left the room with her sisters and the lady-in-waiting.

  After Lady Gwendolyn wished them good day and left the three girls in the royal family’s sitting room, Meredith turned on Megan.

  “What is going on?” she demanded.

  “What?” asked Anastasia, confused by the question. If the conversation didn’t include her beloved horses, she paid little heed to it. She was most like the king in temperament and athletic ability.

  “Nothing,” Megan replied to Meredith.

  “What?” Anastasia asked again, realizing that more was going on than met the eye.

  Meredith ignored the youngest sister, her eyes on Megan. “There is something between you and Jean-Paul,” she accused. “He covered for you when your thoughts were obviously elsewhere. I think he held your hand at one point. You and he did more than discuss trade agreements while you were in Monte Carlo.”

  Heat suffused Megan’s face as her sisters watched her with avid interest. “It’s nothing,” she said, but her voice quavered so even Anastasia detected the lie.

  “What is going on?” she now demanded.

  Meredith laughed in delight. “Our quiet Megan and the Earl of Silvershire are having an affair.”

  “No!” Megan denied. “It was only the one ni—” She clamped a hand over her mouth.

  “Ah,” said Meredith in satisfaction.

  “Oh,” said Anastasia in shock.

  “One night,” Meredith concluded. “And now he has followed you to Penwyck. Does Mother know? Is that why she speaks to him in private?”

  “Has he come to ask for your hand?” asked Anastasia, ever the romantic.

  Megan slumped onto the sofa, refusing to answer.

  Meredith looked pleased. “When are you thinking to marry?”

  “I’m not!” Megan said sharply, then briefly laid a hand on her sister’s arm in apology. “That is, I haven’t made up my mind to it.”

  “Why ever not?” Anastasia asked. “He is handsome and exciting. All the palace maids are talking about him. Oh, you do not love him,” she said as if just realizing this possibility. She shook her head at Megan. “You’d be foolish to turn down his offer.”

  “Our brothers will have no choice, and I, as the eldest daughter, may have to marry for duty,” Meredith declared loftily, “but Megan needn’t. She must follow her heart.”

  Megan sat in miserable silence while her sisters discussed the situation. The three princesses had spoken of their future marriages many times and speculated on which of the world’s noble families might supply their future mates.

  All three had vowed to marry only for love.

  Reality, Megan was discovering, could be entirely another thing. If Jean-Paul offered and her father insisted, then she, too, would marry where told.

  Would it be without love?

  Her heart set up a terrible pounding so that she had to press a hand against her chest to ease its ache. If not for love, why had she allowed that night with Jean-Paul? She had no answer. Another question came to her: Why had he let her aboard his sailing retreat? He was a man of the world. Why had he succumbed to that mad passion?

  “Tell us all,” Meredith commanded with a queenly air.

  “There is nothing to tell,” Megan told her sisters. “Not yet, at any rate.” She held up a hand in promise. “I will tell you as soon as there is.”

  Anastasia spoke to Meredith. “There is something.”

  “I told you,” Meredith said, nodding wisely.

  Megan laughed, overcome by the absurdity of it all. “I promise you will be among the first to know.”

  “Has he asked you to marry him?” Anastasia asked, stars in her eyes.

  “Marriage has been mentioned,” Megan admitted.

  “Do you want the marriage?” Queen Marissa asked, studying the young man who had taken her daughter’s innocence…and her love?

  “It would have certain advantages.”

  She stifled impatience with the diplomatic answer. “Do you love her?”

  The blunt question took him by surprise, bringing his gaze to her. She saw the quickly masked anger at her impertinent question.

  “I would be a considerate husband,” he assured her.

  Sighing, she gazed out the window at the sea. “I would h
ave romance and enchantment for my children. Perhaps that is impossible, a mother’s foolish wish.”

  A smile briefly touched his handsome face. “There was magic,” he said softly.

  Her heart clenched, and she was filled with longing for the early days of her marriage to Morgan and the magic she’d found with him. Glancing at the large tome lying on the table, she shivered delicately as she recalled the pressed rose it held and how its petals had raked gently over her skin. At that moment, her husband of thirty years had seemed a different man.

  “I would not have her hurt,” she said.

  “Neither would I.” It was a promise.

  Marissa nodded and offered her hand, dismissing the young man so that she could consider her daughter’s future and pursue her own thoughts in private.

  Chapter Five

  Jean-Paul was escorted into the office of Admiral Harrison Monteque precisely at three. After the morning discussion with Megan and the one after lunch with the queen, he wasn’t expecting a lot from the diplomatic meeting with the head of Penwyck’s military forces.

  Intelligence sources from his own county suspected Monteque was also head of a secret, elite force that reported only to King Morgan. However, this was conjecture since they had no hard evidence of such a group even existing.

  Just as he had no real evidence of Megan’s pregnancy. More than one man had been trapped by a female’s wiles. Except Megan practiced no wiles. She was as straightforward as any man he’d ever known. His best friend, Arnie Stanhope, would like her—

  “Good afternoon,” Monteque said, interrupting the odd tangent his thoughts had taken.

  “Admiral,” he responded.

  “Please, be seated.” The admiral waited until Jean-Paul was comfortably situated. “Coffee? Tea?”

  “Neither, thank you.” Jean-Paul studied the older man, noting the alert intelligence behind the pleasant mien and feeling the keenness in the man’s glance.

  “What can I do for you?” the admiral inquired, settling back in his own chair as if he had all the time in the world.

  “Penwyck is about to enter a military alliance with Majorco,” Jean-Paul stated.

  The admiral nodded, disclosing nothing.

  “Drogheda might be interested in joining such an alliance. Three small island nations would be more effective as a military force than one, or even two. There is still a certain safety in numbers.”

  “Why should Drogheda desire such an alliance? Your country has the full authority of the United Kingdom behind you. Behind them is their ally, the Americans.”

  “With which Penwyck is negotiating a trade and arms sales agreement, are you not?” Jean-Paul put in coolly.

  Monteque’s gaze sharpened to spear points, but he ignored the question. “Penwyck has the most up-to-date equipment and research facilities in the world. What would we gain by an alliance?”

  “There would be advantages to your country as well as mine in the arrangement. Our balance-of-trade exchange with the rest of the world is excellent, as you must know. An open-trade agreement would be to your benefit. Morgan’s emissary to the international trade conference mentioned that. Prince Bernier would consider it.”

  “Princess Megan,” the admiral murmured, mentioning the emissary by name. “She went in Meredith’s place.”

  Jean-Paul detected a slight change in tone and wondered what the admiral found significant in that fact. He knew Princess Meredith acted as liaison to the Royal Intelligence Institute for her father, the king. Was she supposed to have done something more during the conference than Megan had? Or that Megan had neglected to do?

  “And handled her tasks very well,” he said, worry eating at him for Megan’s sake. He would not have it said she’d left her duties unattended. “She spoke well for Penwyck before the assembly.”

  Monteque’s eyebrows rose fractionally. “I would expect no less from a royal offspring.” He shifted a notepad on the immaculate desk, a subtle sign the discussion was coming to an end.

  “When may we expect an audience with the king to discuss the possibilities?” Jean-Paul inquired, adopting the diplomatic “we” to remind Monteque he represented a country as powerful as Penwyck.

  The hesitation was so slight as to be negligible, but Jean-Paul had been trained from birth to be aware of nuances. The admiral was uncertain about something and that something had to do with the king. Jean-Paul recalled that the queen had filled in for her husband at a state dinner earlier in the week. Hmm, interesting.

  Monteque stood. “Sir Selywyn will advise you of the king’s schedule.”

  Jean-Paul, too, rose. “Drogheda will not sit idly while weapons of mass destruction are brought into a neighboring kingdom.”

  Fury passed quickly over the admiral’s face. “Surely Penwyck and Drogheda are long past those times when we tried to conquer each other,” he said in amused contempt.

  “A hundred years since our last conflict,” Jean-Paul agreed, “but memories run deep. An alliance would go far toward erasing them.”

  “Perhaps Drogheda seeks more than a military and trade alliance,” Monteque suggested, observing him with a speculative, almost hostile, stare.

  Jean-Paul stiffened. “In what way?”

  “I wouldn’t advise one to toy with the royal princesses with an eye toward reaching the throne.”

  An urge to slam his fist into the admiral’s impassive expression rushed over him. He managed a cool smile. “Excellent advice, Admiral,” he agreed and, after executing a slight bow, left the office.

  Outside, with the wind at his back and the sun on his face, he made his way to the royal palace, his fury unabated. Neither he nor his homeland came to Penwyck, hat in hand, seeking favors.

  However, the situation with Megan complicated things, he had to admit. Her life and his own involved so many others. They had to think of the good of their two countries. To their respective rulers, no matter what the blood relation, the welfare of the nation had to come first.

  A longing came over him, so acute it caused an ache inside his chest. His blood thrummed with the wildness of that night with Megan. He experienced again the untamed yearning he’d found in her…and himself.

  But they couldn’t be wild and impulsive. It wasn’t allowed.

  So what of that one night they’d spent together? another part of him asked just as furiously.

  The arguments raged back and forth as he walked through the capital city. Pausing at one point, he gazed at the palace sitting on its knoll over the town and the sea.

  He could sense the intrigue that surrounded the royal residence like a mist, gathering subtly and invisibly behind every corner, a threat to him and his.

  A slight figure, hurrying from a large brick building, caught his attention. His body reacted, knowing her presence before his mind was sure.

  “Megan,” he called, and started forward at a run, then amended his behavior as several people stared at him. “Your Highness, a moment, please.”

  She stopped, glanced his way and hurried on.

  Puzzled and irritated, he followed at her pace when he was no more than two yards behind. When she entered the public gardens around the palace, he stayed with her. At the family gate, she hesitated, then waited to admit him into the private area.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, stepping past her into the rose garden.

  Megan shook her head and made sure the gate had locked behind them. She went to her favorite alcove and sat on the wall overlooking the sea. Jean-Paul followed.

  “Megan,” he said more gently, “what has upset you?”

  When she had the tears under control, she answered him. “I work as a volunteer at the children’s hospital twice a week, or whenever I can.” Her throat clogged and she shook her head helplessly.

  “Yes?” he encouraged.

  “One of the children…a little girl, only three…” Again she shook her head.

  She saw he grasped the meaning of her despair. “Did she die?” he asked quiet
ly.

  “Yes. In my arms. She was an orphan, ill, and no one…no one wanted her—”

  Megan stopped abruptly. Holding her breath, she sought the safety of her inner ice castle to contain the emotion, but Jean-Paul interrupted her efforts. He lifted her into his lap and held her close.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Such simple words, but they broke the icy control. She turned to him and pressed her face into his jacket. She didn’t, couldn’t, weep, but instead leaned against him, drawing from his strength as if immersed in a sea of tranquillity. He held her securely, not too tightly, but with a firm gentleness that soothed her heart.

  The sun bathed them in dappled light under the birch tree. Bees droned happily around the flowers. The sea teased the shore with delicate kisses upon its cheek. The weariness of days filled with uncertainty and nights spent tossing in restless, impossible dreams overcame her. With him caressing her hair, she slept.

  Jean-Paul leaned against a handy tree branch, testing it carefully to see if it could take their weight. It held steadfast, so he relaxed.

  Gathering Megan’s slight form closer into his arms, he looked out at the sea and the horizon so very far away. He’d wanted to sail to the world’s farthest shores since his earliest memories, but he’d always gone alone in his imagination.

  Brushing his chin over Megan’s silky hair, he thought that sailing the oceans of life might be more enjoyable if one had a companion to share the adventure.

  An odd thought, that.

  Megan woke slowly, disoriented by the close beating of a heart against her ear. She lifted her head and stared at Jean-Paul. He opened his eyes and gave her a lazy smile.

  She sat upright and looked around the leafy grotto. He half lay on the polished marble bench, his head on one arm, his legs dangling off the other. She was almost lying on top of him, her thighs across his, her head cradled on his chest, his arms holding her close while his hand idly stroked along her back.

  Staring at his handsome countenance, she realized he was in the formal uniform of his country—white dress pants worn with boots, a blue tunic emblazoned with gold braid and a star-burst medal set with precious stones signifying his high position. He was a truly magnificent human specimen.